Long Couches Poems
Long Couches Poems. Below are the most popular long Couches by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Couches poems by poem length and keyword.
O MINE VALENTINE
We are a twine of
lines...vines
limbs
hair
fingers
sheets
blankets
couches
streets
signs
misgivings
mistakes
retreats
agressions
2 chairs
2 drinks
a fire
an oven
a burner
a melted finish
and a perpetually unmelted finish
longings
clutchings
graspings
open doors
unopened doors
closed doors
slammed doors
cracked open doors
wide open doors
tears
cries
beggings
wishings
promisings
spinning wheels
rising roads
falling rain
calls
texts
silence
long extended open unbracketed Silence
dark thick silence
light bright silence
hopeful silence
cresting like a star being born silence
....we begin again
She drags them in
She drags them out
She wears some once,
Others are never worn at all.
She is a clothes horse
A fashionista, a diva.
She has two walk in closets,
And converts a bedroom into another one.
Are all of these clothes for her?
Where will she put all of these shoes?
Bam. She makes another bedroom into a shoe closet.
Pretty soon we have to dine there in between shoes and boots.
Amazon boxes are arriving daily.
Her house is pregnant with them, about to burst.
She has run out of room. Will she buy a new house?
Will she throw something out? She begins to stack couches
For she likes buying furniture too.
When will she have enough?
Or will she just die there, trying to punch her way out?
A cross between a Great Dane and a German shepherd of course.
Dumped on us a few months ago; Buddy is the size of a small horse.
He has big ears and exotically interesting markings of black and white.
Year and a half old, he chews up everything in and out of his sight.
He has chewed up a mattress of memory foam, and six of my shoes.
Mates of each he has never felt compelled to taste; so I always lose.
He has eaten the leather off some couches, and an antique chair.
He often comes flying at me at ninety degrees – traveling in the air.
Lands on my lap; his big butt hits the button and the chair reclines.
Stuck in a laying position until my husband finally hears my whines.
Buddy has eaten every poison mouse trap in the garage and hall.
Loves chasing rabbits, squirrels, the cat and a yellow tennis ball.
Easier if Sophie, our twelve-year-old cocker spaniel was gone.
She is angry as a heck that this giant is on the loose, no swan.
Dainty in no way, he is a giant puppy who wants to frolic and play.
And Shark the cat, has been missing since Buddy showed up one day.
A sultry Sunday afternoon at Shady Acres, unseasonably warm for February. Outside not a breath of air stirs. Heat, a shimmering wall, rises from a blacktopped circular drive. Sprinklers spray, and water sweeps in waves splashing on red-flowering bottlebrush shrubs that hummingbirds love so well. Inside are comfortable chairs and couches covered in cool Haitian cotton, area rugs with a Persian design in rose and beige, potted ficus and dwarf palms, and prints of quaking aspens and gardens artfully arranged on eggshell-tinted walls.
In this tranquil, tasteful place where no one really wants to be, an old woman sits alone in a corner staring vacantly out a window, a smudged and faded valentine clasped tightly in her gnarled right hand, the words "Will you be…" barely legible after so many years.
She sits where she sits every day, patiently waiting for something…or someone…she can't quite remember which. Perhaps it's the old man sitting alone in another corner of the same room staring out another window, trying to remember somewhere he was supposed to go, something he needed to do, someone he wanted to see.
Author's note: Dear reader, this is not, of course, a poem...exactly...but, since it's far too short to qualify as a story, perhaps it can pass as a "vignette" for Valentine's Day.
Econo Lodge sign
High
On
Its
Pylon
Best we can do
For you Tedeschi Trucks
To put a moon in the sky
Over this interstate interchange
Jammed with cars and a decrepit minor league hockey stadium
Advertising the glory days and beer swigging of The Wings
Glows over the deadbeat semis and construction cones
Tearing apart I-94 between Chicago and Detroit
Gleaming casino next city over
Mocking us all by suggesting
I’ll see you over here
The last great guitar players and their dwindling fans
In just a few more years
Yes it’s 2024
And for good our children have left the house
Its couches beds and kitchen table chairs
Like unstraightened frames holding all our wall photographs
Our dog doesn’t mind
Wags his tail with the additional luxury choices
For his many daytime naps
My wife and I look for familiar friends
Though we understand the band are total strangers
During these glorious last 14 years together with us
We don’t want to be creeps to Derek and Susan in love on stage
Though we were the first to love them both up there
I give a hearty wave anyway from the front seats
And I think through the spotlights there’s a smile or wink returned to us
The silhouettes
As the two and their band watch one another
Still mesmerized as they saw and sing the epic Shame
And we the audience smash our hands and shake our tambourine heads
How can the whole world not know more
About this travelling family of musical magic?
