Long Misplacing Poems
Long Misplacing Poems. Below are the most popular long Misplacing by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Misplacing poems by poem length and keyword.
Could you tell me why most hippopotami
Weigh about as much as a truck
In the animal kingdom diets are not common
So they're really poop out of luck
A donkey with wings or an ass that sings
Quite an image I have in my mind
Some like listening to a cockatoo warble
But I think that's quite assinine
Now why do most newborns poop at will
They emerge without manners
Farting in front of friends and neighbours
Sure makes you stutter and stammer
When misplacing an important document
You find it in the last place you look
Why not look there in the first place I wonder
You'll be stunned at the short time it took
Admit I ain't perfect but who the hell is
Sometimes I dribble in my beard
Imagine it sounds quite disgusting to you guys
A snack for when bedtime is near
Why do we cringe at the sound of one's nails
Screeching across a blackboard
Sends chills up and down our li'l ole spines
Can feel 'em right now, oh Lord!
The cosmos keeps misplacing you in my sky,
A planet too near, yet forbidden to collide.
Our paths redraw like stubborn lines,
Sacred geometry, cruel design —
Close enough to burn, too bound to defy.
We split one song through borrowed wire,
Two pulses climbing the same burning fire.
Your shoulder brushed the edge of mine,
And silence swelled like holy wine —
A hymn restrained by higher choir.
Years pass; the ink refuses to fade,
A letter sealed, a promise mislaid.
It sleeps like a blade beneath my bed,
Sharp with the words I never said —
A relic of vows we never made.
You stand in pews of different light,
I kneel where faith divides the night.
Yet still we trade our careful hellos,
While under our ribs a river flows —
An ark that aches but won’t take flight.
So we remain in measured spin,
Two orbits tight beneath the skin.
If speech were freed, we’d both give chase —
Undo the stars, abandon grace —
But gravity is God, and God won’t bend.
When I was young and was sure there was a monster ‘neath my bed
after checking…my mom would assure me, ”There’s nothing for you to fear.”
Then she’d hold my hand and smile saying, “Don’t worry dear…I’m here.”
“I will be here as long as you need me…don’t worry your little head…
I will be here sitting next to you…to fight any monsters ‘neath your bed.”
I remembered those moments years later when she began misplacing things…
sometimes not knowing who I was…
when I saw the confusion on her face…because that’s what Alzheimers does…
I learned to cherish the times she knew me…
knew who she was…and then…
to enjoy every moment…when she was my mom again.
I never knew if her Alzheimers would be in control…
or if that day she’d be released
for that is the heartbreak of this disease…the nature of the beast.
There were times she could sense my worry…and she tried to ease my fear…
She’d take my hand…smile and say, “Don’t worry dear, I’m here.”
But this disease is unrelenting…at first making only small demands
willing to let her have her moments…while patiently waiting to take command.
On the days she didn’t recognize me…I’d try to hide my tears….
when she’d come back, take my hand and say, “Don’t worry dear…I’m here.”
When she was lost to me forever…when I could no longer hide my tears
I would take her hand in mine and place my lips next to her ears…
“Don’t worry, Mom.” I’d whisper…”There’s nothing for you to fear….
Wherever you have gone to…Don’t worry, Mom…I’m here.
“I will be here as long as you need me.” I’d say as I sat upon her bed.
“I will be here sitting next to you…to fight any monsters in your head.”
I've almost forgotten it.
It got too big -
holes appeared,
entire towns fell through
my memory.
The Forbidden City
is a convoluted red and gold ribbon,
my mind cannot now untangle.
Images float off the ink
of curling maps.
Snapshots flutter
like flags in a desert sky.
I recall in parts and pieces:
middle-aged couple’s street dancing,
no revolutionary strutting,
just Quickstep, Foxtrot,
and Bossa Nova.
The young watching,
taking notes, as if
studying for an exam.
A small one-armed boy,
riding a peddle bike,
weaving through traffic,
four black cormorants strapped to his back,
their necks craning out of their wicker cage,
like sight-seeing dogs.
A quick look at Mongolia
through a hole in the Wall.
China got loose,
it escaped the hotels,
the tour buses, the itinerary.
It went down a crowded alley,
draped with roast ducks,
and paper lanterns.
If I were now to follow it,
it might lead me,
to a restaurant in London,
San Francisco, or Toronto,
or like today
come together again,
in the eyes of a girl
who sells me a smart phone.
Stars from my youth
Are falling like flies
To admit the hard truth
I wish not to die
My journey, it seems
Is trapped at the start
As if, weathered dreams
Just now, found my heart
The soul of a child
Dwells in my shell
Sensation not mild
Peter Pan spell
A brawny force
Akin to rip tide
Erases my course
I failed, when I tried
Unlimited rolls
Shield my gamble
Health takes a toll
My vessel, in shambles
My mind remains green
Misplacing past years
Hardships, unseen
Future looks clear
I fear, I’m naive
Painting roses on death
Seems I can’t grieve
I’m “aging”, bereft
One of the cruelest aspects of Alzheimer’s is the way this disease unfolds…
how it’s able to disguise itself, at first, as just a part of growing old:
It began with her misplacing and forgetting things for that’s what old age does.
then progressed to her looking at me…bewildered…forgetting who I was.
Such is the demeanor of this disease…the nature of this beast
I never knew on any given day if it’s grip was strong…
or if Mom would be released.
There were times when I saw the fear in her eyes..
when I heard the quivering of her speech,
?“What is happening to me!” She’d plead.
“Why are my memories out of reach?”
For this is the heartless game Alzheimer’s plays…
there were times she knew me……she knew where she was…and when…
times she was luminous and lucid…when she was my mom again.
