Long Chairs Poems
Long Chairs Poems. Below are the most popular long Chairs by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Chairs poems by poem length and keyword.
Stealth hid in the corners of its soul
Patiently sowing its addictive seeds
Planting doubt in its many meanings
Each word a temporary assuagement
Its necessity cursed by its impermanence
And thus, the pen faltered in fledgling flight
Hesitations scribbles circling a meaning
The imposter, perfection, tapping its foot
Strewing the mind with contradictions canny
Thoughts tied to chairs refusing to confess
Neither AI or Spelchek will save you
For you do not throw snowballs you did not make
For you have scooped the words, compressed them
Rounded and smoothed them to perfection
And now….must hurl them
…at an unsuspecting world
People always think one man can burn the whole world down by himself.
They see a president pacing around the Oval Office like some drunken landlord with the keys to every apartment in the building, ready to shut off the heat or smash the pipes just because he’s in a mood.
But that isn’t how this broken-down machine of a country works.
Not even close.
The truth is uglier and funnier than the fear:
this place is so tangled with rules, courts, committees, subcommittees, and men in cheap suits who love procedure more than people, that no one—saint or tyrant—gets to steer the whole thing.
You can try.
Sure.
You can grab the wheel, kick the dashboard, scream until the veins in your neck look like busted guitar strings.
But the car keeps drifting the way the engineers designed it two hundred fifty years ago.
People worry the president will torch Social Security, Medicare, the scraps of dignity we cling to.
But those old programs are built like concrete bunkers—too many locks, too many laws, too many ghosts of past congresses still rattling around in them.
He can swing a hammer, maybe loosen a few bricks, but the whole wall won’t fall.
Not in a few months.
Not with half the country watching, lawyers circling like buzzards, and judges ready to slap his hand like a mother tired of her kid poking the electrical socket.
What he can do—what any of them can do—is make noise.
Kick up dust.
Scare the hell out of people.
Write some order on fancy paper and wave it around for the cameras, knowing the next guy will tear it up like junk mail.
That’s the trick: the damage that feels permanent is usually temporary, and the damage that’s permanent usually took decades to build, long before anyone noticed.
So yeah, a president can throw a fit on his way out the door.
He can shove over chairs and slam the drawers.
But the house stays standing.
The plumbing still runs.
The old programs limp on like grizzled veterans who’ve seen worse than one man with a grudge.
If this country falls, it won’t be because of one president—it’ll be because the whole damn circus finally collapsed under the weight of its own noise.
Until then, the machine grinds on.
An Independence Day
memory fragment -
my husband and I along with
our daughter and her small family
have just set up our lawn chairs
and blankets for the little ones
along the crowded avenue
from which we’ll view the parade.
As the big event gets underway,
we realize to our dismay
the sun shines directly into our eyes
making it difficult to see,
but it’s too late to move to another spot.
The sun beats down;
I feel unexpectedly exhausted
as my grandson gleefully shouts:
Grandma, look at this! Grandma, look at that!
A float like I’ve seen a dozen times before
passes by my heavy eyes. . .
The sun caresses my face so warmly,
no other time have I felt so relaxed
or so removed from everything around me
in the midst of such a large mass of people.
Knowing I should show interest for the grandkids,
I still keep sinking into sweet oblivion
while the world simply fades away. . .
Written Sept. 10, 2013 for the Fragment Poetry Contest of Broken Wings
All up and down the town’s Main Street,
the old folks sit in plastic chairs.
Children are already tasting,
all that candy soon to be theirs.
In the crisp early morning air,
floats gathering in the school’s lot.
“Get on with it,” old men grumble,
“before it gets too gosh darn hot.”
When around the corner they come,
and Old Glory is carried past.
We stand with hands over our hearts,
pray our nation will always last.
Marching bands come belting their tunes,
with shiny instruments and drum.
Then yells from excited children,
when the clown cars finally comes.
King and queen riding in their cars,
fire trucks blast their siren and horn.
Candy tossed to smiling children,
as laughter fills the joyous morn.
Dearest Santa, my one wish may seem strange
but please do not interpret me as snide.
I wish this kindness so please do arrange
my Christmas gift of a mail order bride.
Surely she would lighten my hard work load,
help with the children and spousal demands.
She can be pretty or favor a toad
as long as it’s English she understands.
I fail domestic perfection with house,
Mom affection with little ones each day
and attending His Lordship, my own spouse,
because my to-do list stays in the way.
Again, this may seem most unorthodox
but this is me thinking outside the box.
I know that you must judge, weigh and ponder
if I was a well-behaved girl this year:
I tried leaving home for the far yonder -
my car died before even driveway clear;
I lace my morning coffee with brandy;
hide my husband’s tickets to pro baseball;
stuff chips under chairs when comes Priest Andy;
I oft ignore my children when they call;
sometimes I name dust bunnies on our floor;
sarcasm is my first go to coping tool;
I cheat at cards when adding up my score;
and June just past, I peed in a pal's pool.
I work hard without reward all day long,
so sometimes, yeah, I get this life all wrong.
I wish to remember why I am here;
recall romantic love that started all.
I could succeed if I had a wife-peer
helping with spousal gall and toddler brawls.
I want more than bathtubs layered with dirt
and stinking trash bordering on a spill.
Let someone else produce an ironed shirt
and seek deep sleep as an ambitious thrill.
I want memories of kids where I smile
and husband conversations standing still.
