Long Chair Poems
Long Chair Poems. Below are the most popular long Chair by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Chair poems by poem length and keyword.
Mythical Thinking
In the beginning there had been the word…
She had spoken wisely and made believe
had been a poet all her life creating fiction
scripted parables about a primordial bang
Now she encountered writer’s silent block
yet pondered about her bestseller in waiting
quite ready to reap the harvest and sensed
she had to deal with considerable competition
She rested in the ocean’s tide among pebbles
‘Can I produce a stone so big that I cannot
lift it myself?’ she answered in the affirmative
got stoned on hash brownies and magic potion
A rainbow presided over a giant shibboleth
‘This is a defining moment in history unfolding
I have created Socrates Darwin and Descartes
let the party begin and philosophy challenge’
‘They will believe to have created Me in their image’
Wishful rationale delusion psychopathology or faith
the jury is out there but ‘I appointed the judges
at the High Court of arbitration in the Garden of Eden’
She sensed there was nothing more to achieve
sat in her deck chair awaited Titanic battles
‘A bit more cannabis won’t hurt I am God after all’
but had been warned about relapsing dependence
When she was about to thread Camels and dope
through the eye of the needle injected some more
into self-proclaimed heroine of glory and fame she
shivered and fainted for the rest of day number seven
I cooked food and waited for my husband and son
They had gone out
I never eat my meal before serving my family
Feeling hungry I ate few biscuits
They were not enough to fill my stomach
Tired, I lay down in bed
When they came, they woke me up for lunch
I couldn't walk, felt lifeless
Totally drained of all energy
I slowly walked and sat on dining table chair
Food on my plate, tears rolled down my eyes
Just few morsels of food was all I wanted
Wiping tears of joy, I started eating
After eating I became normal.
That moment I vowed to God
I will never crib over anything
I get food whenever hungry
I have no right to complain.
Each day try to feed as many as possible
Pangs of hunger are hard to bear
Poor are expected to work hungry stomach before they get paid
Such a situation should never come in anyone's life!
23rd February 2021
She smiled as she looked at the old man sitting across the room
with whom she’s shared a life for 50 years…
50 years of joy and laughter mixed with a sprinkling of tears.
Just looking at him sometimes can cause her memories to stir.
She remembers, as if it were yesterday, the moment he proposed to her…
How he got down on one knee, took her hand, looked in her eyes and said,
“There are so many places I want to go…and so many things I want to do…”
then showing her the ring said,
“I would love to go to all these places and do all these things…with you.”
He smiled as he looked at the old woman sitting across the room
adjusting her wedding ring.
The woman who for 50 years has been his everything.
He sat up a little taller resting his elbows on the arms of his easy chair…
“If you don’t mind me asking,” he said, “what are you doing over there?”
“Oh I was just thinking about our life together…how I’ve been such a lucky one.
Thinking about all the places we have gone and all the things that we have done.”
He moved next to her, put his arm around her then whispered, “I love you”
“but you weren’t just a lucky one…we were a lucky two.”
Then they spent a while sifting through memories as they rose…one by one by one…
remembering together some of the places they have gone
and some of the things that they have done.
She rested her head upon his shoulder saying,
“How lucky we have been to live a life making memories we will never forget?”
“Yes, and the beauty of it all,” he said, as he took her hand in his
“is that we’re not finished yet.
Qu'est-ce que nous sommes, sinon des larmes tombant dans les villes,
Tu es moi, et je suis toi, et ensemble nous pleurons,
Écrivant de la poésie au milieu de la nuit,
Fuyant la politique, les nouvelles et les mensonges.
"Nous sommes la tête perdue à l'intérieur de nos crânes,"
Cris de désespoir, nos cœurs se sentent fragiles.
Une simple équation, pour pousser et glisser de côté,
Pouce sur les hommes-œufs, comme un morse par la marée,
Dans les jardins psychédéliques de fleurs mangeuses de chair,
Nous mangeons des fous souriants, alors que les porcs grognent en costumes bleus de pouvoir.
