Long Corridor Poems
Long Corridor Poems. Below are the most popular long Corridor by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Corridor poems by poem length and keyword.
Amos made a promise, took a sip of wine,
Poured his heart out and he bowed his head.
Pledged to come back safely as Evangeline
Shed a tear for every word he said.
Polished as the buttons on his uniform,
Amos bowed to her and kissed her hand.
Gone to face the fury of the raging storm.
Hoped his lady love would understand.
Troopship cuts the water on a sea of glass.
Lookout taken with a homesick dream,
Focused on a vision of some cherry lass,
While a periscope lies dead abeam.
Walking down the corridor by candlelight
In a mansion full of silent rooms.
Loiters in her husband’s study every night
Where the presence of his absence looms.
Soldier comes one morning with a telegram
And a story of a ship gone down.
Sadly tips his hat and says, “I’m sorry, ma’am.
What a shame it is when brave men drown.”
Courage, honor, loyalty and songs of war,
Verse and chapter writ in martyrs’ blood;
Second-hand excuses from the time before,
Grand illusions worth their weight in mud.
I wanted so badly
to know every darkened piece of coal
beneath your sooted mantle
See for myself how every well lit pane
Became a sunlit stage
Where the glittered dust danced so graceful
How every long hallway corridor
led to every spiral staircase
Alway leading to something more
The home you built, the person that you are
I wanted so badly
to share with you, my soul
the messy, slightly broken home
I rebuilt with stone
And called my own
finding common grounds beneath each other
Our shared days were spent in cherished laughter
Our Nights held sacred as we explored one another
Laying out upon the sheets blueprints that were seldom blue
Describing to each other all of our rooms
From the textures of the floors
And the nails in every board
To the displays on the walls
And all that they saw
We shared the rooms full of light
And the ones we chose to keep locked tight
The messes in the corners we couldnt seem to clean
And future renovations we hoped to soon see
I fell in love with the walk throughs you gave to me
So into your hands I placed my key
I trusted you so I entrusted to you all that was me
In love with the home that you described
I soon danced in its halls inside my mind
Forgetting the key you would never provide
Blending instead your home and mine
Upon common grounds made from truthless soil
We set the table and watched it spoil
The aging of time caused the foundation to shift
life rubbed holes through the walls and the brick
The truth revealed through the facade now thinned
lies built the home I loved and the house where you hid
I have reached you
But still, I don’t feel safe
For they know I am with you
Persistent with their knocking
On the grate on the back door
On the steep slope of lawn
At the end of a long cone of light
They demand to know, to enter
Without understanding.
They shoot up their electronic messages
In an endless pursuit, hunting out and
Up from the darkness of their perverted will
Attempting to arrive here with us
They demand access and control
Without passing through the fire
Without first returning home
Without replanting
In the purified ground
Rising to your world near the front garden
Without opening up the crust of the red iron earth
To till in new planting
In the furrows of the soft warm clay
Clearly described in the instructions
And dictated by the severe climatic conditions
Of the purifying new sun’s light and holy rains
Filling this new terrain and
Described in the planting manuals on the shelves
Hanging on the walls between the icons
In the conical labyrinth of rooms
Along the corridor
From the back rooms to the front garden
Soon we will close off this passageway
And take off in orbit
Into the new galaxy prepared for us
From the beginning
Planted with star-seeds
Of the Divine LOGOS
From the beginning of time.
The harvest has finally begun.
Perhaps we don’t even have to put that sign on the back door
For the fields are so ripe with the fragrance of the October vines
And the olives are so mature they are about to fall off the trees
That everyone will know we are at the harvest
And if we ever return to the world
Of the old house where the back door was
With its open grating, we will find the ground burned,
What stood, turned to ash, disintegrated,
Returning through death, re-integrated
Into the earth of the underworld, to be reborn,
As new re-connected trees,
In the garden of an old world
Re-planted and now re-visited
For one last time.
No funeral bells were ever heard
And neither were there any angels
Of Divine Annunciations carrying us off
It just happened under the guidance
Of secret voices hidden in the core of life.
She was just seventeen
The flowers had started blooming
The flower doesn't bloom for itself
It wants to mingle in another breath
The parents scolded heavily
The petals moaned with pain in the veins
The flowers didn't stop blooming
At the pot of seventeen they seldom stop
What's the point in the blossoming
if the scent can't be exchanged
at the intoxicating corridor
with the eyes closing in the blue uproar
of scarlet cascades
Over thousands of blades
The hailstorm was brewing
the moon needed to awake
She was kept confined to her room
School teachers came and counselled
None could feel the heat
None could heal the corporal twitches
Attempt to commit suicide alerted the father
The petals turned nihilist
Was taken to the psychiatrist
Was given anxiolytics
The petals faded, the scent closed the door
The cage revolted for the blue sky
An uncle said he knew a psychoanalyst
Who could deal with the disease deftly
The father agreed and the uncle
accompanied her to the boy friend
The fusion was magnetic
The norwester raged about with lightening
The unspent birds got released in the garden
The buds were keen to return
The depleted river returned too
And the cool full moon sat in the wind
The psychoanalyst then reoriented her thoughts
The uncle gave her woolen friendship
The ship now sailed in the river with blue red and white flags
The viewers on the bank would not even blink their eyes
_______________________________________________________________
March 4, 2018
Random Acts of Kindness - Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Kai Michael Neumann
If words were enough to offer warmth to our hearts,
If hearts vibrated only to emotions,
I would write, in the ink of my tears, the messages of life,
I would place notes to warm the souls.
