Long Bench Poems
Long Bench Poems. Below are the most popular long Bench by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Bench poems by poem length and keyword.
I sit there on that wooden bench, simply sitting. I am not waiting for someone, not for anything. Sunlight peeks through the leaves of the two oak trees whose branches are mingling above my head. It is pleasant to feel its warmth. There is no reason for me to be outside other than the cigarette resting between my middle and index fingers. I walked down three flights of stairs to simply sit and smoke and be judged by the occasional passersby. I lift the cigarette to my lips and place it there gently. It sort of dangles there as I light the lighter in one hand and cup the other around the flame to protect it from a nonexistent breeze in the dry Southern heat. I suck in, trying to puff, which is hard to do without a hand to steady the cigarette, but it is lit and that is what matters. I take a deep drag, deep into my lungs, deep into my soul, and I can feel the calm wash over me. The nicotine is my oxygen; I can’t breathe without it sometimes. I blow the smoke out, admiring its delicious taste and scent. I like to hold the slowly smoldering cigarette in my right hand and then smoke out of the left side of my mouth. The way I hold it makes me look like a nineteen-forties gangster. I like that. Sitting there, on my wooden bench, I react. I don’t moan in ecstasy and I don’t close my eyes in pleasure. I don’t take it for granted and I don’t have a habit. I just enjoy my cigarette, no more and no less than it ever should have been. As it slowly converts itself into smoke and ashes I think to myself that most people probably wonder why an eighteen year old in this day and age would choose to take up smoking. At least I assume that is what the occasional passerby must be thinking when they see me sitting here on this wooden bench, for no other reason than to smoke the cigarette in my hand right now. I wonder what I would say if any one of them ever bothered to ask me. Because I want to, I would reply before standing, putting out my cigarette, and walking away. I look down and see that if I took another drag I would be smoking the filter. So I stand, put out my cigarette, and walk away. I walk away from the sunlight, from the two oak trees, and that wooden bench. I walk away with my fingers smelling like nicotine and that makes me smile because I know that I will sit at that wooden bench tomorrow to do the same exact thing. I know because that is what I did yesterday.
It wasn’t that she was the only woman
in the group, that mingled precariously
beneath the bronze figure, or her classic
stance, when placing immaculately the
newsprint covered bottle to lips willingly
breached, but more her opulent style, her
contrast of attire, her hair as yet unspoilt.
Although jewel less except for a wedding
ring in her recently pierce blood stained ear
lobe, (this bearing signs of some street wise ritual?)
she still wore a suave sophistication, eyes
that bred a wanton life, fingers more use to
the gentle stem of the crystal goblet, than
the demure grasp of the shapeless neck of
the common brown. But alas maybe the
corrosion has not as yet penetrated her
foreboding mind, a mind that in time will
be given to surrender, never to realize that
this volatile life will plunge her deeper, into
one shambolic life, whilst still trying to escape
from the previous. But! Who knows what ills she
was force to bear, what tribulations life brought
upon her, maybe her new found acquaintance
comfort her, listen to her sympathetically,
understanding her predicament, also a novelty
this sharing, this caring, respect and reverence
showered upon her, like solicitous petals
falling gracefully upon her shoulders,
removing the burdens of a lifetime.
Her head
began to lift higher and higher with every
mouthful of distant courage, every courteous act.
Then! A look of deep despair, as the bottle was
released from her reluctant deep red lips, a
senseless shake only proved her greatest fear.
Immediately to her aid, came one of her new found
companions, swiftly finishing his own endless gorge,
he commence to wipe the neck of his perpetual habit,
with his mucus soiled cuff less sleeve, before
passing it on to her veracious hand, his eyes eagerly
awaiting its return.
One can imagine when the long day
is over, the sun finally at rest, only the motley bench will be hers, only the best that fleet street can offer, will cover her chilled body, her metabolism soon accelerating, to become one with theirs, a license to enter their dissipation, only then will all options for her diminish, external metamorphosis soon to blend with inner corruption, life’s destruction almost completed!
