Long House Poems
Long House Poems. Below are the most popular long House by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long House poems by poem length and keyword.
I remember how mom treasured every moment
she somehow stretched time
never seeming to be rushed or flustered
always keeping busy with something in the works
a mind that never ceased
the wheels turning and churning
her life a tribute to the joy
that could be found in every instant
I remember vividly the scent of freedom
that first morning after highschool was out
and summer vacation began
it was then I had a peek at mom’s morning routine
after the young ones left on the school bus
there I was I’d watch somewhat of
an intruder on mom’s personal time
she would open all doors and windows
to let the country air into the house
it was magnificent and intoxicating
~ that smell of sudden freedom
AP: 1st place 2026, 1st place 2025, Honorable Mention 2020
Submitted on July 6, 2019 for contest CHILDHOOD MEMORIES sponsored by CHANTELLE ANNE COOKE - RANKED 3RD
The door swells in its frame each winter,
paint curling like old tongues —
still you press it open with a finger,
leaving soft dents in the wood.
Inside, the walls hum from hidden wires;
plaster sighs under your barefoot weight.
Every step — a loosened nail,
a whisper of dust sliding down beams.
The windows breathe in drafts,
their single panes shivering;
no storm need rage —
your shadow is enough to rattle them.
In the hallway, wallpaper blisters;
your sleeve grazes it,
and flakes of me snow to the floor.
The ceiling, swollen with damp,
droops lower each night you sleep here —
timbers ache above your breathing.
Downstairs, the kitchen faucet drips
like a clock without courage;
your laugh sends the pipes ringing,
and the cupboards cough up ghosts.
Upstairs, in the attic, silence nests —
you climb no ladder,
yet I feel your warmth seep into rafters
where rot waits, patient.
When you close the door behind you,
its frame leans inward, yearning.
The house is always colder after.
I love you I try to do what's right..I really did go swimming last night I stopped by baskin and robbins for a quart of your favorite ice cream butter pecan but it melted..I think you felt it, the change in our relationship. we hide behind beautiful lies to soften the pain and flee from what used to be estacy-crying oh please free me. so when will I leave can't go to mommas house down south, oh no mary lou's back at mommas house. to death do us part it really was in my heart to be with you forever, now we wish we'd never..we tell lies to hide the contempt and distrust we choose others for lust and other sex stuff..In the next life maybe we will meet again in a pure spirit, I will be by your side in complete bliss..beautiful lies has made an exit.
In walking distance from my house
Are restaurants a’plenty.
In just a 5 block radius,
There must be more than 20.
There also are a lot of stores –
For food or drugs or liquor
And also several hospitals
(Though cabs get you there quicker).
In walking distance, there is art –
Just choose a cool museum
And Google the exhibits now
Then stroll on by to see ‘em.
You need an outfit, socks or shoes?
A book of stamps? Some flowers?
No matter what, it can be bought –
Just double-check the hours.
A city life has lots of noise
But anyone you talk to
Will tell you that it’s wonderful
To have so much to walk to.
Crack!
A violent ocean wind
has trampled furiously
over a collection
of coconut palms,
demolishing them
like bowling pins.
Now overturned,
the roaring current, with the wind as his accomplice
reaches out with writhing turmoil,
blinding the skies with darkness.
(Pinpricks of light shine).
The ocean rips the coconut from its tightly woven bed,
rearing open its gaping mouth
to condemn it to an eerie fate;
swallowed beneath an ineffable weight.
Strangely, it yielded to the monstrous waves.
Like feathers in the breeze, it simply let
the ocean bear it, further and further from the shore.
Only a crack could sink it,
yet the sea despite all its might, was impotent.
And- perhaps- the coconut knew-
that as sure as nature has torn down its house,
it must also guide it to new lands
where it could root and make another home,
anew.
Waiting for the sea to quell itself,
the coconut passes the time
by counting the stars.
Yes ma, mother tongue
my ears are not deaf to your calling
even when I am dead at night
and far I have gone in the world beyond – world ceiling
for not like others, stumbling
waddling
falling
dying
is your voice in their ears
I have wanted to die my ears
to this calling
to die it like a day old life-less infant
for even if it is animate
it could neither see nor hear
O what a powerful! Pricking my ears
your wailing a spear
Now I have prepared and I am set
to embark on the fruitless errand of yours
Listen, mother tongue
like proud-less river to my words
I have gone and I have seen her prettiness
I have moved close to her and smelt her scent
O sugary!
This strange tongue is fascinating
her luring tone is so sonorous
instant she sings
your children sleep and snore as frog
O mother tongue!
Opened are my eyes
and covered are my ears
tightened, tightened like thin can
but only your wail rooms my ears
O mother tongue!
You are a mother
whose belly is the ocean
that streams in the flesh
You are a pool of blood
which within flesh you room
Can someone dry water and blood in the flesh
so that you can be no more?
