Long Dusters Poems
Long Dusters Poems. Below are the most popular long Dusters by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Dusters poems by poem length and keyword.
Stow away the congeries of aches
overtly attenuating the life-force
Joints grinding bones as growing muscles waked
Oft, stomping like an apoplectic horse...
Under strained newness, a glum disposition
reeked nervousness, clamping a chest distraught
No diversity, glared their position
Such eyes that stabbed, could snap a breath taut...
Of schooling, what silent complacency!
Jailers with fingertip-busting dusters
or canes that cracked and smacked decency
Umber-burned bruises on smartened clusters...
Raking nails scratch to assuage a mind
New migraines need compulsory unwinds…
(4/23/21 For 'Aches Prompt' contest hosted by Constance La France)
I fixed the vacuum.
I need to throw the dirt away.
I did it.
I tried not to be careless.
Cleaning with a vacuum.
When nothing is enough.
We give into the loud sounds.
Loud, cleaning sounds.
Throw. It. Away.
It’s not that hard.
Because it’s all bagged up, just for me.
The dust mites tell me to.
I woke up at night.
I’m still living here.
Everything is clean.
I promised myself.
Destroying. Sad. Muddy.
I wish spring cleaning was light and nice.
With feather dusters.
And whistling innocently.
I need to destroy.
These thoughts.
Throw the bag in the fireplace.
There is nothing better on a spring morning.
Along with hair, and stray pieces of string.
There were other things.
He left behind.
His filthy footprints.
I won’t remember him.
He took the pictures with him.
I took out the vacuum.
Every night, I clean.
Filth, dirt, mud, grime.
There is nothing left.
Muddy footprints in my mind.
I howled, but the vacuum was louder.
Spring cleaning, da da da.
Cleaning makes things empty.
He took all the pictures with him.
But my vacuum is louder.
While lounging in my duster* watching news,
I have my morning coffee. When I'm through,
I wash my cup and saucer and admire
their elegance and pleasing shade of blue.
Like other lovely things I own--handbags,
Americana wreaths, and jewelry--
my dusters, cups, and saucers all came from
the popular Blue Daisy Company.
************************
Blue daisy plants don't flourish where I live;
and, even if they did, they wouldn't thrive
for me. I'm death to flowers! So I have
the artificial ones. They look alive!
Most of my rooms are graced with vases of
these blue silk beauties that appeal to my
calm, meditative side or to my sense
of whimsy. Then they make me smile and sigh.
*housedress
written June 18, 2017, and entered in Mystic Rose's Blue Daisy Contest
I say Would you pat a tree the most eatable grey bark & winged seeds? Take some white road lines out for a chicken sandwich? Say hello to a tower called Affirmative? Let Mr I Can’t Draw So You Will All Have to Die go across zebra crossing? Slap Mr Extend a Glass With Her Fig-Smelling Breath for not paying her parking fines? Salute Mr Oh & Mrs Oh Isn’t for infidelities with a four-sided block of cut stone? Get a pale nerd bum? they say angrily you accusing us of not wanting to?? I snicker
further on a hovering red wire panel believes squids playing game called In a Manner of Talking in Chinese Whilst Tossing a Whisk thermal conductivity fellows gals too angry should be on probation saying too many times Seeing That For Instance & Super Cold events extra crispy things used to show number of or extent in comparisons are dope addicts diamond-shaped pears fresh firm juicy flesh tastes like wind chimes scrambled eggs hiding from Miss Run You Over the centre brunch will continue her line dancing lessons on Monday after she deals with Mrs With Reference To’s sucking problem Mrs Half an Half freezes on the spot every time Mrs White Bread doesn’t look good enough a little bit of butter teaming up with Tuesday sweat called Susie Suspicious Come With Me’s & Mr Tell Me What You Really Think own one eighth moon lawn cuttings are teaching Mrs So You Can See Me the Fake Me how to remove corn from the cob In the Mood bathes dust from dusters a Little Lighter Than Now wants a big slice of northerly wind End Result wants tablespoon of pick your nose banana skins vegetable broth Low & Slow hooked on crackers Oh My Gosh can hold her breath for seventeen minutes mushroom dim in the head takes relish baths to impress What’s Up? in his pocket Now or Never has dinosaur rage a dose of streaker gumption Playbook Charisma will only let you borrow his non slip mate if you introduce him to Little Moisture King & Never-racking Ton Join in When You Feel Like coughs up seasoned smokers Time to Quit’s greatest fear blind spots Mrs Not Often Sniffle can lay long knee heavy sparkle fat camp leader owl-shaped Mr I’ll Join You Later the history of Thank You Out of Range likes to dunk himself in chick pea soup Win Win & Mr Add on have inky foreheads Just Toss It more of a stirrer than you might think red wire falls asleep see eye to eye
I began playing this game with myself
So at any moment you are holding something
How would you kill an intruder
I mean some of them are obvious
Throw the tea then use the cups like enamel
knuckle dusters
Deodorant like a spray
Handy flame thrower if you have a lighter in your hand
Toothpaste takes some thought but if you can squeeze it onto your hands and go for the eyes
Hairdryer and plug
Like a pair of Noon
Chucking blades as I charge towards them
Sometimes good to share
Pen would get the wickedness treatment
Spooning eyes out on stalks
Balloons depends on what they are filled with
Tell them
I will
Not one psychopath in here
There is definitely more than
Took me eons to work out
Mainly tricks in may
A brill
I ant ain’t an auntie
Started working on scenarios on stairs in water
Has anyone ever been xylophoned to death
There're things much worse than being alone.
