Long Closet Poems
Long Closet Poems. Below are the most popular long Closet by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Closet poems by poem length and keyword.
18th Bouquet of Roses
By: Feb Francisca Chaves
I wake up in the morning,
No one was around,
I opened the doors and went knocking,
But no one came and no sound.
I went up to the attic,
Then I found a tiny gift box.
Could this be my family's trick?
Inside — a cute little keychain fox!
It was my favorite — I had to stop,
I looked up and my jaw dropped.
A gorgeous blue gown hung in the old closet,
With a tag that read — Happy Birthday Scarlett!
I read another note that said,
"There is something hidden under the bed!"
I ran to my room to see,
A red velvet box — pearl earrings just for me!
Then came another riddle card,
And this one seemed so very hard!
I hoped and prayed for a good reward,
Then read it carefully onward.
Eureka! The answer was a sunflower in bloom,
Its golden petals filling up my room.
Then the door swung open with a gentle creak,
And there stood everyone I dared to seek.
Mama with her warm and tearful eyes,
Papa holding roses as a sweet surprise.
My sisters laughing, brothers cheering loud,
My dearest friends beneath a golden cloud.
Eighteen candles burning soft and bright,
A birthday cake glowing in the morning light.
They sang and danced and held me oh so near,
Whispering softly — we are always here.
For tomorrow I must pack my bags and go,
To the city where the rushing rivers flow.
To the boarding house where strangers greet,
And new beginnings wait along the street.
But before I cross that unfamiliar door,
They gave me love I never felt before.
An 18th bouquet of roses red and true,
Eighteen roses — one for every year I grew.
So I carry them with me to the city lights,
Through the lonely days and unfamiliar nights.
For wherever life may take me far away,
Home bloomed inside my heart on this birthday. ??
*Image of The Old Shed by Pixabay.
Still Here
He was the tourist trade foremost embellisher,
his Aloha shirts receptive then, and
now respecting a closet.
Regale lava-covered isles, swathed in white flags,
succumbed to skyscrapers,
and tremendous crowds.
His chord, an isolated tool, tranced the sways,
encased uke leans on clutter,
a harmonica tags the bestilled.
A kid drilled, backs out a Chevy, to looks of relief.
Rusty toolbox by a heap,
chanced ferns sprouting rights.
On a mat with a bloody nose head back, learns to block,
gloves on a wall...glad to know how to defend,
and glad to have the seldom use of it.
Handheld twirling blade lawnmower, a sickle, and rake.
An old tool shed, shelved three wood handles
minus their mettle, as well as their mentor.
You paid a buck for our house...realtor extraordinaire,
and mom's limited knowledge about land, you
left her the trust and deeds~you both left me.
It has been beyond years, young that you were, a period
I furthered. Gone too soon, yet there's so much
of you still here, that it dawns~you've never left.
*For my dad, Joe; 1931-1989.
2023 January 20
*HM*
You Select
~Brian Strand: Judged 2023 January 21
Full title:
LIFELONG, MEANINGLESS MUSINGS MEAN EVERYTHING OF NO VALUE
aka
OFF THE WALL RAMBLINGS
After upscale meals, I know no relief
until I somehow pick my un-fancy teeth.
Serve me good food in my own home
and these same teeth leave me alone.
At work, when I am approached by someone
who wishes to run some questions by me,
I silently laugh at an image most fun –
question marks toting briefcases as they run.
When my hands are dish-washing sudsy
or toting a large box for some distance,
an air fairy enjoys itching my nose nutsy
until I concede and scratch it roughly.
Any new clothes I hang up that are white,
closet creatures beat with yellow chains
and their marks will not wash out of sight.
The more I love it, the more yellow remains.
Things do grow legs and then walk away.
I tend to nest surrounded by my stuff.
I will not move, but my stuff will parade,
decay, migrate, and evade me, sure enough.
There exist an invisible, rude agitator
who throws dirt inside my refrigerator.
Every week or so, this frig mini-meanie does put
grime, spots, ice-hard raised trails and odd soot.
My air fairy, closet creatures and frig mini-meanie were all to me, assigned.
I know this because I often move and still, it is where I go that they find.
... CayCay Jennings
November 24, 2016
Definition: programmed cell death/cellular suicide
in an attempt to remedy damaged components,
neatly shrinking and dismantling damaged parts.
A cognitive dissonant conscious
exists at a crossroads.
My mind fractures at the mere thought
of going back into the closet of deferred romantic pursuits,
even if hiding can ensure survival.
My dilemma encapsulates the quintessential concept of coming out.
Taking a step out of closeted comfortability
opens up the avenue for external toxicity,
while retreating into latent potential is
unintentional self-immolation.
Jodie Foster is frying peppers and eggs.
It is late and her legs ache
as she scrambles the yokes,
sautés the jalapenos.
Today a jerk again compared her
to the film actress.
A life she never wanted keeps invading her reality.
Even though she was born earlier
people consider her the ‘wrong one.’
Not for the first time
she imagines changing her name,
A noise upstairs, the woman freezes
then runs to her understairs closet,
bolting the door.
Footsteps descend.
It is the movie star Jodie Foster,
She has a gun and is seeking her imposter.
Life-scripts are merging;
she understands why she has always avoided
cliffhangers - suspense thrillers.
