Long Freshener Poems
Long Freshener Poems. Below are the most popular long Freshener by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Freshener poems by poem length and keyword.
I remember the days of yore.
Entering my house, out came my knight,
my sable-coloured spaniel.
Licking my face, giving me great delight.
He jumped up and down with joy
and I’ll never forget the smell
of my lovely lively dog freshly washed.
He was so glad; my pride would swell.
Mother would come to search for me,
a hug, a kiss and always a blessing.
The smell of Bouillabaisse Soup,
impregnated the house and her dress.
How I loved the smell of my mother’s cooking
when I came home from school.
It would not take me long to wash my hands
and at table expectantly sit at my stool.
Dad would come later, chewing his cigar.
I got used to the smell though I never tried one.
And after our short repast we would depart
to play a game or laugh as him I outrun.
Everything welcomed me home.
A final drink of camomile in my favourite mug,
Thus, at night I would sleep tightly,
the smell of clean sheets so cosy and snug.
Alas time went on and I grew up
got a job and met my love.
Now we live in our brand new house,
but it smells differently.
Like the air freshener that wafts above.
It can’t be helped. My parents died and
so did my spaniel. Time has its laws
Life changes all but
I’ll never forget how warm my old home was.
prose and poem
Sitting quietly on a rock along my neighbor's forest trail, I studied countless creatures darting about. Were they aware of my presence? I listened to primitive sounds, clear messages I did not understand. What interdependence among plants and animals, I marveled at purpose evident but unseen. I sniffed the woodsy perfume of some wildflower and walking on down the path breathed the pine needles which strangely reminded me of air-freshener. As I returned to my home, I crossed the creek clogged with trash, a rusting tricycle, bottles, cardboard boxes ... slowing the flow of water, damming the natural course of the stream. My eyes greeted the comforts of home although the rows of houses blocked the view of the skyline and of course, trees were all but gone. Glad for the relief of a clean, private bathroom but inspired by nature, I went back and cleared the creek.
Sitting all alone in the woods,
pondering who God is?
Evidence of splendor confirms
all Creation is His.
Winding my way back to shelter
earth's praise quickly ended.
Man's disregard plainly in view -
heav'n is far more splendid.
Motionless
It looked such a sorry sight
Standing in the shed
Covered in rust and dust
With just a trace of red
A vibrant red with a flash of black
Across the outside door
No sign of this embellishment
As the car sinks into the floor of the shed
A car that has lost its glory
Stands motionless and dead
This old car was my pride and joy
Many moons ago
It's going to be a wrench
To see this vehicle go
Even though the seats are worn
As are the tyres, gears and brakes
When the engine is turned on
A dreadful noise it makes
Smoke billows everywhere
The muffler has snuffed it
Mice have made their home in there
Which they must soon all exit
Broken windscreen, windows scratched
Doors all buckled and dented
Tattered stickers on the car
Air freshener that once was scented
I suppose it's true or so it's said
Everything has its day
This was my thinking
As the car was towed away
To the wreckers. a graveyard for most
One wonders if those worn-out cars
Become angels or ghosts
Good sense of humour :
I always admire.
Good Humour is perfect mind - freshener
with exact effect on Good Listener.
Displaying good humour at right moment
or an intellectual comment,
never to lament ,
but turns gracious,
glorious , gorgeous
to entertain ,
simultaneous has great effect
to soothe pain.
Blades of reality have sharp notions
to cut impulsive emotions.
Precise humour to deliver
acts as right pain - remover..
Good humour to express
any time, more or less
in compassionate style
will manifest exact profile
of the human being
to help in real healing.
Good Humour is perfect mind -freshener
with exact effect on Good Listener.
Grandma’s Vase
I remember the old yellow vase
that grandma kept on the kitchen table
she filled it each day with flowers she cut
from the beds in the backyard garden
in spring it held purple hyacinths
Filling the house with their sweet perfume
She called them nature’s air freshener
Their sweet scent would linger for days
Summer brought the exquisite roses
with delicate petals of velvet red
the queens of the garden grandma called them
reigning over their garden realm
Autumn supplied cheerful marigolds
in brilliant shades of yellows and orange
The clowns of the garden she would announce
Bringing cheer to the drabness of fall
The holly berry and evergreen
her favorites to fill the old vase
were reminders to her Christmas was near
The most wonderful time of the year
I have grandma's old yellow vase now
And I fill each day with fresh flowers
It sits in the center of my kitchen table
A sweet reminder of my grandma
My nutty week stays long in my memory
My brain didn't process like it would normally
But just to be sure I now lay of the pink gin
I will share you my tale and shall now begin.
Paracetamol had been placed inside the freezer
Then found in the bread bin, the daily newspaper
My mouthwash was used as a face cleanser
Then sprayed underarms with the air freshener.
When cooking dinner I put no water in pans
Smoke and burnt offerings, so opened a soup can
Two hours of slow sewing, repairing some things
Only to discover I'd missed both sides of the seams.
