Long Cupboards Poems
Long Cupboards Poems. Below are the most popular long Cupboards by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Cupboards poems by poem length and keyword.
some people have friendly ghosts
I scoff at them
they have no idea
what a real ghost is
my ghost flits in and out of rooms
giving me glimpses of dashes and darts
startling me with creepy whispers next to my ear
my ghost slams the kitchen cupboards in anger
my ghost is a Victorian lady, someone says
she is prim and proper, dressed In white lace
my ghost is a poltergeist; throwing things at my head
smashing my mirror into the sink when I floss
others try to tell me about their lovely ghosts
their loving ghosts, their protective ghosts
I hope to get out of this house alive
but am unsure if it is a possibility at this time
my poltergeist is angry, and strong
and determined to kill me
why don’t you leave? People ask me
I have no place to go
My money has gone into this house
I am stuck
“You sure are” a voice whispers next to my ear.
Autumn fall, a time of change with many bright colourful hues
The sound of crumbling dry leaves breaking under one’s shoes
When the greens of the summer now turn into golden browns
Critters foraging the undergrowth for food, doing their rounds
Autumn fall . . .
High up in the sky birds migrating, they’re off to warmer climes
Natures harvest at its best giving up its fruits, as nature designs
Children are out collecting conkers, acorns and sycamore seeds
Collected up in their bucketful’s with joy at all of their proceeds
Autumn fall . . .
The now white sun glistening through the last remaining leaves
Their vibrant colours of red, orange, and yellow as interweaves
This is nature’s transition before the bareness of the cold winter
Where we as stand in awe of falling snowflakes that on us glitter
Autumn fall . . .
Autumn fall gives us a painted canvas of so many colourful hues
Remembered within our minds; before the bland winter ensues
Where a lit fire reminds us all of those colours in its own warmth
Time of reflections, as nature’s own death allows us all to mourn
Autumn fall . . .
Those of us that can batten down the hatches on our own homes
A home to protect, as give us within a safe sanctuary that it loans
All of our cupboards filled of the rewards of the autumn fall fruits
Such rewards given to us by God’s will, as a fool is he that refutes
Autumn fall . . .
Children dreaming in their beds, where a deeper sleep, befalls all
And adults alike as this is the way of the nights of the autumn fall
The autumn fall days are a time nature gives us all its own wealth
In its last act of pure selflessness before it falls into its own death
Autumn Fall . . .
This morning’s light seemed to blink on,
suddenly, like an urgent message.
It painted the lone, brittle cloud, racing somewhere
warmer, a shocking school-bus yellow.
There’s a -30 degree wind-chill this morning,
my coffee seemed hotter and more comforting.
I usually keep my windows cracked at night
but this air feels aggressive and sharp as a knife.
The quad, usually bustling on weekend mornings,
is empty and the few cars I see are smoking like old steam trains.
I was dreaming of sweets and of walking to “Donut Crazy,”
but that actually would be crazy, if not suicidal.
“Ooo!” I say after digging through the kitchen cupboards, “we have pop-tarts!”
My cat is gray,
with chirps- she meows a serenade;
and she has a swagger, sashay, and sway,
believes I am her maid !
With her toy mouse she likes to parade and to prance,
and sometimes she just lays on my lap in a trance;
and will nip if given a chance,
instead of with her toys play !
She loves outside,
strutting- she has a pompous gait;
as she walks, swaggers with blustery pride,
I leap to close the garden gate !
After checking each corner she finds some shade,
but, if there is noise she comes flying to me- afraid.
Must drink my tea and my cupboards invade,
and far under bed hide !
"But no matter what, I love my cat to pieces,
and pieces and pieces . . . "
__________________________________
August 28, 2019 (Edit December 9, 2019)
Submitted to the contest, Your Favorite Animal
sponsor, Gregory Paul
Your pockets are full
When their empty
And clean
Poor's for
A reason
And it ain't
That He's mean
Torn With
A tattered
Looks like jeans
For a fit
Mourning
And evening
Then the give
Just a bit
Messes are married
But the ring doesn't
Shine
Meek less Mild mannered
It's a say that
“He's mine!”
