Long Compartment Poems
Long Compartment Poems. Below are the most popular long Compartment by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Compartment poems by poem length and keyword.
Like my innate need for eating
Walking, sleeping, and waking
Photography seemed inborn in me.
My heart and mind could make it free.
Clicking photographs of black and white
With a Click-III, a camera, very light.
I found Isoly II cheap and best.
I used it for a long , with ardent zest.
Kodak, Polaroid, and Pentax
Had adorned my photo tracks.
Nikon came to be, ultimately
Harmonized with me intimately
I clicked my masterpieces manually.
I got linked to each piece sentimentally.
It’s then that I happened to lose it.
Together with the entire photographic kit
A train journey had become my nightmare.
This heavy loss of mine I couldn't bear
Though the price of it indeed mattered much
My emotional attachment to it was beyond touch.
I searched for it in every compartment.
I complained about the matter to the rail department.
Every assurance and trial failed.
Like a phantom, in my dreams, my Nikon sailed.
This moment was like an existential emptiness.
Each day dawned with inner heaviness.
Friends and relatives consoled me, indeed.
With my duties, I couldn't proceed.
Each leaf, flower, fruit, and twig of a plant
Each butterfly, dragonfly, and tiny ant
Brought the memory of my precious Nikon
Which had almost become my life's icon
Mad-like near meadows I stood and stared.
At my despaired state of being, all were scared.
I should move on. They unanimously said
With new hopes in my heart, I should go ahead.
Another Nikon of the digital kind they procured
I was better yet, though not fully cured.
I click the finest pictures with it even now.
I am unable to forget the other yet, anyhow.
I think it’s time I write
Write you OUT
Of the coming pages of my life
Oh…you linger
On every page
that's ever been
Keeping the plot a disguise
Unexpected events
My heart's demise
Slowly but surely
being written
By your unseen hand
I reread chapters
You were in my yesterday
You haunt my today
I don’t want you in my tomorrow
Not when you only bring me pain
No
I’m going to write you out
Cause I couldn’t write off
The debt of pain
I STILL OWE
To your oh so exacting heart...
I can't write it off
and so...
I’ll do the next best thing
I'll write you OUT
Out of the next scintillating sizzling sexy sentence
Out of the next dreamy dreamscape
Out of the next contentment compartment
Out of the next feminine fruition fantasy
For you've written only fragments
Sentence fragments of the greater picture me
Oh my!
Oh me!
I’m going to write you OUT
Of MY book
Of rememberance
The book of ME
Oh, it could have been
The best seller of your LIFE
But now you'll never know
Cause the coming pages are clean
for some beautiful soul
Some expert author
With the plot of pleasure
Bursting from his heart
Onto me
I'll LET HIM
Scribble his lines
Those glorious curves and dots
all over my body and mind
all over me...
Yes....spill his passion inked words
ALL....OVER....ME!!
And him..
HIM
I'm going to write IN
Oh...so deep and gloriously...IN
The book of ME
Eileen Manassian
Inky Dinkys
Here in our family – our own vocabulary
Skizzors cut fabric – lettucini in our salads;
Flutterbies in the garden – burple for purple;
Empires on first base – the Umpire strikes back;
Alfanso Bedoya – no stickin’ badgers;
Brepfast in the morning – linner for brunch;
Jimmy blue jeans in denim – round John the virgin;
Ba-cops for dinner – don’t tell the lambies;
Grasses for glasses – born in my mother’s ami;
Compartment apartments – what could be truer;
Fork chops for dinner – headlights for bugs!
Seeing my attle – with a little switch cheese;
Two-fers see the dentists – mouse-t… on hot dogs;
Frog thick as fog – a Nole for Noel;
Ergick for Eric – Sam-a-lama for Sam;
In our remembery
An expotiton to Pineapple Lake
To ski in Swoon valley
Or surf on Mt. Rabbits;
Don’t turn on the blinklers cause I hate to get wet;
For my appletite as I tuck my snooba-does in bed
I think I'll grab the last middleman cookie
Then throw out the trash into the Oscar Can;
Now it’s a co-ink-ca-dink we understand
But my confuser – so baffled and slightly annored,
Just can't comprehend my mercy bo-ku
As it red lines each line of this crazy whimsy
And after this verse it needs a "stay-cation!"
Really, these crazy words have been coined, and used, in my family!
Since the year of our first greeting
The time has slowly whispered by.
Now once again old friends are meeting
No need to lament or question why.
God saw a void where once you dwelt
Knowing a circle had been long broken.
He restored the kinship that once I felt
A friendship much more than just token.
In a God swept area of a fragile heart
Is a compartment reserved and true.
God readied this special place at the start
When he gave me a burden for you.
Others cannot visit this location or rend
For I alone, am privileged to free tours.
It allows me to call you my best friend
Without your having to call me yours.
Demiseville, USA
Karen, a vivacious redhead, she.
Looked in the mirror and spotted
three gray hairs.
"O tempora, O mores,"she declared
Off to her attorney in defeat,
Signing papers in the summer heat.
Off to buy an expensive coffin,
With a compartment to put her best
Friend, the iPhone in!
Rushes home to give away favorite
Figurines and beloved Books,
The Grim Reaper she awaits at
Her ivy covered gate.
She created this insane scene...
All of her own desparate making.
Diseases with a passion she seeks to
find and does.
Suffering so needlessly in her mind.
With poisonous elixirs.
