Long Cots Poems
Long Cots Poems. Below are the most popular long Cots by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Cots poems by poem length and keyword.
Tinkerbelle invited muse Trixie to join her at the Martini Lounge tonight
They both had too much to drink, ended up sassy, and quite tight.
Some randy elves tried to pick them up, but they said no thank you.
They were just coherent enough to send them off, into the winter blue.
I knew my muse was gone, but had no idea she knew Tinkerbelle.
Where are you Trixie? I was asking her. No poems tonight. Oh, well.
She’d be back in the morning; she was plain gone from my head.
When she came in with a hangover, I woke straight up I bed.
Where have you been? I asked her. She giggled like a dancing top.
I asked her to quit, but she couldn’t or simply wouldn’t stop.
I threatened to lock her up, and she hiccupped happy silly thoughts.
She knows who is in charge, I guess. She fell face down on her cots.
I wanted to call up Tinkerbelle and give her a piece of my mind.
Then I remembered that muses and faeries need to be with their kind.
It is only New Years Eve, so who am I to take her away from a friend?
Within the hour Trixie was ready to write a poem with a happy trend.
This poem is too mean, too rude, too unkind.
I can never post it. I do not want them to know
There is an ounce of meanness
In the persona of me that I dare to show.
This poem has the word poop. What was I thinking?
It rhymes with scoop,
But is the poem now
Completely stinking?
This poem reflects my most secretive thoughts.
What if they take them, and run and make cots?
What if they bind them together and sing?
What if they jump in and make them all zing?
What if I am being silly?
What if my mind is willy?
For no reason other
That I want them to think
That I am a mother, and
Cannot make poems stink?
What if I am not even a real poet?
Will they nicely and quietly let me somehow know?
What if we are all friends, but they still make me go?
Could I survive without Poetry Soup?
Why don’t I just scratch that awful word ‘poop.’
On my side of the hemisphere, Old Man Winter begins in December
and meanders through the earth with cold, ice, and snow. With ice-
laced winds, he lashes against my skin, and no one calls it a sin.
He renders the soil under my feet hard as a rock against whom
my socks have no defense. That's why I like September. She
neither burns not freezes, but with a tender stroke, she pleases me.
Spring is mostly nice as she melts the ice along with her bursting force
with new life, resurrecting things long put to death by Winter's sword.
The sound of 'April' is a charm with the melodic tunes of a song that's
arresting and captivating. She's sometimes a teaser though, setting you
up for a windy ride. She may even swallow you in a flood or blow you
away in a tornado. But by and large, she serves the planet well. All the
same though, I like September who doesn't tease but pleases me well.
And oh, the joys of summer are endless. The wedding bells of June;
the show and tells of vacations to distant places. Some like it hot,
lying on their cots and bathing in the sun. Others like being soothed
by the cool beaches and back yard pools. But be warned of the pain
and rain from hurricanes. And be prepared to endure the smoke filled
skies from the heavy flames of wild fires. There's just no comparison
to Sweet September with her savory treats of tranquilities to remember.
I anticipate the golden trees just before they shed their autumn leaves.
September charms me with musical chimes on mild Autumn nights.
The choice is mine, and it's a happy time when September arrives.
091621PS
"Nicholas Street Jail is a real place"
The building is imposing, massive and fearful,
built in 1862 as a jail and gallows for criminals;
the conditions were inhumane and appalling,
on the top floor was death row with only one way out.
It closed in 1972 (hangings had not been done in years,)
renovating was done but the creepiness remained;
one hundred and fifty unmarked graves were found,
deemed a heritage building it was turned into a hostel.
It is said to be haunted by the men executed there,
the dark cells can be rented on that top death floor;
small cells with tiny barred windows the only light,
some have seen ghosts standing at the end of their cots.
There are creaking cell gates and heavy footsteps heard,
wailing and weeping and praying all the night long;
on a dare- I rented a top floor cell with bars,
and was told the gallows still remained down the hall.
