Long Chest Poems
Long Chest Poems. Below are the most popular long Chest by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Chest poems by poem length and keyword.
Silly wisps of her raven hair flutter
In the winds of the long-short corridor of summer;
They snivel with the whims of cosseted sots,
Sinking in the futile harmony of winking beasts.
Pretty whiskers, soft with the ague of age, and lean
From frazzled grey.
A halo of white cotton crowns her fine dome, revealing little.
She paints the inky images of Al Hirschfeld —
Among whited, slit, black smuts needed for art’s emphases.
The greens of the season, lush and dreamy,
Stand witness before us two —I, limping hard
From the roasting east; she, from the broad
Corners of a lean north.
We meet at the navel of the earth.
She posts a reflection of a travelling zealot, dragged
By rains and heated sods.
She must have been weary with prayers and demented,
Silent laments, for her eyes bored into the fragile
Energy sifting itself from the raw power of NOW.
I follow her silent drama —less words and impaling stares.
Time stands still in all rural dumbness, with the checking hush of
The sacristy on wartimes.
Quiet reigns with the immortal grace of planarians.
A pound of silence sells with strident gavel-sound,
Hammered thickly on the floating beam of an unstinting market.
“Be healed”, she clamours,
Her long, bony fingers running up to her sinciput,
And quickly down to her chest.
Her voice is frozen —embalmed for life.
As she trudges on, words of the paternoster grease her tight
Lips, streaming with ease, like digitized lyrics, to my listening ears.
Amen!
I wish I had David’s lyre!
Very mysterious, no heart on her sleeve
Not what I know yet what I believe
Always I will love her, she can't rob me of this
Among things she stole, respect and bliss
God only knows, what makes her tick
I can't see inside. Too stubbornly thick
Along with anger, always comes pain
If only I could shelter, umbrella the rain
You can lead a horse to water, but can't do the rest
The repetitive stabbing has wounded my chest
A boomerang, I will always come back
A post it note, complete with a tack
Signed, sealed and delivered. Written in stone
Dedicated in hopes, our relationship, I will hone
A guardian angel, from a far
On the darkest of nights, that one shiny star
Like the weeds in your lawn, I won't let you down
Here I will stay until I am found
9.
like the light
like the dark
yet it is full of the sound of steps
again it wakes up on the forest-road
taking leave from the yellow construction
all the sound of the bamboo-flute
sinks today into the green minerals
it is not moonlight
on the road it is some north-east sadness
he who comes admits his body
with the divine sin
if you are sorry be water for three days now
through out the day and night
there is the paraffin of fire-flies
the blue cough is not from the sky
it may be some tusu-gaan fly off
from the chest of the straight-line
that has been wiped out
10.
i’ve deposited my metallic heart
to the archaeological-store of the wind
and i send rolling this bare eyes towards the fog
frequently
i make the crystal of her hair soft
i can see those crows
whose jaws are not closed
the colour is also
as if it were burst into cotton
can the anchal of danekhali sari swallow the kernel
and water of the blue tooth-brash after opening its husk
i say to the head with earnest request
oh my father keep cool
and look at the rain-pipe inside which
there is all the dances of the peacocks
11.
in the dim light
the predecessors of the dead stars
tell stories
this dhaba
is beside the long bus-root
yet it is still not satisfied
with the shrimps
the tail of the black drongo
hanging from the farakka bridge
is divided
towards the ganga
towards the padma
the gramophone of the mid-noon
continues to sound at the midnight
those who are doing pilgrimage
on the back of tigers
within the lighting zone of their torch
all the nearest of men who get lost
cover their faces
you know very well that the memory-gland of the wind
becomes how much river-minded when it walks through the fire
THE VOICE OF FIRE
A baseline thumps like a
heavy heart.
The midnight hour is about to
start.
Glenn steps up to the silver
mic.
Ready to strike like lightning
white.
The crowd grows still in the
smoky room.
A growl builds up deep in his
chest.
The Voice of Rock will give
his best.
THE MIDNIGHT CRY
He wails a tale of a black cat
moan.
A desperate sound of a man
alone.
The high notes pierce the
dark night air.
Full of passion, grit, and
prayer.
His fingers fly across the
strings.
With every breath, the venue
rings.
The blues are bleeding
through the sound.
Shaking the walls and the
velvet ground.
ECHOES OF THE BLUES
The song winds the down to a
whisper low.
The final embers start to
glow.
The Black cat fades into the
night.
Leaving the stage in the
morning light.
Old As You Think
Kevin Davis 2025
You’re only as old as you feel, they say —
Then why do my bones ache more every day?
I know my true age, yet inside I’m still twenty,
Though the things I once did… now I can’t do as many.
I park in the handicap spaces with grace,
Roll on my lidocaine, slow down my pace.
I walk with a cane — or umbrella, why not?
Rain or no rain, it still helps me a lot.
I take so many pills that old Carter’s would grin,
Wear glasses for reading, for distance, for dim.
But none of these things ever darken my light;
I welcome my limits and rest when it’s right.
Each morning, I rise with a smile and a cheer,
Ready for whatever waits close or draws near.
No fear in my chest and no dread in my day,
Just a steady “good-morning” to send me on my way.
So, if you’re like me, then you know what I think:
I’m as old as my mind is — and that’s not on the brink.
There’s nothing I can’t do in my heart or my head;
I won’t miss a moment or worry what’s ahead.
I love this sweet life and the souls I hold dear.
And I’m grateful each day that I’m still, gladly, here.
