Long Cellar Poems
Long Cellar Poems. Below are the most popular long Cellar by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Cellar poems by poem length and keyword.
I strolled into the room, real casual you see
I took a look around, one of them was guilty
*Bang* an authoritative door slam sounds in my wake
Dramatic sunglasses removal, in their boots, they will shake
A murder committed, someone has to pay the price
Time to get down to business, time to roll the dice
At first I suspected Mr. Green with the dagger
Suspicious in the lounge with a cool, cocky swagger
No one could be trusted on this ill-fated night
Least of all the deceptive charms of one, Mrs. White
In the study I says, “PUT DOWN THAT WRENCH”
Oh yes, she wreaked of a foul, guilty stench
But we can’t forget Miss. Scarlet’s wicked wiles
Think she’s got you fooled with sultry, saucy smiles
Then I find Mr. Mustard with a knife in the kitchen
I got a hunch see, this inkling’s got me itchin’
Is that Professor Plum hiding in the conservatory?
He says the pipe’s for plumbing, Yeah. A real likely story
I search the billiard room and the library
What I find next is out of the ordinary
A revolver in the books, I take it to the dining room
Where sits Mrs. Peacock, shrouded in feather boa plume
She sits by glowing flame, provided by a candlestick
She licks her fingers coyly and snuffs out the wick
The lights come on, she’s gone! I find her in the cellar
Not to brag here, but my detective skills are stellar
It’s there I lay out all the evidence to accuse
If this was a game, I tell ya, it’s here you would lose
If you want the identity of this crafty sleuth
To really know who seeks the truth
The one following each mysterious Clue
Since it’s 1949 release, it’s every one of you
July 21, 2022
Start Sleuthing Poetry contest
Sponsored by: Natasha L Scragg
Featured Famous Sleuth: Clue board game participants young and old :)
Two dwellings in one single block
(the peasants at the back).
One market garden, orchard, flock:
No asphalt road. Just track.
The men were in the bottom field
to get the barley in.
“It’s looking like a bumper yield:
don’t lose it. That’s a sin.”
The Master’s doing ‘market day’ –
four bottles. Pinot noir.
The peasants joke: “He’s making hay!
He’ll wreck another car!”
Maria looked up from her paste –
that pasta needs a tweak –
it’s never good, if done in haste –
no meat or fish this week.
She felt the window drawing her:
Where’s Salva? On the grass?
The Lady, in her Sunday fur!
Tomorrow’s Martinmas!
This was the day, with harvest picked,
when bosses, ‘cleaning house’,
by ancient custom could evict,
could tell their staff, “Heraus!”
But Salva wasn’t in the sand,
or playing near the cellar:
the Lady, clutching by the hand
her daughter, Arabella,
called out “Maria! Come to me!
And don’t you dare refuse!
This yard is filthy. Can’t you see
what’s happened to my shoes?
Your boy was playing ‘gallows bird’
with Bella, in this mess!
And what if something had occurred
to Bella’s yellow dress?
The first thought in Maria’s head
was, “So – we’re not evicted!”
The second, “That girl’s overfed –
her midriff is constricted.”
Signora, with her other arm,
held Salva by the scruff.
“You peasants,” sneered the farmyard marm,
“are naturally rough.”
“They’re getting to a certain age,
and well, I mean to say …”
Maria swallowed down her rage.
“Fine. Far apart they’ll stay.”
Huge pie in the sky,
visiting her grandparents.
A lofty and crusty bake
from ages ago.
The chill cellar held jars.
Fruits were homegrown,
handpicked, canned.
Humongous, it was not
an average-sized pie.
The gigantic pie, at least
to a child that remembers,
was gorged on satisfying
fat-purple-blueberries.
I can only imagine a taste,
to take a bite out of
1950’s life. My tongue
red and blue, savoring.
My memory only holds
my Great-Grandma
in a corner chair
in her daughter’s home;
and a couple visits
to our home
with her sister.
At least I remember that,
but paint me purple,
or let me go closer,
for her granddaughter
made me rhubarb pie.
