Long Creaked Poems
Long Creaked Poems. Below are the most popular long Creaked by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Creaked poems by poem length and keyword.
Grandpa the Master Magician
Grandpa was old and creaked
like a well-worn floorboard
but he always carried a smile with him
which generally won the day or the situation.
He had just spent time with his two grandchildren
which had added fun to his morning’s recipe.
They saw Grandpa as this master magician
capable of producing an egg from either nostril
..…. boiled or not.
An eggcellent start to any day!!
Later, on an icicle of an afternoon
and confronted by a presumptuous wind
which blew him around street corners;
he found himself happily chasing his youth.
Newspaper and chocolate treat acquired
he set off for the finishing line of home.
He noted that the traffic lights were changing to red!
So, although not at the proper crossing, his GPS
i.e. Grandpa’s Priority Selector
was saying…GO! GO! GO!
However so was a fast-approaching Fiat 500!
Grandpa felt validated by time and experience so..
he sailed forth but time and his knees didn’t agree.
His legs instead of speeding up, started slowing down
which was the exact opposite of the flying Fiat,
driven ruthlessly by a manic-panicked driver
who exaggerated a swerve around Grandpa
with arms orchestrating her extremely annoyed thoughts.
Grandpa tottered on oblivious to the orchestrations.
He felt composed being lean, leathery and learned
as opposed to the driver’s ill-fed, ill-bred, ill-mannered approach.
However Grandpa, the master magician, wasn’t to be thwarted
so as his feet touched pavement, his hand touched cap,
then his winning smile and a flicked wave of politeness.
The driver just continued with her orchestration of
Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony in C Minor
while mouthing, “Is your brain on holiday!”
However life was to offer Granpa a final judgement
for as the traffic lights winked from red to green
our driver was still in a boil of botheration until…
a honk of reprimand from behind grabbed her attention.
Frustrated she tried to floor the accelerator pedal
but only succeeded in stalling the engine.
The horn hoots and toots began queuing up
until the Fiat 500 burnt rubber and swivel-hipped away.
Grandpa’s face showed not a flicker of amusement
but he allowed his bones to enjoy the moment -
particularly the funny one!
Then the wind giggled up, clapped him on the back
and then kindly blew him gently home!
POETS
Desert dust before the rain hampered our walk
on the Oregon floor
boards creaked with late afternoon lore
Dry gin in a glass waiting
it wanted to bubble like champagne
but there was nothing to babble about
A rake for an unworked farm
listened for fractals
Tesla said he was not available
today
Ears with a mop of white hair
detective with his magnifying glass
he thought of making love to a
young African maiden
she came for the cheese and drinks
not the poetry
he changed his mind
in case she wanted his property too
A thick skinned peach arrives
nourishing seed
sugar salt and cinnamon sticks
she was not about to offer anybody lifts
To hell with this poetry thing
I want to be rich oozed from her brain stem
Wooden baton
rich gravied marrow
gurgled a verse through throttled container
One-eyed pond
there were mosquitoes to be uncovered
or a tadpole or two
Maybe
the mud was sufficiently thin
Such strange creatures, these poets
Gingerbread woman
hot from the oven
offering the sanctity of materiality
she appeased our hunger
with a jaunty hat
What do I think, the ego asked the ego
No thoughts arrived
What do you think, the ego asked Soul
I do not think
I feel oceanic passion
as the rain mutes the dust
beneath the poets’ feet
©GhairoDanielsPoetry2017
I was lying in bed, unable to sleep,
Thinking of troubles I'd seen in life, so deep.
If I could give counsel to the younger Dave,
From so many disasters, him I could still save.
Somewhere, in bed, many years and miles away,
A boy asked, "Mom, why put me in bed - it's day?"
He couldn't sleep, 'cuz outside it was still light
He heard an old man's voice, as day turned to night,
"Young boy, I need not lament, 'if only you knew',
Because, if you listen, I'll tell it to you.
It took me quite some time to figure it out -
I come to you through a twisted space-time route."
