Long Clutter Poems
Long Clutter Poems. Below are the most popular long Clutter by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Clutter poems by poem length and keyword.
I do a lot of public speaking.
No problems.
Easy for me.
Maybe one or two butterflies wake up down below,
but, nothing that really upsets me so.
I work in the field of Emergency Management.
I prepare companies on how to respond to crises.
On a few occasions,
I have helped these organizations at time of disaster.
No problem.
I stay calm; I do not succumb to panic.
My butterflies remain docile and dormant.
But as soon as I see a pretty woman,
the butterflies start to awake.
Should she get closer to me,
they begin to swarm and multiply.
Should I attempt to talk to her,
the butterflies revolt in a frenzied, sporadic dance of fluttering panic.
The flapping wings churn my stomach;
The collective energy heat my body causing
sweat to flow from every pore; including the palms of
my hands and the forehead no longer protected by the
camouflage of hair.
I have tamed and trained my butterflies
to remain calm under the most stressful situations known to man –
except one!
So, should a winged creature get caught in my throat, preventing me from talking;
Or, butterflies clutter my brain causing me to say the most idiotic things;
Or the collection of butterflies take to flight, quickly scurrying me away from you –
I hope you understand.
The shiny, silver gleam
of wheel polished railway lines
have been dulled by a thick scab
of rust. Weeds have colonized
the stoney ballast, the wooden
sleepers have rotted away to dust.
The bush has closed in, dissolving
the once clear perspectives
of distance into a leafy clutter
of nearby mallee trees.
I stand on the platform, invite
my thoughts to populate the scene.
Cracked, rutted asphalt extends
to what would have been the length
of two or three carriages long.
I wonder who would have stood here
all those years ago when steam
trains screeched and shuddered
to a stop. Who would have got on.
A young girl or boy perhaps,
stomachs tightened with fear
on their way to boarding school,
first time away from the farm.
A veteran or a grandmother
with an appointment at a city hospital
about to be told the bad news. Maybe
a family, a newly married couple
heading for a weekend holiday
with tickets to a football match,
picture show or a visit to the zoo.
The sad, solitary figure
of a teenage mother clothed to cover
her secret, escaping from shame.
I wince at the thought
of how it was back then.
Time passes. I walk back to the car
and drive off leaving no trace
of my visit except for a memory
lodged now in a diminishing
perspective that is fast
closing in behind me.
I could feel a connection, right here from the start
From the heart of a stranger, around every bend
What was stranger than that, was they would soon be my friends
A blending of souls, though from vast worlds apart
I could hear every song, I could feel every wrong,
all the cries, all the whispers
all the heart-filled expression, every soul searching question
They reached out to touch me, and I was enthralled
So many with voices, I would want to recall
I have visited places, I wouldn't have known
They lend me an ear and a kindly embrace
The faces are tiny, some never appear
But the journey has been one that has helped me to grow
Here from the archives that clutter my mind
They listen so patiently, time after time
To words I have stuttered, words that have rhymed
To all my joys and all my sorrows
All of my wishes and hopes for tomorrow
They reach out to touch me, and I am enthralled
So many voices, I want to recall
You offer a page for all of my stories
I listen to yours, the joys and the worries
And when hearts are heavy, you offer your hand
With a bevy of troubles that may weigh me down
I will scatter my tears, right here on the page
Finding the comfort that comes to my aid
You share all your words, I show you my heart
You show how you care....and did from the start
As I scatter my poems and you share your own
A bond has united, until we have grown
I can click a small mouse, and once again know
Friend touching friend, is behind every poem
You have reached out to touch me, and I am enthralled
So many friendships, I will want to recall
__________________________________________________
I've reached beyond the age of RPM records
youthful addiction
My forty-fives tilt in a corner of the basement,
leaning tower of teenage angst,
Wrapped now in decades of neglect.
Why can't I dispose of you?
Clutter crime of nostalgia's pull
This craving for rock 'n roll renegades,
singers of weed-garden life
punishers of social rules
Ageless idols of grainy texture
in fraying fabrics, tie dyed
So many odes to love, longing, anger
Snippets of R n' R once bleeding from open windows,
like wanderers dancing in darkness
Charged rhythm once labelled
force of evil,
Musical clout like tattered boxing gloves
Limitless bliss to unstuck youth
Something to stagger to,
life's nimble recollection,
a secret world
of cherished entry
Implacable lyrics
that preserve themselves
in all that spins
(Poem revised July 2020 with 2 new stanzas added, along with a title change.)
The exposed Sierran batholith
bares itself in all directions.
Treeless, lifeless, it recalls
a primordial earth
and time before meaning.
I hike upon its surface
to find purpose –
a midlife reckoning.
The granite is smooth
and direction difficult.
Cairns appear occasionally,
though many dissolve
into exfoliating granite.
Most find trees and rivers
to be a warmer womb
and source for solace.
But the clutter
of Nature obscures.
