Long Niches Poems
Long Niches Poems. Below are the most popular long Niches by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Niches poems by poem length and keyword.
House just turned one hundred years old.
Wooden floors preserve foot-fossils of ancestors.
A fresh coat of paint cannot muffle yesterday's fireplace carolers.
Our stockings hang beside the stockings of ghosts.
House has a heart- a pulse- layered in golden life tones.
I feel at ease in every honey-smoked room
and perfectly balanced on the uneven floors.
I don't mind the infinite cobwebs
that once were catchers of dreams.
Its three peaks and thirteen stairs
had significant meaning to past tenants.
It means nothing now for certain -but it doesn't matter.
I respect their strong marriage to the pastel past.
There're pockets and niches
whose purpose is long forgotten.
Just like I will soon be.
A discarded tin can in a wildflower field.
Winter evenings that I spend with house
are the warmest I've ever had.
I pray it feels the same about me...
Hanging a stocking filled with endless gifts
from a pale, blue-collared memory.
Moon glow magic
Sparkling soliloquy;
Look who's talking?
~~~~~~~~~
Feel fond caress
Stray wind tickles;
Impending rain
~~~~~~~~~
Laughter echoes
Old corridors winding;
Seeking sunlight
~~~~~~~~~
Old school building
Closed for demolition;
Echoes of odd laughter
~~~~~~~~~
Stillness and calm
Columbarium corridors;
Stray souls loiter
~~~~~~~~~
Lovebird sparrows
Chirping sweet nothings;
Bougainvillea branch
~~~~~~~~~
By these corridors
Ancient memories;
Silence once a luxury
~~~~~~~~~
Death owns assets
Urns of ashy remains;
Neat niches in rows
~~~~~~~~~
If only
We knew better;
Debt collector tales
~~~~~~~~~
Joy and sorrow
Moments of madness;
Then we die
~~~~~~~~~
Leon Enriquez
02 April 2016
Singapore
Each night a brown orb spider,
a piece of night from under the eaves
spins a sticky intricate web
against the silhouette of leaves
Kangaroos the color of bark and stones
begin a dawn retreat to a rose lit tree line
I peep from the window- stretch and yawn
as grey mist fades into spreading sunshine
myriads of birdsong in filtered zones
as dew reveals gossamer webs on the lawn.
Tiny finches are flitting down,
from twig to twig to a birdbath of stone
They dip and splash and re -alight,
as I sit and watch in my dressing gown.
not moving in case I give them a fright
absorbed in them I am least alone
Their colors are grey, bright green, and brown
Rain scents of earth and eucalypts
a bush path strewn with bark and puddles
under swaying strands of weeping leaves
in shadowy niches of scented idyls
aware of the tapestry nature weaves
HUMAN NATURE - 4 STANZA, 7 LINE
Contest Judged: 2/12/2016 12:00:00 AM
Sponsored by: Marugu Mo
2.nd Place
As though mixing the caffeine of deep desires and wishes
With the crystal water cognizance to make gold-brown niches
Where-from, yearnings, like fogs of fine frankincense, resurrect
Bedecked with the sweet-bitter-blend, filtered conscience effect
Settings get upset; there's an idle-ordeal order.
Foundations, once set, turn reflections on a broken mirror.
Kingdoms and empires are brought to below-ground level dust.
When stirs turn earthquakes, born out of rebellions of mistrust
Time's tumult; seasonal surge; waves of the ocean weather
Stir has set its soul within each fragile flying feather.
The friction set by the spiritual stir, like a sage
Goes on discovering and finding wisdom's newer page
Of memories of love I’ve had a few
I’ve stored inside the niches of my mind -
to call them up whenever I’m inclined.
The one that shines for me with brightest hue
was once upon a time, with one I knew,
who kissed me gently as we intertwined.
But often, simple acts that were quite kind
escape my recall; they are no less true. . .
For instance, there’s my mother’s love for me
and how she always puts my needs above
her own; my friends’ and family’s easy grace;
my husband’s steadfast ways; my dear dog’s glee
on seeing me; thus, memories of love
most precious are the ones most common-place.
For Brian Strand's
FOUR TO FOURTEEN any form/any theme 4 to max 14 lines Poetry Contest
From far away past where silent orbs
Danced to rhythms of unknown forces forging
Newer niches in cloud then soil then rock,
Smouldering, sizzling silently as time tic toc
Ebbed away, watching life on some lifeless rock surging,
To this day when we dance to the rhythm of Forbes,
The moon and sun in divine love urging
Have danced about the earth: light source upon a rock,
Bringing life to earth when the sullen clock
Calls out the grim owl, vile wolf, and sturdy sturgeon
Through the silent night nobody else disturbs,
Locked in eternal enthralment, watching the dark dungeon
Earth would be but for the sun- or moonlight it absorbs.
Moonlight from sunlight like new groom and virgin
Locked in an embrace older than Eden’s first baulk,
But sealed forever to work on this blue rock;
Bringing light to life on earth at dawn then dusk, merging
Efforts: sun casts its beams on daytime suburbs
But when the earth turns as if to shun its scourging,
That age old mission bound to fail as dusk struck
Finds new life in the passive glitter on that battered rock,
The partner playing its part, for so it was from the first forging.
