Long Chaise Poems
Long Chaise Poems. Below are the most popular long Chaise by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Chaise poems by poem length and keyword.
I feel my ears pop,
As the light above me increases ...
Columns of purple sunshine shimmer and dance.
I swim up out of the cool, inky blackness of the depths,
And finally reach the surface, head bobbing like a balloon,
Frilly slits on my neck closing up and sealing, as I switch to breathing air.
I suck the thick oxygen atmosphere deep into my lungs, then exhale.
The detritus from my gills comes up with the first breath, and I spit it away,
(Small creatures that follow me, gobble it up hungrily ... nothing wasted).
I need not struggle swimming on the surface here -
The water's high saline level helps me float without effort,
So I lay back and stretch, relaxing my length, as if in a chaise lounge.
The bright purple sky dances with clouds, (and a couple of bright stars),
Two blood-red suns now low, nearing the horizon.
Though they never set, they do crimp the reach for many hours,
Before climbing again to make the sky near-blue.
Clouds are rarely white, (only when the suns are high),
But vary in shades from crimson to pink,
Again, depending on the time of day and moisture content.
I live above AND below the water here ...
My genetic alterations, (very expensive, thus),
Allow me to extract oxygen from air and water, easily transitioning.
I have long webbed toes and fingers to swim speedily,
Eyes that can detect ultraviolet and infrared,
And something similar to sonar, that I can search the depths with,
And also use to tap into the communication satellites,
As well as send personal messages to others here such as I,
Who have chosen the amphibious life of this purple planet.
I have a house back on the island, with all amenities,
But I rarely go there, choosing instead to spend most of my time
On or near the water, searching the depths for the edibles,
Or sleeping on the beach under the stars,
Composing music and poetry during the day, or visiting friends.
I send my work out onto the inter-world web,
It earns me enough to remain comfortable ... and happy.
But what I love the most, are the other intelligent creatures here ...
Most are "sea" dwellers, but all are non-aggressive.
Learning the language of each will take a lifetime,
But it is a labor of love, with joyous reward ...
Friendship!
I'm afraid that this poem was too long to post in one part; here's Part 2, full title:
Dragons Make Great Heating Systems
(Until They Discover That There’s More To Life…)
The next month we received two plane tickets, for free,
to go out to old “CA”; his life film to see.
In a bookstore he autographed our copies and then we had tea;
the manager was told, we were his, “Family”.
“Such a gifted young dragon you folks have raised.”
He declared, he shook both our hands and pulled up a chaise.
“You folks have given us all a great gift;
your dragon, his talents, our spirits did lift.”
A free tour of the studio, we got that week and on the weekend,
we went fishing, in dragon's favorite creek.
We got autographed pictures and souvenirs’ galore;
we’d never seen such publicity before.
Back home we flew and to our surprise;
our piano, we heard, was playing inside.
“That piano is ours!” I shouted and rushed through the door;
it was no surprise; I should've known, of course.
There sat our new dragon, playing without any care.
“Welcome home”, he said, “come and see what I’ve prepared”.
He’d cooked up a giant supper, for us to eat;
it included steamed pears, cole slaw and even chipped beef.
Wine he had poured as we took our seats;
such a succulent display of tasty delicacies.
We knew what would happen, as he filled our plates;
when he showed us the cookbook, he’d written, to date.
So just know, if for heat, a dragon you choose;
be prepared with a backup, for he, you will lose.
Especially if his insomnia reigns, if he dreams, is creative;
your life will soon change.
We ate very well for a couple of years;
then our eyes, once again, shed big giant tears.
Here came the plane tickets; we had a great trip.
We toured his studio kitchen; grew larger bellies and hips.
Home once again, we received another treat;
Dragon three’s an inventor, though he can’t boil a beet.
He’s managed to build us a new heating device;
in the summer it cools, like we’re sitting on ice.
It costs nothing to run and dragon three’s fame;
We all celebrated with a glass of champagne.
All the dragons will visit, on the big holidays
and we feel very blessed, that they share our family name.
