Long Open and shut Poems
Long Open and shut Poems. Below are the most popular long Open and shut by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Open and shut poems by poem length and keyword.
The family had just moved into an old castle in Scotland;
mother, father and their only daughter, Emmie, that they loved so deeply.
Emmie was only 12 years old, and so innocent and beautiful.
One night, she was woken up by a dripping sound;
an echoing sound of water drops in a sink;
rhythmic and terrifying.
She sat on her bed, and suddenly appeared a free floating arc of strange light.
It's that time of year again: Halloween night.
Doors flew open and shut; strange voices and footsteps started.
She was so frightened, that she almost threw up.
Emmie made the sign of the cross, and plunged into a thicket of thorny wild roses.
Terrified, excited and ready to run out of the house in 20 seconds,
she overheard whispering words: "All beauty must die."
The voice was so deathly, that it sent chills through her spine.
It did not make it any better that it sounded too close to her ears.
Her nightdress being torn by rose thorns like papers in a paper shredder,
she ran as fast as she could; not back to the old castle,
but away from the creepy voice, and strange events
in the old castle.
Exhausted, she searched for a place she could find rest
"All beauty must die" the voice visited
her unceremoniously once more. "What do you want from me?
Is it wrong to be born beautiful? "
she asked, wondering where she got her courage from.
The energy to scream or run departed her,
the moment she saw a woman dressed in white,
levitating in the air, and moving towards her;
a horrid face that carried the night's darkness,
looked decayed, with worms crawling out from it.
Remember this is a true story about Emmie;
she gets chills just remembering the events of that night……
Contest: Halloween Co-Writes, By Diane Locksley
Poem Written by: Teddy Kimathi and Anne-Lise Andresen :)
Copyright © All Rights Reserved
Life's passions all absorbed on green grasses
as the innocent treasures tamed and measured
accordingly we shy away the aftermath of past
stoned bridges enhance the connection point
while the cold calmness unwind the myths
for our must we define a place hidden where as
the teak wood stained with old disagreements
left unsaid and so morbidly left undone
as we hinder to blades of shame while
the light in the chambers of this excellent
brownstone manner as the banner swing
my own practice in my own time as this is
my space a place where inside looking out speaks
to the gnomes on the lawns why the rain leaks
the lost pebbles from pass over showers
distinctively poured like clock work and yet
the client approaches the foyer the beginning
of a sit down as the Lincoln doors are doing
an open and shut dance for the laws in the land
as I charm the gnomes at Cambridge arms
FEELS LIKE A LIFETIME AGO
January feels like a lifetime ago,
breathing freely in a hearty party atmosphere.
The wheels on the van go round and round.
A storm loomed and we stood on Psalm 91.
The storm couldn’t reach where God’s hand breathed.
The wheels on the van go round and round
and our family goes up and down in reverie.
Oh how God blessed us with a solid gold watch.
Extended family joined us - my parents’ siblings,
the youngest with their spouses. And the doors
open and shut...open and shut. Shuttled to downtown,
my brother-in-law at the helm. Nobody wore masks,
nobody was sick, nobody needed operations.
Smooth operator, our Lord, who planned this folly,*
this tralala adventure — his peace and safety parlayed.
We blast music from the fifties, sixties, seventies.
Up, up we go from dynastic overflow, generational
happiness in our strobing blue jamboree — guilt-free.
Celebration of two great people — defined by hips,
superglued twins from different mothers. Children
of forever after happiness. Blissfulness before March.
The ants go marching on the calendar screen, right
away we can’t breathe, thankfully not covid. The ants
weave in and out, revolving hospital doors,
pass through, separate, and go home — the square dance
for cool kids, not so cool. Wannabee ankle-biters** - cruel.
In the bus we bust a gut**...months later Dad busts a chest.
Dosido here we go...mom and dad take turns, for the best -
we hope!
8/18/2020
Popular songs: Wheels on the Bus, Ants Go Marching
Bible, Psalm 91 is about protection
Some square dance lingo used in this poem - such as
pass through, separate and go home, dosido
*folly here is meant to mean to mean celebratory fun
**ankle-biters are children
***bust a gut - laughing
Changing certain aspects of my life,
My mindset Sharp like the blade of a knife.
Ways and means being etched in stone,
Working with friends I don't do this alone.
Towards a happier life on making strides,
Making bold moves I no longer have to hide.
Life now has meaning no longer hiding in shame,
Happier moments spent not playing the drug game.
Healthier and stronger I grow in body and mind,
With proper nourishment in exercise I define.
An ending to the beginning I sought to destroy,
Open and shut the case closed on things enjoyed.
Mind over matter with help from friends and Lord,
For things held dear from the life before.
The path laid before me is clear and bright, Future endeavors won't be a struggle and fight.
Fannie Strumpet is a flatulent floozy
With each wiggle her rump lets out a doozy
She blows out so much gas
Foul vapor from her a$$
It's asphyxiating and makes me woozy
Fannie lets 'em rip without hesitation
When I point a finger in accusation
She points hers back at me
and laughs saying, "Phew Wee!"
