Long Photographs Poems
Long Photographs Poems. Below are the most popular long Photographs by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Photographs poems by poem length and keyword.
He appears in a photograph of his life
there are no faces, nor anyone
who lived in a memory.
Images develop.
That long table was a smorgasbord
where he left only bones and crumbs.
There is a mirror on a transparent wall
behind it old men listen to lounge music
as they play cards.
The gamblers have his personal details
written on the same pocket notebooks
they keep score on.
Under the beer stained carpet
is an underlay of his history
he has seen the foot traffic come and go
his prints are everywhere.
He takes pictures, needing not to look at them
they were after all, all the same
just different venues, furnishings, landscapes.
Cigarette butts stuck into sand buckets,
line the walls of a diffuse composition
the place reeks of long nights
inside a nicotinic mind.
He photographs the cholinergic receptors
of his autonomic ganglia.
The exit is that way,
the door next to the empty fire extinguisher.
When he goes out
the fresh cold air burns all the negatives
in a Box Brownie.
In the quiet moments, I sit and trace
The lines of time etched on a familiar face,
Once unburdened, with dreams like the sky,
Now shadows of worries are creeping nearby.
Days roll like rivers, swift currents abide,
Carrying laughter and love as they glide,
A playground of childhood now overgrown,
Where echoes of innocence softly intone.
Old photographs dusted, the colors have faded,
Yet memories linger—both joyous and jaded.
The swing set that creaked, the treehouse so tall,
Now sits as a ghost, where the wild things would call.
I walk through the hallways of my own shifting mind,
Retracing the steps, the lost and the blind,
Friendships that blossomed, then withered like leaves,
Some stayed for the summer, while others just leave.
Time molds us in silence, yet speaks without voice,
It whispers of change, like a heart's whispered choice.
We grow and we falter, we rise and we break,
But every sweet moment, there's something at stake.
The town that I knew, with its small bustling streets,
Has grown into something—new rhythms, new beats.
The café replaced by a chain with no soul,
Yet deep in my heart, the old memories roll.
And as I peer closer, the mirrors reveal,
The echoes of youth, the passage we feel.
For though we may change, and the world may renew,
The essence of time shapes the me and the you.
So here’s to the seconds, both heavy and light,
To the laughter, the heartache, the dreams in the night.
For in every heartbeat, in every year’s flight,
We find that through time, we can shine even bright.
I pull down from the shelf
The beautiful box of treasures
Ornately carved
Warm, yet well worn
To the gentle touch of my fingers
There is no rush
As I sit in this cosy spot
The sunlight of memory
Like a shaft of enlightenment
Beams onto my cheeks
There is a brass clasp
That silently releases the lid
Inset with filigree, blue and gold
My favourite colours
In my favourite pattern
The hinges release the air inside
Like a happy sigh
A hug of acceptance
As a valued friend visits
After life has carved out years of absence
My eyes closed, I reach inside..
I find the sound of laughter
Forest light streaming through the trees
Jewels of picnics and Spring days
Friends I have loved and lost
I find endless Christmases
Warm Summer gifts of love
Painted pictures from children
Smiles from unexpected messages
Or kind words that linger
I find weddings and food and dancing
Music and poetry and photographs, old and new
I remember the holding of many hands
Small, soft, pretty, all different
Some tired and wrinkly (my favourites)
I find emotions that I thought I had lost
All gathered in this precious box.
Placed carefully,
Never broken
Always perfect and personal
I am slightly overwhelmed
(it happens sometimes)
For now, the tears can stay outside
As I close the lid, replace the clasp
Until the next time
we’re always surrounded by art, i realized this as a child walking through the massachusetts city’s. i remember seeing your everyday buildings with the beautiful moonlight and being in awe- how could we forget something so simple yet beautiful exists all around us? as a teenager i took photographs of buildings- cars and the heavens above. i never totally understood how others couldn’t- how you could see something so beautiful and simple and not be in complete awe? i remember hearing people say “she’s taking another photograph of the same sky!” and feeling a bit sorry for them- that they couldn’t view something so treasurable and beautiful as me. i felt sorry they lacked the volume in there souls to admire the soil we walk on. the simplicity of it all, how could one’s soul never yearn for a deeper meaning in life? how could the poets forget something so simple around them? the grocery store owned by your neighbor- the park near your house. if you look for it deep enough the beauty is always there surrounding you in a shield of emotions and empathy, how could someone never yearn for more of the beauty around them?
Recalling today is a token of life's affection,
I bestow a kiss on her paling cheeks
as we pace in a garden, she on a rolled chair-
muttering,"Hello, is there a party out there?"
Incidents shared haze like when we fell in love,
a tingle within from our first- built house ,
the splendor of our newborn's cry --
decades' photographs folded and reopened.
Now,we celebrate in bittersweet ways,
unearthing our dreams and milestones
repeating stories for her to own back , again
just like garden times shining in our eyes.
