Long Scrapbooks Poems
Long Scrapbooks Poems. Below are the most popular long Scrapbooks by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Scrapbooks poems by poem length and keyword.
This body that I am now forced to own
once was a glove for desiring hands, and
a hand for the warm fitting-rooms of strangers.
I am an owner of derelict houses.
their roofs and walls unrecognizable
In the harsh light of a dawn mirror.
Parts of this ‘me’ still are affixed
to the pages of put-away scrapbooks
albums of disinherited images
Once upon-a-time forms
now lay buried in fallow fields
memorial plots,
visited by ailing angels
that keep alive transient likenesses
in shoeboxes of heavenly haunts.
Looking at this that I have become
I wonder what part I played
In the ruination of my castle keep,
what parts the attrition of decades
have reduced a temple
into a place where seagulls
fight for scapes in a perishing landscape?
Let grace be my life-raft,
let the young be my saviors,
but of course any rescue now
must be only a weakening gesture,
a fist shaken at the unchanging stars.
Black and White – 3-18-24
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Black and White
Black and white come in focus -
Absent of prime –
A slice of life exposed through the lens,
A flash-dance of story, a masquerade ball.
No sunrise of sepia - clouds absent of platinum,
Lavender drained from lilacs, sky robbed of blue,
Red-orange stolen from sunsets.
Spindrift frozen like frost,
Candlelight shines undimmed and eternal,
Stark either or – life or not -
In shadows, snow or mountaintops,
Ghosts on boughs of ebony wear gossamer.
Wrinkles and lines banished from smiles of youth
While the lens loves some visages
As eyes without color look back from albums.
Positive to negative. Negative to positive.
Photoplay in wedding smiles or tears of a clown
Moments of the soul held in tenderness
Protected in scrapbooks of black and white.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Trapdoor groans—not ghosts,
but hinges shedding rust like snake skins,
old wood sighs beneath the weight of years,
a dry cough of timber settling into itself.
Sunlight, thick as poured honey,
warms the spines of leather-bound scrapbooks
where ink bleeds into yellowed pages.
Grandad’s trunk yawns open:
Inside, a woolen uniform, stiff as frozen fish,
still guards its stripes.
A cracked leather suitcase spills sepia photos—
a bride squinting in the Missouri sun,
her lace gloves chewed by silverfish.
Under the dormer window sits
a hobbyhorse missing an eye,
its rockers having scarred the floorboards.
In the corner, discarded Easter baskets
melt into wicker tumors filled with
fossilized foil-wrapped chocolate eggs.
The beams hum with termite hymns—
tiny jaws dissolving joists
into sacred dust.
But open the window~
catch the updraft of cut grass
from the yard below.
It wrestles with the gloom,
this breath of living things,
and for a moment,
the attic remembers the world.
Some children sat down on the floor.
They sat till their bottoms were sore.
“We could each take a chair,”
said one boy sitting there.
“So then what are we waiting for?”
For the Juvenilia Contest of Cecelia Hopkins-Drewer
Note: Around age 10 or 11, I had a teacher who taught us about limericks.
I really loved it and had never written anything creative to my knowledge before that day. I have been searching my house to see if I kept my very first poem in any of my scrapbooks, but I must not have. I have had this little poem in my memory ever since that time, but am not exactly sure how I did my line 2, so I've created a new line two, though I don't think I was talking about "bottoms" in the fifth grade yet!
"How sweet to the heart are the scenes of my childhood"
Samuel Woodworth, 1785-1842
With fond memories my heart embraces
childhood days of innocent impressions
and plush playmates with adoring faces
Dolls and tea sets were my prized possessions
Forming angels with friends in Winter's snow
and making silly facial expressions
I gathered wild flowers in the meadow
and plaited wreaths to wear in my long hair
Selling lemonade with my best friend, Jo.
In my younger days I didn't have a care
In make-up, pearls, and high heels, I was dressed
Ignoring Mom when she'd say, "Don't you dare!"
Affectionately, my fingers caressed
photos in scrapbooks of my early days
Years of my life when I was richly blessed
My vision is blurred by a teary haze
Recalling those years, today and always
November 25, 2020 ~ Terza Rima Contest
Sponsor: Constance La France
Rhyming verified on RhymeZone
Syllables verified on HowManySyllables
Grammar and Spelling verified on PS Grammar Checker
I viewed the dawn through mist of fading dreams,
Aware of silver feet upon the roof.
Eaves shivered wet, while raindrops welcomed spring
With murmured sounds, and giving me excuse
To burrow down and doze, with warming trace
Of childhood mornings, which have blown away.
I stretch my arms and rise with no regrets,
And see a rainbow’s face
That arches over hills so far away,
From crayons of time, that I will not forget
I love the rain that falls upon the grass
And look beyond the margins framed inside.
I sense renewal come with mute caress,
Will find new places where my soul resides.
The child in me will dance among the dew,
In soggy dress and mud between my toes,
Not to be dampened by a state of care…
Although the day is blue…
My inner child ignores the dark and low,
And thinks of rain the gift of something new.
Contentment comes from little things I do
Old storybooks will dazzle wishes, fed…
to make believe that wishes could come true
I drink some tea, with snack of jam and bread,
And once again, with growing up to do
Old scrapbooks found, to leap right through my age
Just one more moment as the child relents
My childhood bids adeiu
Recalling now, how fondness comes with sage
But knowing now, how well those days were spent~
.........................................................................................
In Honor of Cyndi's Contest: Comforts of a Rainy Afternoon
Fragments of a buried life, microscopic pieces,
gathering and breeding, in all the little creases.
Snapshots, stills and scrapbooks, documented angst,
diaries of disasters,of when I craved another chance.
Handled like a teeny fragile delicate new-born,
hands grasped too hard now it lies broken and torn.
It's always this way, destroy all that I touch,
so I keep you in jars, the temptation too much.
I seal up my thoughts and I write them all down,
untouched so I stand back to see how they've grown.
Some fragments have splintered some hairy from dust,
for those I wept tears on have crumbled from rust.
But those I hold precious, the last you-crumbs I've got,
I've locked up, protected, concealed from the rot.
My mum and I made many scrapbooks over the years.
To find inspiring and interesting pictures was not hard
And most magazines got past my mothers sense of decorum
And her duty to protect me from scantily clad ladies in my formative years.
My mother continued scrap booking for many years, as did I.
With fond memories to last a lifetime for me and my own children.
But alas scrap booking as Mother and I knew it is almost no more.
The end came slowly unobtrusively, one unsuitable magazine at a time.
First it was the Truck and Car magazines with more than just pictures of
Cars and trucks to cut out.
Until one day it came to pass that even the pictures of cute little animals
Could no longer be found in many a women's magazine.
Which is strange indeed to me as one would have thought that a magazine
Owned by a woman, edited by women and employing lots of women and being sold to women would be
The last place to find only pictures that my Mum would not want in her scrapbook.
I find this phenomenon doubley strange given that playboy is giving up it's centrefold.
Maybe someone else can get their head around this cause I sure can't.
Not when these once child friendly magazines that gave me such pleasure on Many A rainy day are now just another something for preschoolers to giggle at
And form unhealthy opinions of life in general.
Thank goodness for people like my Mother who still have some examples of Child friendly magazines and books hidden away in cupboards which if you ever Pay a visit will be trotted out and you can see pictures of cute little animals While there is still time to save them and the scrapbooks.