© Harry J Horsman 1991
Teachers and Faculty care less and less about students every year
If u aren't the favorite don't expect caring
Ur parents have to bring cookies to the bake sale
Teachers have our children's life in their hands
Take some responsibility
One on one communication goes a long way
Drop knowledge whenever u can
Whether it be elementary, Watson
Or High School High and u don't Lovitz
As Teachers pass kids in hallways and treat them like people u pass on the sidewalk
Unless they r causing trouble
Then they get attention
Positive reinforcement, don't u know!?
Pay them no mind if they r quiet and have a 2.8 GPA or higher
The only time the schools contact parents is if something is wrong
Or if the child met their criteria for acknoledgement
Teaching children used to be a calling
Now it is just a job
Just a young persons misguided career path
Being forced to say what they want to be when they grow up
Our youth has potential if we pay attention
Dropout rates and political red tape
Underpaid teacher and staff
State Lottery does not do what our government said it would do
Lower case because it is not important
State Lottery is supposedly there to help our schools and fix our roads
Yet to see that actually help either situation in Michigan
Other states may be different
In some states a school is a business, Owned by a corporation
Turning a profit
Is being a Teacher actually a Customer Service job?
Small Towns get overlooked as our Youth passes through the interent router
Spoken word is too much effort
A teacher's eyes glued to a screen
Right along with the child they r supposed to be teaching
Children cannot speak for themselves
Parents have the responsibility to be their voice
The voice of the voiceless
Politicians and public relations speak of "we"
There is no "I" in "Team"
Teaching our youth to not be selfish and to share
But if they r only thinking of others who is left to think about them
The coach's team has a winning season
2 kids sit on the bench the whole season
No hopes of actually playing
The "team" wins the Championship
Wearing the same shirt doesn't make u a "team"
When asked why the kids didn't play all season
School said the coach's job was based on wins
If the kids wanted to have more game time, they should be better at the game
Actual Events leading to this piece of literature
Save our Youth
Little Lilly wanted to go, to the playground, to have some fun the other day.
And all the other Trolls wanted to tag along, for it looked like fun, they said.
So we went at dusk, for our first try, so no wee ones, would be anywhere near.
For you know, Trolls can play pretty hard, and I didn’t know, just what to fear.
I quickly found a bench as home base, for those who needed to have a time out.
Anyone who couldn’t play gently, or broke anything, found they’d get the rout.
First the sandbox became a deep, dark hole, from which to pop up, to scare, thereat.
Of course, dodge ball became club ball, so you can guess what happened with that.
King of the Hill was a really big thing, since they are all, the most territorial, by half.
Surprisingly, the slide was all-OK, but trouble came from underneath, as they laughed.
They wanted to exact a toll, of course, in the middle, as you passed above, quite brief.
The merry-go-round made them dizzy, knocking everyone down, in a domino motif.
The Seesaws became a great big catapult… to the other far side of the playground.
The monkey bars! Well, they aren’t monkeys, that’s for darned certain, I expound!
They tripped, fell, and smacked themselves senseless with no ones’ help, I ensure.
It could’ve been climbed much better, if not covered in so much drool, I’m sure.
Swings became broken as they pushed the others, all the way to the moon, oops!
And basketball became a slam-dunk, as unfortunately they didn’t fit in the hoops.
Hop Scotch took coordination, and you have to be able to wait your turn, too…
So, as in tag, they started bumping and fighting, until becoming a crazy piled up dado.
Races started more fights as all wanted to win, and threw everyone out of their way!
Hearing a laugh, I turned around to see Grandpa Troll, was ready to stop the moray.
He stood near the bench, as I stood looking up, amazedly, at what they had done.
Now, there were other benches everywhere, but they were piled high, on a single one.
I’ll never truly understand the brain of a Troll, for them a playground’s just not fun.
And they don’t play gently, and are bigger, than our wee folk, as I had already known.
They spent the night, putting things to right, even better than before they’d been broke.
And I finally took them home, to find OTHER things, designed especially, for OUR folk.
