Long Ceilings Poems
Long Ceilings Poems. Below are the most popular long Ceilings by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Ceilings poems by poem length and keyword.
We were extremely delighted when we picked up the keys to our brand new house and starting at the front door, we made slow anticipative steps desirous of testing the key making sure it was correctly made. But to our utter surprise, it did not fit in the keyhole, and we were left outside our new house like house-citing strangers admiring all the landscape and beautifully designed exterior. Although my wife was calm and patient, I was steaming hot in the dead of winter sending out smoke signals both from heat and cold with unspeakable emotions which were overwhelmingly joyous just seconds before. What now and what was I suppose to do? How does one go from 'cloud nine' to free-fall far below the clouds in milliseconds? Not only did the key not fit, but I wondered if there might be some other surprises waiting for us on the inside. Although I pretended to be at ease, my wife was reading the 'waves of intolerance' forming inside of me. My curiosity got the best of me. So I took a quick peek through the key hole never imagining that I would observe such disappointing craftmanship.
That peek filled my emotional cup to overflowing and left me angrier, devastated, frustrated, most utterly confused, and my imagination grew more bewildered when I considered what it must really look like beyond the peek hole. This entire venture of home building was supposed to fulfill our quest and life-long dream of a brand new home, but it appeared that our dream was rapidly turning into the greatest nightmare by the aid of a peek hole. We wondered what revelations lie behind curtain number three or the fourth peel of the banana.
My wife suggested we get another peek from the back, and you guessed it, "The beat goes on". In our view from the front peek hole, we only looked toward the walls and ceilings, but instinctively my wife looked down toward the floors and the nightmare grew bigger. My already painful headache took on 'jet propulsion speed with the beat of the wildest rock band. Water was every where because the furnace had been left off causing the pipes to freeze and brake. Smiles and peace were nowhere to be found as my lovely wife began to cry. The beat goes on but .......
12312018PoSoupContest, Slap The Muse And Turn It Loose, John Lawless *Fictitious Narrative
We sat in a room.
A bedroom, a messy one.
One with a mixture of clothes, garbage and drugs scattered everywhere. There
was random writing on the walls, like grafitti, and the paint was chipping. We sat
mostly in silence, we knew what was going to happen that night. When he arrived
we got into the van and he introduced us to his stash.
We got to the highschool commons. It was a giant building with tall ceilings,
giant pillars, and big glass windows, and it had no supervision inside. Before
going inside we smoked some hash outside. There had to be at least 400
people there. The room had flashing lights, loud music, and teenage wreckage
everywhere. The people were forming a kind of mosh; their arms flinging and
they screamed to see if they could out-roar the music.
The effect was deafening. Nearly all the stash-ridden tables were smashed to
the floor, so we hurried to the only stnading one left. He dumped his stash on the
table.
The lights plus the music plus the emotion made you want to dig into the stash
and join the mosh. That's what we did, but we didn't join the mosh right away. We
sat around the table and watched the masacre, finding it overly amusing. We
laughed at mearly everything as the acid took it's effect. I finally got up to mosh.
Everything wanted your body in, and it had already stolen your voice, for you
couldn't hear yourself scream. Before I could get my feet off the ground, I couldn't
help but notice that there were people making out everywhere, as they moshed. I
laughed at them, but was jelous.
I started kissing someone, unsure of whether or not it was a guy or girl. We
stripped off our clothes until we were nearly naked, but then he/she backed away.
They rejoined the mosh.
I stood still, and the mosh parted before me leading me to the glass wall. I
walked, barefoot, to where it stood surprisingly clean. I took the object in my hand
and smashed the gleaming wall, screaming with the music. The crowd cheered
and roared until my ears were ringing and I was nearly deaf. I moshed into the
middle of the mosh and everyone jumped to my rhythm. I felt hundreds of eyes
watching me, so I closed my eyes and let my body go. He/she found me again,
and kissed me again, and the masacre disappeared. Eventually so did whoever I
was kissing.
