Long Floorboards Poems
Long Floorboards Poems. Below are the most popular long Floorboards by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Floorboards poems by poem length and keyword.
I wish I was asked this question when I was five years old
For it's a question I would have answered as my words unfold
This never happened yesterday, it was way back, 1966
What made our neighbour decide, to ignite his floorboards sticks
Our whole house woke in panic, smoke billowed everywhere
Into the darkness we stared, at five years old and scared
Thoughts running through my head, confused in a darkening world
Then suddenly I could see, my vision became un-blurred
What I took I couldn't grab, for it was already a part of me
For I, I took myself, and thanked my eyes to see
But going back to the original question, just what would I grab
It would have been an image of my brother, he was seven, and he was fab
They say the house where dawn was born
still stirs in the early shimmer of day
a quiet so tender
it feels like the world remembering
how to open its eyes.
I walk its threshold
where the walls glow with a warmth
older than fire,
and the floorboards carry
the faint pulse of beginnings
still learning how to rise.
The air is soft,
woven from the breath
of newborn radiance,
and each room holds a shimmer
of something half-formed~
a thought the cosmos once whispered
but never finished.
In the chamber of earliest brightness,
the windows bloom
with pale gold murmurs,
and the shadows kneel
as though listening
to the first syllable
light ever spoke.
A stairway turning like thought toward the upper air
leads to a landing where the hours gather,
not in silence exactly,
but in that faint, early brightness
that feels as if the day is remembering
how to begin.
There,
in the attic where morning was molded,
I find the cradle
where the sky once slept~
a curve of soft brilliance
still holding the shape
of its earliest dream.
And when the world grows dim,
the house exhales,
letting dawn rise again~
a soft, opal-bright promise
that every darkness
still carries the memory
of light learning
to live.
3/2/17
Molded ceilings
With the paint peeling
Revealing
Something unappealing
A building long forgotten and forlorn
Rotted floorboards
Broken and torn doors
In a bad condition and poor form
Large amounts
Of trash strewn about
All throughout
The house
Due to weathering, bad habits and tendencies
No longer sitting steadily
Foundation in jeopardy and the whole structures integrity
From an accident that happened chemically
By the incorrect use of chemistry
All around the ground grime and filth
Many different types of liquids spilt
Left there with little if any kind of guilt
Most of the fence is bent
Regardless of the intent and no harm being meant
It all left quite the hefty dent
Such a pungent smell, without a mask, you could not adjust
The whole entire place riddled with dust
And far too much junk and "stuff"
Stored improperly collecting rust
Just about on the cusp
Of falling completly apart in a way that is abrupt
A path was taken
And the damage changed it
Leaving it dilapidated
No longer accessible, but at one point it had a basement
By: Dalton Ogletree
A tune warbles from worn out speakers
Awakening a long lost and lively spirit,
A girl in saddle shoes, a boy in sneakers
On a night they should chance to hear it
They go strolling beside the old jukebox
Leaving a mark, the steps not forgotten,
Made by their boot heels and bobby socks
On floorboards now marred and rotten
The neon lights blink, trying to dance, too
With Sinatra and Crosby, Presley and Holly,
The music never dies for what's old is new
Be it upbeat or one slow and melancholy
All oldies but goodies, low and long
One song plays for a ten cent token,
Priceless still is a remembered song
Once forgotten on a record broken.
At the wedding feast,
The lake rose silently outside the windows.
Dark water pressed against the glass.
Listening.
All the while,
the villagers watched me
with the terrible tenderness
reserved only for the dying and dead.
That night,
My husband did not touch me.
He sat at the edge of the bed
eyes fixed on the shore
while moonlight pooled silver across the floorboards.
Then, very quietly, he said:
“You sound like her.”
I asked whose name sat in his throat,
but he only shook his head—
as though naming her would invite the lake closer.
Later, unable to sleep,
I wandered beyond the house
still dressed in lace damp with river air.
The lake was awake.
The lake was alive.
Water curled against the shoreline
like fingers dragging themselves ashore.
The reeds bent though there was no wind.
And somewhere beneath the surface,
women were singing.
Softly.
Like a lullaby meant to quiet a fearful, squirming child.
My feet carried me closer before my mind could protest.
The water was warm-
Eerily warm, as if the lake remembered what it was like to be alive.
As if she was reminiscing.
Shapes moved beneath it-
white fabric drifting like drowned wedding veils, patches of skin
hair floating in dark clouds,
thin wrists glittering with broken rings.
Brides.
Dozens of them.
Their mouths hung open--
full of river pearls.
And as they sang,
the lake breathed with them.
In.
Out.
A living god taking the form of the water.
Frightening...
The night is heavy, thick with dread,
whispers slither through the air,
calling voices long since dead.
Frightening...
A knock—too soft, too slow, too light,
no one should be at your door,
not at this ungodly night.
Frightening...
The mirror shifts, yet you stay still,
a shadow moves that is not yours,
a shape that bends against your will.
Frightening...
The floorboards creak—too close this time,
your breath is caught, your pulse runs wild,
yet silence lingers, stretched and vile.
Frightening...
A whisper brushes past your ear,
a voice you’ve never known before,
softly breathing, I am here.
Bloodcurdling...
A scream splits through the dead of night,
sharp as glass, raw with pain,
choking, gasping, lost from sight.
Bloodcurdling...
Footsteps pound down hollow halls,
too fast, too near, too filled with dread,
yet silence lingers after all.
Bloodcurdling...
A door swings wide with aching groan,
a shadow lurches, jagged, wrong,
its breath is heat, its touch is bone.
Bloodcurdling...
The walls are slick, the floorboards creak,
something drips, slow and thick,
a crimson trail too fresh to speak.
Bloodcurdling...
A whisper hums against your ear,
too close, too soft, too full of glee--
You thought you'd run... but you're still here.
[ Poet’s Note : Companion Poem to
attenuate: Aug 26 ]
her gracile cancer ridden body disturbed soul shores, re-assimilating into ether
simultaneously
embodied light attenuated as rain sleets soaked washing trauma embedded
molecules —
shattered dreams attenuated floorboards, oregons shivering sunlight through colourful veils
meanwhile
gracile human pendants attenuated threads of Leo’s mane, gently swaying in cool breeze
…
grey matter spilled into hot black and white hands
healing —
blue veins attenuated
their hair one corn, one wavy
lips grim thick and thin
clothed in hospital tunics
spaceship hovered silver sleek
cancer attenuated —
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
the door clicks shut
leaving only dust particles
dancing in sunbeam's path.
four walls hold their breath
waiting for footsteps
that never come
a single nail protrudes
where a frame once hung
its shadow stretching longer
with each passing hour.
the silence settles
thick as plaster dust
in corners untouched
no echo answers
when the floorboards sigh
beneath the weight of absence.
light bleeds
across bare parquet
marking time in slow degrees.
air grows stale
withheld breath and unspoken words
condensing on the ceiling
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The attic hums with ghosts of feet,
a trail of soft, lost whispers so sweet
The wallpaper peels like ancient skin,
revealing maps where time has been.
A teacup left in midnight’s grip,
still waiting—as if just from the lip
of someone who turned out the light
and stepped into the sheer of night.
The floorboards creak a coded name,
the dust conspires to hide the blame.
No clock ticks here, yet shadows climb
the stairs, in sync with stolen time.
And if you listen—really strain~
you’ll hear the house breathe once again:
a sigh that bends the candle’s glow
toward the door left long ago.
Some say it’s wind. I know it’s more.
The latch still waits. The hinge still mourns.
a related memoir vignette can be read at: poetrysoup.com/short_stories/the_stranger_in_the_box_13607