Long Plywood Poems
Long Plywood Poems. Below are the most popular long Plywood by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Plywood poems by poem length and keyword.
Diamonds
We all have so many diamonds that we own,
but we think of them as glass or bits of stone.
We often sell them as cheap pieces of junk,
but yet always we think of them as unknown.
The diamonds are the youth, your health, and no pain.
Making love with your love, not much to complain.
A thousand laughs, a thousand ways to enjoy,
Getting old is the pain, no need to explain.
My days are darken since my love, she is gone.
The nightingales are calling me to hold on.
The light is leaving me keeping me in dark.
How much darkness there is, I’ll die before dawn.
What if life is a bowl, in there, full of pain?
The pain is there to drive you and me insane.
Remember when we were young bursting with life?
My face is wet, is it from tears or from rain?
There are only a few days that you are young,
on those days you believe that life is unsung.
To be young is a dream no youth ever knows.
No one is here to hear me what I have sung.
If you are golden and like gold full of lust,
Or maybe like the kings, you live and you must,
You may have all the things all big and all small,
At the end of the road, you will become dust.
8/2019 Haloo
Note: This poem is in the form of "Rubaiyat", it is the plural form of Rubai. Rubai is a quatrain with the rhyming of AABA. Each Rubai is a book by itself, it starts and ends within the quatrain, but when it's in a form of Rubaiyat, it follows the single theme with the same meter throughout. Poetrysoup has a good explanation of this format.
The painting is called " a reminder". It is acrylic on plywood.
His cup was drained and he went to the trees
And found them fallen asleep
He turned to the stars in shining spree
And found them in reflection deep
He ran out taking a happiness drug
And pressed for more and more
It was a very morbid hug
Howling at the open door
He went to the park near the market place
And sought to walk around
Was afraid of the heart of darkness
Dead seemed the grass on the ground
He looked up and screamed at the sky
Give me back my loving soul
I have been looking for the reason why
I have to live sans goal
From nowhere came a vagrant who said
If I can keep holding on
How come you prefer to be almost dead
Because your cup is gone
The former said with tears in his voice
The light has gone out of my life
The vagrant asked him to see his choice
That he had to vanquish the knife
He led him to a plywood room
There were three photos on a tray
I care not a whit about the gloom
On my wife and children gone away
I pass my days in front of them
Bordered by their lovely hem
The bereaved looked to the stars again
This time they looked like twinkling grain
_________________________________________
I had a lovely little doll got at the tender age of seven.
It was made of fine plastic, with twinkling eyes and golden hair.
At a time when my generation had not heard of Barbie dolls,
My uncle living abroad had gifted it which I held as most dear.
More than anything I treasured it, and my friends envied me.
They always rallied round just to see and hold it in their hands.
I carried it wherever I went and always slept clutching it.
With its possession, to my parents, I made no more demands.
She looked so pretty in flitting blue eyes and ponytail.
Though lifeless and a mere toy, she was my all.
We were always together, so inseparable.
But as time skipped, she no more held me in thrall.
I slowly got over my obsession with toys and trinkets.
My bond with the doll grew thinner, I had diverse engagements.
I no more cared for my doll; it lay neglected in some dusty corner.
Seasons rolled and years speeded by, and life took new alignments.
I knew the annual clean-up of my house was long overdue.
Moving the trash, I saw my old doll in a junk box made of plywood.
The very sight of it brought a surge of sweeping emotions in me
Dusting it, I locked it up in my cabinet, a sweet reminder of my childhood!
Self Inflicted
The wounds were “self-inflicted”
unmindful of the pain
that surged within the shattered soul
a never ending rain.
The priest in sanctimonious lie
anointed, blessed, and prayed
the parish nodded knowingly
they too had been betrayed.
The charlatans of Christendom
succumbed to mourning wail
while covering for demons
who should have gone to jail.
Thus did the guilty wash their hands
lead guileless sheep to follow
the scent of incense acrid air
flickering through tallow.
Warped plywood covers tear-stained glass
the altar’s gods evicted
to suffer the never ending pain
of wounds they “self-inflicted”
1/21/2016
submitted to - Self Inflicted – Poetry Contest
sponsor – Anthony Slausen
Where silhouetted sentinels silently stand in vain
bleeding shades of layered shame on blight-lined highways below,
their ghostly shadows remind us of dreams we dared to drain.
Interred on unkempt plots, crumbling brick carcasses maintain
evidence we’re forced to see if the trails of traffic slow
where silhouetted sentinels silently stand in vain.
