Long Hoarder Poems
Long Hoarder Poems. Below are the most popular long Hoarder by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Hoarder poems by poem length and keyword.
Starla and Jasper have been living together for seven years
They never got married, she did not like him that much
He is running out of money, and his family is horrible
In particular his son, Bubba, who is a loser.
Starla is making plans to get rid of Jasper
They have not gotten along well for six months
Jasper’s son Bubba has moved in
He is a hoarder and a pig, and does not work
I cannot put up with the two of them she tells me
It is bad enough that Jasper does nothing
but he has enabled Bubba to be a grown leech
Bubba is fifty-six, and has never held a job
Bubba’s parents have supported him since birth
He almost trained for a couple of jobs
but they fell through, and he kept running home
I cannot wait to make my escape! Starla tells me.
She has mentioned to Jasper that she is moving in July.
Jasper seemed okay with it. She thought it might be a clean break.
Yesterday he said he wants to move with me, she told me.
Not with Bubba I told him.
Starla’s parenting was spot on.even though she was a single mother.
Both of her children are responsible with careers.
Bubba brags about “being a retired fire fighter”
In actuality, he trained two weeks to become one and quit.
Jasper and his wife have created Bubba.
They deserve to spend the rest of their lives with him.
Never expecting him to grow up or be responsible.
I said to Starla, “maybe those two should get back together.”
The Shutterbug (Vivian Maier) -by Trevor McLeod
She shot through life and captured photo.
Dismissed her name for art.
Took thousands of great photographs
and in the end did part.
Her photos came from on the street.
Rich characters and buildings.
While Vivian held the camera tight
aligning folks and gildings.
She took more pictures than developed.
Filled boxes high to store.
A hoarder she would save her papers
sure to fill the floor.
While some would just accept her mess.
Others thought it brute.
A nanny, she would often leave
while never bearing fruit.
Her reputation was quite sour.
insisting in her way.
For Vivian Maier life was strict
for talent she would pay.
Her death brought out her single passion.
The one she had kept hidden.
In life she went along unnoticed.
still; some are glad they're ridden.
For Vivian Maier the path was tough.
She suffered for her art.
She filled her suitcase full of photos
all taken from the heart.
Remember her for all her talent.
Worth more than just her name.
And love her for the person she was
now she's been shot in fame.
Vivian Maier -deathly devoted.(1926–2009)
THE CROWN JEWELS
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Queen Xena, a squirrel, was a female hoarder beyond measure,
for her crown jewels she surely did treasure.
she hid them in the kingdom’s storage locker
along with the fact that she was a punk rocker
The keys and her reputation were safe, safeguarded by her personal dresser.
Then it came to pass, surely you’ll gasp!
Xena’s jewels were lost, away from her claw-like grasp.
“Oh what’s become of my jewels, I’m coming undone.
I’ll find the perpetrator and shoot him with my pea gun.”
“Who’s the perp?” You just had to ask.
Eyewitnesses said, “The thief wore a black mask, was ‘big clawed.
We seen him scampering about the forest and the royal quad.”
At police headquarters, they wrote their statements
Xena filed an insurance claim, believing in suspect’s escapement.
Later texted her friend, the masked racoon. “No one suspects us of insurance fraud.”
morning rhythm is interrupted
debris from the ceiling falls on her last used paper plate
i wake up with an six month odor with no hygiene whatsoever
i care not for my job, my bills, my family, or even my life
no i take no drink
no i take no drug
no i have not a thought of suicide
i just think of her in a trance of oblivious carelessness
i am a hoarder via unknown circumstances....(but i know)
afternoon distortion is welcomed
dust from the air tickles the sensitive hairs in around my nostrils
i just sit anywhere thinking of her without regard for consequences
yes i blame her
yes i blame myself
yes i merge the two on purpose
i just miss the hell out of her in that manly way that constipates the tear ducts
i am the main public enemy number one of myself....(and i know)
nighttime disorientation is oddly celebrated
i say my prayers inadequately with a false hope masquerading as a source of faith and truth
i just lay in the bed pretending the water stained ceiling has a skylight in the middle
no i have no dream
no i have no nightmare
no i have no insomnia
i just wish her was here healing me with her divine guarantees
i am antagonistic fool with paintbrush splinters, a broken easel, and a deflated ego....(i never knew)
So where do we begin
The din of Indian chagrin
Subcontinent cardinal sin
Forgot how to play spin
Incontinent rot no Ashwin
Saffas got under their skin!
So no Mo Shami or Ishant Sharma
Double whammy now not so jammy
What about Obama calmer karma
Back from Kolpak leader of pack
Is it Heaven or E17 got a stack
Right armer & mockney charmer
Winning grinning skinning spinning attack
Slaying & flaying while playing Simon Says
Avenge those tears from 10 years ago..revenge
Wicket farmer yep cheers Essex’s Mr Harmer
Remember Temba inspired fired the ember
First place won the race for the WTC mace
Dream team scheme everyone a member
And even without their gilded pace ace
No KG Rabada in the Saffa Jaffa Gaffer speed larder
Need 2 metre maneater Marco like Rafa to try harder
Latest greatest tyro narco pyro in the stellar fella Armada
Sneaky hoarder Marco Polo or cheeky marauder Hans Solo
Tip top tourer run scorer tall all thriller no filler..Torquemada
Raw pure southpaw land of the other hand flotilla of Jansen
Saffa’s new slick quick pillar..serial killer like Charles Manson
Let’s end where we did begin..Indian cupboard is rather bare
One savvy Ravi left.. bereft one pace pair with flair through the air
No Ashwin through thick & thin.. slipped on banana skin of spin
Another bish bash bosh whitewash after that Kiwi yippee nirvana
Can still hear the din within of that chagrin at the mandarins sins
Ire..greats retire entire empire on funeral pyre fire - Sinara it's Manana!
