Long Museum Poems
Long Museum Poems. Below are the most popular long Museum by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Museum poems by poem length and keyword.
I have traveled the world
Across the oceans and great lands
I have seen this earth from high above
A majestic orb in clouded beauty
From afar the pain of man, unseen
I have exposed myself
Like a naked Rembrandt on display
I was seen in the museum of the common man
As I journeyed far and wide
No one took any notice, of my quiet observations
All my voyages have ended
So now I sit tranquil in the corner
One day, someone will discover me
And see, the stories I have to tell
Of kings and Queens, and lovers lost
I may even tell a tale of woe
A sad story, buried in old archives
Of a love that was both great and sad
For those in love who never knew
The love letter lost, postage due
Surrounded by two rapid running shores
a concrete chain of buildings fill the skies
strong pungent scents compete with rapid scores
of pulsing sounds and screeching, crowded cries
iconoclastic beats and muted sighs
the City always wakens sleepy eyes.
We hail a taxi from a dirty curb
while subways rumble, sweating underground
and ride the hustle through the shifting herd
torrential rains quite suddenly come down
they slap and streak the windows all around
as raindrops distort faces that surround.
A plethora of sights spread like a feast
from Broadway shows to High Line paths that span
Hudson River’s architectural peaks
roof top restaurants, a classy jazz band
we disappear into museum land
then fall asleep, a true, devoted fan.
To venture into life’s mosaic streams
is to taste and embrace all that it means.
Start collecting objects;
Set 'em up so folks can see 'em
And you'll find, before you know it,
You've established a museum.
I stopped in to such a place -
Umbrella covers on display -
Off of Portland, Maine (Peaks Island),
Which I visited today.
The curator and its founder
(An accordion player, too!)
Found a little niche and perfect place
To do what she can do.
She's accumulated cases
From umbrellas 'round the world,
Where these various umbrellas lived
Until they were unfurled.
So she showed me her collection
And before the tour was through,
Her accordion appeared; we sang.
Well, this was something new!
When you travel, you encounter
Folks and places you might find
May be more than merely different -
They might really blow your mind!
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
Henry Heinz made ketchup
(First called catsup) long ago,
Plus a host of other products -
Some you'd be surprised to know.
On a train in New York City,
Henry saw an ad for shoes;
There were 21 styles mentioned,
Quite a catchy lure to use.
Since he sold a lot of products,
(Over 60, so they say)
He picked 57, which is what
Their label says today.
He just liked the way it sounded -
In the brain that number sticks -
So it's been that way forever,
(Or since 1896.)
That's the second fact I learned
At the museum* about Heinz,
But the first one really threw me
As a writer of some lines.
On the early cans and bottles,
When he started in the biz,
Heinz included an apostrophe -
The catsup was Heinz's.
Doesn't Heinz sound so much better?
Sometimes advertising moves
Borrow some poetic license
So their product name improves!
*Heinz History Center in Pittsburgh
In walking distance from my house
Are restaurants a’plenty.
In just a 5 block radius,
There must be more than 20.
There also are a lot of stores –
For food or drugs or liquor
And also several hospitals
(Though cabs get you there quicker).
In walking distance, there is art –
Just choose a cool museum
And Google the exhibits now
Then stroll on by to see ‘em.
You need an outfit, socks or shoes?
A book of stamps? Some flowers?
No matter what, it can be bought –
Just double-check the hours.
A city life has lots of noise
But anyone you talk to
Will tell you that it’s wonderful
To have so much to walk to.
Boring is the passing of idle time,
when the day is long and the sunset delays
to dim down the taciturn sky with less luminous lights;
clouds have full brightness and incredibly become
whiter and brighter than they actually are...
I am in a solitary mood dragging the hours!
Grannies sit outside closely and chat incessantly
as if they were whispering, are they shamelessly
telling each other the secrets of their youth that fled from time
as they kept them in those foolish and innocent hearts!
Are they bringing to mind those romantic affairs of naive girls?
Did they ever meet with their lovers in those secretive places?
grannies will chase away any intruder who seems to deride
their words and running from them Eddie falls on his butt,
but the furious grandma chases him a few more yards
screaming, " Go to play basketball with Grant! "
Too slow is the passing of idle time
by a river or by an ocean as if were there
to paint scenes on our empty canvasses,
deciding on shade and light according to taste
emotion and mood; is their little hope
for a masterpiece being displayed in a city museum...
but unexpectedly an offer may lift our set gloom!
How many stories could girls reveal
gathered as the grannies having none to do;
are we willing to share them as they do...
without being prudent or feel any shame?
Aren't love secrets hidden within the pages
of long letters never opened to sunlight fearing
the lashing words of mothers reminding
their daughters that " Sex is sacred and it's a flame
that unites two souls and makes them whole."
And disciplining them with the rod of harshness,
they become the nuns who choose deafening silence!
Some fellers like to sit around and sip bourbon on the rocks.
I prefer to sit around admiring my collection of old clocks.
At last count I reckon they number about seventy-five or so.
Much to my spouse's chagrin the number continues to grow!
I just can't pass up a bargain at the local antique store.
I suppose I'm like that old horse heading for the barn door.
When I spot a lonely beauty displayed there by its self,
I feel sorry for it and take it home to display upon my shelf!
My lair looks like a museum with clocks of every pedigree.
There are wall, mantel and cuckoo clocks staring back at me!
There's a grandfather clock standing against the far wall.
Made of solid oak and rising nearly seven feet tall!
Nigh on forty years ago my interest in old clocks began.
Some are from Germany, England and a few from Japan.
Do they all chime and clang at once you may rightly ask?
No - to keep them all wound would be an onerous task!
The chimes, bongs and cuckoos the old clocks emit,
Could drive one insane I would readily admit!
'Twould be lonely around here, tho', sans those friendly faces,
And their graceful, sweeping hands and elegant wooden cases!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
My volatile mind wanders in fanciful emptiness,
floats on the flotilla of sunburst cloud’s recess,
makes a fascinating painting of formless fantasy
on the blank canvas in the museum of memory.
The remains of unerased passion of assumption,
reflected from the mirror of childhood imagination,
entice me to take fantasy flight in the seamless sky,
I follow entranced the trail of the flitting butterfly.
I drift in draft of reverie perched on its latticed wings,
fluttering on the melody the whistling wind brings
from the flamboyance of the fleeting rainbow hue,
I find behind the mystic mist the beauty of life anew.
In sunrise sky suffused with the colors of daydream,
my anguished mind soars to realm of radiance to gleam,
beyond halcyon horizon the aura of eternal bliss I see.
I then imagine I can fly in the magical air of ecstasy.
The flight takes me to childhood picturesque dreamland,
looped by sparkling river flowing like an ornate garland.
In childlike trance the mariner me sails paper boat happily,
that glides to the distant sea to dance on wave of fantasy.
______________
February 7, 2023
Contest : Wave Of Fantasy
Sponsored by : Mystic Rose Rose
For A Brian Strand Premiere No 1200 Contest
The Met* has an exhibit,
Cypress paintings by Van Gogh.
We joined the crowds and went to see
This most amazing show.
Like all the other patrons,
We snapped photos on our phones,
Except for one lone painting,
Which a rich collector owns.
A guard stood right beside it;
He was there to oversee.
“No photos of this painting!”
He repeated frequently.
The owner said he’d lend it
If no cameras were allowed,
A tough condition to enforce
Before a growing crowd.
But people were complying
When they heard the watchman’s plea,
With so many other cypresses
To photograph and see.
*Metropolitan Museum of Art, NYC