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.
"Some places are pitch black"
Deserted by other children
The darkened playroom confronts The Kid
"I must be supervised"
By which he means
Protected from the powers of darkness
The would-be supervisor
In turn is confronted
With tight tunnels and tiny staircases
And an accumulated coating
Of kiddy grime
Which doesn't bother the Kid.
He is unamused by pulling of scary faces
From within the labyrinth's cramped atrium
But instead requires illumination for his explorings
From a torch he has handy.
Disappointed that he must proceed alone
For reasons of size and stature
Exhorting "Try! Try!"
Yet he goes bravely forward.
Crawling through intestinal convolutions
Lit up as much as possible by the torchlight
Up into the high reaches of the system
Sliding finally down a long tube and out
Through a slippery exit passage
This is a prototype
Of a non-living carnivore
With which we can peacefully coexist
Relatively unscathed
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
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.
She’s a paper shower in the playroom;
Her reckless celebration leaves confetti everywhere.
She’s an alibi without a witness,
A breathless explanation laced with giggles here and there.
She’s a wildflower in a sundress,
The mistress of the garden, just as willful as you please.
She’s a graceful angel making mischief,
A laughing ballerina dancing off with daddy’s keys.
She’s a blue doodle done in crayon,
More artistry than science, more rebellion than repose.
She’s a proud distraction walking Pooh-foot,*
The center of attention, Queen of everything she knows.
(*Pooh is a bear, after all. She told me that herself.)
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.
How slow can one eat one raisin?
How slow can one go?
A towheaded toddler sits cross-legged
Amidst his playroom with a raisin pinched
Between his forefinger and thumb, staring...
Raisins in handfuls...raisins in breads...
Raisins in muffins...raisins in holiday cakes...
Ever take more than one bite of a raisin?
Focus on that mini morsel:
A monumental mini mindful moment.
Focusing on a tiny thing can be big.
One raisin might sustain a guru, or you.
Could it be a portal to a new dimension?
Biting one raisin may open other worlds.
There are other sides to every story,
Even some coins have many faces.
Why we do things often defies
Reason and explanation...
And only rests in unbridled emotion.
Imagine now an 18th century regal, formal dinner:
Tuxedoed staff silently surrounds seated guests.
A kingly chap calmly sits amidst tinkling crystal.
Glittering, flittering, candled chandeliers glow...
In a tall, dark cornered, crown molded salon.
Flocked crimson medallion wallpaper in pattern...
Silver-haired, jewel-encrusted ladies adorn...
A triple tiered frosted cake - just for him.
Alone, stuffing his noble face - cheeks bulging...
Frosty globs creep from the corners of his royal lips.
Gorging himself, all that one could bare.
In the age of excess, some can't get enough.
Never ever taking only a bitty bite.
When is enough enough?
The awakened child within...
Teaches us many things.
If you can eat one raisin slowly...
You'll likely never yield
To inner abhorrent urges.
While I waltzed at the Ball
A little voice I heard
Go ask the Crystal Ball
It said, to have your future heard!
I left the dancing knight in doom in the playroom
Opened the door of the secret room
And verily inquired of the Future
If it will come with Defeature!
No, laughed the Happy Ball
You will not remain a Fallen Soul
You will be saved by your mate in Soul
All you need to do is to give him a Call
And tell him how miserable you are without his Enthrall
And how you will give your Catcall
To lament at Nightfall
If He is not here to stop your Fall
Smile, cried the joyful Ball
Your miserable state will be in Stall
For you shall Rise, along with the Sunrise
Together with your mate, whom you Idolise
Both of you will be Symbolised
Sing, whispered the overwhelmed Ball
For the Heavens will be singing words of Praise
At your mate's love for your Gaze
Your abandon in your Maze
That which you chose in a moment of Craze
So blind were you to be love of your Mate
Will be remembered as late
Dance, asserted the ecstatic Ball
For the Future is coming at the Birdcall
Your Mate cannot be without your caring Call
And neither can You be without his Recall.
Oh I am Impatient,
Without your Love, I am Deficient
I am still in Learning
To be Abiding,
Please forgive my Caprice
For I become heartbroken without your Edifice
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.
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.
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