From far away past, as far back as the silent space orbs,
The sun and moon in sublime love urging.
Have danced about and cast shadows out of this rock
And so it should be, for when one’s gone and you lose the rock
Foundation of the union, then is there but darkness and dirge in
The picture, and the survivor is just a lifeless rock listening for hope in the orbs.
(c)Nyonglema
Still hallowed is the well, and so they pray,
offer: prayer cards, candles, and bitty photos
of children to come and those now unmade,
each woman rife with grief in longing’s throes.
The sound of stream shakes beneath their feet
in the grotto chiseled from native stone.
Niches, shelves and ledges teem, replete,
with mementos of maid, mother and crone.
Pain crusts on: salted wounds, walls and gelid moss
where teddies and barrettes dangle on bows.
Those lost appeal to Brigid, through her cross
in summer, fall, and through the winter’s snows.
A woman’s grief seeks relief at sacred stream
here all who mother come to pray and dream.
First Published in Eunoia August 19, 2015
After years of the inner demon battle.
Being told to fit in and just be a cattle.
Takes its toll and boredom gets stale.
Knowing the story has an unwritten tale.
Some of us battle difficulty with sight.
Others fight conditions hindering might.
Hearing is often lacked by many talented.
Injuries convince we are a can dented.
Conditions can be mental or physical.
It’s no barrier for a field technical.
Since life is full of ups and downs.
We are like elevators in the towns.
But years of learning the coping skills.
Teaches us how to overcome the hills.
So we pay it forward and grow careers.
Accepting challenges, conquering fears.
Now carving out our niches in elevators.
Clapping back at the skeptics & debaters.
As collectors, account reps & technicians.
Moving the world & completing missions.
By team support of acceptance & respect.
Aware of the duties, no room for neglect.
Impactful in the vertical transport industry.
Becoming key figures and making history.
Some appreciate Thrive as a safe place.
It’s a breather to remove mask from face.
Otis supports identifying our true selves.
So we don’t hide our reality on shelves.
This group had been called All Abilities.
A haven for mental & physical disabilities.
Many use it to adapt in the communities.
Our conditions are roots, growing as trees.
Some are here as caretakers and allies.
Coping with adversity hearing the cries.
Others dealing with personal challenges.
Never disabled but required life changes.
However members identify, We Are Otis.
Filling many roles, hitting targets no miss.
If you’re a lone wolf considering the pack.
Joining the group helps to run your track.
Combinations of Catastrophy
Combinations of catatstrophic scenarios everywhere I look
Invocations of prehistoric evidence collides with the big book
Complications that are caustic that sit in their niches and their nooks
Calibrations that the agnostic makes as he theologically cooks
Annotations of beauty upon a classical music score
Connotations refuting why there’s so much to be living for
Computations that are computing why we’re always looking for more
Permeatations polluting the old, sick, vulnerable and poor
Believable intonations from a child wanting to be heard
Conceivable imitations from a comedian repeating the absurd
Retrievable limitations from someone trying to preach the word
Foreseeable complications that could be prevented if it weren’t all so ill learned
There’s an evening with a mix of difference, strangeness and the unusual of demeanour
As they’re seeming to play with the inference that they’d prefer a worker to a dreamer
While I sit there in a conference about why the ocean isn’t cleaner
It’s difficult to evade the nonsense while your talking politely with a screamer
Multitudes of humans being just that and trying to raise themselves up from the ground
Interludes of a laboratory rat chasing the wheel round and around
Magnitudes of masses converging that are bordering on profound
Altitudes of heights now deserving of this disconcerting sound
The End Copyright Elizabeth Moroz
I dived into the cauldron of magical potion,
drank to the full the elixir that in an instant
turned me into an entranced wizard.
And I saw …
In the desolate seashore of secluded island,
people built desire castles with dream sands,
with fervent care protected the fragile niches,
but the breaking waves rolled over them.
The surge washed away the forlorn abodes,
sheltering the insular souls of lonely people.
With the magical spells I turned them
into convivial people, greatly gregarious.
And I saw …
Behind the closed windows on sunny meadows,
submerged in obscure depth of dismal darkness,
people morphed into slices of moonless night,
compact contours marked their bleak peripheries.
Nobody could see through them, couldn’t perceive
the true substance of the opaque people.
With the magical spells I turned them
into transparent people, utterly unadorned.
And I saw …
People were like frigid birds with frozen wings
under the misty sky, swept by the polar wind.
In the congealed hearts lapped by the Arctic sea
petrified emotions drowned unexpressed.
Warm embrace of empathy they couldn’t proffer,
for they were condemned as cold people.
With the magical spells I turned them
into pleasant people, amply amiable.
And I saw …
People changed their lives into desolate deserts,
the charm of oasis desiccated in dwindling dunes.
Blazed by the flame of their fierce minds
the fallen foliage of ardent passions burned,
didn’t rustle with the fossilized cadence of their hearts,
for they were wooden people.
With magical spells I turned them
into vivacious people, eternally effervescent.