Long Rooms Poems
Long Rooms Poems. Below are the most popular long Rooms by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Rooms poems by poem length and keyword.
Our Stolen Moment
*
It is early morning,
we are on our way to
Provincetown, Cape Cod.
*
The radio is playing
one of our favorite songs.
I smile at you
in your white halter top,
blue jeans and
bare feet with polished red nails
on the dashboard.
*
Oh my god, you say
our favorite song is playing.
You start to sing.
Your hungry voice
taking shrill bites
out of a song by Journey.
*
Provincetown Inn
is where we will stay.
After the unpacking
we lay on the bed, hug, and say,
“See you in a couple hours.”
*
Upon waking, we make love.
“Do we do it better in motel rooms?”, she asks.
“It's the ocean air.” I suggest.
“Of course, that's it. The all too familiar smell of the sea air”, she exclaims.
*
After showering, dressing
then downing a quick coffee
we go to our favorite eatery
for a late lunch.
*
The day is sunny, warm
with a light ocean breeze.
After lunch, we browse the gift shops
and purchase a few items,
to remember our trip, by.
*
In Provincetown center
there is MacMillan Pier,
and we walk to the end
where an empty bench, awaits us.
*
I place my arm around her,
she cuddles and says, “I love you.”
I pull her closer.
Looking out over the ocean
our breaths in sync
she says, “It doesn't get any better than this.”
*
I say, “I want to shout out, my love for you”
“No, sweetheart, you can't, we must remain quiet.”
“Why my love?”
“It's our stolen moment.”
DOOH! *whispering* Don’t look now, but that pasty loser boredom is here.
You can always find him waiting, hanging in the silence of empty rooms.
To acknowledge him is to sink into vacancy where the real is shattered
and its pieces disintegrate until you exist without thought or desire.
Quick, turn on some music - let it become an extension of yourself.
Dance and recreate fun - before you're struck helpless!!
Tell him jokes and he’ll leave..
“I thought the neighbors were nice people - then they went and put a password on their wi-fi.”
“A lot of people cry when they slice onions - the trick is not to get emotionally attached.”
“There’s a new restaurant called Karma - no menu - you just get what you deserve.”
Oh, look, he’s gone =]
*still dancing*
Forced into grumbling stomach and head throb
It is dark cold emptiness all around
first laid off and then dissmissed from the job
It is a blight on all our light and sound
The wrinkled hours on my both cheek sunken
Driven out from two rented rooms, roaming
Hope hearth home health heaven hell all broken
For food morsels with dogs in the trash bin
Fallen crumbled plundered you all despise
One of our two children is now missing
Wreckage breakage drainage in our void eyes
Moans and groans around the serpent hissing
With our pulverised waves and hungry soul
We are struggling to get back into whole
Vultures on our head and the end hems in
Of your poem, O life, we’re still dreaming
____________________________________________
23/10/2016
Our summer fellowships are over! We learned a lot - for instance - how summer’s a lot less fun when you’re hemmed-up, inside working. I mean, we preesh’d the clinical experience, the learning, and especially how good these fellowships will look on our med-school applications - seriously - but there were a hundred rules - aren’t rules incompatible with summer?
Hmm, Ok, let’s see, something poetic..
As the summer sun's blistering radiance waned, shadows,
muscled by sunrays to the marginal edges and corners,
gradually spread, like water - soothing, lenifying and assuaging
simmered nerves with their refreshing, canopied touch.
If sunlight scorched with heat, twilight soothed and gentled,
while varnishing, the dimming world with rainbow, event-horizons,
larger, more inventive, colorful and glorious than any mere mortal art.
Night gradually squeezed, unseen, through those vivid sunset cracks,
and refreshing night-air, drawn in by the last, escaping updrafts of heat,
rustled cooling relief to weary workers seeking the solace of evening and home.
back to unpoetic realities..
When work was finished, we’d retreat from the heat, racing up to the rooftop pool, like two happy porpoises out of school.
Whoever invented poolside food delivery, should win the Nobel Prize for ‘thank you very much.’ We wouldn’t go back to our rooms until it was dark and we’d started to prune.
Now, we’ve a month to relax before our Junior year begins. We got letters from Yale that said, “As upperclassmen..” “Upperclassmen!” We shouted as we danced in hand-holding circles, singing, “Upperclassmen, upperclassmen, upperclassmen, upperclassmen. upperclassmen.”
We’ve grown so much at Yale.
Under the Lampshades
You are hurriedly racing your crazy Cadillac,
looking to squeeze in more time at the yoga salon,
and have a relaxing conversation under a set of palm trees out back,
with sandwiches of desire mixed with sardines and mustard;
this person you are racing to is the one
who knows the right buttons to push.
Is it time for another epoch of stranded conveniences,
required by society as solemnly as a funeral with no body?
We know there is a hidden pain not felt,
not until a rain of shredding years find their progressions captured,
inside old rooms down hallways of musty time,
with apparitions of giggling girls walking back and forth,
looking for aroused embraces in the burning night,
Come with me now, is there no time for lazy hours under lampshades,
after we gather up red nectarines at the Uptown faire?
We can gaze at the old faces and wonder if they knew anything.
But inside this 1956 Cadillac we all knew where the flashlights were hidden,
And we all knew where the silver keys to the pink hearse were located.
