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.
This poem is dedicated to Cleveland’s own … “Barley House” Thank you for your symbolism of the “White Rose” – “A love and deep respect / everlasting devotion and loyalty to the people you serve...
For 11 years I stepped into an establishment of tables, chairs, and wooden floors…
A true spirit of hospitality, humanity, and Family… The model place that has bypassed many setbacks of
unforeseen storms, battles, and wars…
And
A true testament of your
motivation, strength, and adoration.
So
From your best team players…
(The Cleveland Cavaliers, Browns, Indians, Lake Erie Monsters, and many others...)
We all thank you for your hard work, support
And
Never-ending favors.
For I give you your flowers…
(Corey, Bobby, Joe, and Chris) …The ones that have made a
Huge impact …
From historical and economic facts…
Here I stand…
As a witness
And your Bathroom Attendant…
“House Mom Kat”.
And lastly…
I thank and appreciate all that you do…
So
Continue to absorb the sunshine and the light
My champions…
Continue to go with the flow
Of greatness… And go with God’s
Wind that blows …
My 4 petals’ on the
Stem of “MY WHITE ROSE”.
I watched the porch lights flicker on for them—
the laughter soft, the timing always right.
The chairs were full. I hovered at the stem
of every plan, then vanished with the night.
A window cracked, a voice that called too late,
a message read, replied to days behind.
No slammed door, just a pattern I could trace—
how even warmth turns cruel when misaligned.
I asked for little. Always just enough
to be let in. To pull a corner seat.
But glow is not the same as being loved.
And unaddressed omissions aren't discreet.
I stayed outside until I felt the chill—
no hate, no love, just quiet, quiet, kill.
The unspoken pain that lingers in the soul.
Regret stews like a pot in the kitchen,
simmering with drug-filled decisions.
The tallest towers
are stacks of unwashed dishes
in a sink of despair.
Cobwebs in the corners of the ceiling
catch flies buzzing against the wall.
The timer on the oven
blinks at me often,
yet refuses to be used at all.
The faucet drips
in unison with the tears that fall.
Magnets on the refrigerator
hold the lyrics of a forgotten song.
The aroma of fresh coffee
from an old pot
dances through a broken nose.
A table stained with memories
stands where the chairs
can no longer bear the weight.
Cracks in the flooring
run all the way through.
Blue paint drips
where the floor
no longer meets the wall.
On the morning of April 19, 1995,
Terror was heard through the Oklahoma sky.
At 9:02 A.M. the explosion did occur,
And the blue common day turned into a blur.
A memorial was built to mark the state’s loss,
Memorializing the one’s who paid terror’s cost.
A monument of seats stands brightening the night,
In nine rows of chairs illuminated by lights.
Brokenhearted and lonely we seem to be,
Silent and lonely but forever empty.
Built with emotion for who we symbolize,
In our bronze grain lies the pain of lost lives.
Born from molted bronze, given life through death,
We stand here for those who took their last breath.
But from where we stand, we stand with glee,
For in our sights lives the Survivor Tree.
Married together in this sacred place,
Imparting to those mercy and grace.
When families come here to see and reflect
Our memories live on as our loved ones connect.
Names of young and old we proudly bear;
In nine rows of 168 empty chairs.
_______________________
Inspired by Deborah Guzzi’s
—The Chairs Tale Contest—
You can take a virtual tour at
http://www.oklahomacitynationalmemorial.org
Poetry is a prayer to be received
And manifested through the aide of others, but!
The real prestige occurs when
The shape and effect of our creation
Begins and lives out its iridescent life in total surrender to the reader
While the spewer of the letters
Continues to brew a pot (slow, macabre strokes),
The task indiscriminate of prayer and proof
As the work of the poet become's the prophet's last frontier:
The heart's tongue over the mind's eye...
The Word blows over the sweet and rugged land like
A neverending prayer: and endlessly abiding acknowledgment
Of God's grace over his sweet and rugged people.
Their helpless prayers singing through the trees.
Their great gladness broadening with peace,
As all words bend and beg to be a present participle.
While all the whiling
The witches in their bedrooms
Lay claim to nothing,
Floating in their chairs.
We spent the morning at the beach…
setting up our chairs and umbrella…walking hand in hand
listening to the waves, smelling the salt air…
as we strolled along the sand.
As we sat in the shade of our umbrella…
I listened to Deborah’s stories…memories she adores
of a time when she was younger…
with her family at the shore.
She remembers her mom packing up her three children
making sure they were close at hand…
encouraging them to play in the water…
making castles in the sand.
She remembers moments with her dad
just a father and a daughter…
when she could hold her father in her arms
because he was weightless in the water.
