Long Keyholes Poems
Long Keyholes Poems. Below are the most popular long Keyholes by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Keyholes poems by poem length and keyword.
You skulked down the hidden backstreets of rationality,
peering through the keyholes of human decency,
and crawled in through the sewers of thought,
to whisper your name to the unsuspecting innocent,
filling them with the fear of discontented oppression.
“We are America, So up Yours!” was your battle cry
and the naive jump aboard your pretentious parade.
Fake news…
Fake hair…
FAKE TRUTH!
Maybe we should have ‘read HIS lips’.
Wall them out, or wall us in…that is the question.
Oh yes, my dear friend William,
we are truly suffering the slings and arrows,
of outrageous buffoonery.
Do we now take up arms and light the battle fires of resistance?
Or do we sleep…
Perchance to dream.
Be careful what you dream for.
Written 3/10/2017
I started at an early age
Just six years old and I can’t sleep
I need to my boredom assuage
So through mommy’s keyhole I peep.
And what a glorious event
Dad and mom wrestling on the bed
Odd how mommy’s body is bent
And how they collapse like they’re dead.
Thus my keyhole addiction starts
With the innocence of a child
And sometimes I’d see nasty parts
A bedroom circus that’s gone wild.
Finally I’m caught in my teens
I lie about my contact lens
But I knew, of course, what it means
I moved on to peeping at friends.
Excuses to spend time away
“Studying” nightly with a friend
The risk making better the pay
Keyholes — obsession and sick trend.
But it couldn’t last forever
And when stopped at a stranger’s hole
Though I am really quite clever
My habit had taken a toll.
There are no keyholes in prison
Where I’m sentenced to life times three
Questions have no doubt arisen
Why so long for a looky-see?
Well, I know well the circus act
Bouncing, bending then short of breath
Most people forget the impact
Of a finale crowned by death.
Many pairs I choreographed
With death the ultimate climax
Alas, God stared down and just laughed
No keyholes in jail level max.
January 8, 2919
There are so many doors
Which ones should I choose
Green, yellow, brown, purple
and many different blues
Some of them are rustic
Others modern and clean
Some lead to the future
others back where I've been
Some doors open easily
while quite a few are locked
There are some left open
and others that are blocked
A few so enticing
promise pleasure within
They are slightly hidden
so few will see me sin
I look through some keyholes
wondering if I'll be safe
I see rooms of plenty
and tables draped in lace
The doors that are daunting
they fill me with such dread
for I know there's sadness
in the land of the dead
Many doors are happy
Friends and loved ones are there
those doors are the best ones
being with people who care
Behind some there's music
Pleasured time we can share
Moments of pure magic
those times are far to rare
Doors leading to adventure
Made me glad I took the chance
The sheer exhilaration
that caused my spirit to dance
Some doorways disguised as books
Yes they caused my mind to grow
They pointed to other doors
so I knew which way to go
The doors that I left closed
In the end I don't regret
They could have brought me ruin
or led my soul into debt
Of all the doors I'll walk through
The final one is the best
For there my Saviour waits
therefore, I know I am blessed
they call her kind, they call her bright
a whisper soft, a spark of light
but fairies lie, and mortals weep
when stolen dreams no longer sleep
she flits through keyholes, thin as mist
with ice-cold breath and silver wrist
her fingers pluck, her hands embrace
the dreams that drift on moonlight’s lace
a child who dreams of golden halls
will wake to bare and empty walls
a lover lost in passion’s heat
will find their heart grown slow, discreet
the painter wakes with trembling hands
his colors drained like drying sands
the singer coughs, her voice undone
the poet stares—but finds no tongue
she keeps them all in hollow glass
a thousand dreams that none surpass
some hum like wind, some scream like fate
some claw the dark, but it’s too late
for once they rest in faery hold
no hands of man can break their cold
a wish once lost is lost for good—
she leaves them hollow, where they stood
so bolt your doors, and bar them tight
do not give welcome to the night
for if she comes and takes your spark
you’ll never wake beyond the dark
Lazy afternoons on easels
Maples giggle loud with sweetness
Blue and yellow mixed in grasses
Withered wrinkles sink in lilies
Joggers run in fear of dying
Secret trails end in abyss
As the sun stabs days in prisms
Bloody madness grabs the paintbrush
People old vanish from benches
Emptiness sits down by me
Artists mutilate self-portraits
Tempera in tubes succumbs
Painters shoot apocalypse in veins
Signatures escape through keyholes
Night becomes obsessive pitch black
Ghosts invade museum closed
...and I walk by with my suitcase
as reduced to it I am...
No one knows I carry homeless
The Portfolio of my Fate...
copyright@iolandascripca2012
Chill confines a diary of absence
as September keyholes a papered wall.