Edgar Allan Poe sait que je suis le poète,
Je me suis assis sur un rocher en attendant que le groupe mort arrive,
"Nous sommes les hommes-œufs", nous crions en défiance,
Tandis que Lucy court avec Alice dans le profond terrier de la conformité.
"J'ai dit prêtre comme culotte baissée,"
Et les politiciens font des règles entre les cuisses tendres des adolescents,
Comme s'ils étaient des ours pédophiles comme des porcs expert-text-pert,
Volant dans la nuit, leur obscurité déguisée.
Un futur simulé au sommet de la tour Eiffel,
Et leur leader assailli par la puissance des gens en colère.
Comme nous détestons ceux qui nous détestent et cherchent à nous diviser,
Mais tout va bien, nous traverserons ensemble cela.
Car nous avons déjà vu cela, il y a des siècles,
Et nous nous élevons toujours pour affronter un autre jour inconnu.
Everyone hates my poetry
Because it doesn’t wear makeup.
Because it stares too long,
or not long enough.
Because it mentions the body
like a room that remembers
every man who left his name in dust.
Because it’s too sad,
too loud,
too holy,
too raw—
because it does not ask permission
to bleed
where others would politely weep.
They say I should whisper.
I scream in stanzas instead.
Line breaks like broken bones —
each one healed wrong on purpose.
I rhyme “fxxk” with “forgiveness”
and call it a sacrament.
I flirt with ghosts.
I give grief a seat at the table.
I write what I can’t confess.
And then I press send.
And wait.
And wait.
And wait.
?
Go your own way, they say.
But I was never theirs to lose.
I won’t be your throat,
your mouth,
your Sunday-quiet muse.
Dance in the avalanche —
I’ll be drinking full-blooded wine.
You butter your toast,
I’ll bleed ink and call it divine.
I’m Dracula,
you’re limpets —
clinging to shores of should.
Sinister mercy monsters
with teeth made of wood.
You won’t take mine.
I’ve bartered them
for metaphor.
For myth.
For the kind of flame
that never asks to be understood.
I sit on a throne
shaped like an electric chair,
burning truth until
only the bones of beauty remain.
You?
You live in living rooms.
You collect pretty things.
I braid your betrayal
into a lei of lunacy —
my madness in bloom.
Say I’m too old.
Too female.
Too much.
There’s something in the water.
Damn right.
I am the water.
I merge with ocean light.
The moon kisses me goodnight.
Why do I need your approval to feel seen?
Must just be a throwback trauma dream.
Your eyes — not galaxies,
but black holes,
sucking the light from my becoming.
I offered constellations,
you brought collapse.
But still—
I orbit my own flame.
Still, I rise in ruin’s dress,
sequined with scars.
I chew the fat
with better men than you,
men who don’t flinch
when a woman burns through.
Men who sip my fury like wine,
and still
ask for another glass.
You?
You watered me down,
then called me “too much”
for the mess you made.
?
And still I write.
When I walk through a blink of a garden
That hugs my legs
And calls my mother
To come collect these shards of broken glass
I felt it on the kick of my leg
With hours and more hours spent
Asking for a chance to restart
There wasn’t even a miracle
To call and ask for a redo
I felt the pain when the bullet hit my skull
Because I’m a far cry from preschool
And I’m not dressing up any leg wounds
It never really was a simple time
I want to bleed on a classroom chair
And ask my future why I went there
I want to see the lights start to dim
When I was locked in the lovers shed
With pair of dice and grenade pin
I cut my hair with the heart that seemed to break
Because I’m not at the bloody creek
I’m drowning in the heart
And I do miss the way the stars would burn me up
It’s been a long day with meteors
And it’s not for the faint of all
It’s only another day, another laugh
I lost my soul in a blink of a garden
I sold my heart to game called do it
I’m never gonna get a restart
There's a heart inside that starts to blink
And a mind so blind it starts to think
I wish I still had the guts I left inside a kitchen sink
I’m holding my breath
But my breath fights back
And if I would sink
I wouldn’t sink like that
If I’m never gonna get a restart
I’m gonna fight with a will called “move!”