Blessings and cupboards
It's a full with
A toast
Bread like
Good manners
Then a prayer
For the roast
He's all included
But the walk
Has long miles
With faces
That figure
There's no reason
To smile
The prayer’s
In
Expected
But a bow
Has to do
In a thanks
With
A tear
For a robe
With a ring
Just for you
Your pockets
Are full
Then they're
Empty and
Clean
Left for
No Reason
Except That
Your
In Between
My ego-cracker, silent observer and prayer flag hoister …
she birthed bloodied an embodied freedom seeker, genes helixed with slavery, in early hours of a winter’s day, cold was dark room
petunia posy planter fed four mouths marjoram on Malay curry and rice, with scarcity being her best stage act when hunger a primary protagonist
she announced there was nothing when everything circled happily, then declared abundance when cupboards stared dust
Piscean, she presented toughest tests with hyacinth hands, only an embattled Heart would accede to, shook away delicious aloe dreams as tests rounded a corner with bed lamps flickering time out
my spinal cord nerves entwined with hers, she decorated with wondrous wild animal decoupage vases, dispatching me on shopping chores when I planned dancing ~
my leap into sublimated Sovereignty depended on unraveling bonds binding us through lifetimes, countless ages, sotto scenarios swirling sorrowfully in shore walk shells
I despairingly detached from her plundering pain, her principal pleasures, subtle oomph
a sophisticated Archetype hallowed that Jung would label Grecian Urn shallow
I offered awaiting Sky breasts, hips and sighs through strategies of temperance and slow witch manoeuvring
my divinity and verses would have black burnt in futuristic coliseums had she not been Mother of trailing pegs, variegated embroidery cotton and oatmeal scones
~~~~~~~~~~~
We are watching a TV show when a little argument ensues.
My husband and I have known each other since age four,
So this is not uncommon by any means.
We can still argue like five year olds.
He says something especially nasty which is quite unlike him.
BAM! One of the kitchen cupboards slams.
All talking ceased. The only other person in the house is the dog.
And she is sleeping at our feet.
I can hear my heart beating. BAM. BAM. BAM. BAM. BAM.
I cannot move. I am completely paralyzed.
The slamming stops.
I say to my husband “what was that?”
He says “That was my mother.
She did not like my tone of voice with you.”
His mother has been gone since May 28th of 2012.
We have heard this two times after this night, luckily, in the day time.
At this festive time of the year
so many of us have plenty to share
with family, friends and more
but some look at their cupboards bare
Let us remember those that struggle
with not very much to see them through
looking out for love and charity
may we be ones that show it to do
At Christmas God showed real love
coming in human flesh to those in need
being the one showing deep mercy
providing forgiveness for all to feed
Let us look out for the needy
being God's true hands and feet
share some kindness to the lonely
give a smile to whoever you meet
One day away in the future ahead
we may be the one who's alone
ponder on that this Christmas time
for Jesus came for our sins to atone
(Some thoughts on those who spend Christmas alone and those of us who have experienced God's love so we can show it . )
the band leader motioned for the men to keep playing
They were not getting off alive, but they could go down with music
confusion and yelling was heard from all sides of the deck
cowardly men were dressing like women, hoping for a life boat seat
the kitchen was breaking apart now
you could hear loud cracking and groaning
sturdy white cups for third class were falling out of cupboards
also the pretty cornflower plates for the regular passengers
in short order, the gold leaf fine china would be hitting the water
the band leader and his brave men kept playing
they could hear sobbing and screaming then another loud crack
the iceberg had torn into the middle of the Titanic
She flew up into the air, and then hurled herself down
plunging into the icy waters with an unnatural rapid force
Eight hundred died that day, and seven hundred lived
The bandleader and his men walked into heaven together.
this alteh kocker nostalgically reflects
being ma late mama's boytchik
(now, she long since deceased,
whose cremated remains of day
scattered to all points on compass)
fondly referencing
both sisters as dabchick
incongruously sprinkled her Brooklyn brogue,
especially when angry, she quickly segued
from mild expletive fiddlestick
the latter playfully aired,
when kibitzing wit bubeleh
reminiscing being dirt poor,
nonetheless zee mother
every now an again homesick
regaling the whole mishpokhe
(meaning us brood of kids)
interrupting herself
with frequent non sequiturs
discombobulated anecdotes switching subjects
as if external forcefield
jimmying a joystick
interleaving disparate threads with subsequent
tangential linkedin snippets
with feigned lovesick
chatting 'bout cockamamie
"Grandpa Moishe"
and his chaim yankel posse
(to escape hen pecking nudnik
"grandma Rebecca"),
a trenchant termagent bubba,
not averse to incorporate dreck
in the same sentence with zayda
ostracized him
scoring figurative placekick,
whence upon his schlepping back home
met with "silent treatment" dampening rollick
king atmosphere choking tearfully
"mother" recounted
farblunget anger thick
lee palpable extremely discomfiting,
particularly when ("mom's")
girlhood friends bore witness aye gavalt,
where penury churned moribund thoughts
viz empty cupboards
devoid of bare necessities
a figurative apropos yardstick.