I remember taking our children to the beach…
pretending to be dolphins…all the pelicans we would see
battling the waves as we chose up teams
and played football in the sea.
While we were sitting in our chairs..
a large family with a host of children sauntered by…
the mother stopped in front of us…and looking directly into our eyes
Said, “It looks like you have it easy!” while letting out a moan
“We’ve been where you are,” we answered, “but now our children are all grown.”
“So I have something to look forward to.” She smiled…
And gave us both a wink…
“You do…but enjoy this while you can. “We said
“It’ll be over before you think.”
And as we bobbed among the waves…
watching families like hers playing together
in the water…on the beach…or holding hands
We thought how wonderful it would be
if only for a moment
we were back to that time when our family was younger
and we were once again…making memories in the sand.
Harmless guest
Underneath Zoom chair
Some small creature fleeing in confusion
Ah ha, a brown lizard, harmless four-legged guest
Hiding and scared, aren’t you?
So am I
Please do not visit me in bed tonight
Mi-casa-su-casa
prey on insects and spiders all you want
and Thank you
for house cleaning service
Mi-casa-su-casa
Enjoy this big playground
hanging out in small covered spaces
under any couches, chairs, desks, bookshelves, or tables in the house
Closets, vents, baseboards, cushions, and potted plants
unlimited places to hide
One early morning
A two-legged guest picks up his underpants
Surprise!
A four-legged guest skydive dropping onto the ground
fleeing in amusement
Baiano is my charming Campanian town,
at the foot of the Paterno's mountain,
noble roman settlers came to build their villas,
but the barbarians and Spartacus ransacked it;
then other invaders: the Normans, the Hungarians,
the Swedish and Spaniards occupied it!
Baiano is an ancient town, not as widely famous
as many northern towns, but keeps up with the modern times;
come here in springtime, and see the season's enchantment:
sunflowers and lilies fields spread out in the misty distance...
as the orange and apple trees dress in green and wait
for the magical summer for that palatable fragrance!
In the soccer fields, kids play in the hot afternoons
while their parents watch them from colorful shades;
the elders sit in their comfortable plastic chairs,
napping under the shade of a casual oak tree,so tall,
planted by a student on Earth Day many summers ago...
and he proudly stands by it counting its living years!
O adorable town, left by me, for social reasons when
I was forced to flee and leave this youth undone,
with friends I hung out in the church's yard...
to kick that ball in the net, and become elated;
could I have gotten all that energy from the southern sun,
which has nothing to envy the colder northern one!
From the wide steps of the Gothic church with a sturdy door,
I raised those childish eyes and gazed at the beautiful facade,
and wondered what inspired the architect
to build such an immortal monument
so heavily damaged by the last earthquake,
but the Baianese people brought it to its previous splendor!
In my charming Campanian town without a stream,
there is a large square with oak trees on both sides,
and right in the middle the Fallen Soldiers' monument...
for the brave ones who went up north to fight the invaders;
and the blood they shed was for my freedom,
and these verses will be read by everyone in the land!
Neighbors and friends you have gotten older or passed away,
and all of you who are alive: lament with me its by-gone glory!
Copyright 2008 by Andrew Crisci
All of me is open for review
every moment spent in time with you,
the wakening with the rise of the sun
washing, dressing, breakfast on the run,
warmly heated cars rushing off
driving along the pothole streets slough
a bumpy start then no paths to ride
smooth and steady glides,
stiff chairs and desks set prone
e-mails, urgent papers shown
the daily grind keeps us here
in the physical reality sphere;
but somewhere in the daily quests
there is an escape but little rest
as all the efforts I have made
slip in and out of the twilight shade
and this here and now is not the only parade;
my life exists throughout the days
finding refuge in the clouds at bay
here the senses ignite to send me reeling
exceeding seeing, hearing, tasting, touching, feeling,
it's an emotional flush
wrapped in imagination's rush
a virtual escape
why would you hesitate?
Slip up, slide in and out your personal shroud
to the virtual reality up in the cloud.
Three thousand chairs are crammed across the field,
A sea of cheap black gowns and melting ice.
We’re sitting trapped without a sunlit shield,
While sweat drips down my neck to mock me twice.
The principal yells names at breakneck pace,
A steady roar from "Aaron" down to "Zane."
I’m stuck somewhere around the middle space,
My rear is numb, my brain feels like pure pain.
By letter M, the afternoon turns harsh,
Lost in a sea of gowns forevermore.
Are we graduating or trapped in a marsh?
The kid beside me starts to nod and snore.
Three thousand names read off without a pause—
I only stayed because my mom said I had to!