I went to my bunk not really believing the stories,
but in the night hands were reaching, pulling me;
I screamed but no one was there,
restless, I started walking a dark narrow hall.
There was a man walking also and I wanted to talk,
hello, sir, I called but he did not stop as I followed;
he opened a door and went through, I hesitated a moment,
then, I opened the door, it was the gallows . . .
His was hanging, his neck broken, his eyes staring,
I tried to scream but no sound came as hands pulled me;
decomposed dead were reaching and all had broken necks,
I was screaming when my body dropped into an empty void.
Found in the morning, crumpled and weeping,
talking hysterically about being hanged by decomposed men;
muttering about being dead, dead, dead,
and from the dark side of my mind I cannot escape . . . ever
The mental hospital where I reside is like a jail cell,
where ghosts hang me each night in the gallows,
where I fall into that empty vast void,
screaming, screaming, screaming . . . in the silence.
______________________________
September 25, 2022 (edit from September 19, 2016)
Poetry/Verse/One From the Dark Side of My Poetry
Copyright Protected, ID 09-1490-294-25
All Rights Reserved, 2022, Constance La France
Submitted into the contest, From The Dark Side
sponsor, John Lawless, Judged 10/04/2022
Ninth Place
Hey kid, it's been a while since you and I have talked in silence. In fact, it's been over a hundred years now. Just a quick little scribble to remind you of the ways you and I have lived in the past. remember those days when we were young and we lived carefree and wild. Those days of young when we played in the woods, went hiking, fishing and camping. Remember those days of young men when we would hit up the night clubs and party our brains out all night long, dancing and trying to pick up any young lady that was intoxicated enough to fall victim to us trying to fancy them and luring them into our flats and onto our cots, after the clubs closed. (Ah...those were the days). Remember the wives we've had and the children we've raised... I wonder how our great-great grandkids are? I wonder if we even have any? Who are they, what do they do...what are they like? Do you think they even know who we were, what we were, or how things used to be when we were alive? Are there still trees, plants and water still left on earth? Is earth still in existence? Have people finally come together (highly unlikely- I presume). Is white still white and black still black? Are men still men and women still women? The list can go on, and on, and on. So many questions, so many thoughts, so many...so many. Well kid, before I say so long and say "see ya soon- hopefully" And, before I put this letter in a balloon and send it up to the stars in hopes that it reaches you in the heavens one day. I just want to say "thanks" Thanks for being you, thanks for the life you lived and the paths you've chosen. Lastly, I am sending two balloons with this identical letter up so if and when you do capture these floating balloons a hundred years from now, remember to pop one when you catch them... pop it so that this letter can fall to earth so to remind people of how things used to be, how I was when I was alive, how lovely life used to be (for me). The other balloon and letter is yours to keep and treasure. See ya soon kiddo... Love you always, Self
Letter To My Future Self Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Silent One
9/21/2021
I was married a year in June of 1952,
when my husband, Doug, was drafted
into the Korean “not-a-war” that,
of course, really was a war in disguise.
After basic training Doug was sent to
Fort Knox in Louisville, Kentucky, for tank
training (for which he had NO aptitude)
that was supposed to be three months.
I was 23 but had never learned to drive, so
I took a crash course and got my license in July
because I had to drive to work. By then I
had decided to go be with Doug as long as I could.
I had bought a 1940 Pontiac ($200) with
98,000 miles on it, in which I planned to drive from
New Haven to Troy, NY, to pick up a stranger.
(Did I say everyone thought I was demented?)
I was scared to death but couldn’t have admitted it.
Off I went to Louisville with my 3-month-old license
and someone I didn’t know, who didn’t drive.
packed like the Oakies in The Grapes of Wrath
Three days – no Thruway then, only Rte. 20.
Labor Day weekend traffic – HOT – no air-
conditioning. Cold grape juice signs all AM, dry cornfields
all afternoon. Through Buffalo, NY, Friday at rush hour.
At last, blessed bed and breakfast in Erie, PA.