The sun rises this morning with its fresh fragrance
Spilling rays of hope, and love everywhere
While the morning looks proudly at me,
And danced away its aged old misery
The smell of hope lingers beyond the shore
And a multitude of pleasure is waiting at my door
The silent music is vibrating in the sand
And the fishermen are singing a merry song
The wind is blowing over the mountain
Speaking to the silent trees
Awake, Awake, Awake
A loud voice resonates,
beckoning them to come to me
Here I am sitting underneath the big cherry tree
With thick branches crisscrossing one another
And angels sitting around covering me on the throne
An infinite story is wrapped up in the tree but only time
can unveil its mystery.
There is not much cherry on the tree as I speak
As one crop is over, another crop comes on
And as soon as it ends, the cherry cycle starts again
I looked clearly between the shrubs
To see if I could phantom what is really going on
But all I could see is radiant skies
glaring at me through the thick cherry bushes
And humming a penitent tune about the big round moon
Today is a special day, and it is different
From any other day, the heat is a little intense
But I feel victory dancing around the bench
We have gone through these stages before
When courage met face to face at my door
My heart was strong, my spirit was deep
And no matter what you do,
you and I could not compete
I could only understand the vessel on the stand
And the vibrating sound of music all over the land
Elated face gathered at the counter to place the final order
I could never understood how you cross through the thick wood
With blades of grass parachuting up to your waist
When the people rise up and become conscious
They will have to drink from the golden cup
The battle is not over the aces
Neither is it over the deck
The battle is over the sexes
I have so much that I want to say to you
I have so much that I want to do for you
You over there and I am sitting here,
We have a lot to share
Come and dine with me
and let me hear your story
Come and dine with me
and share your glory
A shilling or a pound,
a dime or a dollar
It doesn't matter,
Whether liberty or crown
I have to get out of this miserable town
This is not your story, it is my story.
And it is time to publish it.
Hope always wins.
Any foodie on the brink
Of getting moody thinks
Of the dear dairy panacea
The culinary kinks
The cultural links
Gourmet high jinx
Of no.. not Cullen skink
CHEESE
As drinks clink then sink
Where the nods & the winks
Go to the food of the Gods
The stuff that really really stinks
CHEESE
A noble global endeavour
Arty farty dolcelatte party
Comte & cheddar
Smutty nutty double header
CHEESE
Palette caged by a rare
Cave aged Gruyere
Who can forget..appetite whet
Heat light stand manned..expands..
Milky glue or is it silky Moo Goo
Fanned..hands pulling strands
Eat not..planned fondue
Best damned bet
Always get a Raclette
CHEESE
Prouder of Gouda
Or louder Parmesan fan
Even when its powder?
Tilting to the built in love
For Stilton.. never wilting
Hard the calling card
Or more a Roquefort sort
Taught soft held aloft
French can’t bench moulds
Aristocratic blue vein
Dramatic wench holds court
Emphatic stench & stain
CHEESE
Whatever floats your boat
Maybe Goat gets your vote
Or those in the know
Gloat..chose sheep & Manchego
CHEESE
Young or well hung
Given time in the cellar
But won’t sneer at Paneer
Mozzarella can be stellar
Even give a damn
About dear Madame Edam
CHEESE
If you're of that whining ilk
Got that dining disease
Opining it’s just mouldy milk
Having a dig..you big tease…
Well won’t try to appease
CHEESE
Wary of the not rated
Scary squirting lube
You squeeze with ease
Flirting fairy out of a tube
Ill fated.. pre grated or
Diced into a nice cube
CHEESE?
Or drastic vices
Plastic elastic slices
Could go for Dairy Lea
Fell under the Babybel spell
Or pray tell maybe
Its Le Vache qui Rit
CHEESE?
Always a winning wheeze
Ideal at the beginning
Or end of a meal
No ratty ways of thinning
Natty diets lose to fatty riots
Choose ways of sinning
A ruse to amuse..