A plate smashes against the kitchen wall
In the middle of another Sunday lunch war
For a moment I feel as if I'm not really there
As I stop and stare at this world I live in
But do not comprehend
Across from me
John
Been drinking again
Since he woke
Fueling his senseless hatred
Driving his rage
He's shouting at my mother
Telling her she's an ugly useless witch
His mouth moves slowly
As I watch every cruel word come alive
Perfectly formed
To exhort in so few words
The maximum hurt
His hair combed over
Attempting to hide his baldness
Dry and graying
Betraying his denial of age
His fat belly hanging through his cardigan
As I rush to eat before the arguments start
The stains on his fingers tell of at least 30 a day
Together with the evidence collected
On the kitchens ceilings, cupboards and walls
Behind me the door to the garden
Behind him escape to the hall
I know how long it takes to reach them both
I know how long it takes for him to get up
Expert in the pitch in his voice
Where he starts using his fist
Professor in when to fight and when to play dead
As I look on I hardly taste the food
I rush before the time
When more plates begin to fly
Today it is my sister
I did not know but today she would leave
Finally had enough she threw her plate
And stood screaming at him
Of all the horrible things he is
She threw her plate
Peas and gravy
Run from his hairy chest to fat belly
You'd almost want to laugh
If you knew the joke would last
But he did not see the comedy
For a moment the whole kitchen seemed to be in the air
My plate and food had become another tool
This raging Sunday afternoon
Through the house anger raged
Battles scarring every room
Today I was but a witness
As his focus turned to my sister
And what she had dared to do
With words only falling silent
When replaced with the thud
As he punched my sister in the stomach
And a child years a way
Joined his list of casualties
As he returned to his bottle
To lose what he had just done
We took my sister away
But in those senseless times
My mother and I returned
And when my own time came to leave
When his fist met my face
His dog bit at my legs
I guess I always knew
I would never forget
Flying saucers and plates
And my sisters wonderful aim
awake now!
Recite!
Write it down, letter by letter
the house of Holy is being built
brick by brick, letter by letter, gem by gem
my Spirit approached me by night
with a vision of gladness
a triumphant tiding
born on a warm and powerful wind in the dead of winter
Say, “It is finished”
Say, “The city has fallen!”
Say, “Come away with me, my love. Come away, and taste not of her poison delicacies”
as in a dream, I watched
while a mad-woman
a maenad
ran through every street and back alley
a lunatic
possessed by the moonlight
holding in her left hand
a magic wand that she had retrieved
from a children’s magic kit
a plastic wand
and everywhere she ran
she swung her wand
pointing at each and every thing
and shouting
HOLY! HOLY! HOLY! HOLY!
Holy, the cobblestones of the street! Shining in the moonlight!
Swinging her wand and pointing up
HOLY the dark clouds which move to block the moonlight
and move away again to reveal!
Swinging and shrieking and crying
HOLY! HOLY!
Pointing the wand at the gawking passerby
who stopped to stare, clutching their children tightly to guard them from her madness
HOLY the skeptics, the blind, and the deaf! For they shall see! They shall hear!
Holy your children, whom you shall not keep from me!
They will follow me through the streets, singing and dancing to my merry tunes!
Holy the children, for they believe in magic wands of plastic
Holy the plastic, no less than the gold with which you adorn your temples!
Holy the darkness, which falls over your land!
And with those words
the Lady flung her arm
pointing her wand at the moon itself
which turned red-black
like congealed blood over a wound
and darkness fell over the cobblestones in the streets
and panic fell in the hearts of the passerby
because the light was gone
and screaming terrified, they tried to drag their children with them back inside their homes
where the cold hum of electricity kept the incandescent status quo glowing from the ceilings
but the children would have none of it
the Lady had begun to dance under the darkened moon
through the black streets
singing a merry tune (holy holy holy)
and the children each broke free from the terrified death-grips of their parents
and danced behind Her
into the streets
An oversized vintage T-shirt is
My weekend attire or
More like my mainichi attire
My face bare
Exposing an unnamed galaxy of freckles
The bottle of
Cheap combini
Apple sparkling wine
Feelin like a millionaire
A neon highlighter between my lips
A novel in my hand
While the others wait its turn
Lounging around in piles
All over my room
The mismatched mugs
With the coffee or tea
I didn’t finish drinking
Sitting cold
Flipping through different playlists
Am I feelin like the present
Might be better to
Throw it back a little
To the better days
When the places I commuted to were
Not only
My desk chair in the morning
And
My bed at night
Gazing up at the
Skies of my ceilings and walls
To see the stars of impressions
I’ve found light years ago
Will I find other vibrant constellations
That are none like the rest?
