Long Garret Poems
Long Garret Poems. Below are the most popular long Garret by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Garret poems by poem length and keyword.
Oh! My Allien Star,alone in sky at night
Has played a sweet monochord,
Beside my garret.
Onset of evening, someone calls your name,
Having hidden your face; to whom
Do you tell your story?
O my awaken star; your home is so far away,
My frightened face; as I am
A little bit foolish .
Kite in the sky which has been seen;
With some false encounters,
Oh light please tie my eyes
And give your calm soothing touch
You are as good as my mother,
I walk alone on the path
Oh! My rogue star;
You are deaf to any word,
Why are you in so hurry,
Please cross your path gently.
No dust on your body, and my attitude
If you keep your hand on it,
And with your wet hands.
Please close my eyes,as I sleep
During my sleepless nights.
Oh! My awaken star, you are awake
You have a skyscraper;
I can't touch you at all,
And I feel very lonely.
My Bitter One, My Sweet
If you were to vanish, my bitter one, some night without a shore,
I'd go beautifully insane and head down to the blind river,
with a sack full of sick clay and a spine made out of kindling,
to build you from scratch again with these two bare hands of mine.
An endless labor, I know — an hourglass filled with butterflies —
to raise you back from the warm dust, my sweet and bitter one,
like Pygmalion, the sick man, eyes burned by white sleeplessness —
come on now, move, Galatea, you statue made of ash!
If you were to vanish, my bitter one, I'd walk to the land of ice
to carve you out of long icicles and out of the silence of waters,
to dress you in a drizzle of frost and in shirts of fallen snow,
and then you'd be free to leave wherever some thieving spring might please.
If you were to truly fall, in the moment of your great rapture,
I'd come to you quietly, like a snowfall with no witnesses,
to ransom you back from the angels with all the gold inside me,
with my tollgate made of darkness and with my stopped clock.
And afterward I'd go back down, humbled, illusory as a shadow,
toward the home I've always had: a garret in purgatory,
where nothing grows on the glass but handless clocks and blinded moths,
and I learn, syllable by syllable, how your face is spelled.
If you were to vanish, my bitter one, my sweet, from all I am,
from my laughter of broken glass, from my weeping made of salt,
I'd go looking for you inside me, through galleries of silent sleep,
and I'd build you up out of myself, one brick of silence at a time.
So shocking was that news from France,
we stared at TVs in a trance;
no way to understand.
Those young and old without a chance
were taken down in wide expanse.
Such horror had been planned.
Who could have then foreseen the fate
upon them cast by those who hate?
Just gathered there for fun,
not knowing that their deaths await
while music played and people ate,
their lives were over, done.
Who could have thought ahead that they -
that enemy that wants its way
to change our form of life,
would sacrifice their own to say
that their belief we must obey?
Misguided thoughts run rife.
That Paris scene that fretful night
prepares us now to face the fight.
Define this threat once more
that could erupt within our sight.
Entire world must join the fight
to face this crusade war.
Sandra M. Haight
~1st Place~
Contest: Rime Couee - Tail-Rhymed Verse - For France
Sponsor: Debbie Guzzi
Judged: 01/03/2016
~2nd Place~
Contest: Best Sad Poem EVER
Sponsor: Laura Loo
Judged: 08/29/2016
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Rime Couee
I went with this pattern for Rime Couee as shown on "The Poet's Garret" website
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"The November 2015 Paris attacks (sometimes referred to as 11/13) were a series of coordinated terrorist attacks that occurred on Friday 13 November 2015 in Paris, France, and the city's northern suburb, Saint-Denis. Beginning at 21:16 CET, three suicide bombers struck outside the Stade de France in Saint-Denis, during a football match. This was followed by several mass shootings, and a suicide bombing, at cafés and restaurants. Gunmen carried out another mass shooting and took hostages at a concert in the Bataclan theatre, leading to a stand-off with police. The attackers were shot or blew themselves up when police raided the theatre.
The attackers killed 130 people, including 89 at the Bataclan theatre. Another 368 people were injured, 80–99 seriously. Seven of the attackers also died, while the authorities continued to search for accomplices. The attacks were the deadliest on France since World War II." Wikipedia
He was weary of prostitutes.
The young ones were vacuous,
their bodies unleavened bread.
The mature models scored
by the violence of disappointment.
Both the naive and the bitter
were dull molds.
He had dissected women, both old and girlish.
On moonless nights carried their corpses,
on muffled barrows to his garret.
By the light of a hundred candles
he had eased flesh apart,
nose swathed in verbena drenched rags,
hands tweaking tissue, tracing
sensuous shapes under dead curves.
He hired women of every class.
The rich were flattered, vain,
the poor always eager to earn.
None made the stone blossom.
It was a matter of timing,
catching her as she emerged
from her littoral crest.
It seemed his models
were always coming to, or moving away
from that conjunction.
yet he kept opening shells
until death took him.
At his funeral
his straight-backed widow,
adorned in darkest weeds,
hid her anger well.
Despising those cold hands
that never knew
how to reveal her.
