Long Railings Poems
Long Railings Poems. Below are the most popular long Railings by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Railings poems by poem length and keyword.
The house looked so imposing
and majestic from outside
with a wide yard and a porch
surrounded by ornamental railings.
It was situated on a hill
with pine trees partly covering it from view.
Rumor runs, at night from there,
people hear a strange wailing.
Scoffing it as the weird fancy of fevered minds,
I was bent on proving the irrationality of it.
One night I ascended the hill
leading to that cozy mansion.
I looked in and around with the spirit
of a rationalist or a skeptic.
A light gleamed from inside,
and I could see the surroundings clearly
Close to the house but safely distant,
I noticed a narrow fissure hemmed by wild bushes
Though I walked around over and again,
nothing seemed unusual about it.
When I was about to leave
as a proud victor after a thorough search,
i saw the fissure caving into a pit
and a skeletal figure
emerging from the pit
and rising into air wailing.
With a rattling sound,
it shook the dust off its cage of ribs.
There was no trace of flesh.
Had no wings, but arms like sticks
dangling down and raised up,
yet it cut through air like a dancing dervish.
My breath caught between dread and disbelief
and my heart hammering against my ribs,
in horror, as I looked on,
like a bird, on the pine branch, it did perch.
In that chilling moment, I took to my heels.
Solid Ideas
A solid idea has a myriad of concrete corners
When you step off the curb take one with you and iron boots
It follows you with definable mass and weight
With cold hard facts to anchor
A solid idea is one that is frozen in time chiseled
Like a statue of hard marble it is always there
Asphalt and trees fill in the landscape by the river
Solid ideas sometimes bathe in the sun by the banks
Hold on to railings of the ship if you should sail there
Metallic footwear will not save you
If you float down the stream of consciousness
Or away into the atmosphere
The edges of street blocks are covered in salt
Under a microscope the crystalline structures take shape
Are cube like forms bunched together
A solid idea is one that grips you firm like that
It replaces, displaces water on the brain
I keep my solid ideas locked up
In chains, in basements, in refrigerators
To be taken out on special occasions
Poured over ice to thaw conversations
03/24
I have made a grave navigational error
And steered my ship to a sandbar
While I waved my cap and shouted backwards from the helm
Whistling to the shore I just departed
Sailing blind at every turning of the wind was sure to end this way
But my sails were taut and pulling, so blindly off I went
I’ve been too sure of my bearing
And that hers seemed unfixed and waiting
I mourned the day our courses diverged
But now I see she’s surely moving
While I‘ve wrecked myself upon this rocky spit
Watching every passing breeze shred my unyielding sails
I see things clearer than I did before
Even through dewy lashes and a dented spyglass
That she has not ceased rowing onward
Against the very wind that brought me to this moor
How I admire the steady rhythm of her pulling
And how I wish she’d only stop a moment
It’s true her boat could never tow this mainsail
But now I look around me and see my dismal state
Tattered sails and tangled rigging
Rotting boards and splintered railings
If ever I am driven from this sandbar
This ornamental galleon will almost assuredly nose under
Yesterday I looked away to take a bearing
And I saw beyond my taffrail for the first time in a while
There was nothing to be seen
Only imagined promise somewhere beyond the horizon
If somehow I can hold this ship together
I’ll die having met my unknown fortune there
Or I could set to swimming
Hard away from the wreck I’ve coaxed this far
The galleon which I proudly drove
And leave behind my vain prancing to and fro
See how steady she rows
Eyes set firm over her horizon on a promise she absolutely knows
The gulf is wide but not yet too vast
I could swim to her in time
And pray with all my heart and soul
That a bench remains on her humble skiff
Now I’ve made myself ready to leap from the rail
I’ll surely drown if she doesn’t take me aboard
The road that we all follow, in the pursuit of mankind,
Often leads to more questions, that need to be defined.
It's a journey that we seek, even if it is only to find.
Allowing us to see clearly, not to remain forever blind.
Along the way it can be deafening, by all the noise to hear.
Yet one must listen carefully, with a discretionary ear.
It's a path to be learned from, while some others may ignore.
Where consequences may endure forever, like never before.
Since being imperfect, we often fail to eventually achieve,
To set the bar higher, to a new standard that we can believe.
Within the railings, obstacles exist, between the lines of love and hate.
Testing the burden that we can lift, towards the enormous weight.
In the shadows we must also discern, between the crazy and the sane.
With judgements that are measured against the inhumane.
So then we're left to reason, between what's real and what's fake.
All the while maybe not realizing, what's all that's at stake.
As our judgement tries its best, to know the truth versus a lie.
We'll try to stay within the guidelines given, before we lay down and die.
Interrogate the trim lady,
this shocked me as I left crazy,
dogged daily-
went to the railings;
as hailingz came dazzling as your whalingz...
Oh master of failing,
let them start scaling,
please let them see me tonight,
in caretakers chemical jailings-
swimming, as I am so finally-
finally starts spiraling-
as if it were with Witz and my warrior who cats,
she dines with disaster LIVE like we showed leaves to shine,
no matter what lived,
we took apart...
Holy design?
As I am designated?
Holy dynamic?
Am I a cry for the fires to let them align?
The great preacher of time.
1512 Armory Avenue, prettiest house in Chariton, Iowa
Verdant green ferns and red geraniums in blue pots gracing the porch.
Roof jumps would land her on dandelions, possibly violet rosette.
Front door opened onto spectacularly polished walnut staircase
Front room had been converted to her bedroom with picture window.
