Long Playground Poems
Long Playground Poems. Below are the most popular long Playground by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Playground poems by poem length and keyword.
This beach without shady palm trees
is the chosen playground of harsh winds,
its sand is drier than the Sarah's desert;
nobody lays on a blanket to soak up sunshine,
not even kids play handball smelling a tempest...
and be engulfed by huge waves onto the sealine.
Karl is the courageous one surfing and screaming,
no fear can batter his audacity, neither is his daring;
now, twilight approaches slowly, and makes him worry...
then, he defies his inner force advancing very rapidly.
Beaches without swimmers and sunworshippers are too dull,
there appear the sand dunes: the hideaway of an angry troll;
I rise up and go towards the rageful waves that break apart...
creating the whitest bubbling crest ever seen in Newport.
This beach without shady palm trees
is no attraction for avid beachgoers
who seek a solitary place to cool off,
to read memes to make them laugh?
In strokes vigorous, I swim a river of dreams
And reach a magic citadel without seams.
This is not built in stones or brick,
But with imagination’s wonderful trick.
In silent whispers, ideas sprout and bloom
Painting colours on walls of my mind’s room
With every turn of thought, a new land of wonder is built
No storm or tempest can its structure shake or wilt.
Through verdant planes and mountains high
Like a bird on wings, I shoot up into the sky
How like a child, I play in the fields of imagination
From tormenting troubles, how it allows me a liberation
Sadly, I can’t dwell for ever in this playground of fantasy.
Sometimes reality violently shakes me out of my fallacy.
Tempestuous waves come beating against my sandy shore.
To be tossed by every passing wave is man’s lore.
All fanciful thoughts, at times, fly away like dandelion seeds,
And in the thorns of life, mind gets scarred and it bleeds.
At times I wonder, where has gone my fancy’s cool lagoon
Did it go dry in the blistering heat of summer’s horrid noon?
Laden with despair, at times, I fall crumbling on the floor.
My expedition on imagination’s wings, I am unable to restore.
In life’s course, there are times when I reach a dead end,
Leaving me to wonder, how my battered days, I can mend.
I pray, let imagination revive and fuel my soul,
With visions of beauty that makes my life whole.
When days and nights turn burdensome and long,
I fancy, hearing the lilting strains of a soulful song.
Nigh are the chronicles through infant lens
that begins its long unimagined page,
and behold, all the world to its far ends
shall in time be your playground and your stage.
But for now we wait in last days careworn
a labour of love and bounty of life -
on my honour I’ll welcome my firstborn
when in my keep I hold my son and wife.
Gift him the arts and mercies of good men,
make heard his voice over the bark of most
and not want for love or false praise ask - then
my boy, my son, I’ll have no prouder boast.
Soon this big world you will enter my child
and soon a first breath and a firstborn smile.
Written: October 1999
For Oscar
The iron bell in the back of
Bramble's Toy Emporium
chimed midnight with a dull,
metallic clang.
From the dark shadows of
the clearance aisle, a gaunt
figure slithered out, its skin
the color of bruised parchment.
It was the Ghoulish Ghoul, a
creature made of discarded
stitching, stuffing, and old,
forgotten playground dust.
He gathered the skeletal
remains of old porcelain
dolls into a circle and cleared
his raspy, rattling throat.
"Gather round, little plastic
souls, and listen to how the
toys here stay alive," the Ghoul
whispered.
"You think children buy dolls
because they are cute, but the
dolls actually choose their owners."
His yellow fingernails tapped
against a hollow wooden rocking
horse, making it swing violently
back and forth.
Every time a child hugs one
of us tightly at night, we steal
a tiny sliver of their warm, living
breath.
A shelf of mechanical monkeys
suddenly began to softly clap
their cymbals in a slow, rhythmic
death march.
By winter, that child grows paler,
slower, and colder, until they
can no longer jump or run or
play.
The Ghoul grinned, exposing rows
of sharp teeth carved out of rusted
metal jacks and broken dice.