Times when Alzheimer’s set her free… when she’d sense my sadness and my fear…
and she would hold my face within her hands and say,
“Don’t worry, dear, I’m here.”
But Alzheimer’s is unrelenting…at first content with making small demands…
willing to allow Mom her moments…while waiting patiently to take command.
I remember the first time she didn’t remember me…I bowed my head to hide my tears.
When suddenly she was back…holding my face within her hands saying,
Don’t worry dear, I’m here.”
We had no choice but to bend to Alzheimer’s whim…
to celebrate every high while enduring every low…
and I would wait until after my visit ended before letting my anger flow.
When I knew she was lost to me forever…
when I sensed her constant confusion..when I could see her disoriented tears…
I would take her face within my hands and whisper in her ear…
“Don’t worry, Mom.”“There’s nothing you ever need to fear.
wherever you are…don’t worry…
don’t worry Mom…I’m here.”
Privatized profits and Socialized losses.
Private eyes focus and vocalize pockets.
Undeclared prophets bite their tongues until they soften
Globalized problems begin to mimic taunts and pauses
As we become lost in a certainty, assured no longer can any one find that pulsing silence.
Melodies bear flaws as they become written for horrid audiences.
Regardless
we still retain a will to want 'It.'
Generations rising towards becoming accosted
By a worlds cause to see the vintage become an inherent endowment
within a paradigm of where the old are deprived of practicality through a rougher polish.
Everyone wants to shine but no person would prefer to condition to perish, rather have luck grant a pardon.
Desiring to speak through words of honor and the honest,
hints denote of soldering bonds to new forms of defiance and reliance.
Fighting the fake with supplies of the same.
Subliminally sublime saturated shame.
How long did it take for you to find yourself as a target?
Had it been near when forgiveness became earned
But forgotten on how to be given?
Had we been overlooking time as the companion,
Misplacing the mnemonics;
The right reminders
That once helped us separate
What's left behind, what's significant
And of which are alike.
Memory neglects of how we were taught this.
The current cannot cease to be,
So although every tomorrow may never be promised to seed today and creating yesterdays on which to think,
Retain your grip onto what leaves
Bolden the show you play for the world to see;
The unpromising tomorrow is said to be coming
And i cannot find a reason with worth to begin to disagree
Yesterday can not ever come back;
Oh grief pairs so well with lucidity
Welcome back to Today,
Sometimes I find it hard to see
Bring on dismay,
I wonder what pairing I'll find for there to be
The mind is not a room
that simply forgets a broken window.
It remembers the wind.
A body violated
is not only flesh harmed—
it is a geography disturbed,
a map where borders once trusted
have been crossed by force.
In the quiet afterward
the brain begins its strange labor:
Filing terror into drawers of memory,
misplacing safety,
misreading the footsteps at night in the hall.
Sleep becomes a thin country.
Dreams patrol its borders.
The heart learns new mathematics—
how one moment
can multiply into years
of hyper vigilance.
There are echoes:
a voice,
a smell,
a certain angle of shadow
that startles the nervous system
like lightning remembering the sky.
Yet the mind,
astonishing instrument,
does not belong to the violator.
Neurons continue their slow weaving.
Trust, though shattered,
sometimes grows again
like a rose through the crack in a sidewalk.
Male or Female,
each survivor carries two stories:
the violence done,
and the stubborn will to live on afterward.
And though trauma carves deep rivers
through the landscape of thought,
the human mind—
mysterious, resilient—
still seeks the ocean if calm to start healing.
Even after the storm passes,
the brain continues,
its quiet work, arms stretched out.
Reaching out to each new dawn.
A BUNCH OF “WHY'S”
Could you tell me why most hippopotami
Weigh about the same as a truck
In the animal kingdom diets aren't common
So they're really poop out of luck
A donkey with wings or an ass that sings
Quite an image I have in my mind
Some like listening to a cockatoo warble
But I think that's quite asinine
Now why do most newborns poop at will
They emerge without any manners
Farting in front of friends and neighbours
Sure makes you stutter and stammer
When misplacing an important document
You find it in the last place you look
Why not look there in the first place I wonder
You'll be stunned at the short time it took
Admit I ain't perfect but who the hell is
Sometimes I dribble in my beard
Imagine it sounds quite disgusting to you guys
A snack for when bedtime is near
Why do we cringe at the sound of one's nails
Screeching across a blackboard
Sends chills up and down our li'l ole spines
Can feel 'em right now, oh Lord!
What Goes Unseen
A gnome sits by the pantry,
Watching the in’s and out’s of wares,
Thinking how it all may be his.
Meanwhile, the sprites
take over the living-room,
Misplacing and mussing
whatever’s to their fancy for
A quick-kept treasure
Or — with some pride —
To play magic’s jokes
And irk the resident human folks.
Outside in a popping passing
over the lawn and ringing round
The trees, the elves of light
swipe the pants off the darkside types,
Those trickster elves for one,
Who stay busy at their pranks unseen
By humans as they run about half-naked,
Hunting for their stollen leggings.
The fairies flitter from garden
joys to doorways
— their own and ours —
singing the hours
Of folklore they adore,
But, provoking the birds to fly off
And worms to wriggle away,
Thereby whittling their audience
Down to a snoozing clutch of cats curled
Up on the patio’s rocking chair.
The angels stay surveying the scene, needfully
Praying, repeating Eden’s chants, which
Rise in glittering mists straight to heaven
With all matters of the spirit…
Including about the unseen enchanted
Wanting to co-exist in peace with
Humanity’s “fanciful, ever wish-full souls,”
Who are “ever unwilling
To take anything seriously enough
For any of the all in All to endure,
Much less (or more?)
As God does wish.
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(c) sally young Eslinger 10/15/21