Long Photograph Poems
Long Photograph Poems. Below are the most popular long Photograph by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Photograph poems by poem length and keyword.
Lost in gravity’s pull, unleashing are iniquitous racing rot,
obscure entities rush through, connecting the dots
pilfering, extracting inventory, my intestines in knots
distant incense fumes a conscious canopy, petals wafting open-air,
I sense an antediluvian forest, aflame, circling there
Gazebo’s trapezoid holds captive, naked, probed and jarred
A sceptic- doubting Thomas vanishing, broken in shards
fragments of glass banishing, misfit mosaic alters as prey
Trembling colors my core stripping to bone greys,
stumbling over intercranial eddies, whispering “This is not an SOS fortess”
I lift my listless body from off the whitened Kalli bench rest,
mustering up brawn to leave this camouflaged spaceship
gaining is the exotic and final trip
escaping shades of jade and eschewing a repetitive rot
at last, rejoining the existing world’s ongoing ellipsis—living dot dot dot
Let me share with you a shrilling moment, one I dreaded most. 'Twas another beautiful summer day, and a visiting day, at the beach steps away, the Lake Shrine. The layout an inexplicable charm, monks in saffron and garnet tinted robes draping each body, had welcomed me. I must have been aligned with the stratospheric, a nefarious nebula inside the meditation gazebo, I thought inviting and safe. Past mistakes had laid heavy in this dome, this world a jungle, pent up nerves generated, nerves stretched taut. The line inked about intercranial eddies who seemed to have spoken to me, was most difficult to pen. As a child hungry for the opaque curtains of mystery to be drawn, in which 'lamplights strange to these eyes', within my late-night shadowy bedroom, appeared. As an adult I seek answers, therefore removing the line. I’ve always been entertained by mind's photograph, I reflect upon.
The Gazebo
I Am Anaya
2/22/26
The sun was creeping through the windowpane
I lifted my head to see sparkling dewdrops from the rain
And in the fields, I saw someone slowly walking
He almost looked familiar, yet his face was shocking
As he came ever nearer,
The realities of the war at hand were never clearer
My son’s right eye was simply no more
And his left eye was shyly cast down to the floor
He embraced me, sobbing, but relieved
To be so courteously and kindly received
The day my son returned was the day my husband died
It was the day when all my family sat there and cried
Sheets of tears from both eye sockets
Were seen on the soldier’s cheeks as he put his hands in his pockets
I told him gently that Dad was proud of him
His expression was grim…
The clouds ever looming over our home
He talks so little; he’ll contemplate and roam
The farm is tended to and the garden does flourish
The fruits and vegetables of our harvest will nourish
But as we are easily healthy and fed,
My son is stricken in panic and dread
He wakes up in the middle of the night
Clutching onto Dad’s photograph for dear life
The horrors he has witnessed I shall never know
And the gardens of his remaining youth shall never grow
Limping in the evening, he cleans his plate without complaint
I miss the days he used to pick on me—calling my main dishes plain
I miss his personality, his wit, his SOUL
I must learn now to rake his remnants across the coal
In the brink of sadness and stillness…
The bomb hits me to the innermost core
I HAD LOST HIM IN THE WAR
the ivy crunches ‘neath my boot
cold sounds that crisp the winds
a snow has left its whitened soot
not just the ground
but with age found
my head and cheeks … and chin …
I walked here in my younger years
these vines then new and green
my heart baptized with callow tears
from then ‘til now
each solemn vow
and all oaths in-between …
the mem’ries of this green-clad place
disturb my thoughts to yearn
for how these buildings did embrace
each soul and mind
that searched to find
through toil, what it could learn …
I stumbled there from brick to brick
thru schoolwork, loves and friends
but most of life came much too quick
and good or bad
that bumbling lad
climbed ropes too near their ends …
now here I stroll those bricks, the same
day’s close paints pink, the reach
I see each face, each smile, each name
of those, then dear
but now, I fear
too far-flung to beseech …
still, priceless are the days now gone
and precious through their end
for mem’ries push me always on
to quite adore
life making more
sweet days like this to wend …
sweet days … like THIS.
( photograph of my prep school, North Yarmouth Academy, taken 50 years ago from 1976 yearbook )
I ran across some photos the other day
hanging off an old branch on our family tree…
and as photos often do they awoke a memory in me.
I love how that happens…sometimes as down memory lane I ramble
a simple photograph or two can make a memory unscramble.
It was the night we taught our grandchildren to play poker
(If their mom and dad were there they might’ve been appalled!)
The night we took our four grandchildren…
and made gamblers of them all.
In our defense poker teaches many life lessons…
and to our grandchildren we wanted to relay them….
Like how as important as the cards we’re dealt…
It’s even more important how we play them.
It teaches us how to read another person…
when to bluff…and when to wait…
And how every now and then you need to take a chance
on drawing to an inside straight.
It teaches us when we have the cards….to enjoy the moment…that feeling…the rush
and how…no matter how we’d like it to be different…a full house always beats a flush.
Poker teaches us how to lose with dignity…when all we needed was that ace!
And when we have the winning hand…how to win with decency and grace.
