Long Bookshelf Poems
Long Bookshelf Poems. Below are the most popular long Bookshelf by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Bookshelf poems by poem length and keyword.
In the dark
By candle
At my kitchen table
I begin to sign the monthly checks.
Soon the sun will rise
A flood lifting an orchard light
Of cherries and white clouds
Dappled blossoms
From the bottom of my feet
To just below my eyes
I peak above the neighbor’s horizon
The farm fields of knee-high spring wheat
Is combed by a young wind
Shredding the tips
Of the green swells
To silver-backed dollar bills
Undulating across the velvet hills
The wind reaches our old house
Jiggles the door
Loosens its hinges
Memories
Come in
Inquires of me
Directions to the big city
A pair of auburn fawns nuzzle at the bird feeder
Spinning it like a compass
An accomplice
I point to
A farmer moves to his mustard yellow field
With a trailing tractor tornado
Carves the dry Earth with fury
Seeks his fortune like a corporation
Out the backdoor
Black and spinning
Pages flapping from my bookshelf
Our house is left of children
Breathing
Creaking
Like the single White Pine
Next door
In the Sunfield Cemetery
Roaring
To the unsettled horses
As it tears
From the planet
To the smoldering wick
Of the setting sun.
I search my mind for a minuscule moment
It maybe one that I need atonement
Then I stretch it out as far as I can
to make up a poem that is "hopefully" not bland
I also may add some things that are not real
I am not really going to tell you how I feel
I am good at hiding my inner self
like dust on an old bookshelf.
So when I write about anger or sadness
it's mostly made up with complete drabness
Or maybe I am not being completely true
and my mood is actually blue
I do love the life that is before me
although I will say women do not adore me
So if you ever read my word
most likely they are just absurd.
It could be mistaken for a shopping list,
or a set of instructions
for assembling a bookshelf,
but you had to go and call it a poem!
Eventually you learn
by the daily application of ignorance and error,
to ride a poem as if it were a unicycle
even so, the larger the wheel
the greater the chance
of a slow-motion fender-bender.
Unless you want to be metaphorically crucified
or theoretically burnt at a stake
for God’s sake don’t give this thing that you do
any kind of definitive name.
Hinged or unhinged they are most often
just thoughts squiggling up to a surface
like worms after a heavy rain,
simply deconstructed word-worms,
but that’s okay
you already said that,
so now you can look cool
and kind of a deep thinker.
By Phan Tan Hai
The wise are never confused,
the brave never afraid—
now I meet them again in a film,
the lessons I learned in my youth,
unsure how much of them ever proved true.
Is it true the wise no longer doubt?
Is it true the brave no longer fear?
The Analects I recited when I was young—
dust on the bookshelf has blurred
the innocence of those years.
Alas—
the more I study, the more doubts arise;
the braver I become, the more hesitation grows,
only because I fear this world
will shatter a little more,
only because I fear another moon
will break upon the lake.
Meeting Master Confucius’s teachings again
in a martial-arts film,
my heart grows even more uncertain.
Books I read now are countless as scriptures,
yet the more I understand this world,
the deeper my doubts become.
The more words, the more tangled—
if only the heart were quiet,
if only all words vanished from the mind,
if only I could delight in this world like a child,
look into a mirror
and forget my own name, or anyone’s.
Each day I translate the news—
full of bomb-soaked storms,
full of children’s cries.
Who was it that said
“the wise are never confused”?
Swimming through forests of words each day,
my heart grows heavier
with doubt.
If only I could forget all words,
enter a place without measure,
where neither wisdom nor folly exists,
where neither black nor white,
neither night nor day,
neither self nor other—
a place where all things
are silent.
Eight Minutes, Forty Six seconds is all it took
For another black man's life to be took
Now look at how,
History is re-writing itself
New civil law right books
Will soon be placed on the bookshelf
A nation Suppress
A nation Distress
Will only make nations vex
It's time we ADDRESS
The things that makes us STRESSED
Mankind was not created to be Cruel or DEPRESSED
We need to Confess that we are OBSESSED
By making others feel Useless and OPPRESSED
Eight Minutes, Forty Six Seconds
Another Black man is dead
All it took was for someone to lose his head
That's what I read,
Another black man abused and dead
Within seconds the news was spread
Another Black man blood was shed
At least that's what the news said,
Officer lost his head
While victim laid unconscious and dead
Eight Minutes and Forty Eight seconds is all it took
For another Black man to be abused, shot and dead.
