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.
Compartmentalization, a labyrinth of the mind,
Dissociation, a dance with fragments blind,
Fragmentation, where sanity threads unwind,
Within this mental content, secrets we find
In the depths of the psyche, a world untold
Dissociative identities, stories unfold,
The heart weighs heavy with stitches torn,
Tender scars hemorrhaged; love core is worn.
Dangling damage, as shattered glass, gleams
Reflecting on the chaos, the pain, and the screams,
The cerebral cortex fires, a bull eye strike fatally,
Instinct walks the line, logic is useless, and hastily
Shattered visions, a maze within the soul,
Where reality ends and illusions control,
Lost in the labyrinth, searching for the light,
Betrayed by the mind deceptive might.
Within this maze of mental content
The battle to reconnect and prevent
Childhood trauma, the catalyst of this plight,
A shattered sense of self-taking flight.
Each compartment holds a piece of the truth.
Yet the puzzle remains incomplete, uncouth,
A jigsaw of memories, scattered and torn,
A puzzle of identities, tattered and worn.
Fragments of memories are scattered and lost
As the mind tries to bear the unbearable cost
Memories encoded and stored deep within
But retrieval becomes a battle to begin.
Fragments of life scattered such debris,
A shattered mirror, reflecting what used to be,
The mind labyrinth, a maze of confusion,
A battle within, a constant intrusion
But amidst the chaos, a speck of hope
A chance to mend the pieces, to learn to cope,
To embrace the fractures and find strength within,
To embrace the scars and let the healing begin.
Within broken visions, a spark of resilience resides.
A spirit that refuses to accept any abides.
By compartmentalization and dissociation,
by fragmentation and mental isolation.
The cerebral cortex may fire, but the mind will rise.
And rationality, once blasted, will find its prize.
Instinct will gracefully dance with grace.
As the shattered visions find their rightful place.
So let us navigate this maze of the mind.
With compassion and understanding, we'll find
Behind the shattered glass and fractured dreams,
Lies a resilience that utterly gleams.
I used to find sweet solace in fantasizing about leaving home,
Imagining about the deceptive freedom I will have when I'll be on my own.
This thought became my escape route while quarrelling with my parents,
when I used to misapprehend their words of wisdom for an unpleasant torrent.
When the day came to leave for college,
Many of the feelings were just as I had expected, except for the ones that were never in my knowledge.
I brushed aside the excitement and thrill
And unknowingly welcomed pensive thoughts for my heart to fill.
I realised then that on their return journey, there would be 1 ticket less,
And there wouldn't be anyone to check if my parents are eating well.
I then realized that any place with my parents is a safe haven for me
Where my problems meet solutions aplenty
And my heart and mind find serenity and true liberty
As I headed towards the cab, I mentally time travelled,
To the times when I had my parents to hold my hands 24*7
And not having them with me would be out of question
An unfamiliar wind swept past my ears
It wasn't chilly, but cold and brisk enough to dry my sudden tears.
My heart grew heavy with an ache and palpitated with a fear
Of staying away from people who are to me very dear
And of the future ahead which remained unclear
As I sat amidst the chilling compartment of Vande Bharat express,
I reverted to that little girl once more
Who used her mom's dupatta as a blanket
Seeking shelter from life's turbulent roar
As I went into my hostel
I berated myself for being stupid
For longing to leave home for freedom
As I looked at my parents faces, swelling with joy but still heavy hearted.
Parents are the salt of our lives
We take them for granted
But life becomes tasteless, once of anyone of them, it is deprived.
My parents abode is that endless ocean
Into which I can carefreely take a leap
It hits hard when today, on leaving home this truth dawns with heavy emotion.
Departing has shifted my view of what 'home' entails,
I pray that they remain healthy and happy, even as life sets different trails.
Fulfillment of this wish, my heart's deepest plea,
Is enough to bring contentment and make my spirit free.
Andrea,
a woman considerate and kind, mellow, down to earth, and fun-loving,
she loves to use her mind.
Thefore, scrubbing on her knees, this gal you’ll never find!
Sisters she has four of, but there are many others.
Gal pals she has, who are her sisters from other mothers.
One husband all her life - at times he drives her insane.
Old boyfriends sometimes are subjects of her poems.
They reside in the treasure chest compartment of her brain.