The boy said, "crazy old man", to the wormhole voice,
"are you trying to say that I have a choice?"
"Sure", creaked the geezer, "how your life goes will depend
On the choices you make - from the start to the end.
Pick your lovers, just as you would pick your friends.
Choosing the right career will pay dividends -
Take the Microsoft offer in eighty-two.
You'll have so much money, you won't know what to do!"
"You are right", said the boy, "I do have a choice.
But I won't make it on the advice of a voice."
The old man then thought, "I was always a dope,
Ready to hang myself, given enough rope."
I am a wall painted purple, oh, I remember that day well,
a girl of raven hair, standing on a ladder painting me;
I was laughing because her hair had streaks of purple paint,
and she was dappled all over with dots of me.
The next few days I was left alone to dry in quietude,
then came the antique furniture and mauve drapery;
art work was attached to me in hues of purple so lovely,
my whole essence was of peace and tranquility.
I liked to watch the girl dance around the room so pretty,
she looked at herself in an oval mirror attached to me;
and I felt she was looking into my soul, often she was writing,
at her desk into a diary with tears in her eyes.
How I wanted to reach out and stroke that head gently,
but of course I was just a purple wall, I felt her sadness;
then one day she was wearing a beautiful white dress,
I did not realize that she was leaving me that day.
The door to my room closed with the furniture covered,
I spent my days in darkness as the curtains hid the sun,
at night all I had were my memories of that raven haired girl,
then one day, the door creaked open, so slowly.
An old lady with white hair holds the hand of a little girl,
she strokes the raven hair of the girl with such love;
the dark haired girl smiles- the lady calls her granddaughter,
she tells her, "this is the room where I used to dance."
Then, they open up the curtains and throw off the covers,
and they begin to dance and twirl all about the room;
I am happy- I want to join them but I am just a purple wall,
that little girl now looks into the oval mirror . . .
attached to me, and it seems she is looking into my soul.
_______________________
October 14, 2016
Poetry/Personification/Just A Purple Wall
Copyright Protected, ID 16-839-255-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
Submitted to the contest, Personification
sponsor, Lewis Raynes
Sixth Place
Silver slippers sliding off her feet, sparkling heels,
Suspended beat of the air, the feel of surrender
to the pumpkin skies, the rise of parting souls.
Bare feet, barely touching the stairs; the tip toes
of spiraling rails. Her midnight blue gown swooshing,
swaying, twirling. The moon glittering like her tiara.
Poof, like magic, she’s disappeared, as his hands
fondle one of the shapely shoes; perfect though
they’d been used in romantic tango half the night.
The cool night air still holds her lips, her breath,
the essence of her charm, her slippers. He dare not
turn back the clock - hears its melody chiming.
Her timing was impeccable, almost laughable, as
the princess-dolts had already stepped on his toes,
their knees creaked, and all were wildly anxious.
But she showed up at the top of the stairs,
suspended time, then descended the winding
way, all along lifting his eyes, biding her time.
The only son, ready to take the throne -
his palms were wet, his knees trembled,
love at first sight, before she even spoke.
She didn’t disappoint. She could sing and dance.
Where did she come from? He’s too entranced
to ask, but as courage comes the clock strikes.
and she runs
away like a ghost…
The lonely cabin
I knocked on the door of the small cottage
the window steamed up I drew a childish picture
faces of children, that when the sun came erased
the drawings and, I thought of childhood.
My brother had lived here, his children refused
gave the cottage to be a gesture of goodwill.
I knocked on the door; it fell in a cloud of dust
the cabin was empty a floorboard creaked in pain
unused being walked on.
I turned to leave, the door arose and blocked my way
I promised the cottage, a man from the village
will come and paint inside and outside I will
move in here with my dog.
The cottage relented, door and window opened
letting in fresh air and sunlight.
