Long Doorway Poems
Long Doorway Poems. Below are the most popular long Doorway by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Doorway poems by poem length and keyword.
GHOST MIRRORS
Ghostly images captured within the prism of reflected light,
Ethereal waves rippling against reality’s framed surface
Of the translucent, as phantom hands press, slamming at
The fragile glass of dualities deadened zone of existence!
A sudden shimmering, in the beguiling mirror of illusions,
As in the icy eerie chill of this frozen man made pool of
Optical delusions, something within shifted and moved!
Disembodiment's outcasts to incisions resistance, cut at
The bitter edge of the graves stone marker, are these
Silhouette shadow beings, trapped within clarities maze
Of solid crystal!
Black sheets haunted, hidden behind the spiritual mirrors
Of religion, encasement's prison of soulless mists, a vaporous
Cage without iron bars, nor steels reinforcement, these are
The lost or damnation's cursed unto the light of salvation!
What skeletal keys can unlock these dimensional doorway,
And just where is the keyhole to fit, this illusionary anomaly?
At the shutters sudden flash, in ethereal creature slides
Across the screen of realities review mirror, a dark
Hauntings presence that alluding the neck eyes detection!
A dead man’s situation lies exposed, by the elemental
Reflection of lights retraction, hidden beneath the graveyards
Bones of the unsolved murder!
Within the winds of the whistling breeze, hear the unruffled
Cries of fates lost children, crying out for justices guiding
Light to save them, from the disembodied hands of their
Tormentors!
Running children of the ethereal night, whom rage in
Vengeance, against the glass prism of shattered light,
Weeping in devastation's despair, for their loss of life eternal!
At the flashing neon point of no return, the devils forsaken
Sake at the tempered glass of realism, clamoring to be
Recognized for once existing!
Within the four squared frame of reality, dwells the
Infinite pool of the ethereal realm, and in its rippling
Waves, phantom faces are shone in the tormented poises
Of the after life’s jail cell, without the possibility of
Paroles final tender mercy!
Ghostly images captured within the prism of reflected light,
Ethereal waves rippling against reality’s framed surface
Of the translucent, as phantom hands press, slamming at
The fragile glass of dualities deadened zone of existence!
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
BEWARE THE MONTH OF HALLOWEEN IS COMING
Seven Mossad Agents came to Norway a winter day
when a snow drowns the needs of the homeless
asleep in a shop's doorway absorbing the sarcastic smell
of coffee and the aroma of a Napoleon cream cake.
Their mission was to assassinate a man called a terrorist
by them, but freedom fighters by others.
The target had been located, a man of 47 bearded, with
prematurely gray hair, Semitic features, and a nose somewhat bigger than what is the norm in a Nordic land
He works as a waiter at a cafe, and take the bus home
a quarter past ten in the evening, to his bed-sit, about ten minutes ride from the town.
The group needed two taxis to take them to a hotel called, “Larsen's ski lodge” a pleasant little place with
modern IKEA furniture, giving rooms an airy ambiance
the group went to work at once, the leader carrying a
heavy mobile phone, trying to make contact to base, one presumes an embassy, but failed.
One of the women donned a blond wig, walked to the cafe to be sure their target was there
a quarter past ten two men entered the bus, one of them
who spoke a few word in Swedish, asked for two ticket to Husly which was the lat stop before the bur turned around and back to town
when the “terrorist” alighted the bus the two assassins followed.
No point going into details here, but they got their man
and hid his body in a snow drift.
Cooley, they stood by the stop to catch the bus on its return trip, smoking cigarettes of a foreign brand oblivious eyes saw them at the bus stop
The assassins had overlooked one thing, the man had a girlfriend and when he didn't appeared as usual she went out looking for him with the help of neighbors
Her boyfriend was found in the snowdrift
the police quickly knew what they were dealing with
but since they, the local police were not armed, they waited for reinforcement, when in the morning the assassin group came out to go to the railways station
the group were arrested.
Then the bomb dropped, they had murdered the wrong man, another Arab, they quickly insinuated was a terrorist too, what else was he doing in Norway
The court case took a long time, one of the prosecutors
fell in love with the woman with a fake wig, tried to
say she was an innocent bystander, it didn't wash
the case dragged on, in the end, and since the holocaust
was invoked, the guilty only got a few years.