MORE CHEESE PLEASE
He says grinning
P.S If eating cheese before bed
Gives you a crappy nightmare
So what if you have fed
On cheese in these dreams
No scrappy schemes in your head
Led to days with rays of sunbeams
Teams of happy memes instead
Well it seems only fair
We've a third string coach running the team
who can't even remember his own play book
so a batch of amateurs
are running the show
from the bench
from the trenches
of their minds
Its a play book mirroring
Alice in wonderland
where everything is viewed
through a kleidoscopic -myopic
upside down opaque lens..
where predators are entitled to
a lifetime of get out of jail free passes
then given a badge of martyrdom
when they finally run out of lucky gas-
its a land with a Rio Grande autobahn
where illegals blitz through an open border
and its leaders put its own citizens on lockdown
where honest Abe has been shot in the head... again
by far-far- leftists dregs
who lecture the working man about global warming
while poking holes in the ozone in their private jets
Its a land where black people matter
but matter somewhat less if they dwell in the cities...
if they slaughter themselves over drugs and turf...
if they happen to go against the current-are conservative..
Its a Land where blacks are ferried
to a rabbit hole called planned parenthood,,
who(despite the name) ironically kills a half a million black babies a year....
black wombs are rivaling the gas chambers of Auschwitz and Treblinka
its a land with no rules except for its own citizens
who pay the bills for the lazy-for the illegal
for the ungrateful for the criminal...
and for all of their honest efforts
or for having a differing opinion
or simply being heterosexual
and being of white skin
despite their best efforts
to accommodate
to be empathetic
accepting....
sympathetic,
are constantly branded
racists-
homophobic
xenophobic...
a genuine all around
globo phobic menace..
Yes indeed...Its an upside down land
that's been stamped systemically racist
infested with white supremacists
even though a black man
was elected president
and ran the country for eight years
even though people of color have
the highest standard of living than in most
if not all countries
Why then if this country is so racist and hopelessly bigoted
do people of color flock to the border by the millions to get in.
If I were a person of color, I would avoid this so called
house of white supremacy horrors like the plague
and roll the dice on another color of velvet ...
people....welcome to Joe in Wonderland
The sky turns grey and a bird sings a song.
Sun is hiding truth and lies;right and wrong.
Clouds drift into shapes imagination does create.
A butterfly smiles knowing the caterpillar’s fate.
The branches of a tall tree wave goodbye.
A nest feels safe for the bird learning to fly.
Moments unwrapped like a gift to treasure forever.
Loved ones are a blessing and all the times together.
Round and round the merry-go-round we go.
Darkness...we wait for a new day to show.
Little girl giggles as her pink bubblegum is blown.
An old man walks slowly towards sparkling hope unknown.
At the beach the waves roar a lullaby,
Sandcastle of dreams built strong to the sky.
Once upon a time in a field of dreams and stories,
Past and present creations of both pain and glories.
Night turns to day and day turns to the night,
Shadows tiptoe to and away from light.
Some smiles on faces are suddenly upside-down frowns.
Life can be a masquerade of some uncertain clowns.
Gift unwrapped with ribbons yellow and pink.
Gallery of paintings that make you think.
Holding hands watching cotton clouds drift across the sky.
Sitting on a red bench thinking many questions why.
Footprints in sand oozing between my toes.
Snowman created and nowhere to go.
Humps on a camel traveling amongst the desert sand.
Sand dunes caress sky of a forever searching land.
A baby is born to live on this earth.
Waving bye; death becomes memory’s birth.
Bouquet of daisies on a table covered with lace.
Children roll down a hill full of laughter as they race.
Tick tock the time on this earth stands still.
Tick tock another year waiting to fill.
Ups and downs;roller coaster ride of life to explore.
Sunset, sunrise-each starry night never seen before.
Caterpillar crawls against the very cold,cruel ground.
Soon to realize that butterfly moments will be found.
Listen to the world’s silent screams.
Dare to cradle hopes and sweet dreams.
I stand still and I see a bird dance across the sky.
I close my eyes and I see hope with wings that will fly.
Yesterday and today walk together hand in hand.
