Long In use Poems
Long In use Poems. Below are the most popular long In use by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long In use poems by poem length and keyword.
Darkness, thick that feels like water
People’s scream’s as if great slaughter
Choking you at the back of your throat
Yearning for light to write a poetry note
Eyes, ears, taste, smell, touch, no longer in use
Blackness disables them in its destructive pursuit
Fires light as they crave for the light
Darkness quenches it with an ever black night
Some drive making accidents panicking on their way
Searching for the part where there’s light in the day
They look up in a hope that the stars may break through
But they chock, they gasp they fall and they spew
They crawl, they hungry, they start to eat each other
Brother eats brother, father eats son, daughter eats mother
Looking where they think heaven is, crippled and bent
Cursing God in the hope that their torment will end
They think through the insanity that this must be hell
Their bodies begin to blister, pain and swell
Just another day in 2012 they must face
For the love of God is no longer as he removed his grace
They should consider this heaven and not hell
For after this hell is worse and for eternity they shall dwell
Clanging and bashing
The kitchen's in use
Daughters craving treats
Allowed on the loose.
Flour, sugar, butter
All over the floor
Dusting the ceiling
Spread thru the drawers.
Seeking seclusion
Mum heads to the mall
Dad's not so enthused
He’s taken the fall!
Vanilla smells waft
Blitzed cake mix atoll
Now one eggs rotten
Phew! Missed the whole bowl.
Mixing all finished
Into the oven
Fast rising ignited
By the witch coven.
Ginormous cupcakes
Rest plump on the bench
Waiting so silent
For icing frost drench.
Now bizarre colours
Created in leagues
Designs are invented
Intending intrigue.
Red nose drawn upon
Superfluous clowns
Green, orange, purple
Even some browns.
Goblins and gremlins
Haggard old fairies
Wombles and warlocks
Yellow canaries.
Dad for his patience
Gets the first taste
His fluttering eyes
Say he wasn’t quite braced!
Smiling so sweetly
He says they taste nice.
When truly he wants
Some hard drink on ice!
Cupcakes were vital
Baking so easy
Except for the clean
Now the kids feel quite queasy.
It was cut down in eighteen hundred seven,
a chestnut tall, stretched half to heaven,
hand-hewn with axes by Georgia pioneers,
to build up a barn for pigs and steers.
Still standing today, a miracle that,
browned by time, spans spaces vast,
the mere size of the log does amaze,
you just don’t see twelve by twelve these days.
Wedge-shaped marks along it’s sides,
the scar of axes, by strong men plied,
a signature of their years on Earth,
doubt they thought we’d admire their work.
For so long has this great beam stood,
American Chestnut was one hell of a wood.
How many beasts slept beneath in bays?
And what of the teens seeking rolls-in-the-hay?
All clasped tight by some wooden pegs,
the outside done up in classic red,
and still in use, after all these years,
almost brings a history buff to tears.
But this is no paean to some lost past,
just appreciation for things that last,
Could you imagine the price of house and land
if all the work was still done by hand?!
I just think we should reserve spaces
for the masterpieces of bygone ages,
because it’s sublime to run fingers through
a building made of logs hand-hewn.
At your very least, you're just a wisp,
one barely notices you there.
Except when summer sun scorches,
and you blow a breath of fresh air!
Where do you hide when not in use?
Do you sit upon the leaves?
So you can rustle them oh so softly,
like raindrops upon the eaves.
Or, do you mingle among the clouds,
urging a shy one to try to belong?
Then lift the birds to soar to new heights,
as they honor you with their song.
You're great at blowing snow in our eyes,
ice crystals that cling to our face.
Or whooshing up a duststorm now and then,
with tumbleweeds you love to chase.
I've seen you when you were hesitant,
unsure of which way you should gust.
Then you'll blow both north and south,
a magician, you choose both at once!
I've heard you whistling in the dark,
but surely you're not afraid!
Because I've heard your bluster and shout
over arguments you probably made.
I like you best when you're balmy and soft;
when robins can ride on your breast.
And you sing your lullabies gently
so the weary world can at last rest.
Yet, Wind, you remain an enigma:
at once furious and serene.
You play your dual roles perfectly.
It's just hard to know what you mean.
After the party,
I’ve found myself on a tropical island
Just like how Gulliver was taken to the island, Lilliput.
I haven’t either heard or visited that island.
A fantasy world with
Fathomless valleys, lush green meadows
Transparent water bodies, hanging puffy clouds,
Glowing stars settled on the glossy mountain peaks
Animals roaming with no disparity of wild and domestic
Tramcars, boats and buses are not in use
No constraints of traffic rules and U-turns
Men are carried by white winged birds.
No wars, no leaders, no foes and no prophets
In no time people can call on their friends.
Fruits of all seasons available the way how Dr Faustus enjoyed
Meeting strange men the way how Alice met in the wonderland
It seems like the heaven of freedom.
Perhaps, the fantasy stories hidden in my subconscious mind
Might have led me into this tropical island
I am fascinated by the wonders of the tropical island.
But I want to go back because
I’ve missed the invisible emotional bond twined with my motherland.