Inside the lonesome garret, all was grey.
He sat there thinking of his broken dreams -
like how he’d planned to be so rich one day,
and yet he’d failed at all his half-baked schemes.
Tormented by the itch that went unscratched,
he’d grown embittered by his circumstance.
He loathed the one to whom he’d stayed attached,
a foolish wife who yearned for mere romance!
She’d loved him, rich or poor, which was no help!
Her acquiescence made him hate her more.
He smiled as he recalled her startled yelp;
he looked down at her corpse there on the floor.
His final thoughts were quite far from contrite. . .
and then a single gunshot sliced the night.
Perched here within my writer’s garret,
among all my dusty books and notes.
I'll bare my soul and try to share it,
all my stories, poems, quips, and quotes.
Sometimes inspiration guides my hand,
but other times nothing to be heard.
It's hard for people to understand,
the struggle to find that perfect word.
Though my attempts might fail, I won’t quit,
like the Phoenix, I will rise again.
If my heart still beats, I know that it,
will have me write and never give in.
Thank you, God, for the gift of story,
I have strained to pen them full and well.
In hopes the world will know your glory,
with my humble words, I've tried to tell.
College
Study in your little garret.
Try, in your earnest youth,
To learn the ins/outs
Of mice and men, stars and storms,
The ways of your own future heart.
Fear and Motivation
Await just beyond the ivy covered walls;
So take this time,
Go to underground movies,
Heckle the Bible Thumpers come to save you from your mind.
A little learning can be dangerous, yes
But never so bad as none.
So you play Devil's Advocate over bad coffee,
Worse food
In featureless halls
While you bankrupt yourself and your parents.
This is the time of sex experiments upon yourself,
Neurons firing wildly under the influence of chemicals and sleeplessness,
Until one day you wake up,
Pad into some bland communal lavatory,
Splash water on your face to clear the clouds,
Look up into your young impassive face
And at last begin to study,
REALLY study.
Then somewhere a gate swings softly open,
And a true thinker stumbles forth
Into the growing light
Of the rest of their life.
Always Prepared
Ready
Freddy
The Untamed
Feral
Ferril
What’s in Frankie’s Pockets?
Frankie’s
hankies
Patriotic Guy
Yankee
Frankie
Of the highest Quality
Fraser’s
razors
Small Eater
Grazer
Frazer
The Warlock
Pagan
Fagin
The Brilliant One
Star Glow
Fargo
Something’s About to Happen to Him
Herald
Gerald
Poet
The bard
Gerard
The Mimic
Parrot
Garret
Who Needs Pudding and Pie
Georgie
Porgie
Good Grief!
Lordy,
Gordy!
Best Things in his Garden
Gerrett’s
carrots
The Stoic
Steely
Greeley
What People Always Say to Him
Really,
Greeley?
The Generous One
Sharin’
Garen
Thrill Seeker
Gnarly
Harley
So Angry
Snarly
Harley
Embittered
Soured
Howard
Not Brave at All
Coward
Howard
What’s in Henny’s pocket
Henny’s
Pennies
The Pest
Vermin
Herman
What Herman Gives Each Sunday
Herman’s
sermons
Why Can’t He Just Stay Home?
Roamer
Homer
Better Than Ice Cream
Sherbet
Herbert
Get Him Band-aids
Howie’s
Owies
Nonsensical
Phooey
Huey
Always Amazed
Wowie
Howie
The Overly Sentimental One
Gooey
Huey
There once was a cranky old parrot
who had all the charms of a ferret.
She went to great ends
to get rid of friends
and now lives in a draft-y garret.
The draft made her sicker and sicker
which caused her to bicker and bicker.
She tried writing verse
which made matters worse
so that she would bicker much quicker!
She couldn't stop coughing and wheezing.
Her vanity there was no pleasing.
The truth of her curse
was no gift for verse
which she blamed on all of the breezing.
This made her get tougher and tougher.
Her verses got rougher and rougher.
She wouldn't stop writing,
but kept on delighting
in making the whole country suffer.
BY DALE GREGORY COZART
The parrot soon dropped off her high perch
From the top of an old silver birch
Now she’s no longer squawking
And her husband is walking
To see the old bird buried in church!
BY JAN ALLISON
I Used to be a Prefect
By Robert (Bob) Moore © 2016
I used to be a Prefect,
when I went to Spurley Hey
I’d be standing at the front gate every day
With my note pad and my pen
I’d see who turned up late
and take their name, and this is what I’d say
If you’re late again this week
your name goes in the book
on Friday, I will come and get you from your class
I’ll take you to Mr. Walmsley
who’ll try to show to you
the being late is not the smartest thing
He wields a real mean strap
and he won’t take no crap
and when it hits, you’ll really feel it sting
There were some I would not book
or after school for you they’d look
Peter Hesketh, and Charlie Garret too
The two best fighters in the school
my mother didn’t raise a fool
so I was always busy, just as they walked through
It seems just like yesterday
they were good times at Spurley Hey
I hope your school days, were just as good for you