Then, while the house sleeps,
the doll slips out of bed and drags
the child's hollow shell down the
stairs.
The glass eyes of a hundred
Teddy bears glinted in the
moonlight, staring down at
the empty room.
They bring the empty child
right back here to Bramble's,
down into the cold, damp
basement workshop.
He pulled a heavy, silver
needle from his velvet coat,
threading it with thick, black
twine.
"We stuffed the hollow skins
with cotton candy, sew the lips
shut, and pop in two shiny, black
buttons for eyes."
The Ghoul pointed a crooked,
skeletal finger directly through
the storefront window, out into
the empty street.
"Look closely at the window
display tomorrow morning,
little ones, and see if you
recognize the new stock."
The jacks- in- box in the
corner began to turn their
cranks by themselves,
playing a distorted, slowed-
down melody.
"Go to sleep now, lock your
toy boxes tight, and pray
your favorite doll isn't
hungry tonight."
With a wet, wheezing
chuckle, the Ghoul melted
back into the shadows as
The final jacks- in- the- box
popped open.
Fair-minded whale playground, compass dismisses
Ceylon sapphire zero horizon echo orchestral chamber
Forge rolling bow voyages of uncharted distance
Cut water instant recovery, oily onyx giants' undulations
Gleefully refuse gravity's hard ground insistence
Halloween door creak elaborate speak, torso of paisley
Gyrations ridicule keel knife edge flow resistance
Harried sails flap before collapse with human impatience
Dugongs admonish monolithic ships gritty missions
Adventure crave creatures flank vessels for playful races
Delight in the chase, never capture small victims
Allure fluid, serene serenades resonate clarinet cadence
October 31st
If a poet falls in love with you
you will live forever.
Atticus Finch - To kill a mockingbird.
In the midst of conundrums, of 'what ifs.'
I dislike the ocean,
its bitter saltiness, brings no joy.
Perched safely, upon the highest cliff,
watching waves surge upon the shore.
They are a constant reminder of
how you waved goodbye.
Each ripple carried you away - forever.
Lost in reflection,
sentimental memories remain eternal.
Recalling how the sun caressed your face,
mirroring your spirited smile -
like a lantern in my darkness.
Still unforgettable -
the joy in those soulful eyes -
each time you glanced at me.
Nonchalantly, I would follow you.
As we walked without a care -
you never seeming to tire.
In our youthful playground,
rusty see-saws and swings
still remember our laughter and tears -
that first sophomoric kiss
and I can still taste you.
When night would arrive,
there was no fear, hand in hand.
You were like a mystical pixie,
glowing in the enchantment of moonlight -
it would illuminate through your eyes.
We could have danced all night,
our souls ascending to the heavens.
But, I was afraid of new horizons,
because, I knew you would depart -
just like a shooting star.
Without thinking,
I broke your heart -
before you could heal mine.
I remain in the silence of 'what ifs.'
But, I smile, content -
knowing that once there was a time,
your heart and mine,
merged like day and night.
Simple Musing
4 July 2020
This is a fictional poem.
An example for the 'One who got away' contest.
I was fascinated by frogs, dinosaurs, and outer space.
Comic books, video games, and fast cars to race.
I got my clean clothes dirty and skinned my knees.
I spent my afternoons climbing high up in the trees.
Came home from the playground with shoes full of sand.
Went fishing, and held up my catch with my bare hand.
I would get on my rusty, blue bike and ride to the park.
Where we played games of tag or catch almost until dark.
After school, I would go play baseball with the boys.
Then, stay up late, listening to music and make noise.
My homework sat in my backpack and never got done.
I was too preoccupied with finding adventure and having fun.
I was the tomboy that liked building Lego block walls.
I was also a girl who played with pretty Barbie dolls.