The shifting of many corporeal hands move across this dead cell,
A vacuums vortex, a psychic sponge, charging this battery of
Energy called the spirit board.
Paranormal phenomenon striking plate to enter realities plane
Of existence, for the ethereal challenged in crisis, seeking the
Threshold for spontaneous release, unto our spiritual realm.
Witchery’s board of trickery left in a polarized stance it
So entices the living with its tempting whispering of lies,
Incantations gate keepers wait on the other side of evils
Door way.
Memorizing the human sensory functions into a false
Sense of harmless mystery of the unexplained, it lures
These victims ever closer to weaving its spell of the demonic.
These capture being lost unto the hypnotic effects are
Transfixed unable to hit their override switch that controls
Their mental powers of persuasion, disabled is there strength
Of will power, they belong to the Ouija now.
Clasping do all for sides of the curtain of reality, times
Displacement begins in earnest, without hesitations
Momentary loll this dead cell bursts to life.
Black magic key has been inserted within the wooden
Door way’s heart and soul, a bizarre power bank draws
Forth the energy of the spiritual lost, swinging hells
Kept wide open.
The pancetta spins out of control, smashing against
The barriers of humanity, darkened ebony light shines
Through this doorway of evil and the flickering candle
Turns to a shades greenish blue wavering in the odious
Breeze.
The voice of a thousand screams echo in sheer delight,
We have been freed at last, broken is the trance, the boards
Hypnotic effects are dashed by the light of the dawn.
Dazed in bewilderment the voyeurs are chilled to their
Very inward bones, shaking, staring in awes amazement,
Wondering if these events really happened at all.
Then within these tented walls a voice responds to their
Questioning, laughing, as if a jackal at a fresh kill site!
Foolish mortals you know not what you have done, this
Night, but I promise thee this, laughing once again,
In a demonic under tone, none shall leave this domicile
Alive.
The entry doors lock without the human touch, the
Curtain windows pull closed, a momentary stilled
Scream, then all is silent, what remains is left up
To my readers to visualize, as the final candle
Blows out!
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
I
A queue to a doorway
No-one knows what´s
On sale there
It could be washing powder
Almonds or diamonds
You think this was some
Yesterday
Look out your
Ghost smeared
Window
This is now
II
Throw stones at the
Motorcade
The pin pricked
Giant will barely
Pause
At banners & petitions
Faded pendants
Worthless paper
Riding out for a
Losing battle
Looking to a broken sky
For some Mon´s Angel
Less an army
More a mob
To the castle!
To the castle!
With flaming
Molotov
You awake in darkness
Hopeful
So many crusades
Begin in dreams
III
Tobolski late summer
With blankets for curtains
Tapestry dust
Stirred into
Koptyski forest soil
The former holy
The highest
Dragged
Splintered
Made human
Or less
IV
Each new dawning day
Spins us up to escape velocity
To be spat out to unthinking stars
Made passive by the weight of reason & history
We stare out into the rain
Believing wolves rule beyond the clearing
Elsewhere there is dancing
Cruise ships leave a wake of
Halved grapefruits
Shirts and skirts worn once
Gilded, seamless they glide
Oblivious to the hidden knife
The newspaper wrapped revolver
Passed under the café table
At the platform´s edge
All are equal to the justice
Of the approaching train
V
Red Emma
Red Emma
Won´t you send Berkman over
With a satchel full
Of dynamite
On a Chicago bound
Train
VI
Part six
In which
I dig a hole
To bury past dreams
And convictions
I brain-grew
At a factory lathe
Always knowing
There was escape
A high window climb
And as any fool knows
The fresh-turned soil
Of any deep hole
Can be easy seen
From the public road
VII
My advice to you
Young devil-cared rebel
Why don´t you climb on the roof
While your parents are sleeping
Try & flag down a passing
Black star liner
The busted sewer pipe
Has flooded the basement
Wet pages spin like lily pads
Stashed furniture corpse-bloats
Full boxes mush-mold
Time is tight
Young devil-cared pilgrim
Take with you only
What your pockets can hold
VIII
Among the defeated
Slack faces on rusted fairground rides
Among the defeated
Eating smoke rain mocked
Among the defeated
Careless cigarettes burn umbrella holes
Among the defeated
Landlocked padlocked frozen out
IX
Don´t
try a handstand
Your coins will
Fall out
X
Under the tar
The chariot ruts
A Golem
Is stirring.