Mother to two is she– one girl and one boy.
Grandma to four – two of whom don’t always bring their parents such great joy!
She loves to eat, so it follows that she loved to learn to cook.
She makes things up and has no need of recipes coming from a book.
She loves to hunt for bargains and save her honey money.
She loves all kinds of movies, both dramatic ones or funny.
She feels great passion for the things she believes are true
and feels she’s learned a lot in life from all that she’s gone through.
Her fears are rather silly. She avoids driving in a strange big city.
It brings her stress, which she detests. She might freak out, which is not pretty.
Changing weird attachments on a vacuum cleaner would
be a thing to stress her out. At puzzles she’s no good.
New technology keeps coming at her job. This also makes her stressed,
but she can sure accessorize. She’s great at getting dressed!
Her greatest fear – seriously – is facing suffering,
so fear of pain and torture (more than fear of death) is her scariest thing.
She saw a lot of Europe when she studied in Madrid.
She got to take one nice cruise, and other things she did
were seeing more than half the states and going to Brazil.
Her husband hates to travel, so it’s good when she was young she got her fill.
She only really wants to see her lovely family.
Because she lives so far away, with them she’d love to be.
And when she dies, her brother Dale she hopes she will see first.
Young he died, and finally . . . with thankfulness for poetry
and for all her other passions she feels her heart might burst!
Dietrich
(edited now with my name showing since announcement of winners!!)
Aug. 1, 2021
For the "This Is Who I Am" Poetry Contest
Sponsor: L. Milton Hankins
oh hello-
my name is frigidair and I am
a (retro) refrigerator
for food
I have been in this apartment
since 1950
a nice kitchen but I cannot move
so not sure about
the rest
I am tall as a person
and a bit fat
a lovely creamy white
with drawers
(and an egg compartment)
and of course a freezer
I am restored a restoration
not quit an antique yet
but feeling my age
my father was general electric
and mother was pink
my sister was turquoise
free standing happily I hum
all day
and all night and sometimes I
clunk
I look crooked but that's the floor
I seem to be going
downhill
inside me are good things
like meat and poultry ice cream
milk eggs vegetables juice
fruit
please be careful with my door
oh some of my shelves are lopsided
(well that's old age)
and lets not talk about the cracks
but I still work
and some say I am quite appealing
I've aged well in this heritage building
or at least that is what
I heard (and the word vintage)
did I tell you they restored me
to be frost free
(they put me to sleep for that)
the girl likes that about me
I like it when she caresses me
with a wet damp clothe
she is quite proud
of me
and I like this room big and roomy
and the window
looks out on a lovely garden
that's so nice
and the little things the girl has
on counters so pretty (she is)
she always puts some flowers
by the sink for me oh how sweet
its really a good life for a refrigerator
although not sure how much time
I have left
(no regrets) and to all refrigerators
let me say keep cool and plugged in
__________________________
September 10, 2015
Free Verse Personification
For the contest, A Tribute To Major Appliances
Honorable Mention
I could write a poem of all the headlines,
most influential people, and important events of the decade,
but instead, I’ll share with you some of my memories…
my first memories (when the decade ended, I was seven).
I remember our mustard yellow and avocado green furniture,
watching Kroft Puppets, The Muppets, Captain Kangaroo,
Land of the Lost and Little House on the Prairie;
I remember music, lots of music – Dad playing drums
and taking me to concerts, Mom dancing (she loved the Rolling Stones).
Much of my favorite music is from the seventies…
Andy Gibb was my favorite singer and Telephone Line was my favorite song;
which reminds me…I remember our telephone cord being so long,
we could walk from the kitchen to the living room while talking on it.
I remember the vacuum cleaner was HUGE. I thought it would eat me alive.
I could play 10 songs on the jukebox at Pizza Hut for a dollar, and
the compartment stereo in my house was bigger than a jukebox.
It seems everything was bigger in the seventies.
My mom’s Monte Carlo was huge….
I remember coloring a lot and playing board games.
A handheld pinball machine was the closest thing we had to a video game.
I loved tether ball, roller skating, riding my bike (no helmet),
playing outside (without the fear of being abducted), paper dolls,
my easy bake oven, monogrammed shirts (I thought I was Laverne),
clogs, patent leather sandals, ruffled socks, my Holly Hobby doll,
my troll dolls, my plastic record player, MY RECORDS;
I remember disco dancing with my older cousins –
doing the Bump, the Hustle, the Funky Chicken…
Many great memories, but not all...