Richard Lamoureux's Gender Bender Contest
Whether the shadow of your face
Or the stripes of grace on the leaves
Whether the water and soil
In turmoil to sprout and bloom out
Releasing the stress of the bones
Into the cones of the buds
All I collect
In the micro baskets
The moment I get a racket
And you gladly connect with me
The game starts with thrill
Smilingly cooperates the grist mill
Churning the colours
Burning the impurities
Unlocking the keys
Bending the journeys
Grinding the thesis
Breaking the antithesis
And look
Beautifully emerging
The subtle synthesis
From nowhere they appear
The humming bees
For the poetry
For example
Beneath my skull
Just the other day
The sun of Shillong
Its kisses on the hill slopes
Your mouth washing soap on the wash basin
The children
They run in the school playground
The astounding hill peaks
Seeking to pierce the swollen pink clouds
The tall trees like taller women
Shedding shadows on the tea garden
The day labourer clearing the tea roots
The plastics strewn thanks to the brutes
The grist mill felt aroused
Everything it espoused
And the processing started
The flour?
From the cuddling hills
Down to the green oak shadow
Life with peace and strife
______________________________________
June 5, 2018 For The Gristmill Poetry Contest sponsored by Craig Cornish
Note: Considering the short and shorter lines, the violation of 20 line limit
might be condoned. Submitted with this expectation.
On Alabaster Wings
I dream of taking flight with you, around Saturn's rings
If only we could soar above the clouds on alabaster wings
Over mountains we'd fly until we reach the brightest star
I'd never tire of starlight dreams if that's where you are
"Elusive" is a word that never describes what we share
I know when I close my eyes, I'll find love waiting there
In your arms I feel a soft blush, warming my complexion
Our kisses grow passionate, igniting the flame of affection
An elliptical embrace, amidst the seducing central sun
Within stellar nurseries, where our love has been spun
Just like binary stars, exchanging solar sensual flares
Our love strengthens as we climb the seraphic stairs
As we sail celestial seas, I have your heart by my side
On alabaster wings, what an enchanting rhythmical ride
The universe our playground as we frolic through with ease
Your touch, a Supernova bliss breathing in a botanical breeze
We cling in love's embrace, once more circling 'round the moon
fearing the rising light of dawn will separate us much too soon
But each night I'll be with you when I close my eyes and dream
as we take flight amid the stars when moonlight is all agleam
*******___________******
Sixth of July, 2017
Collaboration Contest
Sponsored by Jan Alllison
It's tucked beneath trees, as the leaves dwindle down
The varnish has faded, but the seat is quite sound.
Clouds cover the sunlight, that begs to pour in.
Others sit in the shade, forgetting the tears,
without giving much notice, or to think of past years
Do they ponder the heartache, the story that's left,
or remember the trace of the innocent face?
Something swept through the heart, of this small coastal town,
and still touches me deeply, in a personal way.
I watch from the playground, of this small charter school,
where my granddaughter plays in the cool, ocean dew.
I remember again, with a soft whispered prayer,
for the children who play here, perhaps some who will weep here.
To keep them in comfort, and in safe loving arms.
To keep every childhood from evil and harm.
Carved in the bench is a name of a child
A twelve year old girl, who attended this school.
It's the same little school, where my granddaughter plays
and learns daily lessons, every child needs to know.
So we sit in shade, on this sage colored bench,
then she goes to her class, where she basks in the love.
She has asked all the questions that shouldn't be asked
and spends all her days at the task of a child...
With smiles for her teachers, just as Polly had smiled
She runs through green grass, where Polly had been...
This is the school, where my granddaughter goes
She brought me to see, where a new garden grows,
and showed me a bench that sits under trees
....and together we share, of what a child shouldn't know
I sit with her now, with the robins and finches...
We trace Polly's name, then our fingers embrace,
in the shade of the trees...
....on a sage colored bench
______________________
A true story....
To see Polly's Story... http://www.pollyklaas.org/about/pollys-story.html
But a story I felt I needed to tell........sad, but true...my granddaughter
attended the same school where Polly had earlier been a student.
A bench was dedicated in the name of Polly Klaas in remembrance of that terrible event
3/23/13 Resubmitted 12/21/15 for Any Sad Poem Contest:
Sponsored by Broken Wings