Long Neatly Poems
Long Neatly Poems. Below are the most popular long Neatly by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Neatly poems by poem length and keyword.
A water colour portrait of a black swan
Arched nostrils above its yellow beak
Inside its cold eyes-hope a glint of white
Neatly folded grey progressing to black wings
Each feather layered in perfect synch. Neat.
Yellow feet lurk in the shimmering water.
Top marks at school, but discarded
To the garden shed, the coal bunker
Where winter fuel, dried and ripened
I found it and brought indoors and
Showed it to mum, asked who drew this?
Your sister. Already in awe, but couldn’t
Understand why this wasn’t treasured.
Sixty years on, your pedestal dissolved
Fallen. This swan an image of your self.
The yellow beak fooled for many years
The glint of the eye, slyness and deception
Your character’s like the body of the swan
Thirty percent below the line, a mystery
Souls, like swans, are to most pure white.
Your soul personified by your own hand
In an A level water colour: Jet Black Swan.
David Cox 01/09/24
Discarded in the shed by the coal bunker
Black on black, in the dark and discarded
It’s yellow beak a contrast, hint of light
“To be or not to be”, was Hamlet‘s sole question.
We’ve a common conundrum, that’s my confession.
Burn bridges or mend fences, in my discretion…
I stand above them, pistol heavy in my hand.
They cringe before me, she’s sobbing and he’s unmanned.
My mind’s really roiling, though my expression’s bland…
She surely did me wrong, there’s truly no dispute,
In flagrante delicto, they cannot refute.
Leaves me such a dilemma, achingly acute…
The Lord tells us “Vengeance is mine, I will repay!”
Also “to forgive is divine” didn’t he say?
How is a mere mortal to decide the right way…
But wait! “Nature weeps”, a pathetic fallacy
As “either or” is just a false dichotomy
In reality both are merely sophistry…
Should I mend the fence? Overly optimistic.
Should I burn the bridge? Aptly apocalyptic.
There is another choice, neatly nihilistic…
My attention was caught, resolution was sought.
The decision was fraught, it’s a Gordian knot
Hamlet’s vexing question solved with a single shot…
New intent nicely teased, and tension slightly eased.
My mind now appeased, prior predicament ceased
With resolve swiftly pleased - the trigger slowly squeezed…
~~~~~~~~ Pink Polyester Pants ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I really like to ride my bike, outside your porch, hopin' for a glimpse,
of you sitting, singing dress a clinging in neatly pleated floral chintz.
And that time after school-ly when that bully pinched you on the buttocks,...
Though I decked em, I must respect em for admirin' your tattered denim cut-offs.
And, oh, did you look sweet and sassy when you wore that peasant blouse,...
though maybe not so replete and classy when you trick or treat'd at my house.
Though you are one year older, I sure feel bolder a'climbin' o yer backyard fence.
But I really flipped when I saw you slipped inside those pink polyester pants!
They paid for pieces they could never truly keep,
While I kept selling names that weren't my own.
I learned to smile through promises way too cheap,
Then contemplate the silence walking home alone.
Every night's an auction dressed in borrowed grace,
Where loneliness and money shake their hands.
Some women looked hungry, staring at my face,
Some only came to purchase their demands.
They swore desire was written in my eyes,
I knew the difference hunger learned to wear.
A practiced smile can imitate surprise,
When hope's been evicted from elsewhere.
Perfume and diamonds filled expensive rooms,
Lonely hearts hidden underneath designer names.
Some wore wedding rings beneath expensive perfume,
Yet all of them arrived playing different games.
They praised my confidence, my shoulders, and my grin,
Like somehow I was built without a bruise.
But every role I slipped so neatly in
Was one more piece of me I'd slowly lose.
They judged the shoes that walked this winding road,
But never asked what journey brought me here.
It's easy to weigh someone else's load,
When you've never carried your survival wrapped in tears.
The mirror knows the giglo in me leaves by dawn.
But the bills stay longer than the shame can.
The freak they imagined soon was gone,
Leaving only what remained beneath the tan.
Funny how the preacher's wife cursed my name,
Then passed me later, acting twice as kind.
Turns out daylight and midnight just ain't the same,
When shame puts on a different state of mind.
I wasn't selling pleasure—just another day,
Trying to keep tomorrow from the cold.
Some folks inherit chances, and some just pray.
Some learn that their dignity can still be sold.
So if you ask me what this work has done,
It taught me every price ain't paid with cash.
I made my living wearing borrowed faces...
Until my own became just another mask.
