Long Door Poems
Long Door Poems. Below are the most popular long Door by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Door poems by poem length and keyword.
The day my broom bopped me on the head
Was the day I left it in a ditch in my homestead.
Some idiot came by and scooped it up as treasure.
I ran out there and threw in a mop for good measure.
The mop got dug out too, for the witch was in her cups.
She thought she had some buried treasure; her name was Mrs. Hups.
I had seen her before; she is a hoarder on the block.
The rats run out of her house when she leaves her door unlocked.
Where do you think she’ll put it? A neighbor asked me.
You know where it could go? I suggested with a bit of glee.
The next thing I knew she’d used the broom as a wand.
I was ribbet-ing now, sitting in a filthy pond.
Baiano is my charming Campanian town,
at the foot of the Paterno's mountain,
noble roman settlers came to build their villas,
but the barbarians and Spartacus ransacked it;
then other invaders: the Normans, the Hungarians,
the Swedish and Spaniards occupied it!
Baiano is an ancient town, not as widely famous
as many northern towns, but keeps up with the modern times;
come here in springtime, and see the season's enchantment:
sunflowers and lilies fields spread out in the misty distance...
as the orange and apple trees dress in green and wait
for the magical summer for that palatable fragrance!
In the soccer fields, kids play in the hot afternoons
while their parents watch them from colorful shades;
the elders sit in their comfortable plastic chairs,
napping under the shade of a casual oak tree,so tall,
planted by a student on Earth Day many summers ago...
and he proudly stands by it counting its living years!
O adorable town, left by me, for social reasons when
I was forced to flee and leave this youth undone,
with friends I hung out in the church's yard...
to kick that ball in the net, and become elated;
could I have gotten all that energy from the southern sun,
which has nothing to envy the colder northern one!
From the wide steps of the Gothic church with a sturdy door,
I raised those childish eyes and gazed at the beautiful facade,
and wondered what inspired the architect
to build such an immortal monument
so heavily damaged by the last earthquake,
but the Baianese people brought it to its previous splendor!
In my charming Campanian town without a stream,
there is a large square with oak trees on both sides,
and right in the middle the Fallen Soldiers' monument...
for the brave ones who went up north to fight the invaders;
and the blood they shed was for my freedom,
and these verses will be read by everyone in the land!
Neighbors and friends you have gotten older or passed away,
and all of you who are alive: lament with me its by-gone glory!
Copyright 2008 by Andrew Crisci
November 17, 2019
Disarray Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Nina Permanter
Disarray (Happy Disarray)
It happened one evening
The fourth of July
My lover went looking
For sparks in the sky.
He hadn’t been gone
For a minute or more
When someone came knocking
Loud on my front door.
I thought it was he,
He had found some bright flash
But instead, it was no one,
Maybe ding dong and dash.
I closed up my door
Knowing it was some quack,
When all of a sudden
My lover came back.
He had him a bottle
Of booze and some cheese
He sat on the step
Then got down on his knees.
He said he had something
He wanted to say
But his mumbling was nothing
But loud disarray.
I tried to stay calm
Tried hard not to laugh
But the look on his face
It cut me in half.
He had this strange look
With a glint in his eye
It turns out he was there
To tell me it was goodbye.
I couldn’t stand there
With him all drunk and dumb
So I went to the curb
And I put out my thumb.
A car came by quick
And I jumped in the back
I didn’t see him nor
His disgusting ass crack.
I was happy to go
And so happy to leave
That the rest of the night
I wore my heart on my sleeve.
My life's been a 'he's become a broken, bumpy ride.'
I am not sure how many trips I can abide.
While he comes, goes, leaves and slips from my side,
I daydream about a smooth, gentle tide.
It is from our depths we did always confide.
Now his ways seem as secrets the night hides.
I truly need for him to give me clues
about his friends, Moony Trends and Mangled Blues.
Both characters only recently showed
and both seem volatile enough to explode.
He reinforced the cellar door with sandbags
on the outside where yard air is so sour, I gag.
Now he wants to cement the cellar ceiling
and place a bed down there in case a malady
renders him contagious and in need of healing.
I never know what is happening or how the
words 'trust me' are but sad and maddening.
Why does he look to me for assurance
when he self-sources every disturbance?
He has developed such a worrisome act
with reasons that loom vague and inexact.
Seems his sanity is disappearing
and something catastrophic is nearing.
The soul of this nation is crumbling in decay,
and like all our hopes and dreams, it’s rotting away.
The road to happiness has a no-entry sign,
So don’t try to tell me that everything is fine.
All the signs on Main Street say sorry but we’re closed,
how the hell we ended this way nobody knows.
They promised America would be great again,
all I got is this cesspool that we’re living in.
