Long Casement Poems
Long Casement Poems. Below are the most popular long Casement by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Casement poems by poem length and keyword.
I sit brooding on my doorstep, begrimed,
Loneliness, like a ghost, within, settled;
Sunbeams, outside, spread lavishly sublimed,
The current of existence-whirls nettled...!
My little daughter, as though bored, sits near,
Her head on my chest; hands on my lap placed;
Is she hungry? Is she sharing my fear?
Is she riddled and puzzled and pain-braced...?
My kitty lay perplexed, blinking her eyes,
Awe-struck, why she's not given her ration;
She's not enticed in chasing any mice,
She seems to share my pain-filled fixation...!
Things around me, like my life, are shattered,
My broken casement nook is not mended;
Washed linens, though clean and dry, aren’t gathered,
Is my numbed Time doomed to stay suspended...?
I do not want to go inside my house,
Each room, by past memories, is haunted;
In the absence of my devoted spouse,
Though nature cheers me up, I feel daunted...!!!
The rain, at last, has finally tiptoed in
I almost missed the laughter, but for leaves
that murmured quick surprise along the eaves
It caught my eye, with tapping on the glass
as I looked out to see a somber cast
bringing change to evening's sky
Then, having heard, I left my cozy place
and stepped outside to drink the fragrant air
And felt the slope of rain upon my face
I heard the dance of dripping leaves
against the fray of windswept trees
And watched the rope of silver coils
in casement light, as evening fell
Puddles in the nearby street
were playgrounds, dancing to a beat
Each slanted chain from heaven fell
with balmy incense, in the night
Then quickly over, like a dream
rain scampered east, without a glance
and without a chance to wipe its feet
Away it flew in fickle flight
So brief it came, to quickly cover
the leaves, the grass, and even me
with showers, sweet, before my sleep
But, left the scent, of sweetened clover
.........................................................
11/13/13
Contest: Rain
Sponsored by Eve Roper
she stumbled over her own shadow
on course for one more restless night
a candle on the window sill flickered
bade farewell to the day’s struggle
scented with the fragrance of sweat
it was not so much a nightmare but
a vivid recollection of what had been
as the drenched duvet made her shiver
cotton wool draped over her eyes
made her remember the lashes
from the whip of another encounter
with the truth of her serrated narrative
too weak to talk with the demons
fearful and anxious of an uncertain future
she looked at the corroded hinges
of the closed casement that barred her view
ferrous rust played a ferocious serenade
in tune with the wind unable to soothe
somehow however the dust finally settled
and closed the narrow aperture of sorrow
her gaze fell upon the slender doorway
behind which had to be an outline of hope
when she squeezed through the dubious opening
she dared to question the sun and the moon
settled for the unknown as an act of resistance
and walked out of her life
03rd August 2021
I was gently awakened by euphonic cooing
of mated doves perched on aspen branches
whose golden leaves rustled sweet silver songs
I rushed to open my wooden dormer window
and hum a greeting to their soft morning trills
With hands splayed on the ancient stone sill
my face welcomed the sun's auroral warmth
I felt the chill of Autumn's breath biting the air
and exhaled in contented sighs of appreciation
for the stunning beauty of this mountain valley
To paint nature's colors without dreary compromise
would require a far greater artistic hand than mine
While gazing from my cabin's primitive casement
I descried a canvas stippled in blazing pastoral hues
framed by the rustic charm of my bedroom window
To see one is rare but to buy one is obscene.
A tall snob. She casts frowns from under her gables.
He, the new owner, is in the cellar to clean
Dusting and throwing out boxes without labels.
Can a house resent an owner from the new school?
Can its wood sigh with grief from the change to a room?
Can it scream from lapse to architectural rule?
This old Victorian's doors were opened to doom!
The previous owner, whom everyone called Fred,
Had a grudge against dogs that walked on his lawn.
He'd shoot his rifle peppering the dogs' butts red.
But Fred is dead. The Daisy was sold and is gone.
However, cheap Fred would keep the bullet casement.
Although empty, he'd refill it with black powder.
Today the black powder is down in the basement
Awaiting its end by the determined router.
And the furnace glowing with a deep thermal heat,
And with metal grate open to welcome the scrap,
The old Victorian felt her heart skip a beat,
As gunpowder box was thrown in quick as a snap.
Both door and man were blasted outside in a heap
Onto a well-kept lawn that was always kept green.