SOO tired, hands I thought were permanently
cramped from gripping the steering wheel.
Another grueling day and a half to go.
Cheered ourselves that we would have
a comfortable room and hot showers on the base.
No dice. A converted barracks, creaky cots,
We were so tired we just laughed hysterically.
For two months I drove to work at a bank and
Back and forth the Dixie “Die-way” to Fort Knox.
Rented a room, and, when he got his orders, sold the
car for $100 and bought a plane ticket home!
The woman at the shelter with 7 kids
I felt blessed in my mess
My infant won’t remember this
Her kids were cute from 10 to 2
Pitter patter a stepping ladder
How she loved on them swooned
The shelter gave her a few carts
They made do with those few
Sleeping was a Tetris game of art
I remember how cold it was
We huddle and cuddle
Warming our children with love
Watching like a hawk at lights off
Such a place often not safe
From two legged predators that walk
I told myself never will I share the story
Forget you’re here dry your tears
But trial to triumph God gives glory
I wonder about that woman still
Did her kids remember it
The cots the situation the chill
Instead of keeping it a silver secret
Told my son what was done
Hoping he won’t ever repeat it need it
Thank you for the heavenly volunteers
Working there donating care
I remember after all these years happy tears
Written on 4th September, 2025 for the international poetry contest "WA Gentle Hand" sponsored by Mystic Rose Rose. Placement 2nd.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
God’s hands are softer than the snowflake.
His tender touch feels like falling dew,
blown by a gentle breeze~
Soothing as a whisper on the ear,
a feather-stroke that lulls us to sleep
as babies.
As it was in our cots,
His tender touch still cares—
a guiding light for our feet
against the serpent’s bite.
And when troubles torment,
He calms us with His soothing balm,
brushing our faces
until they sparkle with peace.
From infant cradles
to the courts of adulthood’s scorn,
His tender care endures.
He pours His grace
in the warmth of a prodigious embrace.
Though He has filled our lives
to the brim with His care,
His magnificence remains more vast
than the waters of the oceans.
Nothing compares to God’s tender touch:
refining us like the sunbeam’s glow
through the hands of a gentle potter,
flowing like the river’s nourishing stream,
to protect, to guide, to guard, to restore
our fragile souls.
Paralysis in the body makes the mind dead as well.
Doesn't existence drag, like an engine-less machine?
Though a hundred stewards assist, isn't life more than hell?
bed, like servants who never heed, remains deadly serene.
Tension and depression rise like a monsoon thunderbolt.
They stay on, like seasons, with alterations in tempers.
Anger, anxiety, and uncertainty tunnel-vault
Helplessness and hopelessness blaze like unending embers.
These found favour in the eyes of the one who came for them.
Just a look, a smile, a gentle touch, and a word of peace
In his person, he resembled the world's most precious gem.
In his presence, each one found their eternal troubles cease.
Four carried him, as though he were dead, when they came to him.
Carrying their cots, they walked, singing a grace-filled hymn.
Turn to quenching winds; cherish what you can't see.
Learn to study vastness rippling at sea.
Birds watch you from high as they tranquilly soar.
Words elevated mend a heart that's sore.
Songs of praise are the greatest compliment.
Strong and gentle, our natures complement.
Thoughts of gratitude charm, expressed aloud.
Cots, blankets, and laughter are allowed.
Shells cling to sea rocks; we harvest mussels.
Swells hug your tee shirt, revealing muscles.
Pull me close like friendly breezes that blew.
Full of mysteries are diverse realms blue.
Sky's palette blends at a quarter past eight.
Eyes twinkle from marshmallows we ate.
You strum your ukulele; we become a band.
Two voices that melt cannot be banned.
Seagull calls merge in a tune that's choral.
Regal beauty flaps around hidden coral.
Sway like moonlit, twinkling leaves of beech.
Stay with me tonight upon this lot of beach.
7-14-2021
(Rhyme beginnings, homophone endings)