Long Remodeled Poems
Long Remodeled Poems. Below are the most popular long Remodeled by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Remodeled poems by poem length and keyword.
Little adobe house on 160 acres
She grows flowers. I grow corn
Tomatoes, watermelon, etc.
Peace, love, hope, and joy
Grow themselves
Porch faces orange blazes
Draped over the rugged Mules
And a barn owl hoovers over
An old water tank with a bunny
In her talons for her
So-ugly-they're-cute hatchlings
Ladder leaned on it
to climb up and see 'em
Brothers and sisters drive from town
For Bible Study
Every Friday night...
After the Word there's coffee and treats
And men load up the truck
Armed rabbit assassins
Patrol Charlie's alfalfa fields
While back at the house
Women laugh and
Children play
Extra rooms
For friends who want to
Spend the night
Saturday mornings
Coffee and bacon waffles
In Charlie's pond across the road
Bass to catch
Beautiful, glorious days
Last night I dreamed
That in this economy
Where shelter's scarce
I was back at the ranch
With a hundred millenials
All of whom, knew me
The adobe house was remodeled
Terracotta with green and red
Lots of black wrought iron
Railings, fences, and gates
Rooms added onto
Big as a mansion
Dirk came to weld more iron
With his crew
And I was trying to make everyone leave
Then I went out towards the pond
And got lost in a huge coal field
A stranger appeared and I asked
How to go back to the road
And a sheriff stopped me with his gun
We, (well it felt like you)
Took his gun from him
But you wouldn't let me shoot him
And I didn't
I woke up... missing all that we had
Your home-made bread
Love by the fire
After kids went to bed
It was incredible
What we did
What we made
What we grew
Our little boys in their cowboy hats
Playing under the giant cottonwood
Our big sprawling porch every evening
Watching the orange purple fire
Spread itself over the valley
And fade into embers
Sparkling the big black night
Like those sunsets, we raged and died
Time after time after time after time
Until we didn't
My dear, sweet,
Warm, loving,
Beautiful
Ex-
You're still so good to me after all
Praying for your family
In that little old church
Where I lost my faith so long ago
Quit being the man you used to know
Something I still believe in though
And always will
I’m very pleased to introduce to you
something once a toy made completely new.
All you need are two good legs and balance! But it’s not a bike.
It’s as healthy as biking, so cyclists, take a hike!
It’s much more fun for everyone to JUMP their way
to where they want to get to every day.
The bottom part of it, once made of rubber,
used to wear down fast and made a few kids blubber.
For when the steel part poked itself on through,
annoying clatter hitting pavement would ensue.
That old-fashioned part that gave bounce for you
is completely remodeled. Now metal won’t poke through!
And better yet, it’s not rubber-made at all!
You now can jump to anywhere on anything, and you won’t fall.
This awesome patented invention will never get stuck
in dirt, grass or gravel, nor in mud and muck.
With longer and higher jumps than you ever had before,
the distance you can jump has increased twenty times more.
No one else but us has this technology.
Come and take a test-jump. You will see. . .
why we call our product the Quick MOGO stick.
POGO redesigned, will make you jump for joy, and that is no schtick!
March 16, 2018 for
"Advertisement: Sell something, make us want it" contest of Lewis Raynes
She came alone in nineteen ninety-three
From Kharkov to Chicago she had flown
With just two bags, but here she could be free
Unlike Ukraine, where Life had been postponed
She first learned English, then she learned to code
A job she got with super benefits
She met me and we married, fam'ly sowed
A couple baby boys, the sweetest kids
We bought a house, remodeled it from scratch
Her woman's touch that house did make a home
And in our kitchen lavish meals she hatched
Prepared with grace, a princess on her throne
Her main concern the welfare of our sons
Complaints has she? ~ I've never heard a one
Iambic pentameter
Curtains, at Grandma’s house,
hide the inner sanctum -
memories remodeled.
—Quote by Poet
I Recall Curtains
Loveliness is lace; I recall curtains.
Village without curtains; and lace.
One bow on a pine, lopsided star.
Intricate lace is snow white.
Many pines in the mountain skies,
the chimney and post office spire
pointing at the twinkling stars, all
hover over the curtainless village.
Rocking horse and spinning top, highlight
the two-storied “Toys and Games.”
I wonder who lives upstairs at the “Bakery.”
Such a teeny tiny village offering, yet
the daintiness embellishes a Winter wall;
Loveliness is lace; I recall curtains.
I came to see you at the remodeled hospital
there were bright tiles, statuary Marys, and assorted saints
"full code" was on the door.
We talked about your eventual escape and some summer plans
Now ,I am informed by curt text that there is a DNR with "comfort care,"
and no further attempts at treatment.
Too much oxygen for home or nursing home, a quick move to hospice across the road.
I kind of knew when the nurse's eyes slid over you and
the live plant I brought in the optimism of the early part of the week
was jammed in a light-less corner- I set it back on your tray.
You showed me that the nurses no longer came running when you took off your mask- the machine readout was dimmed and the alarms no longer blared.
You want to be sure that I plant hazelnuts,
and build a bomb or storm shelter, you know someone with a backhoe...
"Jesus lives on the 4th plane, you know", you tossed out to engage me
"...but there are other planes..." a gasp and the mask back on.