Made tea instead of coffee, an easy mistake
But my feather head told me it's chocolate milk shake
Lucky that time the tea had cooled down
But annoyed with myself and felt a right clown.
Was I losing my marbles? why all the muddles?
That week I seemed in a right fuddy duddle
But the last straw came when I went to bed
I had slept on the floor of the garden shed.
The second stanza is true, I have done all that
The rest is made up for bit of spoof slap
But wanted a poem for the nutty contest
This I made up from my nutty mind set.
"N" Contest, New or Old Poetry Contest
Sponsor Constance La France
Written 20.09.21
How did you get here, little one?
You are such a contrast to these dead leaves and sticks
They are gray, tan, and ugly
You are a misfit in the world of the unseen.
You usually fit onto a rearview mirror of a car.
I cannot see anyone wearing you as an eyepatch
I doubt you fell off someone’s backpack.
Wait a second, here is a thought.
A persnickety camper who attaches an air freshener to his backpack?
I smile at this absurd idea.
Should I leave you here for others to discover?
Or should I pick you up, risking my life, for you might be germy.
Playing it safe, I take a photo and leave her there to delight other writers.
It’s wonderful to look upon me,
exactly at the moment of my entry.
Stepping into the light to decide my fate _
Thinking of which bold move do I make.
Hmmm, Shall washing my face be of my first choice;
Then brush and gargle to freshen my breath and voice.
Or need I seat upon the fair thinking chair?
Cleanse the body spray freshener into the air.
Be mindful of the plight of the toilet brush.
Periodically reaching back to courtesy flush.
I could partake of that appealing waterfall.
With the adjustable faucet for short or tall.
Yawning loudly and extending my arms, yet not touch the shower tree.
No, it can’t be climbed, it’s just something to look at, something to see.
Mi Ban~o is designed not with a standard matching set.
Only of random bits and pieces of the best, we could get.
Twirling in the opened space atop my throw rug.
Appreciatively loving life_ arms folded in a hug.
W09202019
Slavery was abolished in America almost 200 years ago
but the system refuses to relinquish a sad history
binding young black men as they remain prey
and are locked up in a system to perform free labor
blue mood cops the modern day crackers
the new age slave hunters to capture them.
They clip black wrists in handcuffs
the updated version of chains once
used to shackle down the slaves
for transport on market days
now they fill prison cells to work for
masters whose guns are trained
on their backs just in case they should run.
The traffic stop a gold mine to capture new blood
a broken taillight, a freshener on the rearview mirror
tinted windows will get a white male a ticket or warning
will get a black male maimed, killed or imprisoned
driving while black/brown the underlying crime.
I can hear their deceitful voices in my quiet mind
thirsty cops wanting to get their
fix of blood on their hands excited
to get their bragging rights and to pump
their chests ‘I got another today’, they boast
laughing at their conquests.
Stop resisting they shout while punching
and kicking a responsive body to pain.
How can one not move receiving such an assault to
one’s body and with punches to one’s face and head?
What a bunch of evil men are Chauvin and his kind
may their souls cry out from the heat that awaits them
when they meet their master—grateful for all the
blood they’ve collected for him through the merciless
killings they performed on black lives
after all these years reminding us again
that unfortunately black lives just don’t matter.
They say reform of tactics is needed for the bad seeds,
but how about reforming the entire broken structure and adding
some empathy to go along with that please?
The cry “Black Lives Matter” not a threat to a nation
is actually a cry for respect, compassion, empathy
it’s to spotlight the cruelty and inequity
placed on a group of people seeking to overcome
the knee on their necks to get the same treatment
as everyone else.
Plagued by incandescent ferments I grapple zealously,
with tower blocks of titan topsoil myriads,
and melange of eccentric foibles,
considered by some to be a minus,
but without this composite what is my real nature?
reflection on a manifest mettlesome being,
leaden skewed traffic jam’s tailback of relative prospect,
normalcy a supernatural synonym,
apperception fringed by lambent twinkling,
that tantalising twirl of clustered countless spirits,
quirk-some inklings seem a weakness,
whilst chasing galaxy of plus point,
self-ostracised by atypical apparently conflicting plethora,
grave as in shadow id, tombstone stark exit but salutary motto,
etched eerily by one staunch depiction,
on catalytic other form of self,
unresolved human traits in multiples,
indicative of lack, lack of bearing?
me that nutrient rich plot that has,
this wondrous green blade potential compass,
me as sumptuous summer gust freshener,
of inner coastal home philosopher’s dwelling,
me an endless random version,
of charcoal midnight gleeful ghost,
blithely skimming chimney tops on deep quest,
yet nascent dawn usher lurks within,
augurs well for that sound ultimate coexistence,
despite an underbelly of niggling doubt
Hopefully I’m kind
at heart but rare traits might just
scupper thoughtful aim