A milk bottle of combustion is a silver tongued spoon. A dragon headed fortress underground. Weaving wavering waving wandering. A teaspoon of cataclysm in giant catacombs. Dominatrix circles and whirlpools. How very stylish Madame de feetoo. While festooned on a chaise long is a long time whilst chatting and chinking is rife. Apples didn't mix with pubic pubescent pineapples as lineage is deemed of the utmost importance. To preserve one's wealth signifies a heraldic crest in a pickle colour glow. But wisest are the tiny heads in jars preserved who whisper their knowledge in scientific chambers. Cloisters closeting closing cloaks. And a large duck head on a man's body lurching lecherously. Leaking. Leaving. Lest no one fault I the time orb of clayon spoke a boulder boisterously. And a dark ridge arriving. Completion is formed from the sipping of secretions from an ancient elderflower. But a bud is neither a woven skirt or a large car. It is found on a very big bus. Busy then? Good. Small boy child weeping. And a silver glasses case watching. And an ornate cane topped with an acre of crystal. Chink then. Great isn't it. When the news explodes the crisis deepens. And waters rise. The hidden submarine planted it's crop paid by coffers. In a sporadic format. Boom then. No idea for the ways. It is left for the duties to a house to perform. And a ministerial magenta. Magna carta is a a little peanut swimming in butter on a plate. And a dust particle is very very versatile so swing in trees then spin over. Good. Grabbing going glooping getting gone gone Gideon gone gone. Powdered like snow or sugar floating. Sap not a silvery spit. And a spotted tie is not very mature is it? Takeaway beans. Fantastic. Very flavoursome. Opinionated officials oversee offices. And a giant bee weighing over 200,000,000.00 kilos. In a fancy dress show. Xo xo xo and done. Xxxx rationalisation xxxxx outnumbered xxxxx testator gator Gatorade xxxx arbitrational Z
Form:
Distressed by Rob Barratt
My furniture is all distressed
It's unusually unstable
The oak bookcase is quite depressed
As is the coffee table
The worktop has a thin veneer
It seethes beneath the surface
The taps know how low they can… sink
And think life has no purpose
The painted window frame's been stripped...
Of dignity. It's lacquered
The blue front door's morale has dipped
The cheese board is cream-crackered
The writing bureau doesn't give a jot
The cupboard suffers mockery
It hates the plates and has no mates
It misuses jugs...and crockery
The kitchen table's past is stained
The dishwasher has worries
Last week it broke down and explained
That it was missing Curry's
The settle never settles
And the new desk is neurotic
The chaise longue is invariably wrong
The sofa is psychotic
The fey pouffé is apt to weep
It's covered in wet tissues
The rocking chair, it never sleeps
The magazine rack has Big Issues
The bed’s always horizontal
The tallboy’s a cross dresser
The umbrella stand is second hand
And feels its worth is lesser
The mirror which reflects, neglects
The fine wine rack which whines
The shelves themselves lack shelf-respect
The dining table pines
The mantelpiece has no mental peace
It's fired up with wrath
The woodburner has lost its spark
The wardrobe is a goth
The exposed beams aren’t what they seem
The ceiling's always plastered
The landing has a manic stair
It's an evil little bastard
The piano's case isn't black and white
The floorboards feel downtrodden
The dressing table's dressed to kill
The mini-bar is sodden
The Ottoman is not a man
But it's no couch potato
The teak footstool's a crazy fool
Who quotes in Greek from Plato
Yes, my furniture is all distressed
But they've reason for concern
Oh... I must get it off my chest
...Tomorrow they will burn!!
(sing to The Beatles' "Norwegian Wood)
I once had the best
Furniture but
It got distressed
So I lit a fire isn't it good?
Norwegian Wood.
Inspired by... All those houses that long to be homes again.