I seek family love to feel worthwhile
lest I seek happy docs with happy pills.
One or both of us can wed my wished bride,
just, please, Santa, in my favor decide.
If I were an animal, I would be a cat
A fat, fluffy white Persian kitty cat brat
I would sleep and lounge most of the day
And then at night make noise in every way
I would claw scratch the sofa, chairs and wall
Until caps are glued on to cover them all
I would like them in rainbow bright colors
As I am a glamour kitty and prettier than others
I would meow and rub along my owner’s legs
And not stop until treats are given after I beg
I will gladly then give a love bite on your arm
As it’s just a kiss from me, and will not harm
I would jump on the table and watch for birds
And loudly chatter about until we have words
I would then let you pet and rub my belly and ears
And hope to purr with enjoyment for many years
I would finally decide to sleep, curled in your lap
Until I decide to give your face a little paw tap
I would expect my food dish to be filled on the floor
Then would know, I'm loved and the cat you adore
I have always wanted a golden retriever puppy.
This year I decided to gift myself one; he is Beau.
Thirty-five pounds of sheer puppy-chewing fun.
Sophie, our thirteen -pound persnickety cocker was horrified.
She is doing her best to pretend that Beau does not exist.
Buddy, a mutt who was dumped on us two years ago likes Beau.
They are both goofy with giant heads and enormous paws.
Buddy was sixty-nine pounds when he was dumped.
He now dresses out at one hundred and sixteen.
The puppy Beau is chewing dry wall, the legs of chairs, and my desk.
I brought home forty dollars of puppy chew toys, but they are not the ticket.
He wants to be close to me every second; it has made walking difficult.
Picture this.
You take a step, but there is a puppy head in between your knees for the next step.
Beau is now in the room with my husband’s drum set.
He has figured out his bark sounds even more fierce here
when it vibrates off the drums.
This is day two.
A pretty amazing day all in all.
Because I have always wanted a golden retriever puppy.
the sick sun returns to die my stomach stings squirms and burns eternity is calling out a warm meal my jaw tenses up the breath goes into my swollen throat a lady bug crawls on a string attached to a ceiling light stalin chokes on his blood as his doctors watch the lady bug creeps towards the hot bulb burning my eyes blink sleep beckons me to bed through the cold window the blues slide into my bones the room darkens grey holocaust films haunt my morning memories old ladies cry tears of pain burnt bodies in ovens thoughts disjointed deep pauses in reason i squeeze each strained word from my fingers shrill guitar notes from old blues tunes creep the lady bug has gone towards the cold plastic covered window someone give me a sign a mystery angel or a god i need a faith that i can touch the blues beat drives on like a knock on my door trains filled with frozen human corpses the smell of dry stench cat spray rotting garbage piled wrappers and waste smiling politicians buses and trains roll on through the night a wife grins as she cheats on her husband pictures of air-brushed beauties in magazine stands next to candy-bars and gum illiterate citizens drive with cell-phones on their ears i’m scouring emptiness for magic verses clouds of silver heaven oil jesus portraits grandmothers’ cookies and milk giggling monogamous sex frowning faces vinyl flowers shopping carts filled with frozen food classic rock bus-stops power-chairs enough the high-pitched guitar note drones the bright computer screen hurts my eyes i fight wanton hunger leaves rustle in the cool november wind i see these words they exist my fingernails keep growing fingernails grow on dead human bodies i’m alive strange moments nothing makes sense but i’m afraid to die crawlin’ king snake crackles through the speakers i know my girl loves me food promises love and life sunny days and holidays i scratch my head hunger gnaws on me sugar runs low in my blood my brain slows my words huff and try to push the wall down
Lots of light, a comfy bed,
Quiet when you're sleeping;
Curtains blocking out the world
When morning rays come creeping.
Reading lamps, two cozy chairs,
Some drawers to do unpacking;
A fridge, tv and coffeemaker
(Which some rooms are lacking).
A nice hot shower where the water's
Strong yet gently flowing;
A concierge to help you
Figure out just where you're going.
A great location so that you
Can walk to local places;
A staff whose smiles are welcoming
As breezes' warm embraces.
A hotel room like this will make
Your visit a delight
And if you guess I'm staying at one,*
You'd, of course, be right!
*Hotel Am Steinplatz, Berlin
And here my happy husband says with glee is what you always love the best.
With a fast flourish he hands me the yellow envelope, yearly pest.
Crumb! Bum! Will I ever be free? Of this ridiculous yearly mess?
I must report for jury duty, a month from now, I must confess.
Why oh why do they always pick me? I lament to my mate, who knows all.
Maybe it is because they know you can read? He yells, through his locked office door wall.
Crumb! Bum! Zap and Zip! Did I already say crumb? I hate the courtroom, where all is quiet and cold.
I once got clear up to the jury chairs, and got excited thinking I was going to be all bad and bold,
Thinking we would get badges and nightsticks, and get to capture a convict, and wear a police hat.
Do something fun, like the detectives and police on TV, forgetting a seat on the jury is not really that.
Last year I sat in a room with water and coffee, no cookies or crackers, or any kind of cake.
I got up to a jury chair, but they called a mistrial after the first lawyer made a huge mistake.
So we got paid our three dollars for the day, and were asked to call in every day, in case they needed us.
Even though this happens yearly to me, they always leave my husband alone, that sneaky little cuss!