Long Drawer Poems
Long Drawer Poems. Below are the most popular long Drawer by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Drawer poems by poem length and keyword.
I lay within a drawer so long
Loneliness was my heart's song
My diamonds never saw the light of day
Since granma's death,I'd been that way
Her grandson went a'courting strong
Maybe my exile now,will not last long
He brought home his bride-to-be
Glowing with pride,for his parents ,to see
He slipped me on her left hand,
They planned a wedding,oh so grand
That special day soon came around
A gold band nearby, I suddenly found
For many years we would not part
Such friendship heals the lonely heart
A day then arrived,of which I live in dread
Returned to a drawer,by a bed.
I enter into the void searching for solitude,
but I can never be alone
Often in this space are gathered a multitude
of many spirits long dead & gone
They petition for the right & chance to be heard,
for they have many things to say
They go on chirping like a forest full of birds
welcoming the light of coming day
The messages are clear like clean windows
so they're easy for you to see
Nothing at all like the lies opaque by design
holding you back from being free
I see the truth in their words & hear the thoughts
that are hard for them to tell
I just lend them my vehicle that can't be bought
& provide current for them to sail
Some of their stories are vivid & easy like a dream
as I've gotten used to it
Sometimes others don't quite know what they mean,
but I do my best to intuit
Life is an interesting ride full of many roads
often going unseen
Similar to a dresser drawer full of many clothes
that have never been seen
I have been keeping secrets since I was a small girl
mammoth, gigantic secrets
little teeny, tiny, mini ones
I am an expert at the hush-hush
very good at top-secret
tell me and my lips are sealed
I will keep your disclosure under wraps
you can confide in me
I will never tell
all the enormous, monster secrets
or the itsy-bitsy
itty-bitty peculiar ones-
one day mother whispered in my ear
a very particular secret
she made me promise to keep it concealed
to never tell even to close family
that was years ago-
people have tried to pressure me
but I made a secret pact that day
even though mother died the secret lives
I have it tucked away in my head
but just in case, I wrote it down on paper
and put in a hidden place
that only I know-
it is a very specific thing
that I keep in a hidden drawer down a secret passageway
I bet you would like to know
NEVER, it is classified, you can torture me and the answer is NO
but I will give you a tiny, significant taste
it is a special ingredient
to a top SECRET recipe . . .
________________________________
December 5, 2017
Poetry/Free Verse/'a top secret, secret'
Copyright Protected, ID 17-9688-60-0
All Rights Reserved. Written Under Pseudonym.
Written for the contest, A Special Secret
sponsor, Lewis Raynes
Second Place
I have been told I keep a secret well,
oh yes, tell me any deep, dark and personal thing;
and I will keep it under wraps- you can trust me,
to keep it in a locked drawer and throw away the key.
Now, tell me everything while I make us tea.
Don't feel shy, we are behind closed doors,
you have my solemn promise I will keep it confidential;
our conversation is top secret and classified,
you have my curiosity- you must be hiding something serious.
Is it about a secretive lover quite mysterious,
oh do tell, I am starting to get delirious.
Yes, I know you are a very private person,
and like to keep your personal problems to yourself;
but revealing what you have concealed will make you free,
I have known you for years and your life to me is still invisible.
Now, here is your tea and are you cozy- need a snack,
maybe some wine to loosen your lips a crack;
remember, whatever it is I have your back.
I will sit and listen as you tell me your secret story,
and say nothing except to nod and smile as we go along;
so, you have a lover you keep on the sly,
and you meet in a secluded place in disguise.
More tea- and you send each other secret mail,
that you both destroy so there is no message trail;
its my boyfriend! Okay, tell me each pathetic detail.
___________________________
December 27, 2018
Poetry/Rhyme/'Tell Me, I Can Keep a Secret'
Copyright Protected, ID 18-1098-599-01
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
Contest: Secret
Sponsor: Faraz Ajmal
Third Place
It is not uncommon to pick up three notebooks and have to use an edge of a page, or the margin, or the inside of the back cover or use a pen and write over a pencil missive. Hey, is that a paper plate? Okay, the front is covered, but what about the back? I turn it over, hoping, but there is a poem on both sides, written in marker, and I have tried to write between marker lines before. Not easy. There are seventeen Blank notebooks in the car, but it is so many steps out there, and the raccoon are on the porch. I know because I hear them slapping each other and squealing. Words pour out of me at an alarmingly fast rate. Not out of my mouth, out of my head! It is up to me to write them down, before they are lost forever. Someday a grandchild might want to know her grandma. Not know the party loving, game cheating grandma they think they know, but the poet grandma. Something I say might be important, after I am gone. That is when we suddenly get important. There might be something gloriously sage or profound pouring out of me right now. It is my duty to write it down, for the reading prowess of future generations, my baby’s baby’s babies. I reach for a napkin that has mercifully fallen out of a drawer. It will do.
They say to be an artist you’re probably crazy.
They say to see in that kind of darkness you must be crazy.What they don’t know is most of us are.
How do you think I could navigate this mine field of my soul if I wasn’t!How can I ride these title waves of emotions like a Russian cosmonaut saluting my comrades as I ride these waves through my broken childhood. around every single broken heartbeat caused by another wasted words,the fine cracks shown through by the light left in my soul.As I ventured up my neurological system to the darkest recesses of my brain way in the back and at the bottom like a sock drawer without the socks.There it is,the hidden fears,afraid of rejection,creepy ass clowns, judge mental eyes as I stuttered over my words.Being alone,being a disappointment to my family,The utter panic of that sealed box being opened by the wrong people and used against me like I am being drawn and quartered for the whole world to see that yes I bleed too.So yes you have to be a little crazy to be an artist,to ride the waves to the
Abyss of darkness through the veins of your body to bleed onto paper what others don’t have the courage to say.~JAZ~
Walk Away
I woke up this morning I can't bring myself to pray.