My vacuum cleaner likes cookies
Sometimes it makes sounds like Wookies
It eats crayons too
And a lace from a tennis shoe
It hums along with this suction song
Eating up all in its path
It does a good job cleaning
But it can't do math
It caresses carpets and rugs
It invites in bugs
Cobwebs and corners
There's no hiding from this hoarder
There is nothing too tough
And my vacuum stays buff
By sucking at what it does for a living
So if you get the unction
And you see me just standing around
Plug me into the circuit
If you know how to work it
There are goldfish lying on the floor
Snippets and paper punches galore
Glitter strewn and clumps of play dough
And a foreign object....God only knows
So here's to my vacuum
And all you consume
Going from door to door
And room to room
We glide across the floor like Rogers and Astaire
We brush everybody's hair
And after you have done your best
I will put you away for another night’s rest
A hoarder? Me? No way.
I have more than one path in almost every room.
The dogs can always find their way out.
Of course I keep my garbage. Spies would love to have that on the curb.
You never know when you are going to need that egg carton, right?
You do-gooders can get off my property!
It should not bother anyone else how I live my life.
Gladys, can I put some more barrels in your yard?
What about beside the shed?
Just good stuff I might need later.
I promise there are no rats in these.
A truckload or two. Just for a couple of years.
You are as bad as the do-gooders!
I hate you all!
Myrtle Parker
Myrtle Parker lived on the Riviera,
That’s the English one not the French.
Her favourite tipple is Red Currant Cider,
Only beverage her thirst would quench.
Never did she marry no husband,
Preference for life single and free,
Though kept two doggy companions,
Twin Westies, Florence and Zebedee.
Miss Parker was a gatherer and hoarder,
Antiques, curios, lots of impractical tat.
Her catchphrase was somewhat familiar,
“I‘ll find a good use for that.”
Tumbledown Cottage name on the gate,
Aptly called for badly required repair.
The man from Devonshire Council,
Shakes his head in anguished despair.
Oh, dear Myrtle what are we to do,
I cannot see the wood for the trees,
Environment Officer is calling today,
He doesn’t like cockroach and fleas.
Myrtle lives close to Muscle shell beach,
Small cove of shingle and coarse sand,
Opposite the Cat protection league,
Where she buys new clothes second hand.
One summer had a house full of Kittens,
That grew into fully grown cats.
They left her in search of new comforts,
Plagued by visits of large rodent rats.
Myrtle decided on a radical clear out,
To make way for a new feather bed,
But could not let go of her treasures,
So continued sleeping on the sofa instead.
Seventy years old, obstinate and proud,
Devon Council man returned to her door.
“This house is making you poorly my dear,
Regretfully you cannot live here anymore.
Oh, dear Myrtle here’s what we’ll do,
Move you into a comfy town flat,
Environment Officer is calling today,
Condemn your cottage, so sorry about that.
Myrtle Parker was born in this house,
Her father he worked on the boats,
Mother stayed home baking bread,
From freshly ground buckwheat groats.
Tumbledown cottage is full of memories,
Though can’t find many for the clutter.
Diminutive rooms two up two down,
Walls dampened by broken pipe gutter.
If I have to go then take me in a box,
She chained herself to the newel post.
I’ll defend my rights for all I’m worth,
Then haunt Council man as his ghost.
Council man arrives excited with keys,
For Miss Parkers new urban home,
But Myrtle had been true to her word,
and perished on the staircase all alone.
Oh, dear Myrtle what have you done,
Your new flat was shiny and clean,
Environment Officer is calling today,
Demolition boss with bulldozer team.
Squabbling and shouting is our normal,
not in other’s prissy persnickety vocabularies.
Hoarders, we climb over rats to get to our clothes
Others envy us this luxury
No one bathes; the bathtub houses stacks of magazines.
You can throw a half-eaten sandwich behind the couch
the flowered one or the one with the stripes?
Who cares? No one.
There is a smell; possibly a body, lurking about.
We get used to it, my brothers and sisters and I.
Slurping our tomato soup with our elbows on the table.
Mom and Dad are nowhere, having left years ago.
We live like animals, spraying on perfume when we go out.
There is no reason for company, who needs it anyway?
There are eight of us if we need to play Monopoly.
I gather up the pieces from under the table.
The welfare people are here. I stand in front of the door.
Cautioning my seven siblings to be quiet, and they are.
No school for us; we like our hoarder world.
Shhhh!
I’ve felt the vacancy that darkness brings
Every bit and piece, all the little things
Lost reality, the great stall of time
Wishes forfeit, without proper rhyme
Thoughts left unclaimed, chaos without order
Misguided dreams of a nightmare hoarder
Could a wish come true if worded just right
Why do they vanish with the ending of night
Deceit is conjured in the depths of the mind
It searches for answers that it will never find
A prankster of sorts, its skits are in vain
Its only truth is bringing you pain
Maybe tomorrow as a new sunrise comes
Impulse will surge, from some new found crumbs
Don’t give up on love or dismiss your desire
Lightning might strike and relite your fire