Long Cabinet Poems
Long Cabinet Poems. Below are the most popular long Cabinet by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Cabinet poems by poem length and keyword.
I drew you a picture with crayons, bright red.
It’s there on the wall, and your nightstand and bed.
I scribbled some wax on your nicely cleaned floors,
all over the kitchen on the cabinet doors.
I drew you some hearts and a bouquet of roses.
In our family picture we now have red noses.
I thought you would smile, but you cried instead.
That look in your eye makes me think that I’m dead.
I know it’s not perfect, I’m honing my craft,
but please stop those tears, Mom…we don’t have a raft.
I thought you would smile, I swear that it’s true
my message in crayons…is mom, I LOVE YOU!
p.s.
I need a new box of crayons, the red one is worn to a stub.
hobbyhorse dreams
by odin roark
rocking
just a few minutes more
almost there
remember our primitive forest
kitchen chairs
chrome trunks
yellow and green tree tops
nesting places for the vultures
always present
always ready to prey
rocking
kitchen cabinet canyons
scarred timbered walls
smooth worn knobs
magic openings
caves for hiding
once again
passing through familiar terrain
approaching tiered rise
the climb we've never finished
Pinto and me
up into air
just for us
rocking
so much ground covered
why does Nurse Vera
always eye me
touch my shoulder
she knows
we're almost there
almost ready to climb
off old pinto
once we're to the top
but
not today
not enough time
group time
pill time
heal time
that's what they call it
healing time
why do they want to heal our dreams Pinto?
The red necktie
He woke on the sofa, fully dressed
vaguely remembered an argument with a woman
He took a shower, made coffee
turned on the radio that told of a woman strangled
by a red necktie.
He paled under his fake tan; his tie was red, lost in
a brawl in a bar, did he? No, he was a friendly sort
he liked to think of himself, surely not…!
What to do now? Call the police and confess
To a crime, he could not remember having committed?
He looked out of the window into an empty street
Sunday morning, people were still sleeping
or perhaps the street had been cleared so that they could
arrest him without using force?
Now, he needed a drink, opened the drink cabinet
and there was his tie knotted on the solid neck
of whisky bottle
FLECKS OF GOLD
Klimt flutes,
flecks of gold,
a champagne kiss.
flutes clink,
on special days,
holding stems.
Klimt holds my solid gaze:
“Woman in Gold”
beguiling...
the lover lives on canvas,
ashamed of habitation —
yearning to be reclaimed.
an old woman and a lawyer
bring her back to life —
resuscitate the woman’s aunt.
a war keepsake,
spoils returned —
to the defiant niece.
as I view
the movie rerun...
i recall
the treasured duet
in my curio cabinet
— i peruse
flutes in finery,
strong — not
feckless.
flecks of gold,
attach to silver hands,
forming a bond — they kiss.
11/26/2017
Klimt Contest
Sponsor Anthony Slausen
Behind the glass, a ticking god of brass,
Who waves a withered palm of fiberglass.
The neon crystal bleeds a bruised magenta hue,
Dispensing plastic tokens, counterfeit and true.
“Your wish is granted,” the solenoid sighs,
While servo motors calibrate his glowing eyes.
He sits in a paisley vest and a gold-wrapped head,
Proclaiming: “Be happy living, for you’re a long time dead.”
Drop in a copper, hear his jawbones creak,
The algorithm’s gospel is the truth he’ll speak.
He shuffles fifteen fortunes from a secret slot,
Telling you of money, love, and what you haven’t got.
A silicon swami in a cedar cage,
Selling sudden adulthood on a printed page.
For twenty-five cents—or a swipe of your card—
He dictates the future of a weary backyard.
But if you feed the Deluxe Cabinet every spare dime,
He loops all his blessings in a paradox of time.
A timeless automaton, forever programmed to please,
Dispensing our destinies on tear-off degrees.
I ordered a free-standing cabinet,
Despite having known in advance
It needed to be
Put together by me
And my husband, who viewed it askance.
All the pieces were labeled quite clearly,
As was each tiny bag filled with screws,
So we read the brochure,
Not quite feeling secure,
Yet we thought we had nothing to lose.
As we struggled to follow instructions,
Which had steps listed 1 up to 10,
We repeated our vow
That we’d finish this now
But we never would do it again.
