Long Papered Poems
Long Papered Poems. Below are the most popular long Papered by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Papered poems by poem length and keyword.
a blue chevy impala basks in a suburban driveway
like a beached whale it oozes gases and black oils
its seeping white walls beg for rubber movements
little boy inside the house sits on a pleated couch
he watches the setting sun through a screen door
fat mother stirs pudding in a wall-papered kitchen
smoking father works a tv guide crossword puzzle
he flicks white hot dust into a crystal glass ashtray
the corner television set transmits black and white
cathode rays of a half-naked wrestler pinned down
the destroyer with mask on lifts his victorious arms
little boy hears calliope music in the green distance
the ice cream man comes with dry ice and cologne
still three blocks away he makes another long stop
fat mother fries bloody meats in a fiery blue skillet
she turns on boss radio to hear elvis sing the blues
little boy goes to the admiral and turns the channel
bishop sheen appears in black cursing the darkness
skipper frank implores the kids to brush after meals
tennessee tuxedo chases tiger tornado to megapolis
smoking father finishes a tv guide crossword puzzle
the ice cream man arrives with dry ice and cologne
Dear Folks: Here I am at beautiful Fort Fumble, Louisiana.
I sure wish I was back on the farm in Bean Blossom, Indiana.
Already I've learned the army pastime of "hurry up and wait!"
And that sergeants ain't very nice - they just love to berate.
Sergeants met us at the train depot and herded us on a truck.
They dumped us at what's called a mess for good old army chuck.
I stared in disbelief at the stuff they slopped upon my tray.
It was called chipped beef and gravy - it was all greasy and gray!
They marched us to the supply place and issued our army suits;
A gun, helmet, drawers, socks and couple of pairs of boots.
I struggled with all that stuff packed upon my weary back,
To a lovely new residence, a flimsy tar-papered shack.
I was told how to hang my clothes and fold my boxer drawers;
The proper way to roll my socks and other silly army chores.
They told me how to make up my cot - the blanket must be taut.
A quarter must bounce off of it or your effort is for naught.
Mom, I sure need you to fix my grub and make up my cot.
Pop, I miss plowing corn behind the mules on the forty-acre plot.
I better get to sleep so tomorrow I can earn my meager dough.
Tell Uncle Clyde it ain't like he said it'd be. Your loving son, Roscoe.
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
A deserted old house stood off the county road a little way.
To keep apace of living I rushed by it almost every day.
For years I'd wanted to visit there to see what secrets it held,
And perhaps find out about the folks who in it had once dwelled.
Towering oaks stood erectly as if to guard the old place.
Clinging vines held weathered clapboards in precarious embrace.
I mused as I opened the latch on the sagging garden gate,
"Why was it forsaken and left in such a forlorn state?"
Floors squeaked and mice skittered as I sauntered down the hall.
Abruptly, something caught my eye on the faded papered wall.
'Twas a grim, unsmiling portrait of a Victorian family of eight.
I wondered who they were and I pondered about their fate.
Off the hall was the parlor where stood a brick-lined fireplace.
I could fancy the cheery flames glowing upon each happy face,
As they celebrated gala affairs or gathered for family prayers.
Alas, the old folks passed on - their children seeking other affairs.
What had been a vibrant, loving home was now a house in shambles,
Almost overtaken by massive oaks, shrubs and tangled brambles.
But my downcast mood was uplifted despite the engulfing gloom,
As I saw roses planted so very long ago now in magnificent bloom!
The rain speaks softly of forgotten dreams.
Those grand plans that are quietly put away.
People become busy waiting for their ship to come in.
The time passes like greased lightning, and still no ship.
Did we waste our time, waiting for something better?
Maybe we killed a little bit more time than we meant to.
What of all the hours observing the ethereal beauty here?
The draping of the sunset, the early drama of the dawn.
Wildflowers in a meadow, the silence of the high desert.
We never found our fortune, yet we changed the world.
A world lived in that ten miles from where you were born.