Like a stream of cold words cutting to the bone.
Or bruises blooming like lilacs on the face of innocents.
There's always a steel-toed skunk in a field of mint.
Nobody wants to spend their precious days
navigating paths of eggshell. and broken glass.
You don't notice the petals or bells anymore, only the horn of the coming train crash.
Day upon day you dust off the mask
because that's what dusters are expert at.
They put on rose-scented glasses and tap shoes.
Sashay into yet another flinch-battered day.
Hoping there's a patch of robin egg blue.
To temper that vast quilt of blackish decay.
One thing is always in fashion,
that polka-dot pattern of escalation.
Pinnacle of pins and green desperation.
A shallow pond of apology and reconciliation.
Things turn sweet to sour at the speed of light.
A honeymoon never shows you its darkest side.
Once there were diamonds, now there's only slag -
It's past time for a nonchalant lift off that icy crag.
I have a cupid, all my own, he’s not the best around
I would have chucked him long ago … but he’s the only one I’ve found
His wings look like two dusters that have hung around too long
The feathers have no luster and the way they flap’s … just wrong
His actions are too stilted and his apathy seems vast
His bow is slightly wilted and his arrows are … half-fast
In many years of wishing that one missile might strike home
I had a premonition I would spend my life … alone
But then one day (as if on cue) an arrow slipped his bow
By accident it stuck in you above the left elbow
Well, that was all I needed I no longer was afraid
For my prospects now exceeded every prayer I ever made
I grasped the moment promptly just in case it slipped away
As my future fait accompli stood before me on that day
Now my Cupid keeps a quiver though his shafts are all but spent
Still I’m glad he could deliver even if by accident
And I won’t complain too loudly for the grief he put me through
I’ll just smile and thank him proudly for the wonderment … of you
Well as your school life approaches an end, as you prepare to hear the last dismissal bell, as the memory lane transitions into a new beginning, I wish you success and achievements in all your current and future ventures.
Blackboard, chalk, dusters, benches, chairs, corridors, assemblies, shared tiffins, friends, fights, fun, jokes, copied teasing, syllabus, praise and punishment, rebukes and rebuttals – with all these memories, I presume you must be standing at the edge of something that feels like an ending.
Somewhere between all that hope and all that distance, a truth that had to be written and an honour of that threshold, the farewell note awaits your attention.
This year kept throwing us into each others paths as if coincidence had grown fond of our collisions and this time, when I saw you again, the other day outside my school's gates, on Children's day, I didn’t look away the way I always did. No sly retreat or stolen glance sneaking to the floor. Perhaps it was one of the last unplanned crossings before your pursuit of distant horizons pulls you far from everything familiar.
And in that stolen gaze, I noticed the little changes time left behind. The mole on your nose, once dark as a drop of midnight ink has softened, almost disappeared as if it grew tired of waiting.
And I thought of the mole above my lip, new as last year’s monsoon, a watermark that appeared without warning… maybe the universe felt our uneveness and decided to give me a mark to match the one, time was erasing from you.
I respect your gaze because the moment they find mine they hold on, unwavering, as if breaking eyecontact would break something in you. Because everytime our eyes meet, yours refuses to look away and every single time you look at me it feels you forget to look away like its the only truth you don’t know how to hide.
From being strangers to becoming strangers again. I thought to end by quoting my favourite Mr. Tharoor but didn’t find an apt one, so just a few random lines with a Ruskin Bond flavour:
“You may stop coming to school, but you will never stop loving the days you spent at school.”
P.S. find the paper stars and decode the meaning