A hiding place, a warm and darkened room,
A lit doorway, bright against the dark,
Cold against the warmth, a frame for odd
Assorted stranger-forms whose faces loom
As quarrels over (what?) convulse and rend them,
Leering laughter giving in to vicious
Sneers, bared fangs, silent snarls
Of wretched, clutching, atavistic mayhem,
A terror once removed. Inside that hole
Distant from the proximal horrid window
Where twisted evil shadow-puppets fight
Peculiar faint amusement seems to roll
Like waves around the cave, detached and born
Of safety via distance, of certainty
That out would never be in, that warmth was safe,
That war above, so far away, forlorn,
Could be watched as from a languid seat
Far recessed in a darkened empty theater,
Nestled snugly, listening to the voice
Which comments on the raging battle heat.
From somewhere up, behind, not left nor right,
But from the center, voice and fight both
Directly sensed, as if they each occurred
In a vacuum, touch and smell, sound and sight
Being interchangeable and void.
The fighters jab and poke, madly gouge,
And neither gains advantage, being justly
Matched, as both are faceless, the man
At left pitted fair against the shrewish
Plot of his opponent, evil woman.
Both in turn appeal for judgment, turning
Away from fighting to glare and wave and hiss
Silently for a verdict on the ghastly driven
Feud which now has stopped, as it began,
Abruptly, and receiving none, for in
The silence no answer can be given
(Besides which, being taken by surprise
And overcome by sudden fear, aware
Of change in circumstance) the watcher is mute,
The murderous woman lunges at his very eyes
In deadly assault, bent on maiming, killing,
Groping fiercely at his open throat
For no apparent reason; and the comfort
Of the soothing voice utterly halts.
Words without sound fly like spears between them
Accusatory fingers gesture madly
And spittle from their half-crazed livid mouths
Wings through air in visual acid anthem
To this grisly deadly tandem fight
That seems the worse being set in relief
By the rectangular hole that serves as both
Window and door, divider of dark and light,
No protection, as threshold battle threatens
Him within, as blind hatred rages
In deft slashes of lengthy fingernails
While foe from foe extracts macabre debt.
Baxter was born in a meadow
under a rotting plank
with hundreds of brothers and sisters
in a home both darkly and dank.
His momma was a June Bug
and he was a June Bug too,
schooled in all the sorts of things
that June Bugs love to do.
He grew up fast, it was time to fly
and leave his happy home,
his momma went to the book case
and pulled out a well worn tome.
She read from a chapter called "Hazards"
to each of her children dear,
“Stay clear of birds when you’re flying
or you won't last out the year."
"And one more thing that you should know,
and this you must absorb,
beware of the light in the evening sky
that's called the purple orb."
So he left his home behind him,
went flying all around,
he saw some birds in the tree tops
and headed right for the ground.
After landing in the tall grass
he met a stink bug named Dwight
who told him wonderful stories
of an light so purple and bright.
"Forget now what your mother said,
I'm here to set you straight,
the orb is just a doorway,
you know, it's like a gate."
"When you enter into its brightness
you're magically swept away
to a lovely world of happiness
where forever you can stay."
So Baxter started searching,
he looked both high and low
and if he found the purple orb
straight to it he would go.
But the light was very clever,
it kept its secret well,
but Baxter kept on looking
as if he was under a spell.
Finally on an August eve
just as darkness was appearing
he spotted a distant purple glow
across a meadow's clearing.
"It must be the orb,” he said to himself,
so he flew with all his might
across the meadow with all due speed
toward that beautiful purple light.
Soon he hovered before it
and bathed in its eerie glow,
what wonders lay in store for him
his mind could scarcely know.
Gathering up his courage
into the purple light he sped,
crackle and zap was all he heard
as he fell to the ground near dead.
He lay in a growing pile
of other bugs who'd seen
a purple orb up in the sky,
but it wasn't what it seemed.