A story to tell
If our story was sat on a bookshelf
how would it be to re-read it yourself
Would there be tears shed over past regrets
or happiness as our life is re-tread.
Could it ever be explained in a book
what we experienced during childhood
Would reading the topic be off limits
or a most enjoyable revisit.
Though back in the day times were indeed tough
we were upbeat and contented enough
We would appreciate all that we had
life as I remember was not that sad.
A roller coaster, many slides and swings
the joys, heartaches and traumas life brings
Should our story be acted out on stage
would we desire to script-write every page?
Then when doth cometh our expiration
it’s hoped we receive a grand narration
That folk would have only dear things to say
putting it out there in a kindly way.
Everyone has their own story to tell
whether it would or would not stand up well
We must wait to find if our history
makes for an engaging delivery.
22nd March 2021
The story of the young Jesus
Jesus was sceptical of his tribe as a trainee carpenter
he was lousy, could even make a bookshelf, he was bullied for this.
Jesus took umbrage and criticized the establishment of bootlicking priests
whom the Roman occupiers had given them power?
He took to hanging out with a group of radicals of the day
and since he was good with words soon became their leaders.
The groupies, one of the Magdalene, were for the pleasure of the flesh,
although Jesus was fond of this woman, he didn´t show it openly.
Jesus got big-headed thought he could take on the establishment
like when he chased money lenders out of the church.
He was wrong!
He was arrested mocked, and given a thorn crown, but he insisted
he was the proper leader of the people.
they crucified him, but women come to the rescue, healed his wounds
and sent him and Magdalen, the despised tart, to France.
He had seven children and ended his days as a valued goldsmith.
The authors
blink only when looked at,
they recall for you
a story, perhaps a tale half-read.
One book lifted,
pages fly between thoughts,
a few scrapes of knowledge
peck and preen again.
Phrases return
demanding still to be displayed
though rarely used.
There are mystic scriptures
that hover between
fiction and non-fiction.
I imagine temple beasts
still guarding them.
I overreach,
shake this collected tree of knowledge.
Books fall, some like stone,
some like fluttering birds.
I am ankle deep
in the printed word and its aftermath.
Some will go to the thrift shop,
some to the garage,
a few will stay between bookends
surviving these winds of change.
Today I have time to admire
the dance of sunlight on bare walls,
the transpiring poetry
of blameless space.
Alice held flowers in her hand,
So huge were they, 'twas tough to stand,
She collected them all herself,
The bouquet was for her bookshelf,
Walking with them proved so tricky,
Her hands hurt and they were sticky,
She didn't see where she was going,
Her steps they were slowly slowing,
Peter Pan saw her and he smiled,
He knew how to get her all riled,
He bumped into Alice, she fell,
A shower of flowers and well,
Alice, with Peter was angry,
Asked him to pick 'em up for free,
Peter Pan did as told by her,
For he was scared of her anger,
He went till her house holding them,
My, they were huge with their big stem,
Alice was happy, her job done,
She hugged Peter and made him run.
Picture #2
I'm never truly alone in myself
Myself has many personalities
With more stories than a bookshelf
Sharing many different mentalities
Decisions can sometimes be fun
Initially, personality one chimes in first
Cause one wants to get things done
But four think one is just the worst
Enraging six who runs to one's defense
Four snaps back with uncommon wit
As six rambles on, making truly no sense
Then there are two who refuse to commit
With one now laughing to heart's content
Cause four and six are now in the argument
Will fight till the evening is completely spent
And two still refuse to engage or commit
Enters five to intervene and save the day
Five, the mediator, as three would say
Together, they team up to show the way
Two new commits to irritating them away
Whom three accuses two of jealousy
Cause five and three are friends, you see
With one still laughing hysterically
Four and six have now entered therapy
So the night becomes really interesting
Cause one and two are now listening
To three and four's happy whistling
At five and six, who started...kissing!?!
Multiple personalities can be so fun
Just don't expect normality from one
One's mind will simply become undone
Arguing to kissing and the nights still young