There is a shadow of light and darkness in this land.
Echo from the lace-veiled night, whisper of a secret spring,
Gets lost in the recesses of my thought, hidden and undefeated.
There, where the dream embraces the dark eternity,
A soul wanders between dream and oblivion, seeking the pearls of shadows.
Is there, in the vastness of the cosmos, a tear so large,
To extinguish the burning flame of longing, to calm the restless dream?
In mysterious depths, dusted by eternal thoughts,
Heavy leaden eyelids rise towards the stars, praying in the profound night.
In the heart of autumn, dressed in rusty leaves,
The bell of suffering resounds under the silver moon,
The stars croak in chorus, gathering in a mystical song.
The trembling light of a candle, the immortal soul's flame,
Burns in the sanctuary of the chest, hidden beneath the veil of secrets.
On astral paths, unknown to the world, the stellar evening descends,
The wind brings questioning voices, echoes rushing through the cosmos.
Streams of tears flood the earth, with their deep bitterness,
Not even the seas can contain in their depths so much pain in flight.
Autumn falls over all that is alive, with storytelling steps,
And knocks on the windows with fingers of wind, unhurried, yet unyielding.
On a bench forgotten by the world, caressed by wind and time,
Sits a street bard, with a guitar to his chest, enchanting the empty time.
He plucks strings that carry spells and sweet sighs,
Weaving an ethereal canvas between joy and divine longings.
This urban wizard, hidden in the world's sidewalks,
Captures in silent songs, the echo of a heart fallen into somber tones.
How can I speak of pains and memories, when he paints shadows with sounds?
His song, a spell that weaves and unravels, soothing the heart's wounds and burns.
Time, that eternal alchemist, seeking unseen paths,
Looking deeply, my eyes wish to shine, to dance in the circles of the sky.
He shares the mystery of his thought, turning questions born of tears,
Into celestial sparks, transforming the burden into solace and knowledge.
His magic resonates, transforming into the whispers of the night,
In singing strings, each heartbeat sways and becomes clear.
Tell me, street wizard, with your sublime voice,
How many golden songs must we sculpt from our breath of wind,
Before the moon rises gloriously in the enchanted garden of the night?
Our drive started out like any typical summer trip into Philadelphia. Both buses rolling down the highway loaded with screaming teens, eager to reach their destination in a hurry. Rush-hour traffic was heavy, the white lines hidden beneath watery mirages that lifted only briefly beneath underpasses. The skyscrapers were barely visible through the thick haze of summer's heat. The skyline had the appearance of night and day clashing off in the distance. You could smell the rain approaching.
along city streets
slight breeze carries aroma
food and wet pavement
Once the children were safely inside, the buses continued to 30th street station, the only place the city allows buses to park free. The windows were all still down and the roof hatches open as the skyline grew darker. A light show was off in the distance and approaching quickly. The homeless people were now entering the train station in hopes to stay dry and earn a meal or some quick cash.
almost homeless
young girl wears a sign
on the corner
Inside the train station a young family sits on a bench awaiting the arrival of a family member. The benches line the hallway with vendors tucked in the center isle. We sit across from the young family, facing them as an elderly gentleman approaches them. In his arms he carries a sketchpad and a piece of charcoal. The little boy, probably about 10 years old, has grown tired of sitting by now, and his teenage sitters seem agitated by his silly games, the mother in frustration hands him money for a sketch.
with quick hands
he carefully sketches
to perfection
The oldest sister now amazed asks for her's as well. The man sketches her picture to a beautiful black and white replica. The mother refuses to spend another dime and sends him away without paying. Behind us sits another elderly man. He seems to be carrying on a very intelligent conversation with himself. This amazes the children for their final hour and fills them with much knowledge as they slide in to listen.
an old man speaks
as he looks to his right
just his cane sits
The last train has now entered the station and the crowds of people are disappearing outside. The storm has now passed and the sky left a permanent black with the coming of night. We headed outside to the buses to begun our return trip home.
on the street
two yellow buses
filled with rain