Long Keyless Poems
Long Keyless Poems. Below are the most popular long Keyless by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Keyless poems by poem length and keyword.
I remember now. Something was heavy, a winged
dragon that refused to fly from my chest
My eyes were secret mirrors, or a doomsday judge.
I remember morning as a flighty horse,
or like a new school year,
that first careful sentence written on a page.
Time became a sequel. Roads were rootless trees
racing by - Fog an x-ray – the night, annoying as a fly.
I had a misconception and her assumptions followed
every stray dog. I quivered hollow with a frantic yellow zest.
I ate from a dish of nutmeg.
I woke to the sound of dying frogs, impossible spiders
trapping rainbows in their webs, the nebulous orbit
of knick knacks in the room, my reach
too small for a mother’s heart.
Her seeds had such an element of surprise, her
plum lipstick, the zing of frayed nerves
she mocked death with a cup of sunshine
she kept an artist’s palette - adding
color to existence
Too late, the impossible demand on angels
Each bitter thought the baroque decomposing
of an empty optimism
My keyless lock - emotion
Premiere Contest number 12
Contest Judged: 9/24/2016 12:01:00 AM
Sponsored by: SKAT A
Placed 9out of 10
Entered in the Best Poem worthy of a Trophy
I have entered this poem because it came from
out of the ether. Some poems just do.
Deeply felt almost not understood but felt on a visceral level.
N/A’d
There is no Path
but there is where I have trod.
There is no Path
but there are promises.
There is no Path
despite the signs.
There is no Path
despite the flagstones.
There is no Path
but there is where I have trod.
I may only truly
come to've earned the word
'path' at all
if after walking,
if after blazing,
if after course-correcting,
if after wearing thin the souls,
if after pollinating the soil;
step-by-step;
as a bee,
as a bird,
as the wind...
If I should spin
on heels
and cast a gaze
from whence I came
I may then call that
...a path.
But it is locked in the
keyless prison of representation
and, if it weren't,
it'd only then
be my path
not yours;
and even not mine
for I've walked
and changed
so, no.
Despite some sort of arrival
and having walked-ness
the 'path' seized
in quiet desperation by my mind
must one day be loosed
and seen for
all its never-there-before
'twasn't true-ness.
There is no Path
but there is where I have trod.
Cars today do not come with keys.
You are handed a little elongated remote fob thing.
Silver and black, looks science fiction-ish.
If you are me, you think there is a button somewhere.
If you flick it, the teeth of the key will appear like a switchblade.
But
N
N
N
O
O
O
That does not happen.
It is a keyless car; you have to have the fob to start it
But there is a start button.
It took me several tries and the delivery man jumped in twice.
He explained it, and I jumped back in.
But I did not get it until the second time.
The trick is – you have to put your foot on the brake and keep it there
Until you push the start button and hear it start.
If it has a real soft engine, you do not hear it at all.
I was terrified we had bought a car I could not ever start.
Plump and odd if it be round, for it being not its true girth,
albeit a perturbed belly is lacking as a mind revels in mirth,
as distant time and nigh rebels cause to fester pains worth.
For time begs the favor of that quill’s revival to regale its destiny,
as written walls forbearing thoughts, courses the spirited a remedy,
paper I have, but envelopes are in want, a late hour, a store's journey.
A store tends only a box of purple envelopes, as its price kills me more,
I relish the idea of the recipient who mirrors my mind on an even score,
ha, as I laugh in the gloom of no measure, stands I, keyless at the door.
An open window saved me—somewhat, as I grasped the desk nearby,
I felt it squished, splurting the unfinished work and my efforts applied,
loss bears its weight in value, I mailed graped purple, a knock replies I.
The inner resources of our being
attacked to it's very inward core
you think this is stealing my identity
devastated looking dead on the floor
No matter much you try to lift
nothing works from your present state
it seems you're locked in keyless state
you don't even feel any purposeless hate
Such lifeless unreality feels so true
but don't give up for there's hope
you've a voice to make your cry
utter a prayer cling to a rope
For God will be your one great deliverer
all your enemies the Lord will surely defeat
no fear will truly eternally overcome you
fear Him alone bowing at His feet
The Lord your God reigns supreme
no matter what we actually feel
this we can say utterly confident
for our eternal security He does seal!
(some thoughts on fear and the devastating effect they can have upon us remembering there's always hope, praise God!)