Not its presence but
its absence is where
I find myself.
Absence is the granite
that creates presence,
and casts the shadows
shielding us from
the scorching Sierran sun.
Ever pass a street garden
On the lower East Side
You know the kind
Long and narrow
Squeezed between two tenements
Ever wonder how it came to be
Who made it?
Where did it come from?
Odds and ends
And garden tools clutter one corner
Benches are set aside
A children’s swing waits at the far end
The garden is not magnificent
Like the ones you see in suburbia
But like every garden in the City
It beckons to you with a history of its own
Take a long look
When you peer through the chain link fence
See the rows of growing green things
They didn’t happen by accident.
Grassroots activists fought to stop the decay of the lower East Side
Squatters took over abandoned houses
Theirs were marked by struggle
Hardship
And violence
They and kindred spirits captured the activism of the 70’s and 80’s
From Alphabet City
Running along Avenue A to Avenue D
They used terms
Everyone understood
Affordable apartments
Living spaces.
Neighborhood volunteers
Worked the soil
Hunched over
Hands black with dirt
Digging past bricks, rocks and rubble
Breaking up the ground
Feeling the moistness of the Earth
In their fingertips
Their whole being
Sensing the beginnings of new life.
I will wander, and where ever I shall lay
I will make my home
Across the streams and lakes
And Into the mountains I go
With rocks that clutter beaten paths
Winding, climbing, away and back
Now, I hear my legs scream "stop!"
"Not yet," I shout. "we've yet to make the top!
Impatient, I huff, we're almost there
it's just another mile... mile and a half
Besides, I've come too far to just turn back
I can't... no, I won't be going back
Finally the end, just for the now
Tomorrow I'll find my way back down
For Now, I'll sit as the sun has sat
And watch the earth and sky connect
Into dark the daylight fades
I tease my thoughts, under moonlit haze
Then, a sleepy itch
As I search a spot to lay
Which I find
under a canopy of heaven
And wind blown evergreens
The piles of pills and magazines
Amid Kleenex boxes and paraffin’s.
Bring a crazy look to the house of the queens.
Queen of clutter retaining her piles
Queen of hoarding tries on different smiles
Queen of procrastination putting on miles.
Let’s clean this place up suggests the king.
He is truly the worst messer most have seen.
But hey none of them really like to clean.
So they got out books with maids inside.
Could they live with a stranger to abide?
None thought they could so they continued to hide.
Under bushel baskets of junk galore.
Slender paths unseen when you came in the door.
They lived in their squalor fifty years or more.
Messy queen of clutter was the first to go.
She left after Queen of Hoarding called her a ‘ho’.
Queen of procrastination out the door next.
King standing alone in clutter, truly perplexed.
TIME RUNNING OUT
A mask a scarf
it's the light of the sun,
it's the glitter of the dew
it's a life begun
it's a blade of grass,
it is white, it's the dark,
it is black ,it is light,
it's a glow, it's a spark.
the clutter of life,
a word in the ear,
the noise in the night,
the point of the spear.
the centre of the world,
a walk in the park,
the look in the eye,
the song of the lark
it's the colour of the moon
it's the sound of your voice.
it's a chair, it's a stair,
it's a promise, it's a choice.
and the seconds tick by
of the time running out
it's the ifs and buts,
it's the uncertainty.
the arch, the shade,
the sheet, the bed,
the rhythm of the tide,
a garden shed.
a branch, a twig,
a hearty cheer,
a lock, a key,
the start of the year.
the star of the east,
the middle of the day,
the breeze in the trees,
it's a trap, it's a stray.
a hole, a ring,
a laugh, a scream,
a shout, a song,
the end of the dream.
and the seconds tick by
of the time running out
it's the ifs and buts,
it's the uncertainty.
inspired by the style of the lyrics of Antonio Carlos Jobim's English lyrics to 'The Waters of March
T’was the night before Christmas - //with apologies//
Oh, no – not again
The dreaded hoof pounding
another visit from “him”
I must shutter the windows
and lock all the doors
sound proof the room
of the kid who still snores
the dog he’ll go crazy
the cat hiss and spit
as he comes down a chimney
through which he can’t fit
then he’ll clutter the place
leave it a total disgrace
as a twinkling glimmer
his footsteps retrace
then after the carnage
of presents and gifts
he’ll call for an “Uber”
to give him a lift
and a sleigh will arrive
with a team counting eight
impatiently prancing
in a rooftop slant wait
then he’ll call them by names
I always thought weird
but then again
I’m not part of the herd
then he’ll look – as he does
as he scurries in haste
at a mish-mash of cookies
he knows he must taste
and the carrot he’ll take
to reward those who wait
take a drink of the milk
and impishly frown
go back up the chimney
he couldn’t get down
as I stand in my PJ’s
cold snow on my toes
I wave to the reindeer
and hear “him” recite
Merry Christmas to all
HO-HO-HO – what a night
©11/22/2018
for – The Night Before Poetry Contest