Your sister quickly interjects that I need to find "someone" to talk to you about this, someone who is interested.
I will talk to you about Jesus, and argue for his placement in the 6th plane
to see those blue eyes twinkle over the mask.
I will plant hazelnuts, I affirm, and look into the backhoe.
I see you, and I will see you around, my friend.
For Mike M.
He was airlifted to another place.
The heath, the dales,
the ridges, the high moors,
they all began to slip away
under throbbing wings.
Occasionally a woman would approach,
a silk moth in the semi-gloom
of a night flight;
he was tucked semi-consciously
into a droning life-support system.
When you are unearthed,
green roots tug,
mud and twigs come with you.
Pools and sediment
make their way as seeds and marsh
traveling with your incubating soul.
Places you have slept on,
waded across,
had breezy sex over,
they tether you to tillage and turf,
to your life,
even as you fly far from it.
He began to plant bits of himself
into the soil of his new home.
He hid mossy stones amid plastic rocks’
left lichen trails
on the marble floors of shopping malls.
He recreated his own clay
from the sand-shifting soil he found
in an alien loam.
Slowly the land began to own him.
He dug himself into the past
of this remodeled wilderness.
Became a native of rooted and uprooted things.
When he was asked:
To which country he belonged?
He would show the dirt
under his fingernails.
Years of grace
Moments of stamina
The GATE was finally in place
The lock wielded
The key in hand
Finally, choice had a face
Ready for guests to come
The garden grew wild
As she awaited her chance
Not to offer invitation
Not to release gifts
But to see GOD, denying unwanted advance
Decades passed
No one came near
The eyesore in the glen
She turned to look
At rejection, no election
But to experience....pain, again...and again
She hardened her resolve
And began to clean
Making herself the envy of men
Guests began to gather
At the remodeled gate
Anticipating the joy of being let...in
The millisecond came
When she was applying key to lock
But froze when eyes connected
Words whispered
Heart recoiled
As she stonewalled the "rejected"
The FORGIVEN is now
..........the UNPARDONED
Written by Trudy Schrader on 06/02/2023
Invisible orchid on a broken, dark shelf
Cellophane of tears in a silent loud speaker shape
Rushed steps looking for the right gift
Frustrated men not knowing how to show love
It's still alive, patterns of pinkish godly beauty
Veins of neglect succumb to delusion
A lost bird panicked, skidding on a man made shinny floor,
spreads its wings colliding with the glassy desire for freedom
It's trash day, compactor spits out dreams of gardens
Back doors reveal a weak sunshine, oh, but it's too late
The janitor mops traces of unfulfilled declaration of love
Store closes, new flowers kept in refrigerators for potential customers
Godly pinkish petals make friends with the full moon
Foggy, ghostly bouquets of Angel Breath caress the Golden Gate
Dirt and muddy tire tracks struggle up the Reality Hill
An invisible bulb rolls down the “Crookedest Street” in the world...
In my grandpa’s field I stand midst rows of grain
whose gray-green blades stir softly in the moaning wind.
A night chill permeates my skin.
I look down at my arms and legs and realize
I’m a little girl again!
How did I get here? Why am I now standing here in the dark of night?
Far ahead of me, I see the old worn farmhouse.
Moon, big and golden, seems to have left the sky.
It’s reappeared at the window of my grandparent’s old house,
where it glows with a mesmerizing light eerily beckoning me.
I stand transfixed, not knowing what to do.
Is this a dream? It has to be!
Grandma sold that house when grandpa died.
I’d seen it one more time remodeled and repainted
and with another owner’s name.
The house I’m seeing now is the old one from my childhood.
Many things from long ago are coming to my mind:
The fields where my sisters and I frolicked in the summers;
the long dirt lane we skipped happily along;
the berry bushes along many pathways we discovered;
the hollyhocks we learned how to make cute dollies from.
It was daylight when I knew the farm back then. Sun was high in the sky.
Now I’m only seeing the eerie glow emanating from grandpa’s house. . .
I awaken to the darkness of a winter morning’s gloom,
vaguely remembering a vanished moon
which turned up on the face of my grandparents’ old farmhouse
as if to beckon me back to my childhood.
But somehow I knew (even while asleep)
that to near that house and then to go inside it
would not be the stuff of happy dreams.
There was a reason for the coldness of the night, the moaning of the wind.
The summer days have fled. Between the nightmare and the dream,
subconsciously I knew
you simply cannot go home again.
Glass illusions forestry of butterflies in flight
swiveling and turning wing, aiming for sun
hovering over lulling waters of purple hues
Breathing like flowers, frilling up the air
inside a cornucopia world of rich and bright
Birds are calling from afar symmetrical chirps
of grandeur, across the wide expanse
nocturnal illumination of the heart and soul
Varathane music sonatas, flute escapades
within a dormant brook, nature's usurp
Fairies, trellises, and magic twigs interlinked
inside the Foloi forest, the mighty oak respires
aside centaurs and dryads, of their time
an emerald green, bottled by nature herself
all is transformed here, even the sky is pinked
Altered, Remodeled, Reworked, Transformed,
by my sweet, poetic imagination...
"Follow Me "