We know in our minds they’re the best band in the world
On the scale of Zeppelin or the Stones in their prime
But in the now
And here they are
Still looking good and cool and willing to share something better
Kind enough to stop over
Say hello
Between Red Rocks and Milwaukee
To this little rustbelt university town
Stadium filled only three quarters of the way with 4000 people
I’m sure a sop financially for somebody
But the masterful musicianship we joyfully hear
And we respond with whistles and cheers
As good as anyplace
As loud as ever
Afterward
Outdoors
The Econo Lodge moon buzzes and blinks in our rearview mirror
For our long drive home on I-94
Back to Lansing we go
Chasing breadcrumbs the dotted lines
Our hearts filled our ears ringing
Through the quiet speeding dark.
Perhaps the greatest failure of all time
occurred in the last 100 years,
with no fanfare or remorse
and little discussion in high places.
The possibility for the human race
to raise itself with better health
and longer life has been squandered,
by destructive behavior and ignorance.
People have fallen into a state,
where false social media posts
and advertisements
change opinions and behavior.
Stupor prevails on couches and chairs,
during long evenings in front of cell phones and TV’s,
full of senseless dialog and flirtation,
with advertising designed to corrupt.
The next day is different for these electronic novitiates,
who eat and buy what they’re told,
without regard for impact on health
or how it affects longevity.
A desire for processed and fast foods
reaches a peak following clever advertisements,
and bodies are assaulted with sugar and chemicals
void of fiber, enzymes and vitamins.
Tobacco, alcohol and other destructive products
fill shopping carts and shorten lives,
while pharmacies pump out high priced counter measures,
in an effort to reverse the tragedy.
Lifespans are shortened by this stupor,
and no one seems to care,
as weight increases and mental health decreases
to the masses sitting in front of screens.
This colossal failure will be recorded
in history books someday.
Children will ask how it happened,
and no one will have an answer.
The Galilean sun smiled down
upon the dusty little town
and lingered o'er one humble spot,
a peasant's home and modest shop.
Long shafts of light fell 'cross the door
to lay bright carpets on the floor
where children played in perfect peace
about the shop. Their joy increased
each time they caught a glimpse of Him,
the carpenter who worked within.
His face was gentle, eyes were kind;
and as He worked, He did not mind
their ceaseless chatter, endless play
nor did He find them in His way.
Their laughter rippled round the room;
they scattered sawdust with a broom.
the wood chips falling at His feet
became for them a fishing fleet
or beds and chairs for little dolls,
a manger or a cattle stall.
Surrounded by the commonplace;
and yet, uncommon was the grace
with which He faced each daily task
as if all Heaven lay in His grasp.
A carpenter He was by trade;
the wood responded, unafraid.
beneath His hands each piece was formed
into an object to perform
some deed of usefulness or skill,
the needs of men to fitly fill.
Precise He was in all His craft
from oxen yoke to shepherd's staff
to couches for a nobleman;
he was a careful artisan.
Each part was polished, sanded, ground;
no painful splinters could be found
to pierce the flesh of those who bought
the items fashioned in His ship.
There wood was sacrificed for man
beneath its own Creator's hands.
Does it seem strange that He would die,
suspended between earth and sky,
upon two rugged beams of wood,
this carpenter whose work was good?
Faye Lanham Gibson
Copyright, 1987
Everyone told him to come out
His LTBGQ friends anyway
All six of them
For that is how many lived in his small town
in the Midwest
in the heart of Nebraska
The pressure was great,
and part of him yearned
To say something to his parents
To test the water,
To see if they would still love him
It was a quandary
But his heart kept saying no
His friends did not let up.
They hounded him for years.
Everything in his heart said no.
He did not feel ready
Until he was seventeen.
When he finally did
Thinking it would be a relief.
They loved him after all.
He spent the rest of the year
Sleeping on friends couches
Waiting for high school to end
So he could leave town
Never returning
While looking for a bridge
to cross over tonight
Connecting time honored values
to internet blight
I thought and I pondered,
as I surfed on the net
But the things that it offers
are sadly abject
Where is the laughter,
the thrill of the chase
Through forest and meadow,
with all of your mates
Gone is the connection,
looking eye into eye
Replaced now with distance,
and its virtual lie
The children are programmed,
their bits and their bytes
With screens the new playgrounds,
their couches—their life
Where all of this leads,
I’m fearful to know
As I look for that bridge,
where our youth can still go
To return from the chaos,
to a welcoming time
Where friendships were made,
in a tree you just climbed
But the harder I search,
the dimmer it gets
Quicksand reinvented,
their souls it collects
Though cards stack against me,
I remain on my quest
The young are still worth it,
—and hope never rests
(Villanova Pennsylvania: July, 2017)
I lost the remote in the living room.
On Saturday.
My husband and I ran around looking and looking.
At first it was just the couch pillows, we were looking through.
An hour into it we had made what looks like a bon fire,
Tipping over couches, recliners, and such.
We broke a couple of tables.
Hey, wait, my husband reminded me.
Merlin was here today.
I called Merlin’s mommy, our daughter.
She said, "Oh, darn. We just found it. We thought it
was the one we lost a couple of weeks ago."
Merlin is our two year old grandson
Whom we apparently did not watch
As well as we should have the
5 hours he was here.
He is going to have to
Leave his hoodie and
His diapers at home.