Long Drafty Poems
Long Drafty Poems. Below are the most popular long Drafty by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Drafty poems by poem length and keyword.
I bought my love a white chocolate rose
Filled with honey and strawberry cream
I placed it in the car to get a card
It melted in a chocolate stream
I bought a plant of beautiful bloom
Pink and red and white
But placed it in the hallway
Too drafty and so it died
I bought my love a golden heart
With citrine and sapphires
A splendid work of art
Glittering strung with wires
But when I placed it on his neck
The chain was much too small
The wire snapped the catch broke
And the stones and heart did fall
And now I simply laughed and cried
And hugged my love so dear
Too late to get another gift
I hugged and loved him as I shed a tear.
Their house was damp and drafty and the furnishings unique
I guess you'd say the decor was eclectic and antique
There was an old piano that was often out of tune
And as a child I'd tap the keys till others left the room
The scuttle by the fireplace was always filled with coal
And on the parlor table apples filled a crystal bowl
The rooms were very tiny and the rugs hid worn out floors
And large keyholes were common place on all interior doors
A painted creaky stair case closely hugged the front hall wall
With twelve steps to the second floor; one wouldn't want to fall
Small heaters in the bedrooms took the chill away at night
And for cold feet hot water bottles warmed them up just right
My Nanna made us Ovaltine and bought us bags of sweets
And Grandpa sometimes baked fresh bread which was a special treat
The kitchen had a small gas stove where a whistling kettle sat
And the teapot had a cosy which I once thought was a hat
The fragrance of a fresh brewed tea would fill the kitchen air
And Nanna with her apron on was often busy there
These memories are decades old and whispers from the past
And the photos that I cherish now, I hope will always last
Peek, if you dare…inside my Palace of CREATIVITY
Observe my drafty walls, and rhyming dungeons ^^
Enter, my friends, with no delusions! ^^
There are marbled halls of mass confusion…
Regarding your ILLUSION, of metaphoric INFUSIONs,…
Your opinions may falter, upon the alter, compared to other verses ^^
^^
Poetic attempts, and past regrets, are ghostly curses
And with INEVITABLE blunders, they rattle off meter, the echos could haunt you!
Lest you dare, just beware, dear readers…. WATCH YOUR STEP! ^^
As your guide, I’ll confide….people have died!
'Cause this Poetry Palace, has bats in the belfry! (As everyone knows)…
EVENTUALLY, this palace place should be foreclosed!
For Linda Marie’s Contest “Poetry Palace”
By Carrie Richards
Arkham
Is not for me
I wish I were writing
But instead I’ve got guard duty
With serial killers and maniacs
Screaming, howling, crying
Joker, Two-Face
Riddler
Why does The Bat
Let these guys stay alive?
But I guess Arkham might be worse
With its leaky pipes and drafty windows
Gruel for every single person
(So I pack my own lunch)
Anyone who
Sees this:
We’re hiring
No wonder the villains
Keep on escaping this prison
We can’t take on more supervillains here
Batman! Send us more employees
If you want the bad guys
To stay put here
Alas,
Time to make rounds
In this cold and dank place
I don’t get paid enough for this
But at least they match my 401k
Only up to a percentage...
But I do get dental!
Uh-oh…Joker’s
Laughing
Prisoner mortally confined,
plotting your escape like Papillon,
conceiving freedom like a zoo animal.
Then dreaming on,
you meet a flying child in all your mirrors.
Nearly weightless, pulled in every gale,
lifted like a kite,
catapulted high over every trail.
Then dreaming on,
you are the drafty power of your path,
the easy elevation of your flight.
This embedded skill is never forgotten.
Deep within the hippocampus,
your winged Poseidon,
the flying child in all your mirrors.
Then dreaming on,
soaked in sleep, reverie’s seahorse.
Flying child,
free of worldly constraints,
free of torment and angst,
free in oceans and skies,
your tourist anima continues vaulting.
But then, eyes open in the dim grimness,
You remember this cell,
these sad limits of the corporeal.
Yet, how is it that your dreams know more?
Prisoner mortally confined.
Accepted for Publication: The Opiate Journal, spring 2023
___ ~~ ___
home for me is in an
old building
that is quite drafty
with floors crooked
but it has huge rooms
that one seldom gets these days
oh, all the windows stick
but have flower window boxes
and there are some strange creaks
and groans in the quiet of night
still, I love my apartment
in this old building
for it is full of character
and I call it home
______________________
March 25, 2021
Poetry/Verse/this old building
Copyright Protected, ID 03-1341-547-25
All Rights Reserved, 2021, Constance La France
Submitted to the Standard contest, All Yours (Mar 26)
sponsor, Brian Strand, Judged 03/26/2021
i am writing this poem in an elevator while stuck
the light represents the darkness that i feel
i guess i deserved to be literally abandoned by you
i was not the best for you and your personal expectations
i wish that we could have been friends, but i understand you declining
it's funny how reflections, thoughts, examinations, and introspection can come in the strangest of places
it's strange how realization and 'oh!' moments can come at the oddest and most mind boggling times
though i do not want to do it, i go on ahead and push the alarm
it is times like these when i hate the true definition of immediacy
i will eventually go out into the continually ever-moving future
i begin to shake and become nauseous to the point of curing up in the corner of said elevator and throwing up until i die
nevertheless, i know i must bravely face the world again
i just never thought that it would be without you after all this time
i will exit this cold, drafty, drabby elevator with my head held high, but in early untruth
when the elevator doors slowly open, i hope and pray that you will be waiting for me with your loving arms open
then again, i know that i will be lying to myself, so with hesitation i prepare
(For all the girls in Gauteng)
The Rose of Rathanda
I am the ultimate ruby blush of Rathanda, so overwhelmingly fragrant the moon faints .
My petals, spun from stolen starlight, dictate the very tides of the Indian Ocean.
Kings forfeit crowns just for one blinding glimpse of my of my majestic, blushing, burning Rathanda beauty.
When I bloom, the world holds its breath, fearing the sheer, searing, staggering power.
I make the sun feel like a mere flickering candlelight in a dreary, dark, drafty hallway.
I am the eternal, ethereal, existential epicenter of all divine desire.
I am the Violet
I am a
There was a time when I felt loved and blessed
and shared the joys of family within.
With simple comforts, I provided them
a shelter, warmth, a place to live and grow.
My windows, sparkling clean, would bring a smile.
The porch and steps were swept of all debris.
Indoors, the cooking smells enforced for me
sweet happiness flowed well inside my walls.
But now the years claimed their sad toll at last.
More modern homes are sought in these new times.
My creaking boards and drafty window frames
have told them I am tired and need to go.
Oh, life was sweet, but prime times do decline.
I miss the things that filled my needy shell.
The sounds heard now are stormy winds and rain.
My vision's dimmed by windows caked with mud.
Perhaps I'll live through those photos they took
as they may reminisce in later years.
For now, I stand until the wrecking crew
turns me to splinters from the home they knew.
I knew a girl
once who had
a clothesline that ran
across her kitchen.
When she would water
her houseplants,
she could never remember
how much
water each one needed
to maintain a healthy
green glow.
She said, “I’d rather them
leak than go
thirsty.”
She placed neatly folded paper
towels beneath
each young plant.
An hour after
each over-watering
she would
pick up the paper
towels, whispering
sweet words of encouragement
to each plant.
She would then stand
on a box of cat litter,
hanging each paper towel
up to dry
in the yellow, electric light
I loved her once.
The way those towels
hung, limp, shifting
in the breeze
of drafty doors
reminded me
of butterflies.