I remember people smoking everywhere even on airplanes,
some in my own family; I remember the Miami race riots
that started in 1979, seeing the smoke and not understanding;
I remember waiting in long gas lines, when Elvis was found dead,
Three Mile Island, my dad talking about friends who died in Vietnam,
tying yellow ribbons around our trees, and trying to understand
concepts like divorce, hatred and death.
I hold onto the good memories much tighter.
When in the course of human events, issues, and circumstances,
one comes in touch with words that fit the reality of the situation;
and when we do, such words are assigned to the individual to explain
to us and our loved ones what ails us and what recourse or remedy
should be employed and pursued.
For the present theme, two words, one of which is a non-word,
come to mind. The non-word was quickly set aside when I learned
that it was indeed, not a word. The non-word was 'Apartmentalization'
which only came to mind because it 'sounded' the part. Next came
another word, 'Departmentalization', because it also had the feel
and the harmony, but was not the theme under consideration.
It was simply an exercise, not in futility, but in comparitalization;
Oops, did I just create another non-word? Let's just table that
figment of my imagination.
The elongated word and theme before us is the seven-syllable word,
COMPARTMENTALIZATION. As a noun, it is the act or process of dividing
something into separate and isolated categories, sections, areas, or
compartments. As such, I found it most interesting and useful in the field
of psychology. Dictionary. Com describes it this way: Psychology. the process
of mentally separating or setting aside one’s incompatible or negative emotions, beliefs, or behaviors: Coping with trauma entails psychological defenses—such as denial or emotional compartmentalization—that are inherently isolating. Wow! There is absolutely nothing figmental about this word.
This, in my view, best demonstrates the theme. It best defines both what I have observed in others and what I have personally experienced in my own life. Indeed, it is one of those 'survival mechanisms' that God has instilled in the human psyche. And whether it's halftime, timeout, or 7th-inning stretches, we learn to move ahead when we learn to 'label it' for a 're-visit' and 'set it aside', or to 'table it'. I can't imagine pants without pockets or a car without
a glove compartment. COMPARTMENTALIZATION. Don't leave home without it.
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.
Warmly dedicated to SMJ
Three Sonnets Inspired by my
Reigning Ex
Part 0
Sitting at the edge of the universe
like a man atop a modern skyscraper
who might look down to see the manic street
full of yellow taxis and distant peers,
the first thing I notice on a backwards
glance is my snake-skin mortality
shed and skipping across the flattened ether,
a luminous orb on a linear course
like a puddle-hopping pebble, eager
to sink a lily-pad a child targets
for the hell of it. I realize then - either
I’m dead as a god should be, or just a pet
project of a German ghost, his meager
objective merely my way to forget.
Part I
Before you bed me, I assume the herpes
risk you ignored so many turn-style clicks
so many thick-like quick-strike Rolodex entries
not so long ago made that cavalry slicks
and right-swept Tinder mounts dutifully
saddled have begun their bountiful itch.
A testament, truly, of how beautifully
done was every each one, each surgical stitch
precisely sewn to salvage squeeze-box juice
of battle-field strewn, the red zest of life
a dead soldier blew, is once more, for you,
stalling to flow; knowing your rusty knife
has yet to slice temptation sterilized;
knowing your scalpel’s cut keeps cancer canonized.
Part II
All around you, this kelp-wall compartment
appears an ocean bloomed with room enough
for early light to shuffle halfway bent,
like time’s unpolished hedge, across the rough
field where too young have men gone to die.
Someone is responsible for all of it:
The ghostlike fish who grimly swim upstream;
the crunchy autumn leaves all creased and clustered;
and this, the box you loathe in sleepless dream
of birthday cakes and candles your grandfather
fed the wish-away lawn using mustered
strength from tears his daughter leaked, sprung to lie,
who now only cries at her daughter’s grave,
complaining of stubble when Pawpaw shaves.
The gentle lady was often observed by a little boy. She had hands with a magical touch coveted by many.
In her left hand were strings of hair longing to be treated, and in her right hand was an iron comb of varying temperatures.
