Long Mice Poems
Long Mice Poems. Below are the most popular long Mice by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Mice poems by poem length and keyword.
Everything was fine
My bed sheets felt cool and divine
And my mind wandered
The room began to roll
Until the walls fell away
I wasn't startled
Until I heard the clash of thunder
And lightning flashed before my eyes
My bed was a lonely vessel
In a raging sea
I held on tight
Riding the waves
And I swore I saw Poseidon
Selling lobster fixin's to dancing hermit crabs
But I just held on tight
Feeling bile rise up my throat
Yet I never threw up
And the angry clouds calmed down
After being tickled by a giant feather
Wielded by mice wearing sunglasses
Everything seemed to slow
The wind caressed my face
And my bed drifted on the ocean surface
But if I were to close my eyes
I would fall, fall, fall
Into the depths of darkness
The depths of my mind
But for once I just wanted to drift
On the lonely sea
Surrounded by mobster whales
Shooting off insults at my dirty clothes
But eventually they were left behind
And the bed was trapped at a beach
That beach was my life
I felt the grains of sand between my toes
But I sank, sank, sank
Everything slowly turned black
Until the walls rose up
And my mind wandered
My bed sheets felt cool and divine
Everything was fine
Four basic things that we all do need.
Our bodies crave them with actual greed.
The first is oxygen in the air
In just a few moments, quite the scare.
You need it to make ATP
And form water but not for pee.
This water you can breathe out warm
And fog a mirror, hot blooded life form.
The next is water, the liquid of life.
Just one day without it and you feel the strife.
Dizzy you get
Quite upset
And you’d do anything just to feel wet.
A few days long is all you can go
And after three days you really know
That your time is up and you are through
And there’s little that you can do.
Sleep is next, not many know this
And no one likes it when they miss
A good night’s sleep every night
Without it you never feel quite right.
So how long can you go without sleep?
The question is rather deep.
We can’t play with people like mice.
Even if we did, would the results be precise?
We really don’t know
How long we can go
But studies do show
That animals will forego.
Lastly we have food.
Oh, how good.
How long can we go without food
Before our body is permanently screwed?
And when I say, permanently screwed
I’m trying to allude
To the fact that if you then eat
The damage done will not retreat.
So just how long is this time we speak?
About a month and then you’re too weak
To do anything but stare and peek.
Those dead minks with the holes where the eyes went
They were both eaten in closets in the sixties right?
Do you remember those moth balls and the hat boxes?
I am going through an old memory of grandma’s closet.
It was crazy dark back in there; it felt like mice were lurking.
I remember the old person smells of stinky perfume.
And grandpa’s cologne. We played under the racks.
It was a time of discovery; I was a pirate in there.
I miss this sometimes. My closet is not half as lovely.
I especially miss putting my fingers in and out of the eye holes
Of those stiff smelly dead minks with the fur that was molting.
Why she kept these I do not know. Possibly were her mother’s?
Two faithful souls stand listless in the great big tower
overlooking the stranded city that once stood tall
yearning for a quiet place to lay their heads
while far beyond the deserted land
a soft blue light gleams gracefully above tranquil skies,
dancing shadows rocking to midnight tunes,
and sweet melodies echoing from the gigantic moon.
She spans more than a thousand feet long soaking
up the exhausted earth, her immeasurable depths
cuts and carve through valleys and streams
with clear blue water and powdery white sand
what more could you ask for on that distant land.
They have been planning this trip for many years,
but when the time draws near their saving disappears.
An empty refrigerator with two trays of frozen ice
lean against the corner of the kitchen
in their ten bedroom mansion
and a bare pantry exposing a slice of mildew bread
filled with little mice nibbling and playing tug of war.
Not many people knew their story
they have been broke for twenty years
but lived a painful lie, cutting corners
making back door transaction,
eating lamb and turkey from profits
made from sordid deals.
Their empire that once stood tall hangs in dismay
While it watches the world going up in flame
by those who continue to play treacherous games.
Sobibor and Hiroshima horrors of the past
Should have cleared the way for a more sophisticated path
But now athoroughfare mixed with complexity
packed with insidiousness
have ducks walking around
quacking without wings or tails
They finally got an offer to go to Utopia.
with packed bags not a penny in their name,
they set off for Utopia hoping to find a new life again
but when they got their it was the same old begrimed game.
Their entire world has been shaken,
shaken by its own guilt and self-reproach,
the transgression that their ancestors have borne
have been handed down for generations to shoulder
A land that they believe was pure and holy
has turned into nightmare and horror
dreadful things dismount in dark corners
women raped strangers abused
yet religion forms the core of the throne
They have witnessed empires toppled,
Kingdoms have fallen in their sight
Rulers have shaken and wept bitterly
causing the great big god to balance the scale
but blackmail in Utopia remains a formidable game
©2013 Christine Phillips
There, my eyes fixed on the yellow paving stone.
Amongst a slightly tangled dandelion leaf is a
little purple demon staring back at me.
Just stood casually as the suns rays continue
to bounce vividly off the heated ground.
I notice those pointed eyes all sharp and looking frightened,
that I might disrupt his peaceful unity with the warm breeze.
I won't, but I'll remain enchanted by such presence.
His gold earrings reflect many colours of the passing day,
as they appear all the way up those elongated ears.
A tiny ruby shines from a chain around his neck
and there I see the hour glass dangling unthreateningly.
The indents of aged muscle mould above his chest bone
to form perfect pectorals. On each tiny nipple is another hoop;
only, they are bronze in appearance, almost wilting in their achingness.
