Long Higher up Poems
Long Higher up Poems. Below are the most popular long Higher up by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Higher up poems by poem length and keyword.
I am here at the library of hours
chunks of time are strewn ragged
shelf after shelf
here's an early birthday
wafting through this strange corridor wind
the one where I struggled to blow the flame out
of the last few candles
there along the staircase
tumbling down the rafters
is me about eight
tumbling down a steep hilly street
in effort to keep up with my older brother
riding on a skateboard
and up there
giving a creak to the chandelier
I asked the girl of my dreams out
at a junior high dance
she said she had a boyfriend
I remember thinking
but you're only thirteen
and you live in Rhode Island
even higher up
above the colored-glass
I am in Vegas
surrounded by television writers
and drinking too much
walking alone
down an empty strip
in broad daylight
while down here near my feet
the children with autism grow
like mushrooms around me
bobbing with mute pleading
then drawing away
then signing thank-you cards
in my departure
long story short
I can't keep this up
the library is closing
the self has splintered and scattered
and I am reeling from my own multitude
I walk towards the doors
and the librarian stops me saying
come back tomorrow
new moments are arriving
this circus of memory
will be your legacy
I don't trust his smile
legacy
I smirked at the word
as I sped my lightning beetle
onto the thoroughfare
the throttle humming
and my mind drifting
into the all-possible clouds above
Germany, 1964
In barracks bare of beauty
I lay restlessly in bed. Around, a rife
of lifeless characters
from some Saturday charade
sullenly invite me to their ghastly parade.
I merely pull my blanket higher up
and blatantly yell out "Shaddup!"
A spot of flesh unknown to sun itches
so I scratch. Musty curtains run
in dusty ripples on their pulleys.
The room overflows with bullies
but I turn over in my bunk
and choose to spurn,
scratching a spot that doesn't itch.
I glance up. The light bulb top is dirty.
I reach up, unscrew the bulb,
lay silent in my patch of dark
and try, vainly, to extinguish
a more persistent spark.
The air around me reeks of smoke and beer,
is heavy with the weight of discontent.
I lie still darkly fomenting
an impotent dislike
for atmospheres like this one.
I writhe upon my squeaky cot and dun
and growl like some ancient,
burly, and barbaric Hun.
Vehemently, I vocalize my intense tension
with interjections "nice people" would never mention.
Some think of rings and things, I s’pose – I’m riled!
And I have lost more than a diamond, or
That special piece of wood, I once looked for,
My hands embrace my head, my hair is wild,
A friendship bracelet, made by dying friend?
Oh, no, it could not be a thing so small!
Not when five friends, strung down the street, all call!
“Oh, Bobby! Will this be your bitter end?”
“Why did you go in after? ‘Cause I cried?”
That storm drain has strong currents, like undertow
(I have to say, by now, I’ve let it go,
The bear Dad gave to me, before he died…)
“I want you back, I want you out! RIGHT NOW!
Nobody’s heard from you for THREE WHOLE HOURS!”
(We’ve shouted, and exhausted all our powers!
The Sheriff won’t go in – he’s such a cow!)
“Hey, Liz'beth!” – it’s your VOICE, you’ll be okay!
“I’m in a dry drain higher up – I’m stuck!
The water’s rising, my shoes are full of muck,
The manhole cover won’t move! Go get Ray!”
Ray Johnson has the only truck in town
That has a winch… he’ll have a bar to lift
The cover, and he works the evening shift!
He should be out, “SOMEBODY TRACK RAY DOWN!”
But Ray is HERE! He’s knocking on the covers!
His nephew, Bobby,’s caught, down there, somewhere!
He comes to one, cemented, “THINK HE’S THERE!”
But we can hear Bob’s Voice, at all the others…
“I KNOW IT’S THIS ONE!” Ray brings out a hammer,
A cold chisel… and starts to chip away.
“I HEAR you!” Bobby calls, his voice like clay,
And all the kids start yelling! And the clamor
Of Chisel-Ray rings, dings, and speeds up, then!
“My legs are wet!” shouts Bobby, “it’s getting higher!
The ladder broke! They rigged it up with wire!
Don’t wanna die! Come ON! I’M ONLY TEN!”
A misfit in Liverpool
I think of oranges, and saw a painting by Constable of a morning sun
that looked like blood orange dripping nectar down on some
Fishermen are trying to catch eels on the dark surface in the bay.
There were sail ships too, ready to hoist sail in the morning wind.
When I lived in England, I met several police constables, most
of them, nice blokes, alas, during the miners´ strike, they became
radicalized, they had a good talking to by those higher up, and
were also promised plenty of overtime.
