Long Eighteen Poems
Long Eighteen Poems. Below are the most popular long Eighteen by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Eighteen poems by poem length and keyword.
The Barretts of Wimpole Street
Imagine you’re a woman, with a mind
as trained, acute and fertile as exists.
Imagine that your erudite, refined
creations top each year’s best-seller lists.
You write in English, French and Portuguese.
Translating ancient classics from the Greek,
(for you, no bigger deal than shelling peas)
you thrill the world, to hear Orestes speak!
But this is eighteen forty. There’s a catch.
You’re middle-aged and single. “On the shelf”.
Your father keeps you housebound, unattached:
he wants you as a frill, not for yourself.
The man’s a monster. You’re not free to act.
He holds you here, unnoticed, bored, unwed.
Your only means of protest at the fact
of kidnap is, you’ve taken to your bed.
Like many women, both before and since,
you’re “delicate”. It’s how you take a stand.
But what of that long-dreamed of, handsome prince,
your rescuer? Don’t worry. He’s at hand!
Elizabeth M. Barrett is your name.
A gentleman comes calling, loves your work.
He’s Robert Browning, of “Sordello” fame,
and suddenly there’s light amid the murk!
He shows up every day at Wimpole Street,
and soon you loosen the paternal tether:
with Mister Browning, you’ve re-found your feet!
You’ll marry him, then run away together!
The banns were read discreetly, days ago:
the journey’s booked. No vacillating now!
The father’s out on business: down below,
in Wimpole Street, a hansom waits: but how
to saunter past the servants? What a fright!
My trusty Morgan – glad I could suborn her:
Well, here we go – I’ll sleep in France tonight!
Brave Robert’s waiting, just around the corner!
The thing was carried off without a hitch.
They wed, they fled. So farewell, Wimpole Street!
And far from wish undone her Dunmow Flitch,
Elizabeth’s contentment was complete.
One’s fate can turn upon a single act.
Two poets lived as one – idyllic bliss!
They now had what they previously had lacked –
each other. Fiction can’t improve on this!
Oh to be eighteen again
Just for a week
No more morning pain
No more feeling weak
All the fun I could have
Party into the early hours
Play footy with the lads
Buy a sweetheart flowers
Oh to be sweet eighteen
Feeling fit as a butchers dog
It's ages since I was a teen
Grey hairs, I got a lot
wrinkles on my face
Liver spots on my hands
Struggling to stand straight
To be eighteen would be grand
I have my memories
Although they're faint
From in my teens
I was far from a saint
Sat in my comfy seat
Glasses on my nose
Hearings not so sweet
Face as red as a rose
Oh to be eighteen again
Only for a week
I could feel healthy again
Not mild and meek
The bubble lights at Grandma’s house!
The noisy laughter of the cousins.
Sneaking the cookies that have silver candies.
They are decorated in three frosting colors!
Grandma does not do anything half way.
It is the sixties. There is one TV set and it is off.
We are all about telling stories, and laughing as a family.
Everything is funny. Uncle Bill comes in dressed as Santa Claus.
We love him the most; he gives us stuff and we love him more.
We are in pretty dresses with scratchy petticoats and big bows.
Wearing black patent leather shoes and lacy white socks.
It is not even Sunday, but we know someone is taking photographs.
They will be black and white. This is before we knew about color.
There are aunts and uncles coming and going rapidly.
Seventeen cousins, everyone has a baby to hold. A big family.
My grandparents had ten children; so you can imagine.
When we finish here we go to Great-Grandma’s house.
She and her husband had eighteen children, so you can only imagine.
This is easier in the summer time when we have hay racks set up with food.
I snag a cookie there too. Someone offers me fruit cake. Yuck.
It is the only thing I do not like to eat at Christmas time.
Making love to remembrance,
I see her walk past
Blonde, eighteen and tan,
and this decade my last
A memory comes back,
as new feelings release
Of a field in September,
when our hearts were at peace
And I think of you fondly,
as I watch her pass by
I hold the thought warmly,
as she looks in my eyes
With my head now to follow,
she turns to my left
My joint pain endemic,
my passion still deft
But this memory won’t leave me,
as that summer you did
These new thoughts my own,
where you took ours and hid
And as she steps through the doorway,
a fantasy unknown
I make love to her memory
—with a wish still on loan
(Villanova Pennsylvania: September, 2016)
Historical Nature Preserve
There is an ancient resort at the wooded site
of Mohonk Mountain House, where olden times invite
us to enjoy a beauty that is not finite;
the woods and paths within this silvan setting cite,
a charmed, venerable retreat of pure delight.
Mysterious, how lake reflections show the might
of steep stone, rugged cliffs that double in sunlight.
The depth of beauty of the rambling woods excite
the climbers to achieve top of the mountain height
and walk the lovely nature trails at first daylight.
Since eighteen sixty-nine, a much-revered highlight
for visitors to come and bond with nature's rite
at this historical reserve; be it campsite,
or indoor stay with lush Victorian insight,
where comfort, ambiance, and beauty so unite.
Tranquility is felt in all that's good and right
within this nature paradise both day and night.
Sandra M. Haight
~1st Place~
Premiere Contest: Monorhyme
Sponsor: Shadow Hamilton
Judged: 05/21/2016
Required words used: ancient, silvan, venerable, mysterious, tranquility
Should you decide to stay in a hotel that is somewhat off the shelf,
Is quaint, a hundred years old but costs a reasonable amount of pelf,
The Steam Train Hotel is yer place in the town of Antonito, Colorado!