At the end, just a couple of hours
Was the time that it took to complete.
Still, it wasn’t much fun,
Though once it was all done,
I felt proud we’d not bowed to defeat.
The Christmas Zipper
David J Walker
That tool kit you gave me
At two, Mom
was meant to be a toy
But made of real metal
How did I know
What to do with the saw
That I called a “Zipper”
Did I see Dad
Zipping through boards?
I only remember that your
Sewing machine cabinet was
Open and presented itself as
A Christmas morning opportunity
And after two short but damaging
Zips that ripped a straight line in
Drop leaf treadle cabinet table
someone brought in a 2x4
which I soon lost interest in
exchanging it for a
screwdriver in the kit
What could go wrong?
What did you expect a boy to do
At two
With a brand-new zipper in hand
On Christmas Morning
You cried out
I answered
Responding like Christ
As I would have wished
Another to respond to me
If I were in your valley of tears
With your same need
I offered you my hand
And you bit off my finger
Like a sick mad dog
Whose soul had fallen into Hell
I was repulsed and in disgust I fell
I offered you my kindness
I offered you my ear
I listened and I thought
What did I hear?
I read your troubled letters
Like a disciple of Freud studying
A complicated analytical case
This chance encounter
Was really predestined fate
We came together a moment
But always apart
And I re-lived the horror from the start
This offering to you
Of myself from God inside
In thanksgiving for blessings received
From the light of my experience
Now I understood
But you didn’t
In a spirit of deception
Your soul was evil in intention
With hostile and malicious passions
You hunted out from Hell
And with a hundred hurtful hands
I would again fall into your evil quick sands.
Nothing could really touch me now
It was like dust blowing across a granite wall
My finger healed and so my spirit too.
I forgot your letters
Hidden away in an unimportant cabinet
With other miscellaneous papers
From other miscellaneous people
Now I was guided by love
My course steered clear of traps.
I did all I could.
What more could you possibly have wanted
What more could you possibly have expected
Now that it’s over
Everything has disappeared
Into a forgotten past
Into a prayer sent aloft at last
Above the rising fumes from hell
And I am brought back
To where I was once before
Into a holy conversation
With one who talks for me
My advocate with God in peace
I find myself redeemed
Into an eternal loving trusting dream
..
Cake Mix
On the way home,
I stopped at the store.
I bought a cake mix,
yellow, as they were out of
chocolate and white.
Yellow like fields of corn.
Yellow like daffodils.
Yellow is a lovely color,
for a cake,
or a flower,
or a dress,
or a house in the country...
with a white picket fence.
I went home,
and mixed the ingredients.
I used the extra eggs that I had.
I floated them first,
to make sure they were... still good.
Some things are not.
Some people are not.
Some places will never be.
I added extra milk,
and left out the water.
There is a shortage of both,
but I only have a small amount,
for what I need and no more.
The oven is hot.
The pan is half full.
The batter is only partially what it should be.
They make things smaller now,
I know because I use the same pan,
as my grandmother before me.
Not long after, the treat is complete.
I ice it with glaze from the cabinet.
There is no frosting.
There has not been buttercream, in a while.
The family gathers,
and the presentation is absolute.
It is a celebration of us, being together.
All are welcome.
Saturday yard sale (moving to a heritage apartment)
years of collecting and lots must go even things of contentment
two china cabinets, one from mom, one grandma, that still bring a smile
perhaps, I can somehow keep them changing them into book shelve style
as I go through my many things and stuff I say why did I ever get that
gothic clothes, retro and vintage lace, shoes, handbags, jewelry and hat
a broken and battered filing cabinet that holds poetry written from my heart
NO, NO, this old cabinet and me can never, ever, never be apart
vases and vases, colorful, quite dusty and useless
dozens of porcelain cups kept for years and lost in forgetfulness
movies watched, outdated music, just loads and tons of stuff
how can I survive this yard sale Saturday because this will be rough
I should hang a sign on me reading ... broken heart for sale
well, suck it up as grandma used to say and lets have a sale
________________________
April 27, 2023
Poetry/Couplet/Yard Sale
Copyright Protected, ID 04-1543-134-27
All Rights Reserved, 2023, Constance La France
Submitted to the Standard contest, Brian Strand Standard, No. 1212
sponsor, Brian Strand, Judged 04/30/2023
Honorable Mention