I stare at the blank walls
As if I can magically materialize
Somethin
Just a little different somethin
To make the days
Pass a little faster
My scars on my hand are healin
The scars of last summer
Dangerous carelessness
A slip of the hand
A slip of the slicer
A bit of blood but no foul
It was all my mistake of the making
Silly silly mistake
At least I’ve been fortunately given
Given the gift of time
To heal
To grow
And face em front fearlessly
Some days breaking down
In nightmares
With unknown meanings
That cannot be depicted
Some days breaking down
Into grateful laughter
The colors of my nails changing like the
Changing of the seasons
The quiet but solemn translation
From spring to summer
Sakura pink to
Silver scales of mermaid lagoons
Dreamin of the day
To return to sea
The waterfalls of rain
Spraying my windows
The trees bellowing in the wind
Come golden beans of sun
With the cicadas
Announcing the first day of aelin
Opening the curtains to midsummer
The season of magic and fairies
Yet
I stay on my chair
Undisturbed by the chaos
Outside my window
Writing the verses
My heart tells me
To compose
The feelings
That cannot be fathomed
Into stars
The abendrot sun
Sees through my smile in the daylight
The nyctophilic moon
Solemnly watching my
Silent cries at night
They both keep my secrets
As I keep composing
My operas of comedies and tragedies
Blame hardly ever helps unless it is used to express anger
it does not achieve any more than venting raging frustration
levels the playing field to a point apportioning recrimination
without actually achieving anything but turning on the tap
of seemingly futile emotions seeking for a functional cause
My lover and I were set to move on from Spain back to home
a new abode on the British Isles to work and retire for good
Sitting in a house in Valencia with boxes packed with books
memorabilia trinkets and carpets rolled up for easy transport
we simply waited for one final certificate from the authorities
Nothing fancy just a signature on paper and promised long ago
but nothing had prepared us for the legendary mañana mañana
with months of inaction inaptitude and not a thought for reason
We are working on it they said but no one seemed to care about
how much depended on the form and a long chain of consequences
Now the buyers pulled out and who can blame them as they
patiently waited such a long time and eventually merely gave up
on their dream and by proxy on our venture and own aspirations
Unpacking the moving goods will keep us busy for a short while
to make our house presentable once more and waiting to ensue
Injustice grinds its teeth at feelings and reason that do not conform
fail to find the wise mind to align their disarray and stark confusion
and so we are lost in transition that keeps on lingering for an eternity
while our souls bleed remonstrate on what ifs and other conjunctives
Lashing out at floorboards and ceilings does not deal with the grief
My grandma used to say it is what it is and advised with great caution
that one never knows what it may be good for and advised acceptance
and her problems were bigger than ours with a war raging in Europe
bombs on her head ruins devastation existential fear and an unknown
and we have each other a roof over our heads and food on our table
And yet it is difficult to be grateful when a vision for imminent future
has been shattered so crudely in its unfairness of unnecessary delay
On the bright side candles and scent sticks are unpacked as we pray
17th March 2021
The time had come, we were agreed
To discontinue paying rents.
We'd make our plans and then proceed
To buy or build a residence.
i said an older house I'd choose.
A little house and lot would do.
The first of many fights I'd lose,
My wife and daughters wanted new.
Because of our financial state,
A giant mortgage would be tough.
I said we can't be profligate.
Two bedrooms and a bath's enough.
That sound opinion was not shared.
'Twould be the last they'd listen to.
And I was badly unprepared
To face the hell they put me through.
Each girl demanded her own room,
And two for guests my wife required.
(Her parents, harbingers of gloom,
And shiftless brother, who'd been fired.)
A living room with stone fireplace,
A finished den with vast TV,
Cathedral ceilings, (Wasted space!)
And just in case, a nursery.
The house entirely made of brick,
At least three baths and custom doors,
With granite counters, (Now I'm sick!)
A laundry room, and hardwood floors.
Its tubs so large we could bathe whales,
The hugest closets ever made,
New furniture from Bloomingdale's,
And landscaped trees providing shade.
A massive lawn (More I must mow!)
For future pool put underground,
A grill and screened-in patio,
And fence so pets can run around.
* * * * *
We've since moved in and now know how
A home affects a family.
The years have passed. I'm happy now.
We've added daughter number three.
To save on gas, I walk to work.
I carry lunch and no new cars.
My second job is hardware clerk.
I've sold my clubs and quit cigars.
Instead of crabs, we buy sardines.
No more expensive suits or gowns.
In place of steaks, it's franks and beans,
And younger girls wear hand-me-downs.
A lower temp to save on heat,
From pure-bred pets to shelter strays,
No gyms to jog, we have our street,
And no more concerts, trips, or plays.
More years ahead of steady debts,
But we're content to pay the price.
The five of us have no regrets.
We've learned to live with sacrifice.
A dream house we now occupy.
I'm feeling masculine inside.
I'm filled with pride when home I spy.
My family is satisfied.
Running, dripping, or still;
Life's a faucet, we’re a thirst,
To never drink our fill.
We drink and think
We are immune to pain from one another,
But brother, when it comes,
The waterfall or shower towers each
To block the sun.
Into a depth of puddles we stare
With all the wishes hearts forsake.
While voices whisper
From each rain for us to wake.
All drops stop, then disappear,
Take no side but reach our ear
In long or shorter stride to touch
The origin inside.
The place from which no one can hide;
The Hand that turns our faucet on or off.
From caves to huts and soup to nuts,
Each of us an entertainment,
The scope of which directed by
The compass of our choice.