Guests have included my spouse and me and the occasional desperado!
There are few amenities and only eight rooms, all on the second floor.
'Tis a family operation and you are given a key to the hotel's entry door!
After they check you in, they head for home, available only by phone!
Baffled guests from thence are pretty much left to paddle on their own!
You enter a long, creepy hall and the floor creaks with each step taken!
(This was gonna be a thrillin' venture, of that there was no mistakin'!)
Antiques adorn each room and various geegaws are hangin' on the wall.
(I keep an eye peeled for fearsome ghosts and this casts a murky pall!)
U.S. Highway 265 passes right in front of the hotel addin' to my plight!
Convoys of infernal eighteen-wheelers keep me awake throughout the night!
There ain't no air conditionin' and it is hotter than you know where!
How I yearned for mornin' and salvation from my miserable despair!
The sun shone through the window revealin' a beautiful October morn!
We later boarded the Rio Grande steamer to begin our railway bourne!
Peerin' back at the hotel I thought it might've been haunted by spooky hosts,
But I reckon that it is probably too hot and noisy for even finicky ghosts!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
boy of eighteen driving a restless volkswagen
riding the hot clutch at kellogg street and grand
finding cool music by santana on the tune dex
finding tanned chicks in bikinis riding stingrays
riding cool like cats cruising for cheeseburgers
blond surfer chicks wearing beads from mexico
hitchhiking at noon for a ride to San Bernardino
bumming cigarettes with cleavages and lipstick
seeking bootleg kisses in the front seat of a ford
rapping stories about the rolling stones concert
talking tales of fuzz box nookie in the parking lot
boy of eighteen cruising the big circle in corona
riding the hot clutch at kellogg street and grand
I.
Carter Gray was a retired marine,
who’d done two tours in Afghanistan,
discharged at thirty, he moved to Utah
to raise cattle on a big spread of land.
He’d worked dawn to dusk every day
for two years to make it thrive,
when the money came in, he struck it big,
‘organic beef’ commanded prices quite high.
One day in town at his favorite place,
an Italian restaurant with great chicken parm,
he caught the eye of a pretty waitress
when by accident he brushed her arm.
She had olive skin and raven-dark hair,
soft, brown eyes full of deep mystery,
“Sepidah,” was the name on her sweet lips,
when Carter asked who she might be.
The next time he went out on the town,
this lovely woman was upon his arm,
they talked all night, with no awkwardness,
he was hopelessly lost to her charms.
This went on for weeks, until on spring day,
Carter dropped to his knee with a ring,
Sepidah smiled, said,”I want to say yes,
but before we do, you must know something.
“See I was born far away in Tehran,
but was raised here, eighteen years a Muslim.
when I dated a boy not of my faith
my life turned to the brutal and grim.
“My father Selim and one of my brothers
thought that I’d brought the family disgrace.
They found me one day walking with John,
and stuck a loaded pistol in my face.
“John jumped in front, he died for me,
bought me the time to run away.
My brother, the shooter, was given life,
but for lesser charges is my father’s stay.
“He has sworn that he will never rest
until he’s made me ‘pay fore my crime,’
And he’s already proven that he’ll go after
any poor boyfriend of love of mine.
“To make things worse, he doesn’t know
about how afterwards I changed my faith,
For his Christian daughter he’ll be enraged,
True Believers must kill apostates.”
To make the point she motioned to
the pistol she carried in her purse.
He nodded and said,”I didn’t know,
but to be honest, I have fought worse.
“And I won’t give up the love of my life
because her dad’s a damned extremist,
to do that would be a surrender to
the designs of a damned terrorist.”
So he put the ring upon her,
to marry her would be his honor.
CONTINUES IN PART II.
[Inspired - with much gratitude - by Jan’s poem
There’s No Knocking On Heaven’s Loo Door
and Caren and Tom’s comments on it]
***
The toilets in heaven are cold on your ass
The angels believe that they’re all made of brass
Turns out the reason the lavvies are cold
Is that all those loos are eighteen carat gold
Heavenly shoppers had been sent to Earth
And told to buy goods of exceptional worth
The best baths and basins and showers and so on
But do not return without something to go on
One of those shoppers was sure in fine fettle
Sought out some toilet pans in precious metal
He came up one short of his gold toilet goal
He needed another so that one he stole
The owner told me that that richest of loos
Was nicked by a bloke with a beard and no shoes
One million pounds for my loo that was yeller
I said Jesus Christ! He said yeah that's the fella
So that’s how there’s toilets of gold up in heaven
They said there were two but there’s actually seven
But heavenly humans are not a bright species
And built up an accumulation of feaces
They looked at the task from a different angle
And now drop it in the Bermuda Triangle
Sailors and pilots are frequently struck
And turn up in heaven all covered in muck
Although they’re in heaven they never seem happy
As they use the bathroom because they’re so crappy
It might be a rumour but what I’ve been told
Is they often cry out…
THESE TOILETS ARE COLD!
A thought about war and the nations that lost,
About countries that laid down their guns,
About which people shed the thickest of blood,
About which country lost the most sons.
Of course Portugal and China, Iran and Greece,
Are the oldest that’ve been sure to survive,
Which means they’ve probably been in the most wars,
And they are all still happily alive.
But the country that was formed in four eighty six,
And lost all eighteen of its wars,
Is the country called France, with the beautiful wine,
That’s consumed by the military corps.
The French are a proud and gallant population,
Who’ve most often heard the war cry,
And they’ve survived to this day after every defeat,
By simply declaring a tie.