We like to think when our grandchildren look back on our times together
They’ll remember all the fun we had…
They’ll remember our support and our praise…
They’ll remember dinners around our table
celebrating birthdays and holidays…
And in those quiet moments…
perhaps when they see an old photo hanging from our family tree
a memory will unscramble…
and they’ll remember when they were young
the night Nana and PopPop taught them how to gamble.
You do something to me that I can't explain
Like a utopian cure that targets all my pain
My only photograph of you tucked away in my mind
Existing forever even if my eyes should go blind
Ever heard the saying once in a blue moon?
Not surprising the two you possess make my heart forever swoon
I feel my wildest dreams are coming true
All of them memories involving you
My hands on your back like a paintbrush on a canvas
You falling blissfully asleep I swear I didn't plan this
I know I'll see you again weather far or soon
However it still feels like a long dark night when sunlight misses the moon
I found it on the internet,
done up in shades: black, white, a gray;
a photograph of a woman,
what her name is, I cannot say.
She’s not wearing a single stitch,
and casts a shadow on the ground,
her limbs arranged in such a way
that her picture won’t be taken down.
It starts with dainty, pointed toes,
long shins and slender, curving calves,
lovely thighs glisten in the light,
the kind women are jealous to have.
The hips are full and alluring,
nut obscured by a blocking knee,
in the right spot to keep us men
from seeing her Holy of Holies.
A stomach toned but somewhat soft,
hint of six-pack, but nothing more,
her arm splayed across lovely breasts
to keep us from seeing much more.
Still-wet hair trailing down her chest,
hints of shoulder swooping to neck,
a mouth that’s hanging just open
as if tempting to what comes next.
I’m sure some are now reading this,
convinced that I’m just a pervert,
yet if I did this in oil paint
you’d all call it my master-work.
Friggin’ painters have all the fun…
I'm phasing in a recurring monochrome dream,
velvet whispers lead me to a sonorous stream,
translucent visions fall as vibrating showers,
retracing footsteps on trampled golden flowers.
Fragrant lullabies guide me on bronze ferns,
a flamboyant willow guards the deserted turns.
On a dilapidated porch I pick dry hazel leaves,
under pungent moss, the tattered garden grieves.
A wavy shadow moves behind heavy sepia curtain,
why I stand in an unknown place, I feel uncertain.
I ascend the staircase of my fears to a bolted door,
a withered rosette of memories remains on the floor,
beyond the entrance are mementos of a family in past,
a photograph fading those faces but smiles would last.
A crystal chandelier sings of days lost in aged time,
strange that I find familiarity in the echoing chime.
My pictures on the impervious roof in white appear,
bewildered I run to the frozen window dripping fear.
Oh this mind is a decaying house I visit in reprise,
only to chase shapes of love from tears in my eyes.
July 16, 2020
Decaying House Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Constance La France
~Winner: 1st Place
The love of my life looked me in the eye
As if I was dreaming, he understood
Like the beat of an eagle's wing
I felt his pupils expanding in gentility
It was the very first day
I held his hand in mine
He remembered
He called me kind
The love of my life looked me in the eye
Like sun beaming from encompassed gloom
A feather flirting the fingertips
A splash of refreshing water
He understood. . .he understood
And every word was so clear and new!
It was the very first time
The connection sparked
The love of my life looked me in the eye
And then was gone in a week's time
His spirit slid away in bits, like sand
Returning to distant lands
He never said goodbye
Those green eyes still ponder and shine
Leaving but remembering
All that was said
The love of my life looks me in the eye
As tears flow down my cheeks
I miss the gentle beat of the wing
I miss the way he speaks
The treasures we did share
Are now only a memory that I wear
The love of my life looks me in the eye
Only through a photograph. . .
Tears no longer come,
dried ducts of wrung emotion,
denied one more drop of release.
... but only to feel
Feel your finite presence beside me,
inhaling your sweet scent to memory.
Feel your heart pulsate through the calfskin
of the despair that seals me in its snare.
Rhythms of a hopeless eternity of love,
not destined for us.
Feel my heart bleeding for one more glimpse,
of the exquisite life and love in your eyes.
Shuttered now from a lifetime of shared souls.
The pianist plays one last song,
as tears fall upon your coffin.
Won't you give me a sign,
to show me the way to you.
I wonder what has become of me,
my soul a definition of despair,
my mind a metaphor for insanity,
my heart silenced by the loss of your call.
Above, all I see are murky skies,
even the stars hide from me.
I'm sure the moon shed a tear,
when the sun refused to shine on me.
In the hope there is no tomorrow,
I lay here with your photograph on my pillow.
... but time ticks so slowly.
20 September 2018
Collaboration with Judith S
Photograph can hold thousand memories
Recalling the time that we tend to forget
Even recalling sounds and smell forgotten
Childhood memories are instantly recalled
It amazing how we recall what we forgot
Our thoughts we can't contain emotions
Usually we just want to recall happiness
Sometimes we are face with the sadness
Maybe we never really ever forgotten them
Even in life hustle and bustle they are there
Moved aside because it what we face daily
Our thought rekindled by those happy time
Revealing to us who we are and we were
It weird when some events which were sad
Eventually became what is our happiest
So cherish each and every single memory