Long Polaroid Poems
Long Polaroid Poems. Below are the most popular long Polaroid by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Polaroid poems by poem length and keyword.
Creaky wood floors give me away as
I roam the hallways of this ramshackle fortress.
These old empty veins that used to carry life
Rusty nerves are dulled and mute
I walk a well worn path, softly.
Curtains always drawn
They shouldnt see
But, It’s Spring again
I bet that weeping cherry is blooming
Seems so empty now
And it’s aged so much
The many coats of peeling paint
Just like tree rings,
The feel like eons
Hallway walls are mostly mirrors now
It makes them seem more vast,
Nicotine stained outlines
of lovely things that once hung there.
Call to me
Poking from behind the mirrors
They Haunt me,
Tease me,
shoot daggers into my eyes
I don’t look in mirrors anymore.
Too likely to see my reflection
And there’s always a new one to avoid.
I cant remember what I look like.
I just remember scared red eyes
So, I look straight ahead,
And focus
focus
focus
I’ll follow a familiar path
Straight from their hallway
To the boiler room
That old heart
pumps it’s dust and mud
That loyal heart,
Keeps this place alive
That broken heart
feels like home
The gears start to rattle,
But I know how to soothe them
There’s threads to pull
And gauges must remain below tolerance.
I don’t dare leave them for long: focus.
At least there’s no windows or mirrors down there.
Straight back to my favorite hallway soon as it’s safe
I don’t look in their rooms anymore.
But I press my ear to the doors so I can hear them
The the worn echos of laughter where they used to play.
Like an old polaroid, that’s fading to white noise, or a record that’s been played too many times.
I convince myself I see their shadows moving under the doorway
But I feel them fading.
So I must not disturb what’s left
Tight grip: focus
Footsteps litter the hallways
I only step where I’ve stepped before,
so I don’t disturb what’s left of theirs
But they’re filling with dust like morning snow on yesterdays sled trail
They’re all mapped in my mind now.
Every detail
For a moment,
I clear my mind
I think of waves,
fresh paint,
Dirty feet
Sunrises
And special tear drops
But with a twist of the gears
I’m reminded there’s no time for nostalgia.
Maybe tomorrow
It’s time to go sit with that poor boiler
And watch the gauges
after one more quick listen for the lovely echos.
Look past
the faded little girl braids and bows
in a polaroid picture
buttery yellow skirt
curtsying a smile
frog prince
imprisoned in her palm
under a creamy pound cake sun
(her grandmother’s recipe
sugar and spice folded carefully
with love and guilt
into a thick summer sky)
daisies like polka dots
piecemeal on her bonnet
seem to stare down
her face with jaundice eyes
slanted above ensnaring weeds
swirls of sorrow linger
in knee-high field
where flowers grew wild like
freedom once felt
Look closer picture fading
She is running
legs bent shouting from the page
stockings peeled off
lanky legs running
through her pain
till her heart detaches
from a barefoot soul
She still feels spiky burs in her heels
drops of blood
zigzag numb
beyond the treeline
memories meld
love and loss
euphoric rush warm winds fuel
an urgency her creation
until lightning strikes
her grief rushing to catch up
through crushed wildflowers
fragmented patterns
under paths at her feet
tears flooded her field overgrown
She remembers to forget
Her mother
buried under
a distant willow
She was taught
by her grandmother
to be composed
poised like other girls
wad up unpleasant feelings
slip them into a corner
of the cedar chest
under layers
of afghans and quilts
she laid them to rest
long ago but
never stopped
her fidgety legs from weaving
through floral tapestries
of field and meadow
wild brush turned emerald green
in mourning
Her daddy passed away
ten years ago today
He was buried with wildflowers
tucked softly
in his lapel and praying hands
he always said windswept blooms
reminded him of his girls
If you look closely at the picture
of that faded little girl
you will see her running
from the graves
as the wildflowers crush
beneath her feet
How much we take for granted
Our rousing each and every morn
Whilst yet forgetting the many
Who not quite unlike ourselves
Did enounce "See you tomorrow"
Only to exit the stage before the play is done.
