Long Dresser Poems
Long Dresser Poems. Below are the most popular long Dresser by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Dresser poems by poem length and keyword.
Chambermaiden, a damsel in distress,
Cinderella, Prince's Valet high on Stella's finesse.
A fury by a butchered phreak,
screaming at him, no mercy to speak.
Living in underworlds with the creeps,
foreshadowing defeat.
Inebriated ex-socialite seeks Bhang,
meets manservant, hopping with the gang,
dodging a renegade from Hades,
in her ’98 Mercedes, green as despair,
his fate—servitude, escape just a prayer.
"Come hither, quiver, express card in the dresser,
stressor, benefactor, donor,
red eye for an eye—see it from my side,
in the black, red ink, brink.
Debutante saunters higher,
landing on her supplier’s bones."
Manservant spending nights with Pythia,
maxing the visa, obscuring the vista,
canopy open, hair blowing,
severing ties with the Phreak,
berated as he summits an intellectual, sexual peak.
"We reincarnate in the ether,
post-war fever,
two Gemini after Hiroshima,
ending the edema."
Trajectory lost in audio-tronic streams,
specters vocalize on the chorus machine,
sonic dream, quiet screams in a Fiesta,
sunset serene,
ready, keen,
torn apart at the seams.
Godless oracle with a Pluto-shaped crater,
underneath the beret,
Immortal spun out on prognosis,
rage hitting me deep.
Pythia, flushed, bitter red,
breath heaving, chest heaving.
Words stumble in gasoline,
purple and green.
Bumbling, fumbling, hostile,
peeling paint from blank walls—
committee, selective few.
Pity for Pythia,
teetering off the ledge,
obscene, smoking green.
Words paid for by the prophet of industry,
servant of power,
planting his own crop,
finding the hot spots.
Houses for dots on success’s map,
cheques signed to a woman on edge,
running from wrecked family homes,
parking lot regret.
Catching an ounce from a mobile house,
rolling down the street,
rent-a-wrecked, reeking of cheese.
Row upon row, he patrols,
marking targets with IOUs,
fast sales, cold criminal moves,
overcharging intoxicated fools.
Out of luck but not the stooge,
trading stash for a getaway dash
with his honey from the shadowed street,
whistling off-kilter,
mouth full of vapor, exposed brain-meat.
She fell from Olympus’s feet,
thrown out for misdeeds,
new queen on the block,
urgency speaks
TAKING STOCK
“STOCK” – the bits and pieces of accumulated this and that – with tags!
Strings of memories, and far off debt, and a sea of medicinal prescriptions rustling
In a cobweb bound table draw which needs as I do, a repair, “STOCK” then glancing across
Boxed books and movable immovable objects piano, Dresser, TVs, and three different pale green
painted splashes of a future make over or fast fix.
Toffee -less tins stacked and not open, and only thoughts of toffees in them, and photos taken long
ago, I think! Dog eared edges caught under the lid, - then impatience digging out the bank
Statements, lots of cash for a rainy day, there have been many floods, and the cash is still here.
Cars and sheds and kids, and dogs, and clocks unwound, AND laptops, alone in sealed boxes.
And all this Stock for a bonfire down at the crem! And - relatives.
They stand together in a family portrait.
In it's surroundings of designer valance curtains,
a bed appears in one corner while in another
a dresser. Together they stand Mother, Father and
Daughter. Each looking in different directions:
Mother looking down, proud, but not at daughter.
Daughter looking upwards to Heaven and father
looking straight out.
They're dressed: Mother in a shiny suit, father in suit and tie.
Daughter in all white dress with veiled flower headdress.
White shoes, knee-length stockings, and gloves. This is
a Confirmation Affair. But with everyone looking in
different directions, and not at each other,
how can one tell it's a family portrait for a special day.
How can one tell love?
THE CROWN JEWELS
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Queen Xena, a squirrel, was a female hoarder beyond measure,
for her crown jewels she surely did treasure.
she hid them in the kingdom’s storage locker
along with the fact that she was a punk rocker
The keys and her reputation were safe, safeguarded by her personal dresser.
Then it came to pass, surely you’ll gasp!
Xena’s jewels were lost, away from her claw-like grasp.
“Oh what’s become of my jewels, I’m coming undone.
I’ll find the perpetrator and shoot him with my pea gun.”
“Who’s the perp?” You just had to ask.
Eyewitnesses said, “The thief wore a black mask, was ‘big clawed.
We seen him scampering about the forest and the royal quad.”
At police headquarters, they wrote their statements
Xena filed an insurance claim, believing in suspect’s escapement.
Later texted her friend, the masked racoon. “No one suspects us of insurance fraud.”
Once upon a time, I was created by an 18th century jeweler,
but I do not remember his name because of course I am very old;
for a while, I lay on a satin cushion in a high style store,
although just made of glass and silver, I was still quite expensive.
Then, one bright day a nice gentlemen came in to buy a gift,
he explained to the clerk it was a birthday present for his new wife;
he was shown many pieces until they came to me,
and he exclaimed, oh yes, this is perfect, I will take it, please.
