Long Parlors Poems
Long Parlors Poems. Below are the most popular long Parlors by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Parlors poems by poem length and keyword.
I was told he was a bit shy so I allowed him to bring a friend with him to the counseling office.
They were both five, and friends. They found each other the first day school started, a week ago.
They were shy all of three minutes until they sensed how easy I am.
Such giggling! Such laughing!
I brought out toys, plastic women, men, children,
Dinosaurs, horses, a baby elephant, a variety of tiny hard birds.
I dumped them onto a table in front of the giggle bunnies and
Asked them to help me build a village.
Unfortunately, I had an Incredible Hulk in the midst.
Pow! Slam! Bam! I am going to kill you! They picked the piece
Up and began hitting them against each other yelling, “die!”
And “I am going to kill you!”
Instant reminder to me. Get rid of super hero
Before next time.
They are on the floor now, giggling about
The pizza parlors they are building when they grow up.
He is going to sell chocolate pizzas.
She is going to sell chocolate, peanut butter, jelly pizzas with butter.
She is charging $500 for each pizza.
He is laughing about this, trying to decide on a price for himself.
Kindergarteners. Nothing as amazing and fun as spending a
Few minutes with two of them!
It is surely wonderful…
To not be found
In the parlors or diners
At the water’s edge
Along the beach or river
Where there are blessings
Foaming from the shores
It is surely wonderful…
To find a passion
Thriving with warmth
Welcoming joys
Inspirations so alive
They dance across
The moonlit night of autumn
It is surely wonderful….
To succeed at a dream
That blazes hot inside
The soul who longs to
Arrive at the labyrinth
Of change and colors
So rich and vibrant they breathe
It is surely wonderful…
To awake to fresh laughter
Caressing the stars, the sun
In whispers of compassion
Like grace in a psalm
Prayers echo through the sky
On a faith that is so alive
It is surely wonderful…
To know God is inside
The heart and soul
Touching the naked mind
With pure peace and love
That echoes faith along
The shadows beneath a full sun
It is surely wonderful…
To believe the answers
Will always come
Revealed in a way that
Only truth can portray
With sincerity and praise
For the One who loves unconditionally
It is surely wonderful…
To break free of grief
And know the joy within
That pleads for serenity
Captures the promise of
Beauty that feels so free
It blesses even the worst sinner
It is surely wonderful…
To know the way to giving
A part of the heart and soul
Living within the spirit
Increases joy and hope
Raises the sweetest glow
To caress the summer with love
It is surely wonderful…
To paint the world in twinkling
Stars and milky moonbeams
That drift across the night
Sending stirrings of intimacy
Silent familiarity with the
Flavors of God’s brilliant, amazing thoughts
It is surely wonderful…
To know the One
Who created the sun
Gentled the heart
Shaped the stars
Twisted the laurel
Gave breath to us all
It is surely wonderful…
It is surely wonderful!
Recently I’ve been thinking about that 8 foot
plot of land outside of Heathers that my parents
buried my grandfather in. It’s amazing how many
tulips and roses can fit in an 8 foot plot of land.
At his funeral my father gave the eulogy and he said
beautiful things about him; painted him a saint.
And it’s all true, he was a saint in his own way.
My father said he never once yelled at the dog
for slobbering all over his recently shined dress shoes
and he gave the mailman lemonade and granola bars.
He said that my sweet grandfather even listened to every
solicitor that came to knock upon the dark red front door.
That story in particular drew a laugh of admiration
and looks of awe. I’ve never met a man who would listen
to any solicitor at the front door, much less every one.
If I had been old enough at the time to really know
how to give a speech about the dead to a room full
of living people without crying I would have said
that my grandfather was a shepherd, with flocks of
children in his herd that he would lead to ice cream
parlors and apple orchards with the gentle nudge of
a seasoned guide. And God, was he good at it. I bet
that’s what he’s doing right now: Guiding the children
taken too early to the heavenly ice cream parlor for their
first taste of divine buttered pecan in a fresh-baked waffle cone.
Writing Challenge - E Words' Poetry Contest sponsored by Constance La France 2/11/2023
It was the Main Street hangout for the teenagers of its day.
For a nickel they could dream as they heard the jukebox play!
Wispy white metal chairs surrounded tables topped with glass.
(There were secluded booths where lads could woo their lass!)
From the tin covered ceiling hung a fan with its whirring blade,
And arrayed along the soda fountain were the tools of the trade.
Symmetric white and black tiles covered the spotless floor.
A gleaming steel and marble counter completed its bright decor!
Presiding over all was a guy oddly named the "soda jerk."
Clad in impeccable white, he took great pride in his work.
He was a wizard at his craft and when his sorcery was done,
He'd whipped up a heavenly treat that couldn't be outdone!
A Hamilton mixer, scoops and ladles were the tools of his trade.
In a trice he'd make a root beer float or some tasty lemonade,
Hot fudge sundae, banana split, soda or strawberry shake,
Cherry coke or any such concoction you'd ask him to make!
The "soda jerk" did his duties with consummate skill and grace,
Always with a ready quip and a contented smile upon his face.