Yes, and we too are changed, for each day we live anew.
Until we stand as giants in the measure of what we know.
This is the mind set of the brave, and of those who are free.
For many are the lives that fought for our liberty, dear souls.
let us revere the hero's who died that we might have more.
That we might prove a single person can change the world.
Once I looked up and the stars said, "soon you too will shine!"
As Leaves of papered gold fall from the trees of autumn.
A great spirit dreams of children, falling softly to the earth!
date: 1/12/2019
I have a small secret love in my life,
A marriage I love to do,
It’s when I use the stapler,
Making one grouped sheet from two.
The heavy duty mechanical,
The straight, to big, to small,
I love the crunch of bending steel,
The papered wedding, I love it all.
And at special times there’s 5 sheets or more,
A bunch to join as one.
Then, when the pile of paper’s so big,
I use the electric staple gun.
My small secret I keep so quiet,
I never want to create a scene.
I just quietly work my job, 9 to 5,
With the photocopy machine.
Written 15th March 2017 on a whim for John Lawless' contest
Where Has All The Beauty Gone?
There is no time like the now times,
The ever-present blood-swooshing times.
Time again to surrender as a smitten lover surrenders,
To the never-ending rhapsodies of erotic impulses,
Which exhale as a listless leviathan exhales,
Basking in the swishing waters off the windy capes,
Naked, but kept hidden, in the unknown anterior rooms,
Of a hundred dark mansions in the draping hollows,
Encased with ethereal atmospheres and essences,
In stony gold, glittering emeralds, and smooth diamonds,
All dazzling the senses with spurting explosions of light,
Of helpless exaltations and cooing astonishments;
Now they’re seeking the old nights and the old embraces
In the gaping moonlight, amid intense and timid arousals;
Their blinking black eyes squinting from behind the papered walls,
Of dustless airless rooms with drooping statues of dead poets,
Alive still as they rise again in mythic intonations,
Making suave movements with pointing soft fingers,
Upon the moist nape of blond submitting desires.
Watching in spirit now as they once peeped at lovers;
Peeping and prying and peering from behind infinitesimal holes,
Never seen before by the living or the bereaved,
Nor by the delirious or the unjustly defamed;
Now they just bite us, the souls of the dead boys in blue.
And they watch us from behind those bare walls,
Those breathing twitching snarling walls.
So, where has all the beauty gone?
Purposeful Valentine's Day
Upon tis day,
thee am all set,
Retired in May,
didst nay forget,
Excuses naught,
schedules art free,
Thy bouquet got,
twelve roses see,
Velvety red,
scents to be strong,
Thorns art all shred,
do naught belong,
For fear of tear
all wrapped in silk,
Naught papered wear,
smoothly as milk,
Box chocolate,
assorted all,
Her favorite,
cannot recall,
Lest poked and jabbed,
art thou remain,
Whereto, thee grabbed,
thy likes became,
Thy card filled-out,
thee signed and sealed,
Ere now thee sprout,
start our tryst field,
Thou smile tendered,
memory serves,
Thy smile rendered,
tis well deserved,
Thus thee both rests,
thine rendezvous,
Nay, signs of pests,
toes filter through,
Imposing grass,
felt surreal,
As thee impress,
thy promised feel,
Poet speaketh,
thy love listens,
Thine Sun zenith,
skin now glistens,
Winds anoint thus,
birds entertain,
Her presence plus,
hearts one was twain,
Quote "Trees By Me",
under our tree,
Silent entry,
thus amidst thee,
Angel brushes,
stillness abounds,
Teardrop dashes,
comfort surrounds,
A common thread,
tenuous tugs,
Beholden spread,
flowers and card,
Add thine this be,
boxed chocolates,
Pierced normally,
left favorites,
Thus close day gave,
my Valentine's,
Read, seen thy grave,
between the lines.