His wife adored me, oh I love the flowers in sparkling glass,
of pink and diamonds, I am going to put it on my new hat;
and there I stayed for years and years till she at last died,
I lay on a closet shelve gathering dust until her daughter found me.
She cleaned me gently and pinned me to her wool jacket,
and I got tons of compliments when we went out shopping together;
she never forgot me and touched me often with great love,
then, she died suddenly . . . and I was given to a charity store.
It was a terrible place, and I just lingered there sad and alone,
until a girl with raven hair picked me up and said oh how pretty;
she took me home- now I live on her dresser . . . . loved.
__________________________
April 13, 2018
Poetry/Personification/The Old Brooch
Copyright Protected, ID 18-1012-723-01
All Rights Reserved. Written Under Pseudonym.
Written for the contest, Bring To Life
sponsor, Shadow Hamilton
Fourth Place
Music Box
What melody is it
that the turn of the key
allows the music box to quickly play
then slowly hesitate and stop?
There sre no words that come to mind
only some familiar haunting song.
This one spins hypnotically
with a telescopic lens
that looked within displays
a kaleidoscope of diffuse blended colors.
My ears recall the tune
but my mind cannot recall the name.
Other music boxes are set in varied places,
on the dresser, shelved with collectibles
which remain untouched
and infrequently played.
Simple gears and rotating mechanisms
sing out and call out memories of gifts and holidays.
Alas, the song escapes me still
but is full of feeling, friendship,
love, hope and companionship
locked safely in the music box.
She cried so hard for one so young,
Tears flooded where she lay,
Mummy and daddy were being ripped apart,
Her little hopes were being washed away,
She was told to get up that they had to leave,
She knew it wasn’t good,
Confused and scared she grabbed her dolls,
From the dresser where they stood,
She didn’t know what they’d done to each other,
Daddy’s eyes looked so sad,
She trembled with guilt at seeing them suffer,
Gone was the strength he’d had,
Mummy too looked scared and hurt,
And reached to lead her outside
She held on tightly to her mummy’s shirt,
And heard her say “I’ve tried”
She stopped at the door not knowing which way to go,
How could she leave either one,
Her dad was her hero and all that she knew,
Yet she couldn’t leave her mum,
The both looked at her with pleading eyes,
Too young to feel so torn,
She wished she was back inside her bed,
Safe and loved and warm,
She couldn’t move - how could she choose,
She turned and ran inside,
She ran back up towards her room,
And found a place to hide.
Daddy had said if she closed her eyes,
Made a wish and blew,
That if she really really wanted it -
Her wish might just come true.
The woman said, “If you let my mother die, I will ruin your career” to the doctor
who wouldn’t give her mother heart surgery because she had no insurance.
And she thought about her own brain tumor, would the prayer style that the man
gave her work?
She didn’t know.
She considered how her current situation may sound sensational to some, but
that it was real nonetheless.
And she looked back over her life and the pain of its memory.
And she resolved to take the Lunesta on her dresser and end it early.
But as she stepped toward her dresser, she heard a voice say, “Stop, I will make
things better.”
And she stopped.
And she looked up to her ceiling and felt a chill.
She began to praise the Lord, and as she praised, tears welled up in her eyes.
And she imagined them washing away the suffering of her world.
And she cried to the Lord, “Lord Jesus, I know you won’t leave us down here like
this. I believe in you. I know you’ll come up with something. My whole life is
yours and you’ll come through with something!!!”
Amen.
Experienced a third bigger earthquake recently but this poem I wrote for a smaller earthquake years ago)
My first trivial tremor experience had been in Southern Africa
And now this puny earthquake I felt in Tanzania.
I saw every thing waltz to and fro and lightly shake
Bottles turned ballerinas dancing slightly to the quake
I watched glass decors on the walls quiver and jolt
Scaredy me was half asleep, no wonder didn't bolt
I thought I was dreaming or imagining things
My bed and chairs converted into gentle swings.
All vials and vases
jiggled to dance a jig
The lil horrors over
So I cast humor's wig
Ah when began rattling, the knick knacks on my dresser
Was when it dawned upon me in horror
That this was really an early dawn tremor.
I phoned some friends but those early risers
Hadn't even noticed or felt those tremors
I bet they thought I was spreading false rumours
After all poets are stereotyped as fanciful philosophers.
My cell phone keypad became my panic button in a flurry
Of course I wanted all to be alerted, alarmed in worry
Nobody believed me until it was announced in our mosque
And every body was then called by muezzin to pray the signs prayers
Then every body knew the tremor was no hoax
Some patted me for being the first to notice this shaking of earthly layers
Of course I thanked God this was no major earthquake
I've heard in other places how terribly the earth can crack and shake
Who else but God could I owe my heartfelt gratitude
For this being my 2nd low power tremor in magnitude
As it measured low on the Richter scale
based on the seismic waves' amplitude
But the earth was shaken and I too was shaken
No pics of the shivering axis were taken
Todate runs down my spine such a shiver
On recalling how the mother earth did quiver
I have seen videos of earthquakes where the earth juggles things
like a salt shaker
May God protect us from such a waker and breaker
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.
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