Fast food joints or drive-ins today do not have that elegant flair,
That yesteryear's soda fountains and ice cream parlors had to share!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired (© All Rights Reserved)
Whores of Babylon, I breathe amongst you everyday
On city streets, in country lanes, along lone alleyways
Selling illegal merchandise, cheap, tainted, unrefined
Tempting this incognito angel, back into my own kind
Dens of iniquity, hedonistic programs, carnal pleasure
Take me to your pimp, I’ve got a wallet full of treasure
Bring good gear, Snow White, not crude crystal meth
Tonight I’m getting wasted, to within one inch of death
Seedy massage parlors, proffering rubdowns, with oils
This upstanding citizen, on tables of unembellished soil
Licking toads back, my penchant, as I pray to the gods
Yapping like a puppy, choke chained, spanked with rods
Cesspools of assignation, motel rooms, knocking shops
Gonna keep banging up, til my veins collapse from shock
Tomorrow chase the dragon, before addressing a church
Sermons of fire and brimstone, damning you, is my purge.
By
David Kavanagh
There was a time
not so very long ago
when clopping horses
and sighing sleighs
and paddle splashing canoes,
and then, later, trains
and electric streetcars
were the resounding heart
of multicultural transportation.
And local newspapers
with indigenous,
perennially planted village editors
among ecoschooled
one-room patriarchal chiefs
competed only with local gossip
in barber shops
and beauty parlors
for communicating hearts,
listening among each democratic trusting,
sometimes mistrusting,
but rarely anti-trusting, other.
These were slower
and in some more nutritional
ways more goodfaith experiential based
and less indoors extracted,
distracted from outdoor Earth voices
singing resonance,
preaching resilient multicultural climates
of and for co-redeeming health
as Original Intent
of Paradise WinWin Wealth.
There were these times
when horses and sleighs,
mules and oxen,
cattle and pigs,
camels and llamas,
and then, later, bird flight imaginations,
bikes
and ecoschools
and organic composting gardens,
electric streetcars and trains
were the heart of multicultural
PositivEnergy communication.
The green of summer gently yields its hold,
As England wakes to amber, rust, and gold.
A sudden chill infects the morning breeze,
And whispers briskly through the changing trees.
The morning mist hangs low upon the down,
And wraps in silk each sleepy market town.
Above the fields, the fractured sunbeams break,
To paint a golden path across the lake.
The ancient oaks that guard the country lanes,
Now drop their heavy, bronze-encrusted chains.
The acorns fall, the chestnuts split their shells,
While woodsmoke rises from the hidden dells.
Along the hedgerows, scarlet berries gleam,
Like crimson jewels caught within a dream.
The robin sings his solitary note,
A melancholy tune from feathered throat.
In hollowed ways where shadows love to hide,
The copper leaves are swirling side by side.
They dance in circles on the dampening earth,
A final waltz of beauty and of worth.
The rivers flow with slower, deeper grace,
Reflecting winter’s fast-approaching face.
Yet in this fading light, a magic dwells,
Enchanting mossy banks and rocky fells.
The churchyard yews stand solemn in the rain,
As yellow fields surrender all their grain.
The harvest gathered, and the barns filled high,
Beneath a pale and shifting northern sky.
And as the twilight pulls its curtain down,
And throws a violet cloak across the town,
The hearths are lit, the cozy parlors glow,
Defying winds that from the ocean blow.
For autumn here is not a sudden death,
But nature holding in her sacred breath.
A beautiful, prolonged, and golden sigh,
Before the silver snows of winter fly.
Some of them are drifting vapor,
fluid pastel flavoring my tongue.
When awake, they linger like nectar,
or the hidden symbols of Jung.
Others are more like nesting dolls,
hand painted selves inside of selves,
secret centers wrung in reluctant recalls.
Narcotic sleep concocts misshapened shelves.
Still others are Fabergé eggs,
grandiloquent intricacies, ornate and refined,
interior parlors absent of regs.
Fantastic reservoirs are carefully designed.
But most of them are made of celluloid,
cinematic and impossible to avoid.
Published in the first PoetrySoup anthology- 11/20
A poem lovely as a flower! How could one not be moved
By a blossoming beauty in celestial contours grooved
A flower is grace and elegance incarnate
It is fragrance and loveliness- aggregate
Burning in flame, bedecking hills and vales,
Some bloom to die unnoticed in lonely isles!
Nodding in glee with the gentle touch of winds
They remain bees’ and butterflies’ bosom friends
In beautiful parlors, they proudly reside
Over the freshly dug up graves, they sadly preside
Like stars in the firmament, on Earth they shine
Who else other than God, their beauteous form design?
Entered for Brian Strand's Structured
Poetry Contest
Placed First
March. 3.2022
A Poem Lovely as A Poetry Contest
Sponsor-Margarita Lillico
How Poetry Began
There was no explosion in the voided void
No weight to metal or components foreign formed
Science and religion married off their children
Philosophy and rhyme were named
They were circular at first and they too gave birth
To reason and jungles minding their own business
Triangles triangulated, circulated in an ink filled well
Pulled up like the dark ooze and tar
That once was dinosaur remains
Set upon the quill or filled the pen of mighty men
To dot humanity with a verse
It was suggested, the first delicate words arrived
In gold parlors lined in silk, over saffron tea
Reading leaves to young maidens who, surprised
Touched by lovers on the bosom from behind
In actuality
Poetry began inside a cave right over there
That’s it! Just on the cliff outside the cave
Just past the very next thought
Sitting side by side on this once empty page
Of memory and age, hanging on the edge
Passion, rage, love and silver birds
Got their start out there as well
Created on 9/12/14 for How Poetry Began- Poetry Contest