Long Conditioner Poems
Long Conditioner Poems. Below are the most popular long Conditioner by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Conditioner poems by poem length and keyword.
A brush paints a picture like poetry on a page
Colors; for faded love but bathed in the brightest rays
It paints a picture of two lives, fading in graying years
Painting on a worn-out canvas, happiness and tears.
A portrait painted with pride, once worth taking the risk
Strokes painted in splinter, but underneath cracks exist
A picture hiding deception from a life unraveling in fears. A portrait painted on canvas and stained with a million tears. Memories, try to stitch and pull a sagging canvas in vain. Too much pride to cover the cost, answers back with pain So clean around the edges, through the heart, a knife, a slice.
With so much bad to tip the scale, the good must sacrifice
A painting of a sad, sad story and hangs there until the end.
Each kiss that caressed the canvas slipped away by the stroke of a pen. Hearts, peeled and broken, good times fall to the past Dreams left on the canvas. fading love that failed to last. Smiles conceal the hurt that’s tailor made to weep. Hangs there on a wall of honor but shades of pain bleeds deep. Bright colors camouflage the flaws, for beauty, a portrait thrives to betray. Now, the brushes are cleaned and conditioned and carefully put away. There remains a picture, tossed away for the buyer to collect
A blacken hue, cracked and stained, no conditioner can correct
A love now lost to memories and fading away with time
Golden rings under the looking glass, the seller’s grandest find
She sits in quiet reserve,
conspicuously perched
upon the windowsill in my room.
And insists on access to a window,
not for the sunlight, but for the air.
She seldom stops working,
merrily humming along;
a constant cacophony of starts and spurts.
Yet, I've learned to tolerate her
rumbling in the background.
For she has the ability
to cool me down
with no more than her breath.
She exhales heated exchanges,
keeping me comfortable in my room.
And I'm so incredibly grateful
for the welcomed relief;
that I've accepted her in my life.
Call it a summer infatuation,
I'm in love with my air conditioner!
We’re gunna need another car,
The Datsun’s gone and died.
The thing was never up to par.
Why, it never even tried.
A brand new clutch not long ago,
Then the air conditioner carked it.
It seems to think we’re made of dough.
Need to forget where I parked it.
Electronics all misfiring,
It needs to visit a sparkie.
The whole shebang will need rewiring.
And you wonder why I’m narky?
It’s not as if it’s all been bad,
For it has been used quite rough,
And when it’s gone I won’t be sad.
I’ll have finally called its bluff.
See, it made me think it useful,
It showed just a little ‘chutzpah’,
But if I’m being truthful,
It’s now no more than a foot-spa.
Seals on doors not holding well,
In the foot-well there’s a puddle,
Which, when disturbed, emits a smell
Reminiscent of cat’s wuddle.
Don't you think you ain't normal?
How money becomes thy moral
Rather than thy character and behavior
Which don't hold into wealth-- its savior
Unless conforming to standard of principles
Set cum societal logistics-- the principals
Oh this new age makes it formal
I see, that's how you've had such oral
Love is fictitious, few mirror can reflect its tension
Heart beats for love, I wonder how blood builds in it its mansion
Mighty name is life, treating death like friend
Favor is of human on earth but only grace in heaven could commend
Watery ground beefing date, calling unto all; one by one
How often we forget to ever wanting earthly fun!
Altar guides meeting with Thee for forever to get secured
There, death's pain and agony will vanish and be cured
Of all sunrise I've seen, tipping point photographs chance
But only in Eon lies a pure off probability assurance
Laugh wipes inner tears, voice changes its gear
While smile only fake its look, trying to forget job undone so dear
Humility comes home... build for time been like foreigner
Truly, its state of being is confidential but conditioner
Can there be hope that sells fortunes for free?
Except in game where luck via suffering is the referee.
Monochrome scenes blanch
but color is there as an underlay
of my own viewing history.
Black and white movies,
old even when I watched them
flicker still on an inner retina.
A hero turns conspiratorially,
staring into my future.
What he said into the camera then,
is meaningless now,
but I see his lips move
as if he were predicting this moment.
A heroine hikes her skirt over her thighs;
blood fills the flesh of memory,
a dialogue recalled by younger nerve endings.