I'm overwhelmed as I thought I recognised the curling of his mouth,
a smile for me. I smile back uncertain if he would think I am afraid.
Then his sharp ivory teeth poke out and I know I have done a good thing.
The greens of his emerald eyes enlighten the evilness,
he just wants fresh air from the summers sky as I do.
A tail slivers like a python in the air with a triangular form at its end.
His nails look dangerous on the edges if his twig like fingers.
But I do not feel them piercing my soul.
For his hour glass is not pouring any golden sand on this day, no.
So I watch him leave and I am left to thoughts about a small world
with the beetles, flies and mice.
I find myself then laughing at such mythical fantasies.
Snow White is a princess with OCD,
who dusted each dwarf obsessively.
She'd polish the floor,
then clean it once more -
now the dwarfs all live quite compulsively.
Young Belle had Stockholm syndrome, it's true,
though the Beast acted like a zoo.
He'd snarl and throw plates,
still she saw him as great,
now she growls and bites like him too.
There once was Queen Elsa with MDD,
who hid herself from the whole monarchy.
She stayed home in bed,
eating ice cream instead,
now Arendelle runs on anxiety.
Poor Rapunzel had PTSD,
From Mother Gothel’s screaming constantly.
Each time someone yelled,
she’d hide where she dwelled —
now Flynn speaks to her quietly.
Young Alice had schizophrenia, they said,
After chatting with hats in her head.
She chased rabbits all day,
while teacups screamed, “Stay!” —
now the Queen checks her meds before bed.
Poor Cinderella lived with DPD,
so she asked the mice permission for tea.
The prince chose her dress,
her shoes, and her stress —
now he chooses her whole personality.
Princess Anna had wild ADHD,
she’d start seventeen tasks before three.
She’d ride off mid-chat,
then forget where she sat —
now even the reindeer run on caffeine.
she came to me starving and with matted fur ... an unwanted kitty
not from wandering the street but from a well to do family
who got her on a whim and then forgot about her
she spent her days searching their huge house looking for food
kitty was in a box in my home, scared, weak and skinny - meowing loudly
I lifted the lid, hisssssss ! This is how it went for a few hours
but, food tempted her to leave the safety of that old tattered box
she ate and ate and I promised her she would never be hungry again
the next day I took her to the vet an he was horrified at her condition
but we started working on getting her better with needles and nutrition
I got her a soft bed, and lots of balls to chase, dangly toys, and squeaky mice
we cuddled on the sofa, hisses became purrs and kneading paws
I had given her a bath and some fur had to be cut- now I brush her daily
in a few weeks she was looking very different becoming quite fluffy
I love her grey tabby fur and bright golden eyes
will never understand how anyone could treat her so poorly
how anyone would not give her food, water and love
but lucky me got this adorable girl to be my very best friend
oh, the years have passed but our love grows and grows each day
God sent me an angel without wings in a box that fateful day
Ambling along a country lane, a weathered barn caught my eye.
Nigh it stood a crumbling silo, yet reaching for the sky.
Oaks raised leafless arms heavenward, on that bleak autumn day,
As if in supplication, pleading to deter its inexorable decay.
The once sturdy structure was now in forlorn shambles,
Nearly over taken by tall grasses, weeds and brambles.
On its weathered boards were traces of faded reddish paint.
A Mail Pouch Tobacco mural graced one side, tho' very faint.
Atop the sagging roof was a rusted, squeaky weather vane,
Turning listlessly at the whim of the fickle wind's gust or wane.
A lightning rod, even in its day, considered somewhat odd,
Had collapsed - its copper pinnacle buried beneath the sod.
Rusty hinges protested as I opened the door and ventured thro'.
I startled a flock of pigeons, creating bedlam as they flew!
Mice skittered across the floor in the dimly filtered light,
As they raced about in confusion in their frenzied flight!
What once had sheltered cattle and stored the farmer's grain,
Was the hapless prey of the lashing storms' complete disdain.
For such old abandoned barns, I have a very special affinity,
And enjoy visiting them whenever I am in their vicinity!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
When mother goes to vote.
We all get up at the peep of day and fret and fume and stew,
While father lays the breakfast cloth and makes the coffee too.
He always gets his fingers burned I would not dare to quote
The things he says around the stove when mother goes to vote.
The cat is sure to steal the cream the puppy steals the steak,
And when we wash the dishes up a lot are bound to break,
And baby chokes and cries enough to spit his little throat.
And father seem to hate himself
When mother goes to vote.
We kids are all as still as mice and at attention stand,
Prepared to run for curling tongs and pins at her command
And father hooks her up the back and helps her with her coat
and puts her in a cab when mother goes to vote.
Author unknown
I did not write this poem. I discovered it in a journal belonging to my Great grandmother.
Her name was Minnie Ameilia (Haccansen) Tyner. She died in May 1920. She lived in Aberdeen,South Dakota
Part One: I Love
The eagle as it flies far above restless
fields of golden wheat and stagnant marsh bottoms
where mice and rabbits inhabit ancient cress,
living small and unaware now in autumn's
warning chill of season's soon coming winter~
but the eagle knows coming snow will splinter
nature into those who have and who have not,
and only wisdom will see what spring has wrought.
Part Two: I Hate
The cold wind as it winnows its spiteful way
across tall mountain peaks into the valley
where colorful summer flowers once did play,
enticing bees to a pollen-filled galley ~
now flowers are dead and the bees have withdrawn
to hide from the cold in their houses of brawn
while beautiful flakes become old snow piled deep,
and nature has burrowed for long winter's sleep.