Long Playroom Poems
Long Playroom Poems. Below are the most popular long Playroom by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Playroom poems by poem length and keyword.
Poor Little Boy Lost plays a game of peekaboo
Pretending everything in his world is well
Spoiled was his plan for organizing a coup
and now he hopes none of his friends can tell
that he's been evicted as some had predicted
Biding his time, twiddling his thumbs in a cell
The entry door is locked. It's safe and secure
He's a cast away... on the outside, looking in
How much longer can he possibly endure
Is Little Boy Lost maybe missing kith and kin?
No one is listening to his babble and prattle
He wears the sorrowful look of sad chagrin
There was another sighting, just yesterday
when again he knocked on the playroom door
Not being allowed entry is the price to pay
for returning seeking praise with another encore
Bitterness smolders inside the blighted apple
where the wiggling worm is rotting the core
He was dragged off stage by the dreaded hook
No longer can he read his script in the limelight
because of the low road and wrong turns he took
A playground should not be a place meant to fight
Kiddies there have been getting along very well
Apologies, Little Boy Lost should be made to write
Hot as hell and bloated to burst,
I’m filled with this desire to tame.
You’re wild but I have such a thirst
as your shape fills my doorframe.
Overstimulated and underdressed?
Proceed to the pernicious playroom.
I knew before your whisper confessed
that such intensity was not a costume.
Sweet is more than it seems my dear,
a dash of mouthwatering strawberries.
Mix in the heat of a Carolina Reaper,
I tend to become loud, my voice carries.
Have I raised a bit of interest yet,
do you possess a gambler’s mind?
Are you willing to place a small bet,
put on a scarf and enter my room blind?
I think sometimes of the life there once was:
Of a time when birds sang throughout the woods
And insects flitted between the flowers.
But when greedy hands infected the land,
The beauty was ruined; life lost its home—
And the gentle calls of sparrows and swifts
Were quickly replaced with thundering guns
Foxes found their homes within dead bodies,
And owls on the hunt flew above shellfire;
Butterflies drank from the growing poppies,
Tainted by the blood of the innocent,
That grew like a plague sent to cleanse the land.
In some places, only the dead remained,
Strewn about randomly and carelessly—
Lying like dolls on a child’s playroom floor;
Never even given a proper grave.
With patience, they wait to be discovered—
To be welcomed home by beloved arms;
But, within all their rosy dreams of home,
Hides the truth they have known for far too long:
They remained forgotten; their names are dead.
Out of anguish for all those who were killed,
Nature returned to reclaim its power.
To her, their apartment was the whole world—a small but cozy place where she felt safe and loved.
It was early morning. She heard her sister squeal with joy hearing that schools would be closed today due to the heavy snowfall.
In her pink onesie pajamas, she shuffled across the speckled brown-and-gold carpet. It was worn and frayed in places but soft under her little feet. The living room was cramped, the walls filled with photos of a family's happy life. An old sofa was wedged between mismatched end tables and a wooden bookcase overflowing with encyclopedias. The plastic-lined cushions sagged from years of use.
A crack and stain on the ceiling traced where water had once leaked. The radiator clanked and hissed, making the windows sweat against the icy city air. She climbed onto the sofa. The plastic cold and squeaky beneath her pj's. Her small white footies barely reached the edge.
Their living room was everything—
a playroom, a dining room, and, on the coldest nights, a bedroom where they all huddled together when Mom turned on the oven for extra warmth.
Her pigtail tickled the back of her neck,
but her eyes stayed glued to the TV.
A gray rabbit with twitching whiskers dashed across the screen,
and a little man with a big nose and chubby legs was chasing after him, gun in hand.
Outside, snowflakes swirled around the window, piling in soft heaps on the fire escape.
She and her sister would make snowballs today
and lie in the snow laughing, making angels.
The smell of coffee, fried ham, eggs, and toast wafted from the kitchen.
She was looking forward to the delicious frosted sugary oat cereal
Mom would be preparing soon.
Dad had just walked in from work.
His usual booming voice echoing down the hallway. Mom’s quiet hush followed from the kitchen.
Everything was perfect. Everything in her little world. . .
Until she heard the gunshot—
and Dad lay dead on the kitchen floor.
Sixteen year old sweethearts, in her house all alone;
Her father still at work, her mother not at home;
Kissing they had tried; leaving hickies on their necks;
Petting body parts, they would venture onto next.
TV providing light in her otherwise dark playroom;
Anticipation and fear, the young couple both consume.
Zippers unzip; not sure of what they might find,
“Stop”; “Keep on going”; playing ping-pong in their mind.
Touching other’s body parts; enjoying where they are touched;
Worried that they may be liking it a little bit too much.
Conscience of each other breathing deeper as they explore,
Also listening carefully for the closing of a car door.
Bodies start to entwine, venturing further then they had thought;
Biology they learned in school but this topic had not been taught.
How to stop once you’ve gone this far is a lesson hard to learn,
As this high school sweetheart couple reach the point of no return.
Clumsily they manage to get through their first time;
Pleasure, pain and guilt feelings make a mixture quite sublime.
Quietly they get dressed as they hear her Mom walk in the door,
Both of them wondering if they’ll ever do this any more.
