Long Shelf Poems
Long Shelf Poems. Below are the most popular long Shelf by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Shelf poems by poem length and keyword.
No tins, no drawers, no boxes or trays,
Nowhere to store all the junk,
No cases or cupboards, or closets or racks,
Or any small beaten down trunk,
Leads me to throw all the things I don’t need,
Things that just get in the way,
And keep all the things which really look good,
Things that I proudly display,
Like photos of moments, and painted ideals,
Things I hold close to my heart,
Things that I cherish and I want in my life,
From medals to novels to art,
And I proudly attach these things to the wall,
Or they sit on the table or shelf,
So I can see, every day, what’s important to me,
Now that I live by myself.
Do you have the courage to give up your life for someone?
Do you have the willingness to die for a stranger?
Must it be someone you know or can it be anyone?
Even for someone close, would you put your life in danger?
Is the instinct for your own survival just too much?
What would it take for you to lay down your life?
Is it the fear of losing out on that human touch
Or the guilt for leaving your children, husband, or wife?
These are some of the questions that you must ask yourself
Before you enlist in the U.S. military.
It’s not easy, but your heart can’t be put on a shelf.
In battle, your mind isn’t the only thing you should carry.
Imagine what people do every single day in war.
They give their lives for people they don’t even know.
Even if you’re not sure what they are fighting for,
Remember that they had the courage to stand up and go.
Love alone is real and that’s life’s gist
but imagining we’re distanced from source,
grace that uplifts, we begin to resist,
opting instead to employ use of force.
Mistaken we’re merely this body-mind,
we’re mired in pursuits, that are self-serving,
caught in ego’s inexorable bind,
believing we alone are deserving.
All that that is born, will one day soon die
but even though we see and so know this,
we live out our life as though it’s a lie,
hypnotised by the desire-serpent’s hiss.
Life is a gift, where each of us can choose,
to make love and light, flavour of our muse.
To make love and light, flavour of our muse,
it is clear we need a consciousness shift,
resolve steadfast, offering no excuse,
watchful that we are no longer adrift.
Negating nothing, we look at ourself,
noticing how thought forms rise and subside,
so sweeping clean fear clutter on our shelf,
with throb of conscience, we opt to abide.
Simple is the shift from our head to heart,
which basically means we surrender,
feeling, not thinking, thus God-search we start,
beholding each breath in childlike wonder.
The outer world no longer holds allure;
for all ills in life, love’s the only cure.
For all ills in life, love’s the only cure,
is what we see in the world of shadows,
love alone being that that does endure,
looking beyond lifetimes, as spirit knows.
Once we’re empty, fearless and desireless,
divine magnetism pervades feeble form
and holding steadfast our focus tireless,
our pure heart invokes within, a bliss storm.
Our counsel then oh monk, is to be still,
embracing and releasing joy and pain
and by doing so, voids within will fill,
healed by touch divine that cleanses soul’s stain.
We forget when we make a to-do list,
love alone is real and that’s life’s gist.
The sheet is blank, the pencil sharp. But still
no lightning bolt of creativity
lights up the night. No muse awakes my quill
with inspiration longed for patiently.
Just then, intriguing thoughts invade my mind
as Wordworth's sonnet lines jump off the shelf -
of convents, bees, and weavers. Soon I find,
inside this little room, it writes itself!
Why sonnets? is a question I have heard -
is it not difficult enough to paint
an image without forcing every word
into strict rhyme and metrical constraint?
Yet even artists choose, when they begin,
a canvas shape and size to paint within.
Written 15 Oct 2020
I have a pantry where I keep my blessings,
each one a precious gift.
The daily deliveries never stop,
although I sometimes overlook them.
Some days the shelves seem empty,
but when I find the strength to look again,
I see that they are filled in abundance
waiting to be acknowledged and accepted.
If I open each gift as it comes and
arrange it on my shelves, I see I have
the wealth of love, the warmth of smiles,
And the comfort of grace.
I have opportunities to share these gifts
with those whose coffer is bare.
A humble hug, a warm embrace,
a simple smile of understanding.
If I have food, I share it; if I have drink, I share it;
I have enough, I need not more.
My joy is in sharing that which I have;
my strength is in giving, not taking.
If I hoard my gifts they dry and become stale,
shrivel, and die on the shelf.
If I take out a gift and re-wrap it for another,
my bare shelves overflow with more.
Isn’t is remarkable how one’s daily coffer flows
according to the condition of one’s heart?
What is the turning point when one realizes
that one's blessings are meant to be re-gifted?
What greater act of worship, than to
teach by example and to give unreservedly?
A giving heart is a joyful heart and
strengthens my resolve to keep my pantry full.
We each have highs and lows in life,
and sometimes a rough in-between.
Yet divine awareness and a roll of tape
can change the momentum of our lives.
A poem about the seasons
Or a pet gets people reading,
Though only on occasion
Is that what the poet’s needing.