Shh, don’t make a sound! Try not to make a clamor within these green tiles.
There are witch hazel bottles half full in the medicine cabinets, and
There are asbestos catchings in the dry rot, and ancient cobwebs made of beard,
Collapsing here with us in this dead basement of cement and lost whispers.
Shhh, she is tiptoeing down the creaky steps now wearing brown skin;
My breath is taken away as with all spirits ascending upward face-first.
This one had too many chopped up tiny little rooms.
The next one had no escape from the upstairs windows
And they were fourteen feet off the ground
I wanted old
My husband would only look at new
I wanted woodwork
My husband wanted easy
I wanted an enormous yard
My husband wanted no grass to mow
He would have liked a concrete yard
And he would not have painted it green either.
After realizing we could not agree on any house
We had seen,
We started listing all the things we wanted.
The only way to get a house like this was to build it
So now the hunt for land was on.
And blueprints to purchase
And inspectors to consult
And contractors we could trust.
A whole new plan
But it worked for us.
We now have our dream house.
And I have my dream yard.
Score!
I am the light left burning on the porch,
the spare room at the bottom of the hall,
the steady hand that holds a fading torch
when nobody else answers to your call.
You come to me when brighter offers fade,
when crowded rooms grow cold and turn away,
to sit within the quiet I have made
and wait until the breaking of the day.
I listen to the grief you carry in,
I stitch the tears that others left behind,
and let you start your healing from within,
providing every peace you couldn't find.
I clear my calendar to make you room,
I set my own heavy troubles on the shelf,
to pull you out of unexpected gloom,
forgetting how to listen to myself.
I hold your secrets like a fragile glass,
I keep your shadows safe inside my chest,
and sit beside you as the dark hours pass,
content to give you shelter, time, and rest.
And when the sun begins to warm the floor,
and color rushes back into your face,
you gather up your coat and reach the door,
and leave me standing in an empty space.
You step back out into the lively crowd,
to those who get your laughter and your best,
while I am left with silence, cold and loud,
a simple pit stop where you came to rest.
You text me only when the night goes wrong,
or when the people that you prefer are gone,
and expect that I will simply play along,
a background figure you can lean upon.
It is a bitter math I have to learn:
to be the one who saves, but isn't sought,
the one you use until the tables turn,
an afterthought that never gave a thought.
For being useful isn't being dear,
and being available is not a bond.
I hold the mirror up to dry your tear,
but no one looks at what is left beyond.
I drown in quiet while I keep you dry,
I hold the heavy ceiling as it bends,
and wonder, as the busy world goes by,
who saves the person saving all their friends.
And as the door clicks shut, the truth grows clear:
I built a refuge out of my own pain,
yet no one ever thinks to ask me here
if I am drowning in my own dark rain.
I burned a book today.
The author will remain unknown
his words unread,
yellow pages untarnished
by the grit of hungers need
his ideas set free upon the wind
disembodied ghosts
hoping for redemption
I passed a library today.
its shelves stripped
of error’s errors
dark corridors
leading to locked rooms
suffocating the voice
of freedom.
I wrote a poem today
etched my heart
upon the paper
baptized it with my tears
nurtured each word
melded them into a union
of mindful contemplation
I passed a mob today
chanting incoherently
carrying contradictory signs
demanding unity,
equality and justice.
after the riot and looting
I went home and
I burned a book today.
John G. Lawless
3/21/2021
The Past
Our world is beautiful.
It is old, and it is young.
The difference between...
immortality and humanity.
Giants of enormous size, and strength,
titans mentioned, in the great Book.
Unicorns and talking donkeys,
dinosaurs, and a jabberwocky.
Dragons, and even great whales...
used by the hand of the Lord.
Written about, written down...
to be read again and again,
to know the wonders of our yesterday.
Pyramids, massive statues to lesser-thans,
destroyed and disassembled into dust.
Years wearing away what was,
to leave behind only what is,
or what is left,
to tease us,
and appease our sense of adventure,
and our lust for treasure.
Libraries burned to the ground,
or great arts stolen from their rightful places,
taken to hidden rooms,
coveted by shades that can not use them,
or remember why...
they wanted them at all?
We go to school,
and learn what is given to us.
Yet the truth is bleeding out, all around.
It is like water, seeking every level...
from the Arctic Circle,
to the content of Antarctica.
Science and religion attempting to describe...
what can not be explained,
without faith.
could not sleep at night
thrilled to wake and play around
in and out of rooms
as though gems hidden and found
nights merriment resurrected
smiles laughs howls screams shouts and yells
star gaze in summer
recounting and accounting
quilt nights of winter
licking fresh dew drops of spring
butterfly watching catching
picnics to stations
filled with hills and mountain range
playing on meadows
plucking all barred flowers strange
when caught hid behind mother
gathering sea shells
banking them as though gold coins
counting them daily
adding them into bead-joins
wearing like a clown
playing police-thief
arresting little culprits
acting like jailing
taking them to hill summits
to shoot them there from
cries to go to school
coming back happy and thrilled
hating to read books
running out to play joy-filled
coming back ready to sleep
countless memories
how much I could go on with?
I should now cut short
I express only herewith
longing to re-live them all
18 August 2022
Childhood Nostalgia Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: JCB Brul