I'm tempted to enact strangulation
I threatened to have the woman arrested
Indecently walking around bare breasted
She farted in my face
Through her panties of lace
I think I was infected and molested
One night Fannie was with a man she'd just met
When she tooted he left, much to her regret
Rectal fumes exploded
He screamed, "You're corroded!"
Her tail expels toxins like a gas jet
Fannie saw a doctor of proctology
She farted without making an apology
She disgusted him so
He said, "Madame, just go.
You're a noxious threat to world ecology!"
I don't fear being assaulted by her smut
She was sued; the case was open and shut
The streets no longer stink
Cuz Fannie's in the clink
For hiding lethal weapons in her butt
October 1, 2021
May the Gas Be With You-Farts Part 2 Contest
Sponsored by Chantelle Anne Cooke
CURTAINS
Setting: A couple in their bedroom.
Characters:
Wife: Innocent and simpering. Dressed to kill.
Husband: Severe. Soberly dressed.
Dialogue:
Husband: What is that you are wearing my dear?
It looks like your mother’s curtains I fear.
Wife: The boutique was closed; a bit of a bind.
So I had make do with what I could find.
Husband: I suppose that’s what’s known as window dressing.
Wife: Oh Darling, I find that pun quite depressing.
Husband: Far more depressing for your dear Mama,
When she finds out where her curtains are.
Wife: Do you like the net curtains I’ve used as a veil?
Husband: Well … you might have removed the curtain rail.
I foresee a problem you’ve not catered for.
With that in you’ll never get through the door.
Wife: Oh yes. An oversight of mine
That calls for a little re-design.
Husband: That’s all very well, but I’m still quite appalled
And insist the curtains are re-installed.
Wife: I thought you would fancy me in these.
(Seductively) You can open the curtains whenever you please.
Husband: I walked past your mother’s bedroom tonight
And saw her undressed; a ghastly sight.
Wife: Oh … I see what you mean.
That’s quite obscene
Husband: If you didn't remove the track,
I think you'd better put them back
Epilogue An open and shut case
Line of inquiry:
“betwixt the pulse of our heartbeat
simply present, head-heart linking
dwelling in time stretched blissful peace
awareness became unblinking
Animating Innate Vibrance
Open and shut, constant change
He’s on His throne, He’s off
My heartbeat says otherwise
My mortifying act of anamorphic shame
He says, “Sit still.”
He says, “Know that I Am…”
When I clear my head
not of everything
but when I sit in place
with only the inside and outside
universe; not without sound
I would be dead, without the sense
I’ve been given. I’m holding hands
with my own heart, quietly kissing
the peace, which I, all too often,
want to run from and to what…
How much time can I take
five or ten
minutes that I want to spend
elsewhere
but this is what I need. He
knows; the exploration time
spent in meditative prayer
pays higher dividends
Oh what I see
when I truly open my eyes
high beams highlighting,
sculpting, silhouette-sitting,
the unknown takes shape
The aha transforms. One
never forgets
when floored
with answers that transform
Handmade cards, white, red, and blue.
Made to exchange with our friends.
Some were for Mom and Dad, too.
Hearts were made with ruffled ends,
paper shapes all stuck with glue.
Paper doilies – a great boon –
thin disguise to a rough cut.
Snippets and scraps were all strewn.
Cards folded open and shut.
Fun hours for an afternoon.
Sweet words enclosed within hearts
not rent from stationer’s hand.
A simple poem imparts
Unwavering love’s grandstand.
Innocent, expressive arts.
Each design, solely unique.
Words hand-written from the heart.
A small child’s naïve technique.
Her love poured into each part.
Sealed with a childlike mystique.
Spiderwebbed folds hang
from thin arms.
A circle of lamplight
is his exercise yard.
Daylight is a brief fluttering wing
against closed eyelids.
Night floats above him,
and in those dark hours
he feels a light-headed immunity
from the gravity
of open graves.
Outside in the hard-wired clamor,
buses and trucks growl up droning hills.
Sink holes open and shut
within a rushing sky.
Order and chaos are ushered in and out
of crazy-eyed cats.
Sometimes his mind
is a wheezy colostrum
of milky effusions.
He paints himself with one finger
in the air.
The dying man hitchhikes under a hand,
feels the warmth of anything in full bloom.
He sighs, then gurgles like a coffee pot.
The wispy guy remains,
always sinking ever upwards
toward what - he knows not,
however, it’s not here
so, he doesn't care.
Spiritual dragons – the ones that kill
reside and wait impatiently for seeking fingers.
Hobbits eat breakfast mushrooms
in a leather-bound shire.
Small books on overly large religions.
Poets and their random works
all in a row.
The shelves are long but not lengthy
I lack the space for unnecessary reading.
I write now,
I write inside invisible books
they open and shut every day like mouths.
Few read the words that tumble out,
but the news from my bookshelf
is encouraging.
I need to categorize and order,
not alphabetically ranked by authors
or subjects
but by how much I have yet to comprehend
and need to read again.
© Now