How many times do we pause, take time
To appreciate the gift a given day is
Embrace each day like it's the very last
Treat people alike, no different from self
Smile, like it the latest anti-ageing cure
And let that smile warm someone else's heart.
How often do we give a comforting hug
Not only when such a need is called upon
To not speed through each and e'ry day
Chasing what we presume of great import
Whilst yet greatly missing and losing out
On the blessings encountered each, everyday.
Appreciate every single moment
From the time the lids come open
Rejoicing in yet another gift given
To go about each and e'ry task
With a renewed sense of purpose
To fully enjoy the gift of every single day.
Enjoy the fact that we have life
And with it, having been gifted a new day
Refuse to focus on the impending storm
Which may really never come
Appreciate instead every ray of the sun
Storing to enjoy should gloom choose to visit.
Consider the pains we a-times experience
As pointers for us to stop and take stock
Yes stop, and actually do take a rest
Close the eyes, lie still and savour time
Knowing without a sliver of any doubt
That it be the greatest gift ever received.
Notice the weather, the season changes
Sunrise and sunset, heat, dry and cold
Appreciate the skies, colours and shapes
For it indeed requires creative ingenuity
To ensure innumerable differences
Exist in absolute harmony.
Listen to conversations and give no voice
Let the many voices that a-times surround
Wash over pleasantly like the waves of the sea
See the smiles, the expressions of affection
See the pain and anger which exist too
and see truth so clearly so as to recognise untruth.
And like a polaroid picture streaming
Look on the past, and that without regrets
Let it be your choice, one you make
To refuse to just pass through time
Instead live life, and live it full
See the gift of a day...Any day...Everyday.
As emotion's embolism petitions
a mirror sea for endless blue transparency-
through oculat lens flare, an albionic estuary
garden variety of pleasures appears, obligatiry-
in full disclosure, for poetic reason- to be vetted
by replay of open book read cover to cover.
A commercial grade bewitching -
in season- laid bare, to pardon a dare
Vespers of ancient psalm, timeless tale
of the re-awakened takes abionce as a Seer to come.
Where Eden-welcomes, home
to it's Shrangri la- Sangria- wetnursed bosom,
full- of the Mother's milk of Elysium.
In center-folded trappings beside firelight screenings,
beneath the fluttered kiss of frolicked summer heat,
heart mappings deriving
wind aided fireflies serenading,
in the silence of a seraphic breeze.
The heart suggests an accounting
of lost dreams as they vie for clemency
and doth softly cry verdant reprieve.
In the Goliath peer of mountain cleft,
overseeing the caress of foliage
begueathed to the canopy of emerald green,
sun dresses honey bee chaperones,
drunk in lily while
bestowing a still of radiant beam.
Crowning chance adds a touch of dandelion garland,
tendrils of sentiments worn on the sleeve,
becomes the first snows virgin fleece,
onlooking tears of starry night, light bending the knee,
peers through immodest canopy,
altar ego ghosting as
mist soaked silver valley's pheromone stair,
married with the encore of fading light laying polaroid down aware.
Amidst the ruins of a broken dream mending a solar flare of Valkycries,
the fragments speak of romantic math,
mosaic of future memories bellowed love leaves
lanterns of light ascending over calm seize.
Her Emissaries of the wind caressing her foliage with
the palms and
apothecaries drawn from a crystal song.
A symphony of nature's tender wails,
creates the plumlines of this Great Hall.
But in the quietude of night's soft glow,
Hope blooms like a rose in spring,
A promise of renewal, a whispered vow, places it all.
In a world where shadows dance in preservation ritual
of first snow's pose of
virgin purity. kept chaste as pasts echo of prose.