For our house to become a home forever
By Michelle Morris
20/08/2024
I walk through this empty house
And can see it used to be a home
Filled with joy and laughter
A family who shared fun times
There are photos suspended in frames
Filled with memories and smiling moments
There are knick-knacks collected together
Some funny; and some meaningful
Where the sunlight dips through the window
I can see dust motes dancing in swirls
The family dog lounges in his sacred space
On the chaise lounge near the fireplace
Looking closer you start to notice things
Like only photos of young children are present
Every room is like a museum
Or a shrine to a perfect past wish
For we easily forget certain facts and details
In our yearning to keep certain memories perfect
We want to be able to reminisce
And act like things once went smoothly
But the dust has thickened over the years
The cobwebs house spiders that have taken over corners of rooms
The light has grown dim inside this house
And inside hearts where love was once pure
Funny how humans can take something beautiful
And twist it up and test it over and over
Until nothing is left but hearts spent
Empty and oftentimes bitter and resentful
I walk through rooms where time has stood still
I walk through rooms where life has moved on
And everywhere, everywhere there is hopelessness
For love and light no longer reside here
Bricks and mortar and pretty fabrics
Only create a decorated space for us to live
We have to choose who we share it with
And we have to choose how we will forge our lives together
Only with compassion and kindness
Loyalty, patience and respect
Can we create a nurturing environment
For our house to become a home forever
© Michelle Morris, 2024
The Lone Tree
The autumn day had been muffled up
in thick scarf and rainproof jacket
until darkness, countryside darkness,
clambered gradually over the horizon;
silence, stillness obediently at its heel.
Then black the night, wild the sea
and the lone tree stood tall,
branches muscled, trunk heavily rooted,
protective of its remaining leaves.
Next morning sprung up; a multi-coloured umbrella!
It began listening attentively
to the whisperings of the lone tree
teaching its remainder of leaves their tables,
i.e. how many wooden tables
could be cut from a certain sized tree!
Then suddenly scampering beneath was the wind
whistling a perky rendition of, “Good Golly, Miss Molly!”
Then pulling and pushing at the tree's branches
it plucked at that helpless, hapless, hued canopy
until only a few leaves remained; until only.. one remained.
A trapeze artist swinging from a high branch.
The lone tree now stared helplessly towards the hills
where its cousins, the evergreens, held arms
as they danced gaily down a staggered slope
while a well-trodden path huffed and puffed
its way up in the opposite direction.
Then beyond, the sky sat heavily on the sea
as though resting on a cold, blue chaise longue
while that wayward wind whipped across
a mustard coloured scarf of a beach
tugging relentlessly at the weak and helpless.
Meanwhile above the lone tree,
clouds sketched themselves in dark grey
and watched as the wind tired to an old man,
gnawing away with its bared, toothless gums
until finally that lone leaf.. succumbed.
Later, the hills stepped backwards into the fading light
leaving the lone tree standing naked
while woody, thinned limbs swayed heartedly
in an attempt to cover its remaining… dignity.
Ian Souter Dec. 2024
Word Sonata in B Flat (in 5 Movements)
You know exactly what you’re doing.
You sit in that short red skirt, and
Cross your shiny tan legs, there. Now you
Lean over with full cleavage exposed,
And partake in another draw of smoky seduction;
You can see the dollar signs in my knowing eyes,
And I can see lovely times at poolside,
In your short skirt, and dark glasses.
So cheers! To us, just a couple of cool cats,
Two old hippies,
With lemon drinks, glass bongs, and feathered toys,
Conversing wordlessly in eye language,
Under the searing unzipping sun,
Embracing the approaching nakedness.
Laying out in a chaise lounge with white noses,
Just drying out our souls and bodies,
Drying out our differences with the holding of a draw.
Pass it over here sweetie.
I feel it too, as you sit there,
Staring at me like I’m the package you were expecting,
Last week when the mails didn’t come through,
Due to the storm, and the mud and the misery.
I enjoy women like you.
As you sit there in your short red skirt.
There is a mysterious gloss covering everything you say,
A gooey gloss that smells of electrical wiring,
Something that might make a person sick,
Or maybe bring back a stubborn memory you forgot about
For decades, because you were lost,
Lost inside a rolled-up carpet,
An old rain-ruined rug from 1958, or so,
When times in the backseat meant something to a person.