That’s my mama,
whose Great-Grands
will only mostly recollect
what I surrender
from the past.
The nicest person on the outside, the more demons there are on the Inside.
I have watched men smile with the tenderness of priests
while burying knives beneath your tongue.
Civilization is a well-tailored coat.
It buttons high against the throat
to hide the bite marks.
The kindest man in the room
is often wrestling wolves
no one else can hear.
He says, “please,”
he opens her door,
he remembers her anniversary, birthday,
he laughs softly at the correct moments—
all while somewhere below the small ribs
an ancient furnace consumes his sleep.
Do you think goodness is born clean?
I think not, No.
Goodness is usually forged
by a creature acquainted with its opposite.
The saint and the criminal
share the same cellar.
One merely learned
how to keep the lantern lit.
There are women
who smile like warm summer rain
because if they stop smiling
the whole house of memory catches fire.
There are men
who become gentle
only after discovering
how violent they could have been.
The world praises pleasant faces.
It rewards composure.
But the unconscious—
ah, the unconscious—
keeps its receipts.
Every swallowed hatred,
every forbidden desire,
every humiliation forced underground
returns at night
wearing the mask of dreams.
And so the very nicest people
often carry hell
with exquisite manners.
They apologize too quickly.
They forgive too much.
They tremble when alone.
Inside them lives a courtroom
where guilt never sleeps.
I do not distrust the darkness.
Darkness is honest.
It is the man
who claims he has none
who should concern you most.
Unlike Pegasus, they had magical horns,
now no unicorns are left
despite the lack of any government import bans.
It was a Christmas season In East London,
Tiny Tim and the fat goose had been killed off in distant wars,
the goose received the George Cross for gallantry
(posthumously),
and little crippled Tim was shot by us
for running away from a hail of bullets.
Mum and Dad had hidden in a cellar
while Unicorns died left and right;
they had given up on Christmas -
we just listened to it on the radio.
Back then it was a monochrome world,
and grey was as good as sunlight to us.
There were minstrel shows,
but people of any color were not allowed…
no one defined what ‘not allowed’ meant.
The Jews were blamed for the lack of Unicorns everywhere.
It was a time for reflection, and reconciliation,
a time to regroup the happy forces of Dickensian novels
and shove them in the faces of Unicorn deniers.
Later in that holy season, gay folks were invented,
we had to all stop being ‘gay’ or even moderately content,
but we kept our belief in unicorns’
in a typically English half-hearted way.
That long empty shop where they used to cut hair
Where all that remains is an old barber’s chair
The creak of the hinges might give you a scare
Should you care to recall what they say occurred there
The power’s been cut which he didn’t know
The candle he found gave a dull feeble glow
There must be a draught for a sound from below
Sounded so much like a voice saying Go
The keys he’d picked up from the real estate feller
Did not include one that would unlock the cellar
So just for the hell of it he turned the handle
The draught spoke again and it blew out the candle
Outside a car passed the open front door
It’s lights caused a glint on the dust covered floor
In the dust was a key and he got quite a shock
When the power came on and the key’s in the lock
The front door slammed shut which at least stopped the draught
But the cellar door opened… and somebody laughed
So with his pulse racing he made his way down
Was he mad to open in Olde London Town
He glared at the sight of four wide open freezers
Each packed with the remnants of dismembered geezers
Were his friends having a Halloween laugh
Or was that them chopped up in that old tin bath
Those stories weren't true but made up for a lark
And yet he still froze when the whole place went dark
There’s no way that this shop was once Sweeny Todd’s
But a voice in the dark chuckled… ‘What are the odds?’
Fatal graveyard friendship
On the last day of my human life, I was sitting on a tomb in a cemetery, in an incredible garden of death
(In an outer district of the city.)
Just sitting, nothing special. Meditation, contemplation, thinking about death and life’s matters, and God
It was a beautiful day in September, windy atmosphere, the rain just gone, and the light of the sun sometimes winks through the leaves of trees
Everything is wet, this cemetery is so green and shines silvery, the ivy overgrown and weaved through everything
Silent solitude, amazing feeling between death and life, oh, that's why I love this thousand years old monumental graveyard
Just sitting on a tomb. Nice light brown marble building. So stable, and timeless, two people sleep here in the deep endless life
Joseph and Erma died on the same day in 1943. It was the time of World War II. On the same day? Hm, they died together. But how?