Walgreens, she believes, cures all ills.
She refused to learn Hippocrates lesson.
"Let food be your medicine, and medicine
be your food. "
Let Karen be a lesson to us all.
Live joyfully in this day.
Live life, stop, please, stop, planning
our final curtain call.
Panagiota Romios
3/11/2019
* O, Temopra, O Mores*
Cicdro said this. Meaning "oh the Times, oh the customs."
I traveled almost everywhere, growing up. It took years. The landscapes, flora and fauna, the art, music, cuisines and curse words all seem to blend together in my mind.
Mount Fuji, the Rhine, the Himalayas, the Chattahoochee, Shenzhen, Washington DC, the Alps, and Appalachians, Moscow, Beijing, Dublin, Portland, Paris, Atlanta, London, St. Petersburg, Tokyo, Rome, Wuhan, Berlin, the Yangtze, the Mississippi, Saint-Tropez and LA - are all jumbled up in my brain, like old, wrinkled maps in a glove compartment.
My mom has total recall - she can remember every day of her life since her mama handed her a faded yellow and blue rattle when she was 6 months old - God gave me the glove compartment.
Still, some things are unforgettable, like an electrical storm breaking around Mt Everest, the lights of New York City, at night, from a helicopter, glittering on the horizon like a queen’s crown. The Danube, from a riverboat under a too-bright moon and the elegant poverty of Italy.
In some ways, I grew up like an exile because we moved every couple of years, and I’d have to start my social life all over again - usually in a different language. Every place we left seemed a lost paradise, and each new place seemed cold and harsh.
Speaking of home to harsh transitions, November recess is over and we’re back in New Haven - with two weeks before final exams. Welcome to exhaustion week (weeks).
This morning I started going through my syllabuses, and after a week of holidaying - they seemed like indecipherable relics from a different world, a world of papers, tests and stingy-fun. I’ve so many things to wrap-up, my brain can’t seem to contain them all, I’m a gadget that’s out of memory.
I used to take my books on vacation, to remain in the ‘game’ mentally and stay ahead of the grind. Not this time. Hey, growing up, I’ve had my moments of ‘developmentally appropriate’ rebellion - in this case - I wanted memories to hoard, like inoculations against the coming work and loneliness cycles.
At a certain age when memory activity
Reminds me of a dream I never had
Absolutely nothing happens
That hasn't happened many times
I come again, but only to forget myself
More reliably than usual
And there's another me, just like the same
Writing something, to the amazement of an old man
Who sits waiting for the train at the station
To fall asleep in the compartment.
The air can’t wait for a Friday declarationn of love
In marble hotels and fireside chairs
It's time to sneeze out some emotion
To cough it up, to blow out
All that accumulated inside over the years
That's boiled there and cooled down
And then it gurgled again one night
So comes the expected thunder, the lightning zigzags
Break the sky, releasing the overflowing downpour
And the dry silence crumbles, and the rubbish
Floats calmly from nowhere to nothing.
The slamming of doors, and a quick chat
Where it's impossible to make out a word
But that’s for the best
In the Leibnizian worldview
looking at the water
with less money than i had before
thinking about the latest person that was blessed with a lucky scratcher
i look down at my lunch
i look in the armrest compartment at my work badge
i look at the interior of my old lady faithful that i just had repaired
i think about my blessed mobility and what i can still do
then i look up and it has stopped raining and the skies are perfectly blue
suddenly i notice a waterfall that was not there before confidently winking its eye at me
the flow of the water is drawing inspiration from a now well rested sun
i guess i got it and this is some sort of approval gesture
maybe it is a Blessing From God for not only me as an unbeknownst reminder
whatever it is, i ask no questions and just roll with it
my lunch is hotter just like i like it and the orange cream soda is colder and just the right level of refreshing
all views are more thoroughly EnJoyed with New Meaning and with a New Fervor
My mother mentioned casually that I was dyslexic.
This was something I had forgotten.
I knew I had to wear a glove for a year of first grade
To force me to not use my left dominant hand.
But I had forgotten the hours I spent after school with Miss Kneeland.
Miss Kneeland was an old maid school teacher
Who had already taught my father and his brother Jerry.
They were also dyslexic, so she knew what she was dealing with.
I had spent hours after school with her in first grade
As she taught me to see my reading words the way others saw them.
She used a mirror, and until I saw them with the mirror,
they were squiggles that made little sense.
It was a struggle I had long forgotten,
I have never fully recovered from wearing a one compartment mitten
On my left hand, so I could not use my left hand for a year.
This was also Miss Kneeland’s idea, so I could be right handed.
The pilot closed the door.
Taking a brief moment to look around.
Patting himself down opening the door then closing it back hesitantly.
He walked past the vacant seats, inviting himself to the copilot seat in the cockpit.
He leaned his head back, observing the silence that surrounded.
Staring off into the clouds.
His back seeped into comfort. Sliding down a bit further.
His knees touching the dashboard to the controls.
He searched the sky. The chair becoming a more enticing place to catch a Z or two.
The plane landed about half an hour ago.
Still he sat. Constantly opening then closing the door.
Feeling the breeze of air pass across his face.
Stretching his legs from being cramped in a tight compartment for so long.
Watching the other planes come and go.
The constant flicker of port side reflecting off his face.
How easy it seems to go home.
Continuing to nod off into a deep sleep.
Listening to the other planes sail off into the distance.
The luxury of dreams