Lying awake listening to the sounds of sirens, echoing through the night
Alone in the apartment with his younger siblings, hoping his mother comes home all right
Drug addicts pounding on the front door, wanting to buy another fix
Johns looking for what the johns look for; he and his brothers the result of that mix
He hasn’t seen his mother for the last four days; where she is nobody seems to know
But it has been this way for his entire twelve years; the lady likes to just come and go
He cares for his brothers the best a young boy can, he changes diapers and wipes their nose
He dreams every day of being swept away and taken to where the wind blows
“Let the winds blow me out of Harlem
Let them blow me to Paradise
Let the winds blow me away from here
To a life that is really nice”
He finds himself in prison again; he’s been here half his life
When his mother never made it home again, he had to steal food just to stay alive
His brothers have been taken away from him, landing in prisons of their own
A prison cell with a bed inside, is the closest thing he’s had to a home
He sleeps with one eye opened, fearing his cellmates as well as the guards
He has to fight to gain a level of respect from the criminals out in the yards
He reads everything he possibly can about life outside of his prison windows
And fantasizes about the day he can drift off to where the wind blows
“Let the winds blow me out of Riker’s Island
Let them blow me to Paradise
Let the winds blow me away from here
To a life that is really nice”
He lays in a pool of his own blood from the gunshots in his chest
He tried to change his lot in life but fell short of passing that test
No opportunities were ever offered him to live a life free of crime
Nobody was there to show him how; no one ever took the time
Twenty-eight years old is too young to die, but he had nothing left to loose
With the only option of going to prison again, this is the road that he did choose
He hoped to go to a better place as he saw the afterlife glows
And finally let his soul go free and be taken to where the wind blows
“Let the winds blow me out of my body
Let them blow me to Paradise
Let the winds blow me away from here
To a life that is really nice”
There was such an enchanting glow
with everything I didn’t know
sat at a desk, I’d sit there dreaming
couldn’t wait to taste the fruits of my perfected scheming.
I’d gone through the worst, with the best yet to come so much to be seen, so much to be done.
I’d planned every detail, eighteen to twenty four
but nowadays I don’t like to plan anything, anymore.
How free I would be, chains no longer on me as I’d indulge in youth’s early days.
All the places I’d go, and the people I’d get to know, finally I’d be the writer of a promising show.
But there is just so much you are never told, within two years, your soul feels old.
Every day follows a monotonous pattern, every day you feel the distance and connections that flatten.
You had thought that there was promise in the road ahead yet most of the time, you live in your head. Stuck with so many questions, like where did you misplace your feet? You had envisioned cities, you live in the same street.
With all I now know, with all these feelings in my chest, I dream of going back to the desk.
Realising how bright life was then, I’d be quick to drop my pen. I’d go outside and look around, what I’ve lost now, I could’ve found.
Once in a life a desire is so very deep and hungry. Belittled by distance, war and circumstances beyond our control. I have loved your soul for a thousand years. In my dreams I have cupped your face within my hands. Traced your eyes, your eloquent royal nose, and tasted of your lips. As if I suckled a freshly picked plum, juicy sweet and so endearing. I melt into you my love. My pillar of unobtainable strength. In somber moments the longing tears an invisible hole in my chest. I wear your shirt I close my eyes I feel your breath upon my neck. Your weight baring down on me and I hold you so tight. I cup your face I drink your eyes with mine forever I am here for you.
Autopsy of a Bitter Heart
My thoughts vomited upon the page.
No rhyme, no reason, no beauty;
Raw, bare muscle and torn flesh.
No cute love hearts colored red and pink;
No, this is the heart of human anatomy.
The heart bared with a “Y” incision on a stark, cold, metal table.
The heart that glistens with swollen purple veins and arteries that pulse with black blood. Chest torn asunder with metal hands. The white of rib bones broken like twigs, leaking viscous blood and bile.
The autopsy will not locate the cause of the death of My soul, the death of My innocence and flowery poetic phrases.
Murder committed with words and indifference leave no physical marks.
The scars are there, wherever the soul resides…the mind, the heart, the bowels. The scars are there and they build atop of one another until my soul has its armor.
Armored with tough, white ropes of healing flesh…shrouded with remembered pain.
It's not pretty. It's not rhythmic and metered...
No flowers here, only weeds and poisoned leaves.
Words laced with the taint of bitter arsenic…foaming from a perverse choking throat.
I vomit this bitterness on the parchment…leaving me empty and new.
At first glance when you visit our house you might not notice it
but, by the time that you depart
you’ll realize you were in a museum filled with priceless works of art.
The works of art, though on full display, at first aren’t easy to discern
but as we take you on a tour…the more and more you learn.
There’s a walking stick in the corner an an old chair we’ve always had
you might not recognize their value but the artist was Deborah’s dad.
There’s a cookie jar sitting on a bookcase…
”That doesn’t look priceless.” You might say.
Until you see it’s filled with notes of remembrances
our children wrote to Deborah one Mother’s day.
There’s a framed black and white drawing of a young man
a little pensive…perhaps a little sad
that was drawn by my own father long before he was my dad.
We’ll show you artwork from our children that still gives our hearts a lift
and our name made out of license plates given to us as a gift.
There’s an old closet door where you’ll see our children’s and grandchildren’s measures…
There’s an old chest in the back bedroom overflowing with more treasures.
Our house is filled with so much priceless art that can be found on every shelf
but the best way to experience it would be to see it for yourself.
Because what makes our artwork priceless…what gives our art pizzazz
Is not how much it cost…but the story each piece has.
This means when you visit our house…for whatever reason you are there
we will gladly show you all our art…and all their stories gladly share.
Which is why, when you visit our house, by the time you all depart
you’ll know you were in a museum filled with priceless works of art.