Jodie cries softly in the dark
clutching a Dollar Store spatula
that will never work as well as a branded one.
Ezekiel 11:19 “And I will give them one heart, and I will put a new spirit within you; and I will take the stony heart out of their flesh, and will give them an heart of flesh:”
The pages turned,
My book became one,
Of light and love,
Soft and gentle, sincere,
Like the healing…
That came from believing,
In the One who sees
Through the hardness, the stone cold
Heart, who has walls built,
All around each feeling,
Feelings stuffed into a closet,
Of wishes gone, dreams forgotten,
Seas of doubt, fears and tears,
Lost and lonely, grieving…
The pages turned,
My book became one,
Of light and love,
Soft and gentle, sincere,
Like the healing…
That came from knowing,
Love from One who shines,
Like the stars on the night skies,
Releasing compassion,
Understanding – insight
Revealing the hope, the tenderness,
Wonder that comes from knowing,
The soul is alive, stirring, fires,
Desires for the relationship,
Between God and man,
The connection, the direction,
The endless affection…
The pages turned,
My book became one,
Of light and love,
Soft and gentle, sincere,
Like the healing…
That comes from faith,
Rising in the stillness of the dawn,
Soothing away every doubt,
Silencing all the dark,
Teaching the spirit, the song,
Breathing joy through the knowing
He is alive and His love is glowing,
On the fires of a feeling,
Who remembers, who senses,
The prayers that never fade,
As they speak to Him, praising…
The pages turned,
One by one
And I saw that the love,
Was so alive, it burned,
With assurance that God’s Son
Has only just begun,
And He will never be outdone!
The pages turned,
And my book told of love,
More alive than the stars,
Reflecting hope that aspires
To open hearts, to restore,
Hearts of gold, hearts of love
Brought to us by the One,
Who silences the dark…
Turn the page and read on,
There is light in every dream,
There is hope in every prayer,
There is assurance that God is there,
And His love destroys every fear.
He is alive and He is real,
Oh, yes, He restores the heart of flesh,
Inside the one who lives
For Him, the love that brings,
Every story the song, the wonder,
The rhythm of a soul who is gentled,
By love sent down from the greatest Giver!
Noiseless Thunder
by Odin Roark
Hearing the footsteps of one’s genealogy,
the pounding of bare feet, sandal and boot,
the rise of malevolent dust and vacuous screams,
such is not ancient history preserved for present day,
but the noiseless thunder of nocturnal magic
some of us try to endure,
aware that what we visualize is just
images needing somewhere to be placed,
respected,
honored,
even though at times,
consciously hated.
Commercial identity calls it: skeletons in the closet.
But some of us say it is foresight,
A desperation to deal with realities unresolved,
To be with what might be,
With what at times we wish had never been.
Even though…
Most readily heard in the quiet of aloneness
Is that clamorous hidden place,
Where one’s mind,
One’s heart,
That conundrum of sentience,
Desperately searches for that secret attic hideaway.
Some know where it is,
This unresolved awareness of time,
This clock that is always running down,
Never advancing as in some sci-fi make-believe.
Some of us even know it’s just where it needs to be...
A noiseless thunder making us move…
Maybe even grow.
a baseball hat Damian found,
it was lying on the school ground
he knew who left the hat
when playing with his cat
dark brown it was, a logo crowned.
someone being careless - Damian frowned,
children shouldn't leave things around...
Brother Ashwin left the hat
while playing tag with the cat...
soon the silly boy would feel sad and down !
in the closet Damian hid the cap
Ashwin woke up after a short nap
he felt sorry indeed
no doubt bit glum about it
mound of surprise waiting for lucky chap !!!!
April 15, 2022
For Nursery Rhyme 3 Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Eve Roper
Required words used: around, found, ground, brown, down, frowned, crowned, mound
A dark shadow was shivering,
Holding a knife with a dripping blood on right hand.
Black eyes started to see dim things,
Made her feel even better and stronger.
Multiple wounds on man’s body,
A luscious smile after taking his breath.
Felt the rush moving through her veins,
Said she’s not pretty insane.
Blood scattered everywhere.
It ran perilously on floor
As her white dress tried to cover
The scented smell of man’s flesh in the closet.
Crows were circling at hollow black skies.
Heavy thunders were applauding her night.
Showering blood of life all over her body
Her dark ritual was filthy and mushy.
They're once in a lifetime
These moments of joy
The first time you rattle
That colourful new toy
Your first day at school
With the rest of the kids
Your hair all slicked down
Bad smells Mom got rid
The ultimate joy
Of your first tender kiss
The shock when she tells you
Her monthly she missed
A puff from a cigarette
Makes you dizzy and ill
The beer in the closet
I remember it still
The joy of first child
The smell of their skin
The softness of touch
Their sweet tiny grin
Your first big promotion
The raise that you get
The first time you notice
A grey hair NO NOT YET!
Middle age then follows
With a sickening thud
It's all over now
Your life is pure crud
The sixties are next
And retirement awaits
Where did it go
You're in a hell of a state
Then someone says wryly
"You've had a good life
Whatcha crabbing about?"
It still cuts like a knife
These tender sweet moments
You experience through time
You'll remember them fondly
And treasure the climb
So hold on to them tightly
They won't come again
They're once in a lifetime
They're to treasure my friend
© Jack Ellison 2014