Be warned that those old houses have secrets to keep.
I know Fred's not gone 'cause that was his curse I'd seen.
Tom, the rebel cat was obstinate and stray
Though active, intelligent, quick and strong,
He always kept himself unfed for long
Till he hunted and got his own prey
His old master, for this, had kept
A set distance for him to move about and mew ;
He did it often with a straight tail, skew
Till he had to take his hunting stance inept
Miss. Havisham, senile and fastidious ,had chosen
Molly the freckled cat and dressed her well,
In colours, scarf and on the head a hat, swell
She was most pampered and with over- care frozen
Molly, despite alarm had learnt not to move,
And at all odds and ends around stay cool;
Her custodian had made a hard rule :
'Avoid all male creatures and never make friends'.
Things went well and Molly turned saucy,
Ever floating in a world dreamy and sly ;
The changing wave entered the casement high;
And before her, slouched Tom the proposer ,classy :
' This is Tom, from the house across the parapet
' I have watched you closely and from far
' With love, I find we are upto par '
Molly waited not, as if things were all set
Right under the pointed nose of the old lady
The duo strode ; and Tom did smirk
And mewed , finding that his own ways do well work :
' Right proposals rid of lapses and all malady'...!
I went outside into the night
So silvery slight, I heard the sound
And found it was the fall of rain
That murmured quickly through the trees
And tapped excitement on the leaves
To watch the slope in casement light
I stood and felt the sweet delight
The mist of rain against my face
Insisted that I join the game
Then swiftly as it came, it left
And left me feeling heaven blesse
It scampered eastward with the breeze
No keepsakes left, but dripping trees
And lovely scents of grass and clover
The shower gone, in one swift flight
I watched the moon take back the night
______________________
For the Contest: May Showers: Sponsor Nayda Ivette Negron
In the small town up the road from the farm where I grew up,
the library was in the town hall,
which was also the fire station,
which was also the jail house,
and later the Plumber’s place.
It was a friendly place.
The Boy Scouts met there.
They had all the Hardy Boys books.
And a hardy lot of boys, but no nooks.
Just one room with a table in the middle.
One year the oldest bible school class
convened there when the church was full.
Wyatt Earp, son of the Preacher, and a direct descendant,
contracted Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever at scout camp.
I met him there.
There was a cupola which held the fire siren,
which was also the noon whistle in town.
Old Bill Westphal lived in the basement jail cell.
We saw him through the casement window, while at the scout meeting,
doing things that violated the scout oath.
But his scouting days had long since passed.
In the summer, while I’m at the big church,
where my sons go to scouts…
many miles and years from there,
I think of it.
And just tonight, while I’m at the poetry session
with my daughters at the big city library…
it comes back to me.
I’d like to go back to it.
I’d take my family.
That’d be a Father’s Day!
The window is long and narrow,
the casement-sill a brooding lid far overhead.
The glass is dirty, thick, and warped.
It is not a window made to see through.
People live in higher rooms; they dwell in the light,
they clatter down the staircase,
their shoes tap and thud on the pavement above.
Footsteps fade into a settling dusk.
Half a century later, a frightened child
awakes on a filthy cot.
The boy is trapped inside a man, an old man
covered in night-sweats.
The remembered basement has not changed,
it cannot change,
time hangs like a broken clock there.
The murky window is even now blind and dreaming.
The dream talks to itself,
it is obscure, possibly displaced
so long buried as it is under its own darkness.
Across the night the silence of travelling lights,
the shimmering molt of the stars,
the moon sweeping snow
over the black drenched cars, and all unwinding
into cisterns of darkness.
The chill windowpane
captures them all as they creep from casement
to casement snow-chained together
in one freeze-frame.
Logs crack and chirp as if the fire where birthing birds.
There are ghost trees in the air, limbs creak
as the cabin adjusts to wind thrown spears.
The room chirrs like a camp fiddle, a mood music
for the tips of my warming fingers.
My aspect in the wall-mirror is itself glass,
I feel its features cracking,
the window pinging as heat and cold
scratch random runes across its glass.
The cabin rolls on invisible stalks.
its foundations are structured hollows of hope,
tonight it is travelling also
there are high seas
for these unanchored times, and home is
beyond these dark mountains,
beyond the reach
of this log-raft nailed together in a kinder season
when nights did not block all paths
with their felled and fractured blinders.