The store down on the corner has shuttered its door,
policemen and firemen say they can help no more.
The trees in the forests have withered and are dead,
smoke has my head spinning, my eyes are turning red.
The oceans are drying, and all the fish are gone,
hard to tell the difference between dusk and dawn.
Those last words from you are echoing in my head,
while nailed upon that cross with open wounds that bled,
You looked toward Heaven with a heart pure and true,
“forgive them oh Lord, for they know not what they do.”
What's hiding in my bedroom?
Dark evil spirits of the night.
Always lurking in the shadows,
Forbidden to breach the light.
Constant whispering while I sleep,
Ever tormenting restless dreams.
Icy fingers clutching my throat,
Awakened me with fading screams.
Heart pounding as I look around,
In my closet; a stark surprise.
Peering coldly from the depths,
The subtle glow of angry eyes.
Stricken by fear and paralyzed,
Chills rush down my spine.
As the covers slip off the bed,
From below, a menacing whine.
A pair of hands tug at my feet,
And roughly jerk me to the floor.
Drug swiftly into the closet,
Then the sound of slamming door.
Tandem footsteps sprint down the hall,
Frightened parents come rushing in.
Now greeted by an empty room,
Never to see their child again.
It feels like they've been here forever,
How long isn't easy to tell.
They claim they arrived from Australia
but I think they came here from hell.
The cats all left home for a fortnight
the fleas on the dog did the same
The washing machine thinks it's having a fit
but maybe it's me that's to blame.
I should have known just what would happen
my house would not be my own,
but instead, I said "Treat the place just like it's yours"
"Please make yourself feel at home".
I wonder if their house has multiple showers
and loo rolls that never run out
I wonder if their house resembles a bomb site
I'll hopefully never find out.
They changed my routines as a matter of course
and I didn't have any say
They made me feel awkward and sometimes as if
it was me that got in the way.
Some gratitude might have helped matters
a 'Thank you' or two would have done
But never a hint from either
they were even having fun.
So now they are gone and the place is my own,
doors are not locked anymore
and if in the future they wish to return
I won't even open the door!
The oven timer’s going off. Oh crap!
Before that, I was lying in the drawer
enjoying a peaceful little nap.
“She” grabs me and goes to the oven door.
I’m held by her left hand, while in her right,
my brother Terry – poor guy – she has got!
Beneath our padding, we’re both filled with fright.
She has not got a clue how that dang pot
feels torturous against our faded skin.
Our flesh, once bright red cloth, has grown so worn.
Abusing us for all these years – a sin
it ought to be! My brother’s getting torn
from all our washings. God, I feel so lost.
What happens once into the trash we’re tossed?
Writtenh May 12, 2020
N/A in Potholder Contest judged 5/18/2020
Now used for John Hamilton's N-A Re-Run 8 Poetry Contest
Estella Murray
1891-1912
Johnny’s was the last face
I saw that April afternoon in 1912.
I admit I was mean to him,
As mean as a starving she-dog in heat.
It’s not that I did not appreciate
The blooming rosebud he presented to me
Six months before my untimely demise.
But that thorn hidden beneath it,
Could it not have been removed beforehand?
It’s not that I did not appreciate
The long-winded love letter he delivered to me
Three months before my untimely demise.
But that last line written so sloppily, – “I love thee!”-
Could it not have been rewritten neater
And the word “thee” replaced with the word “you?”
It’s not that I did not appreciate
The inert standing vigil he kept for me
Three days before my untimely demise.
But what was that fool doing out there?
Just standing in the garden out front-
Outside my open-curtained window?
Could he not at least have stepped to my front door
There on Friends Street
And cried real tears for my departing soul?
But no! That fool, Johnny Barrow,
Instead stood out there flirting with his new girl-
Insipid April and her moody mornings and afternoons-
Standing and staring straight ahead
Like some stupid stone cold statue!
“Oh happy dagger!” the young Juliet once intoned.
“Oh happy death!” I said at last,
There on my mother’s divan,
Forgetting once and for all,
That staring unmoving fool, Johnny Barrow!
Selectively forgetful,
That's what my mother says -
When I'm called to do some work,
I escape in funny ways.
I'm running short of time now
But I'll tell you all I can
Of all my weird excuses,
Perhaps the worst made by man.
''Can't hear you!'' I'll just say,
''Cause the fan is way too loud''.
And then I'll hear the footfall
Like a crashing thundercloud.
Another thing I say is
''Just wait, I'm coming along,''
Then my dad comes up and says
''What you are doing's wrong''.
Those two are the most common -
See, I'm capable of much much more,
But my storybook's now being snatched out
And thrown through the bedroom door!