Starting from scratch, can we imply
Was there a time when pigs could fly?
There's Mary Poppins, Peter Pan
the Flying Nun and Superman.
Starting off in different ways,
all of these flew without delays.
But tales of Wilbur and Arnold,
Porky or Piglet, none were told
from the vantage point of flying.
Imagine that you were lying,
telling stories that were untrue
about a Pegasus that flew.
Scratch that horse and make it a pig,
a Pigasus with wings so big
he'd fly straight to Pinocchio
whose tales could make a playroom glow.
This Pigasus sets up a test
to see whose ballyhoos are best.
When pigs fly you've unlocked the latch -
stretching the truth, starting from scratch.
January 23, 2020
Brian Strand's Strand's Choice 4 contest
High in the sky
A dove in my dreams
Circles my head,
What does this mean?
I'm now in a garden
Full of bright flowers,
But I've lost my dog
And I'm hunting for hours.
Another has staircases
And loads of wood doors,
Up and down I go
On so many floors.
I keep coming back
To the same place,
Can't find a way out
Of this roomy space.
There's a ladder that goes
From ground to the sky,
I climb and I climb
But don't get very high.
I'm running on a beach,
Feet in the sea,
I'm not puffing or achy,
It's very easy.
I'm building with Lego
It's for an exam,
I keep getting it wrong
With no diagram.
There's been a car crash,
My daughter's inside,
I can't get to her
Though I've tried and I've tried.
I'm cleaning a house,
One that I know,
But there's more and more rooms
That grow and grow.
A beautiful playroom,
With wonderful toys,
Warm and inviting,
For girls and for boys.
Now I'm cycling
On top of the sea,
I'm looking for Zeus
Am I crazy???
I felt small like a little mouse
walking the rooms of this large house
Rooms were spacious ceilings tall
painted colorful were the walls
Though some had paneling wall paper to
some stenciled with scenes of nature and cherub
Ceilings were works of art, like a cathedral divine
some coffered ceilings or wooden beams refine
Windows from floor to ceiling flooding sunshine in
drapes heavy and dropping pushed to side ends
Grand stairs like in a Hollywood scene
elevators in the main house and wings
Fireplaces enormous and plenty used a whole tree for a log
bedrooms so many with ensuite and crystal doorknobs
Powder rooms seemed peppered everywhere to please
pocket doors enormous but glide with ease
Floors of marble or finest wood and design tiles
rooms for every occasions in this place somehow
A room to sew one for crafts and even one for gifts
A library, study, a theater, gym with weights to lift
Parlors, living, drawing rooms always a place to sit
Game room, playroom, hobby room, one I forget
A great kitchen and a spice kitchen and one for prep
Breakfast room, nooks, a grand dinning hall to inspect
Pantry for Butler, dishes and food
with every device and gadget you could ever use
Closets and storage and corridors for maids
was this a house or palace somebody made
Porches, patios, balconies and a veranda or two
garages, a carriage house, a guest house never used
Basement was an industrial center to make the house go
with every contraption for comfort to make the house flow.
Attic like a village of servant rooms and common areas to share
The grounds to expansive to even care
How long did someone once live here
now the large house to big of an expense to bare
So shutter and empty it will now be
A giant ghost standing defiant without a need.
It's a place I know,
my feet familiar
with each timber plank
that deck the way,
the smooth ones
and the ones buckled
and raised ready
to trip an old man's foot.
I know the name
of every boat moored
along its length,
the repertoire of sounds
played by the tides
and restless swells,
its intimate whispers.
It could be any place
but for me
it's here in the solemn quiet
of a late evening
on the end of the pier,
when the world
returns to an order,
gathers in the strewn pieces
of itself like scattered toys
on a playroom floor
and puts them back
into a labeled drawer.
The time when hurry settles
and strung nerves
are loosened
and soothed by sleep.
For a moment
the world fits neatly here,
snug in this small pocket
of calm on the end
of Ferguson Pier.
In the distance, city lights
float on a dreaming bay
as the tide silently ticks
the evening and me
away.
Twas the night before Christmas- we heard not a peep
for our three little kids were in bed fast asleep.
We looked up at each other and knew it was time
to wrap bundles of gifts before midnight's last chime.
We then stacked all the paper and bows tucked away
and the presents for them we bought for Christmas day;
made ourselves nice and comfy on our playroom floor-
but then, all of a sudden- a knock at the door!
Running fast to the window, there was no one there-
just some branches from limbs that fell down in the air.
The wind fiercely sped up with a storm coming through;
At once, all the street lights disappeared from our view!
Now, our whole house turned dark- no lit tree to be seen.
This big power shutdown was bad news- unforeseen.
Our tall stack of nice presents still waiting for wrap;
Perhaps lanterns with candles could help fill the gap.
And yet, try as we may, wrapping presents? Not good!
Scotch tape's missing from the shelf where it always stood.
With these presents so large, it was needed for sure;
there is no other way to keep wrapping, secure.
Closed our eyes and we thought- what else now could we do?
We're so tired, we can't see, now without scotch tape too!
"Oh, I got it, I said, a new no-wrap technique!
In dark nooks plant these gifts- we can play hide and seek!"
December 1, 2022
Contest: The Night Before 3 Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Joseph May