Roses I cuddle to adorn her. Will she know
a glimpse of time's pleasures---just one bit?
Somehow, she nods like renewed morn
Her eyes glow, " A gift from a friend ,perhaps."
Dated Jan 19, 2017
Valentine-- Form D Contest
One score minus two, on my own,
a strange invitation to dine,
green behind the ears, all unknown,
Mrs. Johnson, how can I decline?
Why this interest she has shown?
In her world, wasn't I misplaced?
Rough and crude, just barely grown,
amidst her femininity and taste.
Among her furnishings and photographs,
my pulse raced. I thought, "this is it".
I've not heard this new way she laughs.
It feels sinful and illicit.
I felt her fragrant, silky touch,
while before me falling down
(as painted fingernails clutch)
her flowing hair and gown.
I can't forget the dim lit room,
dressing table, bottle of perfume.
The engine: Long and black
And sleek as she could be
She shook the earth in her approach
As her heraldry.
An atmosphere of steam and smoke
Expanding in her wake
The Queen-of-the-Rails speeds on
An arrival soon to make.
Massive is her presence
Enormity her design
Power is her excess
This Queen is so refined
Once she ruled with majesty
When o’er the rails she flew
But … now, this one last time,
The railway bids: “Adieu”.
Slowly when she comes to stop
We see she’s thoroughbred
When water, steel and hard, black coal
Within her there are wed.
Her regal-ness resplendent
In fittings’ shining bright
Commanding our respect
O’er the rails of her last flight.
Now sitting at the siding
She’s puffing rhythmic breath
The museum’s destination
Of her life commits its’ theft.
Photographs will mimic
Her image of today
But missing from those photos:
Glories of Yesterday
When o’er the steel she thundered
Demanding from all who saw
Respect for Her grand power
Which held them all in awe.
But Glory, she found, was fleeting
When “progress” came to call
Her future then was set in stone
In the writing on the wall.
Now we hear the brake release …
Her throttle then is moved …
She inches down the shiny track
Where the land with steel is grooved
Then as she gains her speed
And whistles out her “yell”
An announcement for all to hear:
“I know I’ve served you well!”
She’s journeyed through the ages
And a boy – an old man now -
Watches as she fades away -
He waves, then shouts out: “Ciao!”
But in his mind is yesteryear
With his dog there by his side
Watching near the railroad tracks
Where the Queen-of-the-Rails did ride.
And long from now whenever
He says: “Remember when …”
In those times of reverie,
She’ll come alive … again.
This once was an empty hope chest,
All my wishes it was waiting to hold,
Now it keeps the things I love best,
As my life begins to unfold.
A hope chest holds things from the past,
It locks away secrets of when we wept,
And poems written to make memories last,
In my Mom's diary of thoughts she kept.
A porcelain doll, of which I was very fond,
My Grandma made her, with care and grace,
She had long hair, curly, blonde,
And a blue dress trimmed in white lace.
My hope chest holds everything I love,
Like old photographs that are looking worn,
And the wishes that I've dreamt of,
Ever since the day I was born.
My hope chest may hold new things,
Like a Valentine my first love sent me,
Maybe, eventually an engagement ring,
And the rose that won him my heart's key.
If there is a newborn on the way,
My hope chest will hold many things,
Like maybe, a baby blanket, someday,
A reminder of what life can bring.
Damper than morn' dew, you'd rise like alarms,
with whimpered cries, too early for Mother.
Picturesque you'd sleep nestled in her arms,
unconsolable by any another.
At shutter speed, you'd leap from Mama's lap,
leaving the comfort of security's squeeze,
trotting faster than a pat-a-cake clap
to challenge cupboard climbs as jungle trees.
Camera rolls could fill many backpacks
with adventures and years of school learning.
Flashes of friends, family, and knick nacks
would shade in pixels without returning.
Daddy's dark hair, as seen in photographs,
would fade at the rate of his fickle health.
Friends would move away, along with their laughs,
but captured moments brought unrivaled wealth.
Now Father's bold resemblance reconates
beyond the scrapbooked glossy three by fives.
Your handsome husband strangely emulates
his laughter and a keen likeness revives.
Picture perfection hung upon the halls
zooms in on your children, seven and four.
As you scrub away scribbles from those walls,
you capture emotions film couldn't store.
Snapshots continue to develop smiles
and little features as small as yours were.
Your mother is as present as laundry piles
and double exposures often occur.
5-24-2020
Humanity may emit a brief chortle.
However, he remembers he is a mere mortal.
Many of the towns and buildings he has been
are desolate and quiet, as they are no longer lived in.
There are reminders of tall, untrimmed grass.
In window panes, there is broken glass.
Fallen leaves are strewn on the ground.
Indications of abandonment remain all around.
For one reason or another, inhabitants did not stay.
They merely packed up their things and went away.
A lifeless shell of a village remains today.
All signs of human life we can no longer see.
Once again, it is nature reigning supremely.
Written after seeing a series of photographs.