A smirk tears a face--escapee silence
--styles wall with nothingness, dead ends AWOL.
A bottle of spent wealth parlays about ...
tangled weaves justify the performance.
Pebble leather worships darkly, blacks-out
a ghosted pundit building blocks, mischance.
Cold fashions the well, tilt pour sands reserves.
Alas, pitched secrets facades of falsehood,
its prisoner scopes round a war of words,
sheathed arrogance knells myPhone, knock on wood.
Crinkled gone days lay ... flattery goes on.
Scrawled lines drown, looming voice curts; "My Dear John".
***A Parenting Tale***
He must’ve been
Just barely fourteen, but still off as
A ninja filling a pillowcase
with chocolate on Halloween.
Although through all other days
his ken was an avocado green,
That is actually a deep
nubby, buttery green.
The older teens, always girls,
Stood leaning on the fenders of their parent’s cars,
Twirling their lemon curls around
Still child-small index fingers
While foot tapping to some unknown
Time until night cloaked our court.
Then, with a wave of the girl’s arms,
our son collapsed to fit out through
Keyholes or go with the autumn mice
Under the garage door, to slink
From one girl’s car to three, where
Not one pair of pink lips cou answer
me if her parents knew her where?
Hardly a surprise then one night
near ten p.m.,
When authority alarmed, fist-knocking
on our front door. Police?
What is the, aaa, problem, sirs?”
“You’ve a son we’ve gotten word of.
Is he home?” Yes. Well, yes.
Certainly, yes. It’s bedtime…
He comes down, cool from his room to
Join us in the hall, looking face to face,
so sliced-olive green.
The officers, wasted not a second.
“We’ve a warrant for a missing girl,
A friend of yours said you knew.
Have you seen Anna Joe today?” No.
“Have you had company tonight?” No.
“Have friends up there with you?” No.
Then to us, “We’d like to go up to look.”
I was mother-so-proud assuring, “He
doesn’t lie. I’d’ve heard company.”
Within a minute, the parade came down
The stairs: handcuffed girl, officers
with son between them and coming to
Stand by me, supposing it was safe.
I screamed, “You lied! To the police!
To us!” Then, I swung my arm back
And forward again with force from
Knowing how he’d dealt us into danger.
I smacked him hard and loud
in front of the police in that
Scrapbook moment of parenting the idiot
Events of a bean-green teen, which also
ended musical car nights on our
court.
————————————————————————————————-
(c) sally young Eslinger 2/6/22
Hope holds my wrists,
with ribbons that feel like chains—
gentle,
yet impossible to break.
I pace the bars
made of maybes,
counting instances
of what-if, could-be, and if-only,
each probe a step forward.
I press the soft faces
of my restless dreams
through the bars
of tomorrow's mirrors,
fogging the glass,
yearning with my breathing—
too close to see,
too far away to feel.
Some nights
fear rattles the locks loose,
and some negative whispers
seep into my bones,
but I will not stray.
For hope
is the only captor
I trust—
the one who feeds me light,
even through keyholes,
when all else fails.
I could flee these bounds,
and call it 'Freedom',
but I’d rather remain—
smuggling miracles of hope
foreseen through distant cracks
in midnight’s seems.
I'm a Prisoner.
a Prisoner of Hope!
In what seems, can be?
In the cracks of my being!
Was it Wednesday ?
Partly closed, under a hide me peak
of “ Red Bull Inc “ His eyes shaded
cannot see further than his
half day Wednesday dream
expectation sits here ! It must be right.
Her eyes ! they drip the Moon and broken stars
and far, far away now, don’t and shan’t
their playing at it, hidden in shadows
bringing real time uncomfortably close
belief sits here, maybe a distance so near.
The longed for full Moon is half
the stars are hidden behind keyholes
wasted rolling minutes and empty hours
spread into Thursdays first light
it was a half day Wednesday, yes !
Must have been Wednesday.
I watched you slowly disappear
pacing restlessly back and forth
warbling off-key through the
woozy blackness of a day
I watched you glide upwards
through the slender keyholes
quivering and sun-cloaked
towards the edgeless seasons
I watched you unfurl with rapture
rummaging the vast firmament
ill-famed for your cinder face
corralled and vaulted
I watched you smile in epoxy
at every wake and burial
you made weather off your skin
mostly smooth and neon-colored
I watched you sink in every rivulet
amidst the mountain ridges
and your incandescent eyelashes
creeping upon the timid animals
I watched you blast off to nowhere
becoming a zero, a ransacked town
only a replica of your blank self
a free sacrifice to destroyers
I watched you eat your cotton candy
heading home to fictive horizons
your limbs so flabby and tired
your eyes full of dismissal