If gazes could tame the violence of the world,
If melodious songs could soften human beings,
I would give glasses to dictators,
I would erase the silences in the corridor of our lives.
If love had the power to silence the guns,
If tenderness were stronger than weapons,
I would build bridges between anger and hope,
I would place sparks of peace in the hands of children.
If time carried my words to infinity,
If memories knew how to erase our mistakes,
I would let kindness watch over our paths,
I would be the breath of the best of futures.
Joël Charvillat
The school I've worked for half my teaching years is feeling more
and more the woes of these hard times. I walk the corridor,
remembering the better days
before I felt this new malaise
which lies inside the core of me
and matches all too eerily
the atmosphere that permeates this hallway and adheres
to all parts of the school I've worked for half my teaching years.
I pray to God I'll never see the end of this old school.
So many came and went, yet I remain. I'm someone who'll
stay put until they close its doors.
Ten years now I have walked its floors,
taught students and had fun with them.
I hope it's not a requiem
I'm writing soon for this dear place, which much like an old friend,
is apt to pass. . . . I pray to God I'll never see the end.
This poem uses Wrapped Refrain type II, a form invented by Jan Turner and shown a Shadowpoetry.com. Posted in 2010, when I first came to Soup. Thankfully, the school is doing better now.
Before the quiet spark,
before the first dividing cell,
I was not waiting in a chamber of stars,
nor folded in the breath of some hidden heaven—
I was not.
No corridor of memory holds that place,
no dream recalls a darker dream before it.
My mind, as neuroscience tells it,
is but a flame lit only when there is something to burn—
and I had not yet become the wick.
In the long arithmetic of biology,
I was possibility without witness,
a pattern not yet drawn,
a name not yet spoken
by any trembling mouth.
No silence held me,
for silence requires an ear.
No darkness wrapped me,
for darkness requires sight.
There was no “I” to be absent.
And yet—
the atoms that would one day gather as me
wandered the patient earth,
restless in stone, in water, in air,
ancient as the first light.
So I was not nowhere—
but I was not someone.
I was the unasked question,
the unwritten line,
the pause before language learns its own echo.
Then—
a sudden assembling,
a quiet ignition in flesh,
and the universe, for a moment,
learned to say my name
from the inside.
Before that—
no exile,
no waiting,
no loss.
Only the vast, indifferent peace
of never having been.
Yet, two names were picked out,
before I was conceived, the name for a girl or a boy.
I was scared oh so scared
Seeing my baby that way
Her tiny little body
Was all purple and grey
My heart feared the worst
I thought she was gone
Down a dark corridor
My mind had been drawn
My heart became joyful
When the doctor touched her feet
A crying pink angel
This proud papa would meet
I waited to hold her
A truly special day
The cutest thing ever
What else can I say
Moments become years
Special memories are made
Ones that are important
In my heart I've replayed
Like watching musicals
Nick naming her, Gal Sal
My Christina would giggle
Her daddy's little pal
Her happy disposition
Would always make me smile
I treasured each moment
Saved them in a mental file
Like learning to ride a bike
Needing to do it alone
I loved the look of triumph
When she did it on her own
My little daughter growing
Still daddy's little girl
Her my special angel
A treasure and a pearl
My spirits had been low
She went with me on a walk
I felt so much better
Christina let me talk
She had become a woman
Sensitive, wise and kind
Within her heart a treasure
My answer I would find
Cruising down a river
In China mile by mile
Wishing for forever
Yet it passed in just a while
Still I can remember
I really saw her that day
Travelling on her own path
She had found her special way
Now today on her Wedding
I could not be more proud
There's special in her quiet
She is strong although not loud
I entrust her to Michael
My most precious gift
On the strong wings of prayer
Together may God lift
I wrote this poem using My wife Mary's, brother inlaw's memories.
Today July 26th, 2014 is his daughter's wedding day. May God bless
Christina and Mike's union.
A stop route of west African slave trade
passing through gradual conversion from an escape center
to a beautiful republic cemented in the ninety-sixties,
to pride as the first nation in the middle of the Americas
and to become an independent political and economic entity.
The first among the ‘warm-climated’ group
to participate in the ‘cold climated’ games.
It has grown wings to have so much political will
and becoming humanity’s chief servant in fighting for the globally marginalized.
So greatly influenced by the Afro-Caribbean spiritual salt,
giving value to the philosophy of international morality.
Beauty at its peak is flaunted through the Blue Mountains,
unfortunately in a land weak in the resistance
of nature’s dangerous waves of theft and anger.
Home to eight non-venomous snakes and great crimes;
obeahism lingering as the corridor to the inner mind;
are mixed segments of a growing star in the Caribbean
which is also the best place to see wild flora and fauna.
The jungle of the room
terribly smelly
lacks fresh air
words and
- thoughts
... like wings on a rock
The pen clinging to my hand
The Masterpiece
curled and thrown
- a wrecks of the vessel
... the face becomes pale
steps
in the
corridor
...
24/11/2019
Sun :) - A-L Andresen :)
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