Someone knocks, the marble cover of the tomb moves under me, and someone shouts in exasperation, a man's voice
‘Hey! Man! Go away from our tomb! It’s not yours! Do not sit here! Go! We want to come out from the deep! Go! Go!!’
I stood up in full terror. The marble cover of the tomb moved off. Oh my God! A man came out! Tall and so strong!
A beautiful lady followed him from the depths. Oh my God! It's much better than all of the present top actors and models!
We talked and became friends. We walked into the cemetery. Conversations about life and death. About past and present life.
Joseph and Erma invited me to their home into the deep. Amazing home under the ground of the graveyard. Amazing, mystically demonic
Amazing home, living hall, rooms, a little church, library room, wine cellar, park, garden, dream home, afterlife living life actively on
Fantastic dinner, party, wine tasting, whiskies, and hellish drugs. Oh, I became unconscious, dreams, visions, magical lands. I have forgotten my life.
I woke up. I can’t get air. I realized. I am in a tomb. I sleep with two skeletons.
My mind is active. I want to get out of here. It is not possible.
‘You are dead! We stole your life!’ Joseph and Erma sang it.
They are sitting and drinking on my tomb.
Her pale face, rosy lips, raven wing hair,
that many compare to a princess of old, so fair.
Yet, she is unique, the girl with the amber eyes,
sweet demeanor, a façade, to hide the lies.
Perfected ruse to the ruthless mind in disguise,
Mistress of Castle Rose is not known for a heart of ice.
But deep within the walls, beneath the cellar,
sits the evidence of the hell she earnestly endeavors.
La Dame Blanche would shiver in fear,
to witness the heinous monsters summoned there.
So, vigilance is all that can be given, warned,
If Mistress Rose beguiles you, your soul, eternity, be mourned.
Antiques and Curios
A collection of Antiques and curios,
Covered in dust on a cellar floor.
Things once made for a purpose,
No longer of use anymore.
Record Player with wind-up handle,
Once sung out the old Seventy-eights.
A music box with broken spring,
Film scores of the all-time greats.
Gas mask, unused in a chest,
A wartime ration book, stained, slightly torn.
Hobnail working boots, coal black,
Scuffed at the toes, well worn.
An old encyclopedia, open at page 12,
Dwarf stars, Meteors and Asteroid,
The mysteries of our Solar system
and a Comet we may need to avoid.
Vintage clothes in leather suitcase,
Fashionable back in the year.
Someone would probably buy them,
For the right price, not too dear.
Pots and Pans of Copper and Tin,
Ornamental handles and lid.
Hard to imagine they were ever used,
But, by the signs of wear, someone did.
A collection of old newspapers,
Bismarck disabled and sunk,
A periodical about holy orders,
The life and times of a Monk.
Moth eaten Teddy Bear, only one eye,
Tracks for a blue clockwork train.
Toy soldiers of lead, standing proud,
Down somebody’s memory lane.
I began to feel rather intrusive,
An invasion of a man’s private life;
Never to know treasures keeper,
Was he at war, leaving children and wife.
An assemblage of curiosities,
To move them would feel such a crime.
I will leave everything undisturbed,
Treasured by someone of the time.
AND one hand clapping against
the shuttered storm cellar doors is
never a reason to deny ability:
like mushroom clouds as falling
tears splatting fragments of
dusted minds – by parched perched
gills of neon fossils; the signs are
here, there, and within the ? of
a hungry-starved dying youth/
/-->the ordered degree of chaos!
By opened minds the wheels turn
As curving fanning windmills churn;
Abrasions of mental collisions
As rough as life and art
(and smooth as death and data)
as all atheist and scientist know
who cares if the tree makes a sound
when it dies AND I say “hello” to
a black void but no reply, ergo:
AVOID.
:: 06-29-2017 ::