So if you meet a stink bug
who goes by the name is Dwight
don't believe the tales he tells
of a beautiful purple light.
Remember what Baxter's momma said,
"and this you must absorb,
beware of the light in the evening sky
that's called the purple orb."
I just read the poem that you e-mailed to me,
and I never knew just how painful this would be.
There are so many words that I'm wanting to say
to you, so many feelings I've kept locked away.
It started off fine with just talking online,
now I'm starting to find that I can't leave behind
all these feelings I've tried all these years to erase.
They came flooding back in when your beautiful face
was before me again in that picture you sent;
and I just can't believe all these years that I've spent
trying just to forget, wanting just to believe
it was over, but God, I just cannot decieve
my own heart. And i need you to please understand
that I'm trying my best to do all that I can
to let go, be your friend,I just don't want to hurt you,
but holding it in is not one of my virtues.
I'm telling you this, and you don't need to listen;
but I do love you, and I know I've been missing
that peice of my heart that you took as you drove away,
knowing damned well we both had so much more to say.
I never thought that I'd say this again,
but I miss you so much, and I just can't pretend
through these long conversations, these feelings were sharing
that I'm over you while the memories are tearing
my conscience apart, wishing you were here with me.
My heart doesn't lie..for these words...please forgive me.
Seventeen years ago, December fifth,
we stood in your doorway and shared our first kiss.
If i would have known then the things I know now,
you'd be here by my side; i just didn't know how
to be everything that you needed me to be,
and it hurts to know now how i just couldn't see
that it just didn't matter, you loved me because
not who I had become, only for who I WAS
before taking a drink, before losing myself,
before alcohol turned me into someone else.
So I'm looking back now, as the memories reveal
it was never your fault,so you don't have to feel
that you failed me, in truth you did all that you could,
and if I could change everything, trust me, I would.
Writing this poem's one last effort to say
I'll continue to love you through every day.
I'll always look back on us without regret,
and it's good to know now that YOU didn't forget.
Ten years ago, you gave birth to our son.
And now that he knows me, my life's just begun.
THANK YOU
III.
It was near midnight when they came again,
four warriors armed all with flaming brands,
Myron bolted up from a fitful sleep,
and poured out bullets as the horses ran.
He managed to shoot one off of his horse,
but the trio screamed and charged in once more,
Harold said”They’re fools to keep charging in!”
But Myron though hard, and wasn’t so sure.
He called for all to cease firing
and listened close as if searching for proof,
then he heard soft thumps coming from above,
one of them had gotten up on the roof!
The charging men had been a distraction,
and Myron grabbed the shot-gun in a hurry,
fearing that they would set the roof aflame,
he opened fire with a hot fury.
A hole was blasted where he shot the brave,
the dead man rolled off and struck hard on the ground,
the charging warriors roared in anger,
so Harold shot another one of them down.
The survivors fled back towards their camp,
but no withdrawal did the Sioux men beat,
instead they took turns sniping at their foes,
to deny Myron and his family sleep.
Come Morning Myron looked out and saw perched high
sixteen warriors atop their steads,
with lances and rifles and tomahawks
preparing for the morning’s bloody deeds.
But what chilled Myron’s soul more than anything
was the small tree trunk that two riders held
by the branches, to batter down the door,
and visit upon them a living hell.
The others let loose a barrage of shots,
to try and suppress Myron waiting within,
he fired endlessly took down two more,
then leapt back as the riders bore down on him.
The battering tree smashed right through the door,
a slew of war-cries went up, loud and piercing
the shot-gun blasted, two more warriors fell,
the noise left all their heads and ears ringing.
Harold went down from a shot to the chest,
the doorway was a commotions of words,
but standing there clutching his aching head
was the muscled form of Diving Bird.
Myron leapt forwards and drew his pistol,
then jammed it straight into Diving Bird’s ear,
Roared,”If you value your War-chief’s life,
you will all stop, and ride straight out of here!”
The Indians outside froze when they saw them,
none understood the words that he did say
except for an old man, missing an eye,
who spurred forwards to attempt a parlay...
CONCLUDES IN PART IV.