The iron comb and human hands slowly stroked the hairs of her clientele. But she was accompanied with a most listening ear to hear the heart cries
of those who sat in her 'beauty chair'. Hers was a heart of gold with a very special place, a compartment, for the storage and processing of the many
secrets that she was told. She had plenty enough cares of her own because hers was a family of many kids and often a most insensitive husband twenty-
two years her senior. Nevertheless, out of what at times was a war zone, a house of chaos, she crafted a happy home. Her lips, through which never a
harmful word would be revealed, were always sealed. A breath of fresh air and soothing like a gentle breeze that slowly flowed through the open sky, this
beautician cared for far more than hair. Her home was an open door, and many were the burdens of others that she so willingly bore. So loving and
caring, she was gifted with an eye for beauty that looked deep into the souls
of her customers. It was there that she beheld so much of their misery and
ugliness with a carefulness for withholding judgment. They came with high hopes of a great hairdo which they received but also left with a makeover of
their troubled souls, because they were touched by the crafty hands and loving heart of a little boy's mother who was a beautician I once knew.
08282018PoSoupCtest, Strand Select V, Brian Strand. 3P
HIS THUMB HELD OUT ON THE MIDDLE OF AN EMPTY ROAD
HE CAN'T STOP SWEATIN, THE SUN BEATS DOWN
HE TAKES TO HIS HEALS WITHOUT LOOKIN AROUND
HE LIGHTS A CIGARETTE CAUSE IT SEEMS HE'S GOT NOWHERE TO GO
HE'S WALKED A COUPLE OF MILES WHEN SHE'S PASSIN HIM BY
TIRES SQUEAL IN A CLOUD OF DUST,
SHE REVS HER ENGINES AS HE CATCHES UP
HE SAYS I'M FAST EDDIE AND I THINK I'M YOU'RE TYPE OF GUY
SO THEY DRIVE ALL NIGHT ON A BOTTLE OF RUM
AND HIT THE WHISKEY WHEN THE MORNING COMES
THEY PULL OVER FOR A LITTLE HUMPTY BUMP
TILL NOTHING MATTERS BUT THE MOMENT AND THE HEAT OF THE SUN
FAST EDDIE AND CHERRY GIRL
BREEZIN THROUGH RAMSHACKLE TOWNS IT'S LIKE AN ENDLESS SEA
THEY CAN'T STOP RUNNIN, THEY CAN'T SLOW DOWN
THEY GOTTA KEEP MOVIN TILL THEY'RE OUT OF TOWN
THEY DON'T WANT A LIFE OF OTHER PEOPLES DAMN DECENCY
THEY PULL UP TO A BROKEN DOWN HUT SHE SAYS YOU WAIT RIGHT HERE
FROM THE GLOVE COMPARTMENT, SHE PULLS A GUN
AND SAYS TO EDDIE, LET THE ENGINE RUN
HOW THIS THING IS GOIN DOWN I REALLY HAVE NO IDEA
SHE WALKS UP TO THE PLACE AND KICKS IN THE FRONT DOOR
SHE FIRES A SHOT AND FIRES TWO TIMES MORE
SHE JUMPS INTO THE CAR AND SAYS I'VE EVENED THE SCORE
THERE'S NO TIME TO SIT HERE WHAT YOU WAITING FOR
FAST EDDIE AND CHERRY GIRL
THEY CHECK INTO A FLEABAG MOTEL AND SETTLE FOR THE NIGHT
HE DOESN'T BOTHER HE DOESN'T ASK
ABOUT WHAT'S HAPPENED ABOUT HER PAST
SHE ROLLS OVER SMILES SADLY, CLUTCHES HIM, AND SOFTLY CRIES
THE NEXT MORNING FINDS HIM WAKING IN AN EMPTY BED
A SCRIBBLED NOTE, SOME CRUMPLED BILLS
HE GRABS A SHOWER AND WAITS UNTIL
THE WATER GETS SCALDING HOT AND TURNS HIS SKIN A BLISTERED RED
HE HITS A COUPLE HONKY TONKS A MILE FROM TOWN
AND POURS ONE TWO THREE WHISKEY?S DOWN
HE MIXES IT UP WITH SOME REDNECK CLOWNS
EVEN THOUGH HE KNOWS HE'S GONNA END FACE DOWN
FAST EDDIE AND CHERRY GIRL