Now look at us, just a couple of cool cats,
Two old hippies,
Bored and resigned,
Passing reefer until the stoned moment is realized.
Yes, just sitting here looking at you,
I can tell,
You know exactly what you’re doing.
How long will it take you, poet?
To understand that poetry does not replace love?
To understand, that everyone eventually falls out of their chair?
How long will it take you, poet?
To cross the Atlantic Ocean and the United States?
To join your father in the unexplored forests of heaven?
How long will it take you, poet?
To lie under an apple tree and discover a great metaphor?
To prove the existence of God to the Tsar and his evil soldiers?
How long will it take you, poet?
To understand that tulips and primroses are more deadly than you,
That softness is the only language that women understand.
Combien de temps, poète, te faudra-t-il ?
Pour comprendre que la poésie ne remplace pas l’amour ?
Pour comprendre, que tout le monde finit par tomber de sa chaise ?
Combien de temps, poète, te faudra-t-il ?
Pour traverser l’océan Atlantique et les états unis ?
Pour rejoindre ton père dans les forêts inexplorées du ciel ?
Combien de temps, poète, te faudra-t-il ?
Pour t’allonger sous un pommier et découvrir une grande métaphore ?
Pour prouver l’existence de dieu au Tsar et à ses maléfiques soldats ?
Combien de temps, poète, te faudra-t-il ?
Pour comprendre que les tulipes et les primevères, sont plus mortelles que toi,
Que la douceur est l’unique langage que comprennent les femmes.
Acta Non Verba... Speaks Volumes
The above ad hoc Latin catchphrase,
(concatenated with two English words),
I regale chance reader
immediately sets ablaze
title of poem with timeless adage,
aptly suits this solitary
older male, whose daze
spent on planet Earth
aimless curriculum vitae
configures a zigzag maze
significant blocks of time
poorly aye now appraise
and rue so little forethought
wrought starry eyed glaze
amiss to any Amish,
colonial, horse drawn observer
passing by in their chaise
puzzled, asper my
doggone catatonic gaze
indicative as if me mind
lost in a foggy haze
yours truly attests,
concurs, he now flays
chastises, fulminates, lays
hard and heavy lament,
albeit cloistered frivolous,
lackadaisical, unproductive... ways
apathetic, estranged, indifferent...
ambivalent state comatose phase
toward life, when at young age
lacked joie de vivre evincing braise
zen lee oblivious zombie behavior
upon quick observation displayed craze
zee demeanor synonymous
with institutionalized craze
zee wardens of the state,
and at present realize futility to raise
hullabaloo, when 20/20 hindsight
shines figurative light on
how appeared to laze
about lost in space,
within outer limits
of my own twilight zone ways!
Mr. Dartboard Dummy,
Oh, yes, that be me...
Hung the dartboard on the room's door,
One that opened out,
Toss a dart, when someone enters,
You will hear a shout!!
We never even thought of it,
And tossed our darts real hard...
Luckily our dummy luck held up,
Or we'd be handing out a new
funeral card..
That's just a small example
of the stupidity,
That comes to me so naturally,
Like the Christmas sign
we'd hung for years,
In our living room....
10 years later we bothered
to read it,
"Season's Greenthings" it
did declare.....
Yeah, I'm dumb as spit!
Or the time I had to pee
real bad,
But my cousin was in the tub,
Brilliant Tom Bell had a
great solution,
Just pee out the house's rear door,
And I was smirking with my wisdom,
Till I realized I did ignore...
Our next door neighbor's lawn chaise,
Her sunning as I peed,
She was watching me in amazement...
Oh, what a dumb, dumb, dumb, dumb creed!
I can only imagine all the
Brain dead things I never
was aware I was guilty of,
As I was doing them publicly....
But I wouldn't leave the house for three
weeks after that....
Something no one could possibly help not miss...
And only behind locked, darkened
bathroom doors,
Would I there after piss!