We have and hear a different voice,
But it is our own we stretch
Across this voided earth,
Spiked with certain curtains and callings
Our ceilings manufactured.
These times are not newer
Because there are fewer miles
Of synapse between us.
It is a small but constant distance
From cheek to cuspidor
And what is not expected
Is expectorant on the floor
As we walk into our slippers
Through each shower of hours.
Chapters of happiness layered
With a faith that is guided by
What we have been without.
It is far more elegant to dress
Our moments in what is missing
Than dismissing the obvious
For the want of more,
Yet to stop is to become
That which we were chasing.
Our ears grow with age.
While cold guides our fingers flattened rage.
We can say what we will, turn the page,
Or eat a pie, starting every bite with I.
Who would be the wiser?
What gains a penny whose face is proud
And speaks aloud to the backside of a life?
Follow or fallow It’s what we are made of;
Harvesting hairs, split with indifferences
Spilling from the mouths of babes,
But Maybe baby, we just want to be held
One more time before we go,
While knowledge and understanding
Come from the language of others.
Each place or face is a foreign orb
That we err or blur into a refinement.
It is not a magic pencil but a crazy crayon
From which the cartoons of our life are born.
Oh Gabriel, come blow that horn!
I find waking up a challenging, time consuming chore
As I rather enjoy cavorting with kings, queens and wanton whores.
I admit I’m drawn to royalty and “Riff-raff” now and then
Even Jesus used to hang around with the likes of us and them.
And lest we forget the policeman, painter, banker, barber, chef,
Dancer, dentist, executive, high-roller placing bets.
The carpenter, mayor, fisherman, flute player, handyman,
Everyone has something to share from their mind, head, heart and hands.
From deep within our bones and cells there’s more than we discern
No matter what our titles are, we live, we love, we yearn.
For mystical connections and distant, sights and sounds:
Outside of time, we stretch our minds to things sublime, profound…
As we gaze upon the sunset skies of pastel colored hues
And watch daffodils and dahlias bloom in the early morning dew.
We listen to the music played of Brahms, Chopin and Bach,
While mesmerized before our eyes watch chickadees, cranes and hawks.
We write songs and stories of love, hate, glory and paint on cathedral ceilings,
Put men up in space and find time to face the depths of emotions we’re feeling.
We study our past and things that last like pyramids, hieroglyphs and tombs,
Solve problems galore and puzzles by the score, and splash on sweet perfumes.
We write sonnets and prose, tie ribbons and bows on little girls and gifts,
And sail ships across oceans and pray with devotion to unseen forces that lift.
Our hearts and souls from out of the cold and up into warmer climes,
Where forgiveness, grace and virtue replace the beast within the mind.
We strive to achieve, work, sweat and bleed to move up the human ladder
One step at a time, imperceptibly climb towards things that matter.
As evening strolls ‘round we start to slow down into that inner, quiescent place,
Where we head for those lands beyond earthly plans, fading gently without a trace.
And when the sun arrives before our eyes awaking is a challenging chore
And yet I do so gratefully with two feet upon the floor.
11/25/2014
Before presidents and attorneys got hold of it,
and back before theologians were even a glint in the Golden GodHead's eye,
Prayer, silent or verbose,
was filled with reminders and gratitude to ourselves
and for and from others,
with pleas for urgent help
from all souls past
and still longed for,
especially those personally remembered
by having shared this home on Earth
in more balanced golden era times
of enchanting imaginations,
And petitions
to future generations
to finish what we,
and all who have passed through before us,
have healthy started,
And to forgive us for what we have neglected to rightly left unfinish,
failed to deeply hear and see resonance,
heart and mind resilience,
feel and think restoratively
this difference between healthy prayerful life
and pathological resistance
to sacred multiculturing educational re-membering
theo/ecological resources of silent EarthTribe souls.
For experiential ecologists,
and for communion theologists,
those who see cooperative nature's climate outside
reflecting organic spirit's health v. mortal pathology inside,
Prayer often leads from suffering impatient words and warnings
toward restoring just non-violent silence.
Life as prayer provokes a transubstantiating bridge
between past and future regenerators
for growing compassionately interdependent Left/Right Brain Egos
To travel back through origins of healthy DNA time
and forward toward omega tipping points to co-arise branching wealth
securing resilient global resonance
restoring justice
regathering Earth's ecstatic silent communion
within AllSouls before,
Breaking through theological silence, glass ceilings,
boundaries for and against solidarity of ecstatic futures,
polycultural wealth of health outcomes,
resiliently sustainable.
Such prayer changes interdependent things, systems
transubstantiate yin-cooperative and yang-competitive relationships.
Living prayer stretches ZeroSouls
experiencing ZenZone co-empathy--
easier in communal ego/eco-dynamic
empowering ecstatic silence
of a FullMoon winter solstice night.