I check the clock to see the time. It says time to walk away.
I search my mind for another time like looking through a crack.
I saw the hurts of yesterday and I began to pack.
Pictures of my loved ones now locked safe inside my heart.
Hopes and dreams I can still dream to give them a new start.
I checked the drawer of memories in the box called you and I.
My smile seemed to turn away, back into tears I cry.
I closed it and I shut the drawer looks like that will have to stay.
Some things I can't take with me when it's time to walk away.
I grabbed what little still remained of my pride and self respect.
Damaged from the years it seems of abuse and my neglect.
I dusted off that old trunk filled with things I've learned.
Put it on the curb right next to bridges that I burned.
I'll learn life all over if it's what I'm meant to do.
Surely it can't be as bad as all that I've been through.
With one sliver of a memory when I turn old and gray.
Looking back I'll see that crack and the day I walked away.
Edwin C Hofert
It’s up for sale again,
the Long Street house
of our childhood.
This cream chrysalis
once housed our lives.
Fresh paint bandages
deep cracks as old as history.
Inside its rough cast façade,
memory tours each room
and roams the backyard.
The fence pillars I climbed
as a child that seemed
so high, are small.
The almond trees
are gnarled and bent.
The vacant land next door where
rusted out old boilers
grazed like dinosaurs
in the long grass,
has been replaced
by a block of flats.
On the other side,
Mr Oakey's cottage is now
a triple fronted brick veneer.
The secrets that he once hid
in the dark shadows
of vines and overgrown trees
have been sealed beneath
a mote of paving bricks.
Back then his driveway
was a tunnel of treasures,
with tiny bits of coloured glass
and pottery pieces imbedded
in gravel. I would pick them out
and take them home to keep
in a Bex bottle hidden
in a drawer beside my bed.
It was like stolen loot.
After all this time,
our house seems almost
unchanged.
All is familiar. The old
shutters haven't moved
and hang like petrified wings
on the sides of each
front window. Afraid to leave,
you look out from behind
a curtain onto this world
where I am, unable
to get back inside.
I’ve never quite managed to fit in. I can sculpt multiple different masks from wax or clay, put them on and try to make my way but the truth is I am the gaps between the wood of the pier, the drawer that doesn’t fit quite right in your dresser.
I dance between the lines, a tightrope that can only be accessed by those that don’t feel entirely human.
My entire life, I have felt displaced. Nothing really feels real. Including myself. Maybe that’s just how it is. Life is a constant battle.
The feeling of being alien isn’t new to me. Feeling disconnected from my own humanity, wondering if I was a changeling because I’ve always felt so different to the rest.
I cry for help over and over but people stare at me blankly, eyes glossy like they’re not even living, like I do not speak the language they do even though I know that everything I say they could understand if they just listened.
Staring at the scars on my skin from where a blade, hastily freed from the casing that gave it purpose, kissed my flesh and made it bloom with red. It’s like there’s a fuzzy filter between myself and the pain. Like my brain refuses to acknowledge that they are self inflicted and instead chooses to believe they are just a part of my design.
The filter only goes away when I’m in the one place I really feel I belong. The people that make me feel less alien, maybe because their presence transports me to a world where everyone else is “alien” too.
So yeah, maybe I don’t belong anywhere but in a cluster of stars, surrounded by life so bright and full that warmth envelops me every which way I turn. And maybe that’s okay.
Form:
Adamant Face
My mother used to say with an adamant face, "There is a place for everything and for everything a place!”
My goodness, this house is a total disgrace"
So every Tuesday at quarter past 4:OO
each person in our family had the same chore,
to straighten the house and pick up the floor.
We all sighed, then one replied,
“Where do we put things?”
“Where do they go?”
"Where did they come from?"
"We don’t know!”
"Just put things back in their original home.
"Whatever you do, don’t let them roam"
If you don’t know what it's called,
where to put it,
or what it does,
or you can’t throw it out or know it’s name because,
it doesn’t have a match or
there is a piece detached ;
then don’t give up, just keep your chin up.
Leave nothing astray, but please be done by the end of the day"
"There is a place for everything and for everything a place" she reminded us with her adamant face.
Our cleaning began, and what did we find ?
Interesting things of every kind.
Two birthday candles from my cake years ago, rusted nail clippers that trimmed my big toe.
A broken pencil with a very dull end, and a thank you card I forgot to send.
A soy sauce packet stuck to a fork, from a take out order of moo shoo pork.
A spool of thread, the color red, when I sewed my clumsy thumb instead!
Grandpa’s glasses missing one lens
My sister’s retainer
And 2 leaky pens
A postal stamp
A bread bag clip
The top to my mother’s pink lipstick.
A germy cold lozenge when I had the flu.
A dirty lace from a tennis shoe.
Three receipts from CVS.
A zipper from an old prom dress.
Soon we finished, and one replied,
“Our cleaning is done, we picked up the floor,
No longer a disgrace anymore!"
"We put things back in their original home,
where they belonged and could not roam”
“Mother, that place was the kitchen drawer!"
Our job is done, say no more!