Looked out onto Stella McDowell’s garden full of bluebells and daffodils.
House whispers in the night, reassured her child self that all was well.
She had not seen her house for almost twenty-eight years.
Her husband asked, “Is this it?”
She started to say no.
But the address said it was; this ugly eyesore was nothing like she remembered.
Porch had slid away, everything unkempt, grass needed mowed.
Nothing fresh about this demon. It was ugly and hostile.
Critters probably lived here now; the house had been empty for a long time.
Nothing was fresh. It was depressing, damp, dour, sad. Smelled like mice.
She was sorry she had come; let down, disappointed.
These railings used to be ten foot tall, she said to her husband.
In actuality, they were three foot off the ground, and they tipped east.
She could barely wait to leave, hoping to regain her joyful childhood memories,
First she must push this ugly 1512 Armory completely out of her mind.
Written 7-16-2020
Contest: Decaying House
Words in order: house, ferns, porch, roof, rosette, door, staircase, window, garden, whispers.
Sponsor: Constance La France
The old fashioned monsoons
Meant for the flowers and cacti of Arizona California
And New Mexico
Have fled those deserts and dusty reservoirs
To find a new friend instead in Michigan
Up here in the Great Lakes
We’re not used to summer waterfalls
And sweaty doors
Swollen
Refusing to fit their frames
Stair railings sticky to the grab of hands
Hostas
Soaked and dripping
From late afternoon and overnight rain
Shaking their elephant ears
To the canes of a next-day morning sun
Shimmering to the swab of legendary Bumblebees
Lavender born again
We should fill our canteens with this new paradise
Wait at the edge of our frontier with these gifts
For our brother and sister American migrants
Who will crawl here on their knees
At some point
Or we could build a “great beautiful wall
It’ll cool down”
To keep those parched rapists murderers and deniers out
At least
Until this dusty herd of yesteryear
Moves past us and with us
Up the stairs to Canada
And then it will be we
Who knock on that door
Ajar
To see if we are allowed in
From there?
In a someday soon?
It will be like the Earth’s atmosphere itself
Peeling off into space for the barren moon
Mars or Neptune.
Some would call me homeless. I call myself a traveler. In this city I traverse the wonder of human art and nature's beauty as if the two have melded together as one. The ornate iron railings seem to grow into the sweet smelling vines and flowers that live upon them. Hanging baskets with pink and purple impatiens and verdant ferns chuckle gently in the moist morning breeze as they adorn each balustrade. Hidden gardens beckon me as I walk past their gates painted with worn layers of lover's hands as they steal away behind secluded walls. They say I'm confused, yet I search to understand. Here, the past calls to me and I listen. Walking the streets and alley ways there is a sense of history, of lives that have loved and lost, of souls that linger in the heart of the buildings. Always searching, the walls can not contain their bewildered wandering. Inflicting confusion and sometimes pain on those they touch, they bath in the fountains and babble longing desires into each mind that seeks the peace of their soothing, gently bubbling water.
petals blush gently
the patient garden awaits
sweet stolen kisses
"For Sale," reads the sign on the window of the house before me. Delicate filigree rails frame the porch as I approach the old glass pane and peer through it. Inside I see a small room with peeling paint. Worn wooden floors trace the lives that have lived here. The ghost of Christmases past linger in the broken toys strewn across the floor. Brightly colored beaded memories of ages of Mardi Gras dangle from hooks on the wall. Upon the small corner desk I can see papers written in a fine pen like that of a poet's notes waiting an eternity for the completion of a long forgotten refrain. I feel the joy that once lived here and the pain of loss that remains.
stains of memories
the children's laughter lingers
a tear on my cheek
01/15/16
In late September, autumn days begin,
although the summer's warmth may linger on.
The shortening of days will signal time
to gather fall's abundant harvest feasts.
The orchard's full with ripe apples galore;
we fill our baskets up with our fresh pick.
Aromas from sweet, luscious pies uplift –
replace the perfume of our summer blooms.
Progression's slow as days become more cool;
wet days ahead with bouts of rain or sleet.
The colored crispness of bright fallen leaves
help soften loss of summer's golden days.
And soon when we awake in early morn
we see hoar frost on railings and dried leaves.
When shivering begins on morning walks,
we are aware that autumn's now at home.
Late autumn can present us with surprise
of summer warmth or windy winter chill.
Most likely she will gift to us light snow
for icy fingers quick to brush away.
As lovely summer slides into the fall
our minds adjust to seasons' varied whims.
The longed-for warmer days flew quickly by
to open up the path for Autumn's blaze.
Sandra M. Haight
~6th Place~
Contest: Seasonal
Sponsor: Shadow Hamilton
Judged: 09/29/2015
When I was a kid,
I only knew the sea from a distance—
from the deck of a ship,
sailing from Manila to Bacolod.
I’d lean against the railings,
watching the water stretch limitless,
wondering what it felt like to touch.
It wasn’t until high school
that I finally stepped into it.
Waves around my legs,
sand between my toes.
And just like that,
I fell in love.
There was something different there.
Not just salt air and sun,
but a kind of peace I didn’t know I needed.
I live in the mountains,
where clouds kiss pine trees, and the fog hugs you tight.
But the sea… the sea pulls me.
Sometimes, when days feel so tiring,
I catch myself daydreaming—
of sitting at the shore
watching the sun disappear into the horizon,
waves brushing my ankles,
nothing else to do, nowhere else to be.
Oh, how I love the sea.
I can’t wait to meet it again next summer.