I remember I love her, but it is too late,
she is dead and she did not die young,
her ancient hand seems to
grasp my fingers now,
seeking closure.
The original King Kong
lives a broken life in my hall closet.
At night I hear him weeping still
for Fay Wray.
He is no longer tortured, angry
and confused,
but I still must explain to him
that the sound of buzzing biplanes
is only the air-conditioner kicking in.
Eventually we both sleep.
Sometimes I think
that all that was and ever will be
is an on-going fiction,
a fantasy for a spliced life
left on cutting room floors.
Perhaps the real Casablanca
has yet to be scripted?
One day,
maybe we all may get to say:
‘play it again Sam’.
Is like saying
“I know my way around every corner, but I’m not allowed to walk through the door”
I lost my first tooth there
And I scraped my knee on the sidewalk out front.
My first cat tommy
Is lying
Bones in the backyard
Grave marked by nothing
But those old dead flowers
I used to live here.
absence makes the heart grow fonder.
This place used to be ours
And if you look
You may be able to find my name
Written on the door frame
Next to a height and age
And the nail sticking out of one of the stairs
That I stepped on
And I fell
And momma put a Band-Aid on the wound in this bathroom
And momma put ice on my head in this bedroom
And kissed me good night under this rattling ceiling fan
and I slept in this old place,
under this cracked ceiling
making faces out of the paint chips
making stories out of the sounds
the fridge
the air conditioner
the cars out front.
I used to live here.
It's my childhood home
But now someone new lives here
I secretly think,
It will always be ours more than anyone else's.
We live as kings and queens of yesterday could only dream
Central heat, plumbing, air-conditioning, washers and dryers too
We shower once or twice a day, with conditioner and shampoo
Steak every night should we want it, followed by cake and ice cream
So why all the self-absorbed anxiety? Why all the alienation?
You'd think we'd be glad of more time to exercise our imagination
Difference is royalty had servants who responded to their every command
Kings and Queens had lively instantaneous conversation on demand
Dependent on machines, woe are we
Leading emotion-free lives
of people-less poverty
Abandoned in the desert by robbers
Bruised and bleeding
Tied on hands and feet
It was dark, cold and I was shaking
The dawn of tomorrow
will it rise?
Please tell me
A bad dream,
close-up of red eyes
Like a snake moving without limbs
I followed a path,
but suddenly it disappeared
and I lost my sense of direction
An ancient dry wind
with sand that grinds skin
Almost naked and sunburnt
Be embraced with temptation
So incredibly thirsty
The lips are wounded
and cracked
Clean water drops
would have been conditioner
for a dry throat
The moon is fading,
the darkness of nights malignant
A struggle to survive
27/10/2019
Sun :) - A-L Andresen :)
Copyright © All Rights Reserved
* - It was no dream ... the victim was supposed to die
... but "I" ... or SHE survived ... this is from a true story
With the knowledge of extra free hours
which count from the starting point of forty and eight,
the cycle has just begun
for activities to pass through no plan
and freedom to lend me its coveted wings.
Chilling through this tender evening
when calm and its entourage just had dinner,
creating the arena for nature and beauty
to be my most loved neighbours,
in the same neighbourhood
where fun is just waking up from a five days sleep
is a perfect conditioner
to moisten the expectations of this brief holiday.
Even with the gone day’s illumination,
comfort well supported by a wonderful serenity
gives light for the mind to stay happy
and the soul to remain cute
as dusk with very slow wheels beckons
for relaxation to render its full services
then my readily available acceptance
will form a joint venture with it
to make hay while the moon smiles.
The night was unbearably barren and cold
- annihilated details of the celestial bodies
Stars flung away by just a roar
Purple moon split as cardboard ... crumbled as a moth
The comet's tails were set on fire
catastrophic flames raged through the night
Naked marble statues with empty eyes that don't flinch
left behind the smell of aged conditioner and sweat
Their existence consequently cannot be recognized
Is the key of the present bound to the past ?
Their embrace instantly endeared me
broken hearts marbles lost the match
A dream I will never be able to document
I slept under the haunted night lamp
no princesses attended the ball
- don't kill my hero