You are a mother
whose no child can tell of her beginning
You are umbilical cord
You are immortal, yet you are dying
O mother tongue!
I have prepared and I am set
to embark on the fruitless errand of yours
Listen, mother tongue
like proud-less river to my words
The children
which because of them your eyes stream
will neither listen nor ear you appalling
O mother tongue!
I am set and it is time
to embark on this errand of yours
Perhaps if their sense would sense
and their eyes would see the beauty in you
and your tone that as sweet as honey
that can never bereft it taste
O mother tongue!
If you die in their house
who will, indeed, cry if not them
in amidst of mockery eyes
or can a strange tongue be their tongue?
A wake up write for whoever cherish other culture above his or hers.
we were adopted on the same morning
my father loved us, a love adoring
my brothers shared a gene name, Cabernet
sisters noble parents based on hearsay
my dad built a strong house of fine French oak
we stayed there for months until the walls spoke
Sauvignon muscular and the strongest
Franc dark and lean and can stay the longest
Merlot is too shy and soft as satin
me, Petit Verdot, was told to fatten
we left that house for a place very small
this was a time of character for all
life a blend of love and time but real
dad says it’s a Bordeaux surreal appeal
-updated July 2016-
It was no longer easy like Sunday morning. I was cold inside.
I was perplexed, confused, and did not have a clue of what to do.
I asked my closest friends, "What shall I do?" As time slowly
elapsed, and the moment of truth was facing me at my door,
I continued asking my friends, "What, what, what shall I do?"
To a person, they never wavered from their point of view.
In fact, they really never had an opinion or point of view.
They continued to say to me, "Just go with the flow".
I couldn't go with the flow because the flow wouldn't go.
I was reminded of a neighboring house bought one winter.
They did not move in right away and someone failed to leave
the furnace on. It became unusually cold in our area and the
water in the pipe line turned to ice which swelled and burst the pipes.
The remodeled house got flooded because the water did not flow but froze.
The water pipes became like my veins, a conduit of pain with ice in the veins.
After becoming frustrated with all of my friends, I said
to them, "There is no flow. It's too cold. There's only
ice in the veins, blocking and locking up the flow".
Behind the blockage is pain and a deluge of falling rain,
making every possibility of change completely impossible.
It seems all is lost and every fix-it attempt is an effort in vain,
a feeble exercise in futility. Why this? Why now? Why here?
Why not there? Why not him? Why me? When there's ice
in the veins, there is only one thing to do. Give it time.
042722PSCtest, Pick-A-Title, Vol 30. Edward Ibeh
Title chose: Ice In The Veins. 2P
this epistle per mine choice of heir apparent presidential throne
composed from one liberal minded non-conformist rolling stone
prompted awareness that one voice can affect which contestant will win
and occupy the white house after the votes get tallied from political spin
aware thy missive from an anonymous fellow and a self anointed scribe
will be carefully screened no matter opinion already cast with nada bribe
personal opinion of this sole american male of two score and nine years
that barack obama possesses that je ne sais quois diplomatic state craft
despite disparaging broadside starring paris hilton plus britney spears
the land of lincoln candidate exemplifies (to myself) a charismatic charm
in tandem with a relaxed persona and gait akin per a commoner on a farm
that nonchalant easy going affinity speaks nonverbal volumes to this chap
cringes when espying or hearing from opposing challenger whose lips flap
meaning john mccain whose hidden motives and agenda include his trap
to plant seeds of doubt per un-decided electorate causing lead to get a zap
unknown how trials and tribulations rival democratic senator from Illinois
will weather local nor global challenges and said solution he might employ
i opt for said captain to steer ship of state and exclaim to drop anchor ahoy
if via cosmic divine intercession the galloping newcomer in this horse race
ushering biracial as nominal winner televisions would show a beaming face
the political ramifications analogous to betting square outcome on this ace
i gently beg, decry, fulminate counter attack advertisements fast and quick
against those subliminal sly messages that at first blush appear airily slick
and please reach deep in that magic bag resorting to retaliatory artful trick
lest burning from the madding crowd extinguished like jack’s candle wick!
The April morning's quiet
and so is the November.
Wherever people outnumber trees
or the dominant cover type
is unquiet. Nothing wrong with that.
Walt got it right, and Jane Jacobs:
the city is an experienced,
used beauty. Her toes are long,
nails thick and hair thin. Yet
her kisses can be sweet; or
smell of ****. All my life I've tried to point my window toward
some narrow wedge of nature.
On Seaman Ave., over the roof
beyond the chimneys to the park
where every dog was walked.
Could I survive soot and an air shaft now, pigeons and cats,
or even a desk in the legislature for my lot in life. How about
prison like Etheridge Knight,
Nazim Hikmet?
I've gotten soft.
When he builds that house in the pocket
wetland my window now looks out on,
the developer will have given me what I need.
Amphibian mortality,
gravel, fill,
oak, ash and maples felled. Good
to the last drop is our bitterness, our love.