It was cold in his shack and rain squeezed through gaps in the walls
Built as a summer retreat near the beach during prosperous times
A single door creaked under an onslaught of memories and drizzle
Oh well Dylan Thomas wrote in his Boat House
Waves reaches foundations erected on shifting sands and firm beliefs
Thunder resembled turmoil and salt of the earth in search of a home
A sea weed mattress moulded his mind into drift wood of dilapidation
The Old Man by the Sea and no fish in sight
He was freezing his hands stiff and stringent merely holding the pen
Once more he cursed arthritis and age and icy ink in mere circulation
His gaze fell upon a ceiling which suspended possessions and dreams
Carl Spitzweg The Poor Poet umbrella in hand
When the tide reached his shaky resilience and vanishing aspirations
He succumbed to the dire question of how to use the last bit of paper
Buried nearby the iron cast stove which was an alcove to his lost hearth
Dorothy Parker You may as well Live
As frost set in and he hesitantly resolved to kindle a dim meagre fire
Piled bits of a sodden wooden crate onto an opening for new beginnings
He rubbed his fingers and rejoined the quill adorning his crooked grip
No one can make this decision but me
When flames of near forgotten passion flickered a few shadows of hope
He required no pages to write to his lover in the realm of infinite script
The sepia photograph was faded but the picture held court in his heart
He draped an octopus around star fish and dolphins
23rd January 2020
I turned to look back, feeling anxious as I stood
"by the squeaky old gate that tomorrow will find."
Was there someone there watching me?
The gate creaked shut, echoing the taint of guilt
That I hoped no one heard.
Earlier I came through this gate to meet you in the woods.
It was rusty, stuck shut, and needed a heavy shove to open.
It reeked a somber reluctant groan, trying to stop me.
But, I would have nothing of its rattle, grind and snag.
I pushed it aside, and walked into the woods along the winding path.
The gate hung its head, trying not to see what it knew I'd do.
It looked up and sighed and rusty hinges creaked,
as the victim died and cried out, ambushed in the woods.
I turned back to retrace my steps, afraid of being watched.
I could feel it in my bones, though nothing was there to see.
As I approached the open gate it seemed that it had moved
every so slightly, impeding my escape through it.
It groaned, rattled, creaked with a clang of defiance
embellishing a subtle vibrato in the concordance of guilt.
The deed was done, the dirge was sung, the gate sprung, shut.
Life creaked upon me- one sound at a time- new eras pounced on me- like invaders, taking me for a ride in different directions- bending me to its will. It turned me, straightened me, and then concurred with the possibility to make me or break me.
It was to make me whole or splinter me into tiny pieces- The pandemonium of each event only strengthened my resolve to not become the fragile being life was trying to create. These invasions formed oceans, mountains of debris, paragons of time, and outlandish prophecies of what was to become of me.
It created expectancies with the stench of defeat- but I resolved not to be beaten. I excitedly absorbed all that life had thrown my way- I took it to my breast- held it lovingly and declared to conquer all my fears, joys, weaknesses, defeats, triumphs, sorrows, heartbreak/aches, and pain- and called it by name – life –
Yes, life – that is what it is all about- life-
The ornate church door creaked as I entered
My eyes soon became accustomed to the dusky light
Candles flickered, their shadows dancing on the walls
I knelt down at one of the heavily polished pews
It was many many years since I had been to this church
My hands clutched my string of rosary beads -
I’d had them since my first communion
Folding my hands I began to pray
Finally after a few minutes I opened my eyes
In the corner of the church I could see the confession booth
Suddenly the door sprang open
A wizened old man emerged; he was bent over with age
But even after all these years I recognised him
Those eyes that bored into my very soul
The abuse had started when I was in the choir
My life had been ruined from such an early age
As a teenager I went off the rails
Drink, drugs, anything to try and kill the pain
Spent years in and out of prison
Now I was finally free
Father I asked, do you have a moment to hear my confession
He turned round slowly and hobbled back into the confession booth
I followed him and sat down on the scarlet velvet cushion
He opened the little grille between the two booths
Forgive me father for I have sinned
I killed a man and beg your forgiveness
When did this happen my child…
It was then I pulled the trigger
Date:29/07/15
Contest:Give Me Goosebumps Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Nina Parmenter