2020 February 14
*1st Place*
STRAND SELECT P any form,any theme
~~Brian Strand
Howmanysyllables:
34 lines x 8 syllables per = 272 syllables total
My mind reaches with papered fingers
Palms held upward
Searching for an unearthly scribe
The pages of me lay strewn on the floor
Inked with my inconsistancies
My moments of clarity
Passionate notes to former lovers
Humble ramblings
Wisdoms trinkets
Released along margins
Waiting to be edited
Combined
Clarified
Celebrated
Parts of me are folded
Edges torn
Ripped in pieces
Ideas lost in time
Scribbled over with anger
Hidden under layers
Page upon page
In no particular order
Yet in some way
It all makes sense
The best and worst of me
Tears and laughter
The symphony of me
Pressed between pages
Words that seek to travel
Beyond blue and white
Two dimension
Rising above the page
Synaptic passages
Creating color
Telling stories
Real and imagined
Paper moons
Oragami sunrises
My mind reaching with papered hands
Palms held upward
Seeking an unearthly scribe
For SKAT's ode, old/new contest.
I really really want to win a hug!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
If I held the power of speech,
silence is never
The silent ones,
those unable to speak,
beheld
the stunning gifts
that tenderly enlighten souls
morsels for the eyes to feast
to belay absence
A blue jay finds them
and stares at their minus
and reasonably
the blue jay vamooses to airs
A multitude of lost butterflies
congregate near
a waterfall
as their wings speak
true tell-tales
their life's stories whole
in intricate fragments
Deaf study them comely
in the show of shows
fluttering wings
cascading downward equally
number of living butterflies
and of living waters
Smile upon smile
all host hushed
turns to grins
muted afoot in a mud pond
is nature's cakewalk
Statuettes of papyrus
kissing the watery banks
with their papered lips
unto their accounts of a
special day
as each bow with its crested crown
A trail of fallen stars
barren their soles to aglow
springs blindly glamor
as a jealous chord sound
awaken the northern light show
displays of awe
... as body taps buddies
a form of talk
by voiceless ...
Window Teacher
by Odin Roark
As teacher
She was petite
Unassuming
Framed in layered paint
No make-up on her
Save occasional steam facials
Winter cold
Apartment hot
Patiently she granted access
Permitting learning through her
Worn but faithful eyes
Rectangular lenses
Forever dilated for 24/7 study
Across the street
Other windows
Same opportunity
Different lessons
Pulled blinds
Hiding fear
Glass with cracks
Glass turned cardboard
Innocent children
Faces of confusion
Above the street
Pigeon-lined roofs
Poised like sentinels
Destiny marking time
Standing guard
Here yesterday
Today
Tomorrow
Below the street
Tunnel-sounds of motion
Fathers
Mothers
Singles
Junkies
Suits
All riding to anywhere
But here
Down on the street
Few pedestrians
Some exploring a dumpster’s overflow
Dollar Store breakage
Bodega fast-food wrappings
Liquor store sadness
Nighttime festivities of the block
Broken bottles as glitter
Wet and dry
Dead or alive
Kicked
Smashed
Stacked
Bagged
Forgotten garbage
A growing city’s collateral damage
Beneath my building
Express train speeding
Rattling eyes of my teacher
Time for school
Real school
The kind only un-papered immigrants know
Learning what textbooks cannot teach
For you have to be blessed
With a window like mine
The glassed portal to what harsh reality
Bestows on many
Here where there is no graduation
No cap and gown celebration
Or Mom and dad accolades
No sweetheart promises forever
Only survival
And for the window-school drop outs…
A future of smaller classrooms
The kind with no willing and generous
Window teachers
The kind with bars to the outside
Where all the garbage walks the yard
Where subway vibrations become
Steel Sliding
Locking doors
Torturous echoes
Before lights out
Memories become dreams
In these dark classrooms
Where fear laden eyes
Once behind windows to the outside
Now reside in solitary regret
To return to condensation on glass
As the only obstacle to learning
To be free of eyes forever moist and blurry
Clouding remembrances
Of the petite unassuming window
Framed in glorious layers of paint
Oh…if only to return