Three months into courting the woman
who's now my enchanting wife
She posed the question: where do you thin we're headed
I knew from the moment on the night we first met
and my heart had skipped a beat or two
But still I stuttered and I stammered as I gave her my reply
I would like to be together for the rest of my long life
Three foolscap of notes
were then thrust into my hand
Defining all the qualities
she desired within a man
Holy smoke!! I'll have to take these pages home
and polish up my game
But those pages were snatched back
never seen again
The next words that were spoken, I was notified
I don't do any length of beard
Holy smoke again!!! Thirty years had elapsed since I'd been clean shaven
Wondered 'bout this hairy face
what was it that she feared
So home I went, took a hasty reflex action
the whiskers off they came
Now not at all enamoured with the image
reflecting back from the mirror frame
Three days later I came back
to her homely little space
Not one comment, not even noticed
my newly acquired clean, neatly shaven bare face
There were many many days
when I regretfully shaved
regrowth of a beard is what I often yearned
The years have slowly passed and the beard
it has long since been returned
I cannot recall any details on the foolscap pages
from fifteen years ago
But please take note :
I must have filled the qualities she required
we're still lovingly together
For me that's eternal
Forever and forever she will be desired
She was a pallor woman, says the mirror on the
Wall above her bureau: A tranquil woman too,
Says her diary which lay near her bed on the
Floor; and a deathless woman, says the crimson
Stain upon her blouse that lay draped over a
Chair in the corner of the room; but not one
For sunlight, say the black velvet cloak that
Lay neatly on her bed.
She lived alone, says the empty room next to
Hers; She was barren, says the long black
Dress that was worn; money was not a problem,
Says the antique furniture around the room; and
Her heart cold, says the silence that floats
Forever throughout the dusty bedchamber.
Something went wrong, says the lingering scent
Of death in the room. The faded painting -of
Darkness on a cold winter night- on her
Wall, say her life was an immoral one; untouched
Morsels left on delicate china that sits on the
End table, says she never felt hunger. And her
Victims? Never to be found or seen again-their
Bodies left lifeless on some unknown terrain.
Something went wrong, they say.
This is a dark poem in the form of "Abandoned Farmhouse" by Ted Kooser
Everything seems to fit
into this morning's
vast mosaic as if each
piece has been shaped
to occupy a given place.
Even the broken sea shells
that first appeared redundant,
strewn haphazardly
along the beach
now give pause and interest
to the sands otherwise
featureless reach.
Trees occupy their allotted
space, the rotunda claims
its usual ground and clouds drift
the wide freedom of the sky.
Silence cups like an ear
to receive the days
waking sounds and in a corner
where the pier slots so neatly
into the sea, small boats bob
about in their moorings
overlooked by a hollow made
in air that seems to fit
my contours just perfectly.
My sister has a long blue dress,
Mother made mine too,
And told us not to make a mess!
Keep our hands neatly folded,
Don't prance or scamper about,
Neither of us wanted to be scolded!
Then Santa and MS. Claus came.
On a sparkling winter boat.
It was too much for us! No joke!
First our knees began to jump,
Then our feet started to pump,
Both of us landed in a lump!
Tumbling, rolling down hill,
It was too late!
We couldn't stay still!
Over and over, we ran up the hill,
Dropped to our knees,
And tumbled down still!
Now our blue dresses are muddy and green,
I think our mother is going to scream!
Stinky Stan the dustbin man
Was always less than fragrant
The aroma hung like cattle dung
And he looked like a vagrant
If you saw Stanley at his work
You’d never call him posh
He wore the same clothes everyday
And never seemed to wash
Our Stanley wasn’t stupid though
In every days collection
He’d find some bits worth having
And soon had a fine selection
Then, one day Stan the dustbin man
Decided to retire
Took his dirty working clothes
And tossed them on the fire
Had a haircut had a bath
A nice hot shower, then
Didn’t feel too different
So, he did it all again
He gathered his collection
All neatly catalogued
Took it to the sale room
Where it was promptly flogged
The piece de resistance was
A painting of a man
He didn’t know the artist
But the experts said Cezanne
It made a pretty penny
In fact a lot of money
So Stanley’s leaving Blighty
For somewhere warm and sunny
© John W Fenn 28-08-2009
Form:
millions of words all neatly filed
silently shouting please try me ,
open my covers escape to my worlds
i’m so small and neat you should buy me
here i could browse linger ‘til i drowse
under their awesome power.
but I wonder if at night
when they switch off the lights
and the town begins to slumber,
do all those words emerge,
mutter, murmur and chunter
practising their sounds
a cacophony that rounds,
bounds and re-bounds
from the walls and ceilings;
does the fiction vie
with those works that try
to instruct;
does the times
thunder at the sun
then in solidarity combine
against the shrill whine
of the weeklies and monthlies,
those frivolous glossies
to whom they are certainly superior
until just before the dawn,
when the world starts to yawn
they all silently glide, slither and slide
back to their proper pages
to wait with the patience of ages
to lure and ensnare me
millions of words all neatly filed
silently shouting please try me ,
open my covers escape to my worlds
i’m so small and neat you should buy me
here i could browse linger ‘til i drowse
under their awesome power.