she had no reaction as I entered the room my mother
had no clue I just ran up two flights of stairs
though she did gaze at me as if to say what’s your point
her words making a feeble attempt to pass through lips
that drooped and appeared quite numb
her wanting stare the polaroid of a child
gone now are the days when I would come as child
to her for guidance to my nurturing mother
I being naïve to the stepping stones before me and numb
to the task of climbing the steep stairs
of love and life while hiding behind pouted lips
that came from having no vision of a starting point
if I might add to this ample point
how life can include the transition from parent to child
child to parent a passing confirmed by the placing of lips
against the brow for her to understand my beloved mother
these final steps of ascension upon heavenly stairs
will not be wrought with the painful and numb
the challenge I now face cannot leave me numb
and never will it take me to a breaking point
though I may weep as I ascend these stairs
still the role I must play shall make me more than child
but never a figure as broad as her my dear mother
for to serve and defend her these would not be passive lips
my mind became dry and parched like the lips
of a thirsty minion as my heart examined the numb
cold sense that I might lose her my precious mother
for this crossroad of life has brought me to that point
of revelation where true love demands that I the child
find the strength to carry us both up these final flights of stairs
the strain of her final ascent upon these stairs
shall not bring a shred of doubt from my lips
I will draw my strength from being that loving child
whom she bestowed the gift of life but kept numb
the thought that I might have been a burden that blocked her point
of direction or dreams my beloved mother
and now my mother my friend a last kiss from tearful lips
for we’ve reached the top of the stairs and my heart though numb
knows full well from this point on the true love between parent and child
Every day you walk down town and smile as you get to that bench
You see her in the same old spot, she sits there every week
She plays a song, while her children dance
And you listen as tells you stories about romance
You walk down town with your spare change and smile as you get to the bench
You see her children wrapped in blankets that you know she probably sewed
And it's December so its chilly and your hands are really cold
But you watch her play on her guitar
And you watch her fingers strum it gently
And you smile as her hoarse voice sings a song
You throw your change into her worn out and chipped guitar case
And you grin as she smiles and blesses your heart
You walk down town with your camera and you smile as you get to the bench
You see her children fanning themselves off and laying on the cool cement int the shade
Its May and its hot and you frown at your peeling sun burn but you stay to hear her song
She strums on her guitar skillfully and her gritty voice projects loudly
You snap some pictures of her and her kids with your Polaroid and you watch them develop and you give them to her
You notice how she keeps coughing and sniffling but you say nothing and put your usual amount of change in the case
And just smile as she blesses your heart
You walk down town with your coffee and smile as you get to the bench
You don't see the woman but you see her children cry
You see them as they pack her guitar in its case for ever
You see them as they collect the spare change they have left
You see them as they fold up the blankets she sewed
You see them look at the Polaroid picture of them you gave her
You know what happened and you give them all your money
And you smile as they bless your heart just like their mother used to
As you walk back home you cant shake out the realization in your head
That you've been walking for the poor woman
If you go downtown early morning
You can see the shopkeepers setting
Old treasures on the sidewalk,
Writing their welcomes with chalk
On little standing blackboards,
Inviting you inside their stores.
Honeysuckle Antiques has its window
Filled with newfound things to show,
Local crafts and the latest junk,
A fringed lampshade and leather trunks.
Its storefront arranged with trifle clutter,
Metal lawn chairs and wooden ladders.
A rusted garden rake’s crooked grin
Begs you to come shop within.
A copper cowbell rings above the door
As dust scurries across a creaking floor.
Greetings from a curvy dressmaker’s bodice,
Empty coke bottles sold by the case.
The moment you enter you’re lost in time.
You never know what you may find;
A stack of old suitcases eager to travel,
Tiny dishes all the way from China,
A basket full of skeleton keys
Or an old black Singer sewing machine.
So many things lost and forgotten;
A lady’s hat pin, hundreds of buttons
Peer through the green glass of Mason jars,
A boy’s prize collection of toy metal cars,
Polaroid cameras and a reel to reel,
A pair of broken red wagon wheels.
Everyone’s favorite, a brown Teddy bear,
A no-longer-needed baby high chair,
Piles of silver spoons, a tarnished pocket watch;
Its workings inside have ground to a halt.
Someone’s keepsake once shiny and new,
Time of death; twelve thirty-two.
Overhead, a beautiful lead chandelier
Sparkles “I don’t belong here.
Take me with you when you go.”
Shelves lined with items needing a home.
Cramped, dusty isles you wander around
Through all the lost and all the found.
Then persuasive orphans catch your eye;
A porcelain doll sitting way up high,
Sad, in her torn and faded dress
Next to some pink Depression glass.
“Take me with you when you go.”
Beg the doll and the bowl.