Dream Keys
by Odin Roark
A NY mantra
Rent the rentable
Move the movable
Key the keyable
Apartments
Four-wall-guardian of yesterday’s youth
Vacuous cellmates of old age loneliness
All part of a cyclic maze
All having a key
Urban life’s Rubik’s Cube turnover
Today’s the day
“Two rooms”
“New paint”
“Clean window”
“No-squeaky floorboards”
Superintendent loves to present
Move in
Keys
Entrance door
Mailbox
Apartment
Laundry room
All yours
A windowsill vase of plastic roses
Your welcome of faded memories
The window to the people below
Your traveled city as roommate
Through another glass darkly
Gotta love it
Pea green layering
Over cracked and peeling bygones
Your very own chipped-paint scrapbook
A giant shoebox of ghostly images
Once possessing your castle-keys
Settle in
Struggle
Dream
Survive
Stand at your window
Watch canyon updrafts
Swirl your make-believe snowflakes
Carrying them skyward
Mixing with sparkling darkness
Where every star is yours
Count the days
Where light to see
Will be owned by neighboring towers
Where former tenants came young
Left old
Where thrown cups and china
Christened walls
And confinement’s anger and tears
Found solace in an ever inviting empty bathtub
Where pounding fists
Rattled bathroom door hinges
While a child hid beneath a bed
Smiling tearful thanks
A wanderlust roach
His ever-faithful friend
All yours
Here
Where a Sammy Glick got started
And an undergrad
An engineer
A Radical leftist
A piano teacher
All touched
All turned
All once secured your keys
So
Add your imprint
Become tomorrow’s remembered page
The scrapbook knows no end
This is Manhattan
Scenes will erupt
Hysterics will rebirth
Life will live
Maybe live some more
Then
Your turn to pass the keys
Your turn to pile worn memories at the curb
Mattresses always appreciated
Stand across the street
Watch the ever-smiling Super
Hand the keys to the next habitant
And then…
Go
Never to forget your contribution
Leaving behind another preparatory memory
Allowing the coming year
Your next season of imaginings
To dream of another home
Somewhere
Waiting…
Gifted with keyless entry?
Loneliness gone?
Truths were told, yet beatings continue
He knows but he won’t intervene
Cries are heard from the floors below
He hears the damage she causes
et he remains hidden behind mahogany doors
Our lips gasped for air, as her grip tightens
Whispered pleas of repentance from what,
we did not know.
Shadows dance behind doors
An entity lingered with hushed sighs.
TV muffled their screams, desensitized him of
there woes.
His porcelain dolls shedding scarlet tears.
Pillows hollowed out there screams of intense pain.
Through the looking glass, they lay blank stares,
and outstretched hands, reaching...but for who?
He did not intervene.
Strained eyes through keyless holes
Stifled sighs as he did nothing but
Eavesdrop
As we age, we whittle down
The things that we can do
Or the ways that we can do them
So we last the whole day through.
I’ve whittled down my exercise
And how much I can drink.
My energy’s been whittled
And my brain’s begun to shrink.
I’ve whittled my acquaintances,
Though some were not my fault
And my memory’s been whittled
Or locked in a keyless vault.
I’ve whittled down my travels
And my need to shop and buy.
Some hobbies have been whittled,
Which I loved; I don’t know why.
My knife is sharper than my mind
So I won’t be belittling
The ways it goes about its job,
As time goes by, of whittling.
Behind The Curtain Door
There's one in front,
there's one in back,
Both keyless doors,
with wooden latch,
All else there hangs,
the curtained door,
A simple sheet,
and nothing more,
Be the thirties,
ere Pearl Harbor,
Her dad was a
country farmer,
Mom just a girl,
preteen to be,
A wealth of growth,
a life carefree,
Her known siblings,
decade that's next,
For it was best,
be so complex,
As mom had lived,
during hard times,
People lived off,
nickels and dimes,
Her mom and dad,
gave her great cares,
For just be quite,
the child of theirs,
You see mom knew,
when told to wait,
Back of curtain,
door, yon lies fate,
Behind the
curtain door she saw,
Siblings crated,
by ma and pa,
She saw ma weep,
and pa steadfast,
For another,
sibling had passed,
Soda crate box,
aligned with sheets,
Adorned flowers,
on top completes,
Her mom then called
my mom by name,
From yonder curtain
door she came,
Grandma had,
*kukui-hele-po,
Grandpa had,
her sis. or a bro.,
Slowly she walked,
respectfully,
All offered
prayers, thankfully,
Mom was the
eldest of thirteen,
Outlived them all,
be piety,
Five she did share,
a life and more,
Nay, seven seen,
yon curtain door.
2020 February 26
*Hawaiian word for 'kerosene lamp', "kukui" is the oil from the candlenut, "hele" is to go, "po" is light
Howmanysyllables;
32 lines x 8 syllables per = 256 syllables total
We're born keyless.
Then given plastic keys to play with.
We earn our first key of responsibility.
To mobilize-to enter things.
To cage things-to abuse things.
Like a warden with a cluster of keys
letting the good out- keeping the bad ones in
or is it the other way around?
A steady stream of keys.
Like a bird-every key sings
,, especially the skeleton key.
Only a few keys are able to keep your secrets.
Eventually there is a chorus of keys
Most of mine(secrets) are silver or gold
Some are dirty, some are clean.
Only one of them is king
but none of them are green
We often lose them
Then a mad search commences,
Like a red-eyed druggie rooting for a quick fix,
We smile in relief when we find them,
Hugging them as if they were our children.
Keys grow old, become battered and bent
Some wriggle off the ring.
Every year we have fewer keys.
Keys are a lot like friends,
What a relief it must be to be keyless again.