Rush-hour bottlenecks, the frustrated drivers’ daily bane,
exact tolls of tribute to hollowed homes lost long ago.
Their ghostly shadows remind us of dreams we dared to drain.
Daylight, drowned in the windowless dam of a plywood pane,
begs blackness, dwelling within abandoned walls, who’ll dare go
where silhouetted sentinels silently stand in vain?
Does the doll left naked on a spray-painted stoop remain
to testify children once played under its portico?
Their ghostly shadows remind us of dreams we dared to drain.
As darkness descends, the caravans of commuters wane,
leaving deserted the injured, desolate Jericho.
Where silhouetted sentinels silently stand in vain,
their ghostly shadows remind us of dreams we dared to drain.
Cornbelt residents rise with the sun,
Seeking geometry in soybeans.
Space aliens zoomed through the galaxy,
Just to crease someone’s corn flakes.
Intelligent life from distant stars
Avoids the formal radio waves.
They use advanced crop wrinkles
To converse with good ol’ Mother Earth.
Galactic wayfarers don’t stop at NASA,
They etch their figures in farrow.
A communication from outer space,
Which could be wiped away by a combine.
Two small-town farmers named Dave and Roy,
Armed with flashlights and sheets of plywood,
Chuckling quietly into their beers,
Designing an entirely new universe.
UFO investigators tote their gear,
Science-ing the folded wheat.
Either the universe is trying to talk to us,
Or the bar kicked them out too early.
Their pounded wind
called our neighborhood.
We were children
who entered their work
like a hearth.
Electric wisk, whine,
sawdusted the cool summer
uder our trees.
From banded boards
basking in dirt
to skeletal hints
at form.
Their whistles were
crisp greenery out of
trees and earth.
They tooled and straddled
their working days,
leaving their plywood,
their drywall chalk
for our pictures.
In the last light of the trees,
we robbed scrap from their
silent structure.
And they were ghosts
still working after hours.
Our tree fort,
ropes, nails chewing deeply
into bark
was worship.
A monument to them.
Published Black Buzzard Press - 1982
Bright fingers of crimson and gold, reaching skyward,
The flames flicker and dance as they illuminate the dark.
As we toss on another twig and some old plywood.
Now and then embers would escape with a loud spark.
Amidst the smoky scent of our cozy campfire.
Mouthwatering infusions seem to be airborne.
Familiar sensations waft into an aromatic spire.
Can it be hot buttered toast, or is that popcorn?
The fragrances so inviting, mixed with earthy sprays.
As the breeze diminishes so our campfire's warmth we feel.
The eucalyptus enhances a perfume, in a smoky haze.
The overwhelming aroma of our campfire is quite surreal.
The spellbinding flames flicker, casting shadows of their own.
Its all made more spectacular by our campfire’s cologne.
The toy box made of plywood painted white
my grandfather built for me when I was three
has become a time machine
a tool of torture
Why haven’t I burned its contents to ash
as I did all his letters full of lies?
Within I find notebooks in which I penned
my pubescent musings that seem so silly now
First attempts at poetry
that sound trite today when read
with a much more mature tongue
that has tasted the bitter brew of experience
Scribbled quotations from history’s finest minds
Sketches of dresses I designed
A crumbling corsage of carnations
still sealed inside its plastic shell
for the last twenty five years
that he pinned to my pink Victorian taffeta gown
I can close my eyes and recall
its fresh flowery scent
feel the silky petals under my fingertips
the gentle cool early autumn breeze
blowing over the river on my young supple skin
that single night of my life
when every star in the sky
seemed to be shining solely for me
I had hope then
in 2020 and beyond- chrismas could be different
gone the traditional tree
you may have one of
twisted wire
colored LED and pipes
maybe upside down for space
perhaps environmentally friendly trees
made with water bottles and PVC pipes
or a simple gold painted plywood tree shape
gone the traditional
santa will have a shiny silver electric car
the reindeer retired unwanted not needed
or he may have his own bright red jet
oh and no more jolly santa
he went on fiber super diet
and mrs santa he dumped
and no more down the chimney for santa
most of your gifts will be sent by federal express
all he will do is make a showing on christmas eve
with empty boxes to make an impression
no more baby dolls or barbie dolls or fire engines
for kids- they will get techno savy gadgets
and on line data as gifts or maybe a gift card
call me old fashion I think I will keep
the traditional for all of my life
and maybe I will give an unwanted reindeer
a forever home -
____________________________
November 17, 2015
Free Verse