Deliberately inching its way toward break of day,
The morning sun begins to emblazon the barley field.
Relaxing and watching the orb find its way,
The lady of the house waits for night to yield.
Like every morning, she is seated there,
Enjoying the dew scented breeze on her veranda.
Feeling its coolness on her scalp while combing her hair,
And the warmth of the rising sun becoming grander.
Her mind wanders back to the city of her birth,
Just over the rise, beyond the barley field’s treasure,
Lies the city with the most famous name on earth,
Where, in her youth, she was a lady of pleasure.
To Rachab went all of Jericho’s possession,
By decree of God, for which Achan was stoned.
For this soldier could not control his obsession,
Though aware the city’s riches were God’s own.
With God’s grace, Rachab’s wisdom grew,
And she made the city’s outskirts her spread.
Her land into a field of grain did accrue,
A breadbasket from which hordes were fed.
Her hires were the finest laborers in the land
And were busy harvesting barley all spring.
She paid the very best wage to every man,
Cause her crop was the best early rains could bring.
The fields and glades, that gave her pasture form,
Seemed sensuous in every contour and rise.
At daybreak, contrasting tones were the norm,
Painted artfully by the brightening skies.
Mounds appeared convexly round breasts,
Lovingly sculpted over a span of human girth,
Whose beauty was able to put the heart to a test,
As the machinery of memory rotates the earth.
Babbling brooks flowed from shady nooks,
Giving refreshment to denizens of land and sky,
Producing a scene of green worthy of picture books,
That not one skilled artist would dare deny.
Gingerly she rose the doorway torch to quench,
Watching the shrinking darkness become shadows.
Rachab calmly returns to her veranda bench,
To observe butterflies dance above the meadows.
In her dreams, she envisions a more golden age,
When royalty would be attributed to her seed.
A zephyr flows over her mind turning the page,
But she still aspires the prospect of the throne to accede.
What a lovely story to behold just beginning to dawn,
Rising out yonder, just beyond the horizon of time.
How we yearn to see that age return, now long forgone,
So our hearts may once again be joyous and sublime.
Creaky wood floors give me away as
I roam the hallways of this ramshackle fortress.
These old empty veins that used to carry life
Rusty nerves are dulled and mute
I walk a well worn path, softly.
Curtains always drawn
They shouldnt see
But, It’s Spring again
I bet that weeping cherry is blooming
Seems so empty now
And it’s aged so much
The many coats of peeling paint
Just like tree rings,
The feel like eons
Hallway walls are mostly mirrors now
It makes them seem more vast,
Nicotine stained outlines
of lovely things that once hung there.
Call to me
Poking from behind the mirrors
They Haunt me,
Tease me,
shoot daggers into my eyes
I don’t look in mirrors anymore.
Too likely to see my reflection
And there’s always a new one to avoid.
I cant remember what I look like.
I just remember scared red eyes
So, I look straight ahead,
And focus
focus
focus
I’ll follow a familiar path
Straight from their hallway
To the boiler room
That old heart
pumps it’s dust and mud
That loyal heart,
Keeps this place alive
That broken heart
feels like home
The gears start to rattle,
But I know how to soothe them
There’s threads to pull
And gauges must remain below tolerance.
I don’t dare leave them for long: focus.
At least there’s no windows or mirrors down there.
Straight back to my favorite hallway soon as it’s safe
I don’t look in their rooms anymore.
But I press my ear to the doors so I can hear them
The the worn echos of laughter where they used to play.
Like an old polaroid, that’s fading to white noise, or a record that’s been played too many times.
I convince myself I see their shadows moving under the doorway
But I feel them fading.
So I must not disturb what’s left
Tight grip: focus
Footsteps litter the hallways
I only step where I’ve stepped before,
so I don’t disturb what’s left of theirs
But they’re filling with dust like morning snow on yesterdays sled trail
They’re all mapped in my mind now.
Every detail
For a moment,
I clear my mind
I think of waves,
fresh paint,
Dirty feet
Sunrises
And special tear drops
But with a twist of the gears
I’m reminded there’s no time for nostalgia.
Maybe tomorrow
It’s time to go sit with that poor boiler
And watch the gauges
after one more quick listen for the lovely echos.