And I’m gonna die like I meant to do
With a piece of glass still stuck in the back of my throat.
Fingers pull at sunlight, warm and trembling,
curling it around small, unstoppable palms.
Dust sparkles in the air like fairy particles,
twirling and whirling as if the sky itself,
is shaking secrets like sprinkles just for me.
The carpet folds beneath bare toes, soft as moss and rough as bark,
each step a drumbeat in a forest of my own making.
The tongue tastes words as they form, sweet with dust and sharp with soap,
syllables ripening before they leave the lips.
Shadows slither across walls, curling and uncoiling,
following the hum of laughter that trembles in the throat and spills like water.
Torchlight puppets move across surfaces as I narrate stories of beasts and wonders,
I have not yet lived to see,
yet they feel as real as any game of pretence,
as real as the tents I build and the villages I raise,
from mats and bedsheets, with soft toys aligned as citizens.
All puddles tremble under my boots, reflecting clouds that wink and wander,
a leaf pirouetting from nowhere, a stick humming secret music,
and the wind pressing soft against the nape of my neck,
telling stories in a language only skin can hear.
Knees bloom with tiny triumphs, trenches of scraped concrete,
deepened by running barefoot, but nothing my mother cannot coo away.
My hands remain sticky with juice and glue, ears wide for the scrape of a chair,
the creak of a door, the whisper of pages, the symphony of ordinary miracles.
And still, my eyes open wider, drinking the tilt of light,
the smell of wet earth, the shimmer of moving air.
The world is alive, trembling, waiting for nothing,
but to be touched and tumbled through by little smiles,
a submerged continent rising just for my delight.
Your house still smells like you:
Warm shortbread and lavender soap -
Comforting and agonizing.
Your plants still bloom,
Perched beside the window
Where the kettle waits to be filled.
But your rocking chair is still
And all is quiet.
I could have fallen to pieces
Like a hand-blown vase
Hurled against green walls
Or dropped on old floorboards
Through fingers slick with shock.
But you sewed me up
With words gone by.
Your remnant thoughts
(So similar to thoughts I've had)
Penned in your slanted scrawl,
Filling pages with perfect rhymes
And clever observations.
Here you'll live forever
In vibrant verses and lilting lines.
And I'll live here too
Until the last salty drop
Lands on the final page.
Took knowledge in a logical way
Took out books starting with "A"
After a few months and a week
Wasn't even close to the "B's"
But I could tell you anything you wanted to know about aardvarks and artichokes
But I kept at it figurin I'll get there
Sat so long wore a hole in my chair
My beard grew longer couldn't stop to shave
And as it grayed I was near the end of the "A's"
Couldn't wait to learn all about buttered beans and brussel sprouts
Well look back now I think I should've
Started at age four then maybe I would've
Been to the "D's" before I died
But in the "C's" I learned how to cry
Cultivate cucumbers correctly create conversations continuously colloquially called chewing cud
I learned all about alliteration ages ago
From the old rockin’ chair
came the sound of his snores
that rattled the windows
and vibrated the doors
She looked o’er her glasses
but kept counting her stitch
as she watched his feet jerk
and his hands start to twitch
She knew he was dreaming
‘bout them places he’d been
Was out riding the grass
cross the highline again
She’d heard all his stories
knows most of them are true
Been little on the range
that her cowboy didn’t do
He had grown a fine herd
carved a ranch out of rock
Raised a passel of kids
that now care for the stock
Fought many harsh winters
to keep his dream alive
Spent countless holidays
out on some cattle drive
Had fought wolves, drought, and fire
blizzards and flooding rain
Busted broncs and some bones
not once did he complain
Always managed to find
a bit extra to give
He had paid well his dues
for this good life they live
Always held his head high
through those sorrows and pain
Said if he had a do-over
he’d do it that way again