They say if you break it, you bought it, but I’m not yours to own.
You snapped me like a pencil between your fingers in a burst of insecurities, but that was never part of the deal.
Once in science class, we learned that the longer a bond was the easier it was to break, and boy, was my bond to you long.
Miles couldn’t have described it. Through days, weeks, months, and millions of minutes spent on you, you owned me.
I knew that when you picked me up from the bookcases and antiques, I was yours. And soon after, the floor felt familiar to my glass cheeks.
As I shattered, you swept me up and threw me into a box as a prize of your manhood and left me on a shelf made of worn women and broken bits.
Dust collected, made of layered guilt and oppressing despair, and we became cozy in our box of fragile fears.
You left us high from the world as if saving us for later. I remembered how it felt to look at you again with my eyes, still glassy. I never loved feeling used like that before.
Soon, you tied leashes out of price tags and threw them around our necks. We couldn’t even jump off of the edge of the place that was our home now, because you left us tied to all the memories I wished to forget.
The strings got tighter, we got more tired of this game, and soon we froze in our boxes made of abandonment issues and paranoia. We never healed quite right.
We became at peace with being just prizes for all the times your masculinity beat out your human decency and we stacked ourselves like polaroid pictures to make room for your next shattered china doll.
And forever we stayed chained to our first love, price tags as nooses, frozen in the realization that no real love would ever find us on the island of misused toys.
Form:
Like my innate need for eating
Walking, sleeping, and waking
Photography seemed inborn in me.
My heart and mind could make it free.
Clicking photographs of black and white
With a Click-III, a camera, very light.
I found Isoly II cheap and best.
I used it for a long , with ardent zest.
Kodak, Polaroid, and Pentax
Had adorned my photo tracks.
Nikon came to be, ultimately
Harmonized with me intimately
I clicked my masterpieces manually.
I got linked to each piece sentimentally.
It’s then that I happened to lose it.
Together with the entire photographic kit
A train journey had become my nightmare.
This heavy loss of mine I couldn't bear
Though the price of it indeed mattered much
My emotional attachment to it was beyond touch.
I searched for it in every compartment.
I complained about the matter to the rail department.
Every assurance and trial failed.
Like a phantom, in my dreams, my Nikon sailed.
This moment was like an existential emptiness.
Each day dawned with inner heaviness.
Friends and relatives consoled me, indeed.
With my duties, I couldn't proceed.
Each leaf, flower, fruit, and twig of a plant
Each butterfly, dragonfly, and tiny ant
Brought the memory of my precious Nikon
Which had almost become my life's icon
Mad-like near meadows I stood and stared.
At my despaired state of being, all were scared.
I should move on. They unanimously said
With new hopes in my heart, I should go ahead.
Another Nikon of the digital kind they procured
I was better yet, though not fully cured.
I click the finest pictures with it even now.
I am unable to forget the other yet, anyhow.
My roses shoot bullets and my poems never miss like they're shooting blanks
Even though the expression on their face is sometimes blank
Me, I prefer my expressions stank
Faces from the crowd
Metaphors got you high every time these soliloquies get loud
Me, I've always been more on the quiet side
But, I can turn the volume up if need be
Nerves on the inside floating like butterflies but my words will still sting you like a bee
Myself is the only person I can be
So, I look in the mirror as a reminder or to see
You're still that Memphis boy, Texas raised never phased
Well, almost
See I'm not going to act like I have it all together when I don't
But, I'm also not going to act like my sentences aren't well put together, no I wont!
Give me my flowers all roses please, and a paper bouquet if you're a creative because they never die you see
Or should I take another polaroid until you get the picture
I'm the young G.O.A.T. and no I'm not pretending to be
Those who don't understand will always question your brand, asking what's the deal
Then turn right back around and get my words tattooed to their brain or body because this poetry is something you can really feel
To the enemy I'll never kneel
Sin is taking over but I'll never let it win
Because I stay so clean, clean, and fresh even though my shirt is stained
I'll never let this window pain hurt me or slow me down
Because my style can't be matched, not even in a mirror
Tell yourself that every time you look in the mirror
Try to be your best self always
p.s. this is just a poem but I'm gonna bite the bullet if need be...