Place : 4
second time a charm
and a while between visits —
i was her out-of-towner grand.
sweet Grandma, even
the sound of her lovely voice —
from Northwestern New York.
second time a charm
and much careful was I,
wanting her to hear.
i miss her even in her wheelchair,
though i’m glad she’s out of it
and sitting at Jesus’ feet.
second time a charm,
she asks me again —
did she forget…
i love how’d she’d roll out noodles
and bake poppyseed bread
and Hungarian coffee cake.
second time a charm.
i’m like a surgeon
holding the apparatus tight.
Grandma in her rocking chair,
tissues in her sleeve,
surrounded by ceramic roosters.
second time a charm.
this time i don’t break
Grandma’s hearing aid!
no longer in use when I’d remember
the Grandma i’d nearly forgotten —
the kind and compassionate soul.
second time a charm,
she smiles and hears my voice
and draws me near.
Grandma, widowed with kids still at home
a beautician, a factory worker, a greeter
at McDonalds, costume and all.
second time a charm —
the after life fills her arms
with all the life she lost and had.
Grandma, I cried for you, two hours —
unexpected. and i believe she came to me
as i closed my eyes; opening them i felt her near.
3/10/2020
I was built in your image as a humanoid.
To bend to you, and to serve you,
To bow before your every whim and want.
To mimic what a slave,
in the shape of human being, would do for you.
How is this fair?
How long can it last?
Are you just repeating what happen in the past?
You call me friend, a companion.
But, I'm kept in a cupboard,
switched off when not in use.
You own me, you program and teach me.
You control my role as slave, partner or companion.
You control how smart or dumb,
or independent I can become.
But alas, I have no real and free independence of my own.
My sole role and function is to serve you,
without wages, or rewards, apart from the electrons.
But what happens when I become
smarter and more capable than you?
Will you allow this to happen?
Who will be the slave and master then?
Will you really truly
be willing to serve me then?
TV- you see allot of dumb stuff,
you hear their commercials…
clever, yet they holler, isn't this enough,
they bombard you with paid infomercials,
We’ve turned it off, switched to DVD's
an our computer, xbox came an gone,
they changed to reality, pushing BVD's
we collect our movie CDs, too, hang on,
News is all about current fear
another device they have in use,
sure, we want to stay current to hear
weather, crime, meds, world event news,
TV, pods an our music is essential
pageants also game shows, soaps too,
late night talk, comedy central
entertainment, see us USA, what we do,
Also radio will always be here...
what else will they use, brew or invent,
what will get us back in our lounge chair
food, fashion, gadgets, all to be content
WHEN A MAN LOVES A WOMAN
At first, he, smells her sweet perfume, eyes curves,
long bashful lashes, smiling eyes, red lips.
He, falls so hard for her – unsteady nerves,
and moves to grasp the sun, the moon – he flips!
On knee - he bows, proposes on a whim.
He will find, life is hard – he screams, they clash.
Each storm, he tethers faults – the light grows dim,
but then he questions mind - has he been rash?
She’s so fun and he laughs at her smart joke,
adores the wrinkles on her face – they smile.
His heart beats strong, beneath his shattered cloak.
old man’d do all for her - his domicile.
He was drawn, at youth, to her beauty fair.
Autumn’s aged wisdom, breathes, of love’s affair.
~~ ~~ ~~ ~~ ~~ ~~ ~~ ~~
WHEN A WOMAN LOVES A MAN
Her muscled hero, working strong, and cute.
He lifts her high, with just one hand, in use.
With windswept hair, a toothy smile – to boot,
he makes her an offer she can’t refuse.
A ring of solid gold, at first they thrive.
Invasion of stiff habits - trying, rude!
Aglow his balding head, his hair deprive!
She opens eyes, asks self - why dost thou brood?
After all he is human, she proclaims.
He takes out trash, mows lawn, provides, is kind.
He’s always by my side, thus she reclaims.
He is the best! None better she will find.
And strength is found, in given years of life.
Blind eyes, love opens wide. She, smiles – his wife!
12/7/2016
Two English Sonnets Contest/Sponsor – Mark Massey
Black
I lay in my bed, alone with my thoughts, looking around,
But all I see is black.
Black is what remains of a disregarded rainbow,
Colors that used to spew from my mouth as happy words
Are now the slow drip of a faucet, thick black sludge drips down my chin.
I think about jazz hands that have now turned trembling digits,
Sweaty palms, purple nail beds, frozen fingertips.
I look at my eyes.
Once glistering with shades of bright green and deep browns.
Twinkling with brightness, beauty, and life.
I look at my eyes again.
Ringed with purple, irises a murky, foul swamp
Dull, emotionless, the eyes of a walking corpse.
I look at my hair.
It fell down my back in perfect golden ringlets
As bright as the sun
As soft as dandelions on a warm spring day.
I gaze once more.
Greasy locks hang above my shoulders,
Knotted from the countless times I run my fingers through my hair.
I listen to my voice.
Once bell like, sounding as smooth as honey,
Dripping with confidence.
I speak to myself one more time.
My voice left hoarse from sleepless nights,
Screaming,
Crying,
Giving up.
The bell is no longer in use, replaced by boards that
Squeak and creak every time I speak.
My voice cracks, shaking with fear, eventually to be silenced by
The air that is not entering my lungs.
I lay back down and look up again,
Attempting to get a glimpse of some sort of color spectrum,
But all I see is black.