John, the constable, - fifteen years on the beat and no promotion-
A friend of mine refused to partake in hitting miners over the head,
He continued his lonely beat, but at the station, he was ostracised,
a lonely figure in need of a friend- He often came into my cafe after
hours and we drank vodka with orange juice, lamenting the time we
lived in. John retired early, and I sold my cafe.
I’m so much obsessed!
Feels like I’m badly possessed.
Want to see you every day.
Crazy to say, “You make my day!”
One day, I woke up in my room.
Felt terrible and viciously doom.
Want to watch you moving around,
Crazily made my world so round.
I had a chance to see you! Touch you!
Pushed me away coz I’m your strangely new…
Kissed you entirely with my possessive lips,
Held you so tight in your shapely type hips.
Pushed me away coz you don’t know me…
Stabbed you at back! Things are so bloody…
Shocked and totally messed up.
Killed someone who is in higher up!
Handcuffs are gripping me so sad.
Missing that girl whom I killed really bad.
I’m a psycho! Crazily obsessed!
Confess that I kill the girl that I possessed.
Somewhere in the depths of us
The deepest depths of all of us
We want to feel higher up
And looking down can get it done
Didn't we curb urges to oppress
The ones we used to see as less
Weren't we so ranked at the sun's behest
That we saw sisters and brothers as less
Chin up they say, it's not that grim
At least your not like her or him
Or he or she or they or them
Your clean compared to her or him!
And deep down in the depths of us
The same deep depths of all of us
A conscience fights under its own banner
And holds us high to its own bright standard
Can a soul be lit by another's light
And know the darkness of its nights
Would all our wrongs turn into rights
If we see the darkness of its nights
Why perch on a ladder and scan with our eyes
When we ourselves are steps behind
Could be a billion steps behind
Bad time to look down, good time to climb
Your day starts in disheveled chaos:
you shower, skip breakfast, and eat on the run.
Chasing down a crowded bus:
you gulp down a cold coffee,
and follow the herd to work.
You gripe and curse city life:
while, all the while, you love it.
Like a rhythmic heartbeat:
the pulse of the city;
lets you feel you're alive.
And through veiled anonymity
in the shadows, you enjoy peace of mind.
And modern amenities;
make city strife all worthwhile.
Here, one can dine on chef-inspired cuisine
or choose to eat at a fast-food joint.
Each rung higher up success's ladder,
brings your dreams one step closer to fulfillment.
Opportunity seldom
ventures far from the city:
that's why you choose to stay
despite fighting the traffic every day.
I saw a tear on a cloud today,
I thought, because it just got blown away.
At second glance it seemed to come from somewhere else,
Higher up beyond the atmospheric shelf.
Maybe an astronaut in a shuttle,
Missing his love and needing to cuddle.
Or maybe the moon is feeling blue,
From the sun dictating what it will do.
Could be from a star gone a stray,
Trying to escape the Milky Way.
Maybe Saturn or Neptune lost a ring,
That could bring on quite a sting.
Then I realized that this tear was a sign,
It had generated from someone divine.
Beyond the moon, Jupiter, and Mars,
Farther than our galaxy and all the stars.
This tear traveled across gold streets and a tranquil sea,
Through pearly gates and all its glory.
From the Head of the Holy Trinity,
Begging us to become more like His Son who died on Calvary.
Brian Magness for "Personify a Tear" contest.
At the end of a fjord
The fjord was long and dark
on both sides, hard granite could not soak up the sun
it was like descending into hell.
But the fjord arm opened and at the bottom
could be seen a small village with red-painted houses,
the people here at been isolated from outside influence
for many years and everyone looked the same,
alas, some were giggling idiots.
I big piece of rock fell off the dark mountainside caused
a tsunami that washed the village away and there
were no survivors, except one who didn`t have the brain
to tell what befell, at the time of the accident he
had been high up in the valley to get the cows home.
The village was moved higher up, and new people moved in,
today it has an airport and has joined modern life
The wild wisteria's vine in winter
Sends its roots out and deep
It draws up moisture and rich nutrients
To prepare for coming spring
As in each rest period of winter
It goes deeper into the rich earth
So, its shoots can gain momentum
To reach for the sun when spring touches earth
When all is ready in spring
And winter disappears
The plant searches for the sun
To make its blossoms appear
It climbs higher up its support
It reaches farther looking for other ways
It wraps all in beauty _and
Then_ winter helps it rest
In winter let's go deeper and be filled
Let the Holy Spirit search within
In winter soak up God's teachings
Rest, get ready, for spring will come