Thus, many verses go unread,
The price of being selfish,
Preventing possibilities
Or writing going shelf-ish.
A journalist strings words on topics
Given on assignment,
With facts and research intertwined
For print or e-alignment.
But poets have a great big world
From which to choose a topic,
Their vision open to it all
Or sometimes plain myopic
And if those other subjects
May prove somewhat less inviting,
They may not find a readership,
Yet still enjoy the writing.
Cigarettes and Loose Change
by Edmund Siejka
On a late afternoon
There was a stillness
When nothing seemed to move.
Listless and sort of down
I knew a bar
Squeezed in between non- descript buildings.
Hesitating I stood outside
Searching the gray lifeless windows
When the bar’s neon light
Beckoned.
Behind the dark oak bar
She was taking inventory
Fingers lightly
Touching each bottle of
Bottom shelf
Bar brands
Behind me on the walls
Were photos of the old time fighters
From the time before I was born
I ordered the house Bourbon
Grimacing, I felt it burning down.
Then I asked
Last time we spoke
You said you might be heading out?
I was she said
Still leaving?
She answered,
Maybe.
It could be any day now.
I quietly sipped my drink
At the far end of the bar
Shadows moved
Narrow eyes
Pretending not to see.
Leaning forward she whispered
The owner lets them
Hang out in the back
Smoking cigarettes and carrying on
They’re OK
But take my advice
Don’t leave any loose change on the bar.
Staring into her eyes
I found himself
Wishing that I knew more of her
There was something about the way she moved
That made me forget where I was.
Soon, I only had
A few crumpled bills
Left in my jeans
Leaving a tip on the bar
I pushed my stool back
The scraping sound
Made her turn around
Her hazel eyes meeting mine
And for a solitary heart beat
We were one.
Suddenly there was the sound of broken glass
Angrily she went to the back
Alone, I knew the moment
We had
Was somehow taken away from me
And I didn’t have the courage
To convince a pretty girl to stay.
The truth can’t be seen through blinders.
Eyes and ears covered with hatred.
The tongue’s ready-lash sidewinders,
twisting and spinning what’s sacred.
The truth, the fact, reality
masked - the masses bobble their heads.
The illusion of blasphemy
here, when the scripture’s left unread.
No need for truth, when it’s made up.
“What is truth,” plank’s in Pilate’s eye.
Pilate knows - the charges trumped-up.
Wolfish masses prefer a lie.
How often the accusation,
front page news, folks - everyone’s riled.
The leak, having no foundation,
reneged where no one looks - exiled.
But still the crowd cheers old nick.
The stage decked out in crimson fire.
A civil war waged with a Bic.
No matter the damage - it’s dire!
The law, “Love others as yourself,”
truculent in divisive ways -
‘stead hate and pride speech off-the-shelf.
Lollygagging verses… no one prays…
Spend time in the prayer closet.
It’s worth every cent! Spare time!
Hear God - work up the composite.
Don’t listen to the world. PEACE TIME!
9/3/2022
A poet sits at a desk of blank sheets, he begins to write jibberish, at times, nonsensical, whilst others are jovial, a completely foolish thing I have, though even I have had little luck. I'll go at it a second time. It seems to have rhythm, it seems to be balanced, but I am as dry a thought as the many, so I'll this a go, but first I will title this shameful poem and after anybody reads it, I suppose, I'll not dispose of it, but simply shelf it off somewhere in this big empty room.
My lord, what this tristch-trastch laying here in the open, lil' Robbie has been at it again, well, I wonder what he's wasting his time on now. I've nothing to do, house all cleaned, so I shall sit a spell. Might as well have at it--all of this doodling really, a waste of paper and ink, for there's nothing better thing to do then a proper education, methinks. Tut'tut'tut, "The Road Less Traveled", Hm!?
2019 September 17
My twin brother has been missing for a few months now. Ever since that horrible day in January when he got booted, soaked and almost frozen when Little Johnny took him out with him in that terrible snow blizzard. Afterwards, he was left all alone and hung out to dry by Little Johnny's mother. That's when he first disappeared, this time. I know sometimes his life stinks but hey so does mine. This isn't the first time he went missing; he's disappeared on us a few times, but he always manages to show up unexpectedly, so I suspect he will pop up again sometime soon, all filthy and in dire need of a shower. He'll be all ready to be buddy, buddy with me again. But maybe this time I'll be the one who goes missing, maybe this time I'll pull one over his toes and give him a taste of his own medicine and be the twin brother who gets lost or hides. We'll see how he likes being tossed and locked up in the missing sock basket and shoved up in the corner of the missing socks shelf way up high where the spiders crawl and cobwebs entwine and collect. Wholly Moley, guess who just showed up in Rover's mouth- Yep! ((My twinster)) And, just how I expected, filthy, dirty and wholly. Growing up with no parents isn't easy, ya know. It really socks. The only good thing about it is that I can trade my twin brother in for another one, which by all means I will do.
My twin brother stinks
Trading him for another
Sucks being a sock