Long Shelved Poems
Long Shelved Poems. Below are the most popular long Shelved by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Shelved poems by poem length and keyword.
Contrition for the recorded events of frugalities.
So abstemious have I been, thriving largely in
Defenceless glares of the four-eyed.
Now I have learned to creep alone and weep alone,
Closing tacitly the chapters written in mundane ink,
Reluming the smouldering logs of long slumber.
I have told every truth in loud moments
Now I have only but few lies in my saliva
And I intend puking the remaining few . . .
The pulp and the reed among the wayside waters
Must have tilted in the direction of their winds.
Bloated and deflated, this ego of worth, crimson
With the bath of birth.
Rebirth, woven in colourful Renaissance yarn, has awoken
The drunken somnambulist
The pipers come piping hot, and the stolen trumpet,
Hidden in the soft crests of wisteria,
Alerts the souls of the roosts.
I crave the creation formula of the Sixth Day.
The sage among us have broken many books
And licked many paintings —surrealism —in the
Image of the contorted face, writhing in the throes of
Elevated glances shelved in the mirror-images of Knowledge.
Could there be comeuppance for inquiring into the deep?
When home computers made their way
Into our homes, things changed
And desks in dens or bedrooms
Were cleared off and rearranged.
The typewriter was certainly
The first thing taken out,
Tossed or shelved inside a closet
By all those but the devout.
Yet those true aficionados
Through these years have clacked away,
Knowing all those Smith-Coronas
Would be cool again some day.
A resurgence is occurring
With a slowly building hype
That it’s awesome, boss and groovy
On a typewriter to type.
There’s a reason we should cherish
Retro items from the past
For their coolness factor often has
Most modern things outclassed.
Music Box
What melody is it
that the turn of the key
allows the music box to quickly play
then slowly hesitate and stop?
There sre no words that come to mind
only some familiar haunting song.
This one spins hypnotically
with a telescopic lens
that looked within displays
a kaleidoscope of diffuse blended colors.
My ears recall the tune
but my mind cannot recall the name.
Other music boxes are set in varied places,
on the dresser, shelved with collectibles
which remain untouched
and infrequently played.
Simple gears and rotating mechanisms
sing out and call out memories of gifts and holidays.
Alas, the song escapes me still
but is full of feeling, friendship,
love, hope and companionship
locked safely in the music box.
In halls of learning, where hearts entwine,
A student's secret love did forever shine.
He'd gaze at her, with eyes so bright,
But alas, his feelings weren't reciprocated in sight.
His heart, a canvas, painted red with pain,
A masterpiece of love, in vain.
He'd scribble notes, with tears that fell,
A broken heart, his story to tell.
Like a lost book, his love was misplaced,
Shelved in silence, with a forgotten face.
He'd wander corridors, alone and blue,
A student of heartache, with a lesson or two.
His grades may suffer, his smile may fade,
But still, he holds on to love's sweet shade.
For in the depths of heartbreak's darkest night,
A glimmer of hope, a chance to ignite.
So let this be a lesson, to all who can see,
That a broken heart, can still be free.
For love may not be, what we thought we'd find,
But in the search, we discover, a heart of our own design.
__
A sock tree
on the destructive downward plane
Necessity of Legacy
Spear, Bo, hatchet
Shelved, hopelessly neglected
Stored for a retiree
Forgotten now,
20 gone,
Lingering longer still
Murderous necessity spurned memory
Retired now indefinitely,
still trees shake fists in defiance
Trip
Snowing on a Sunday evening in Southern Amsterdam
And so am I (falling, floating, separating)
A Labor
A sympathetic boy,
On a slow ride
Across the water at night
Sympathy for my back and arms
All the burdens pull
The Park Bench
The park bench is empty now
Yet somehow
It seems,
Through its own lifeless means
To yearn for the bus
For the people, for the us
To show no restraint
As they wallow in wet paint
Beneath the amber glow of dusk’s embrace,
I dine alone with clocks that clear their throats,
My shadow keeps me warm and knows my face,
While silence hums old tunes it never quotes.
I toast to love with yesterday’s cheap oats,
A bachelor saint with mismatched socks and prayer,
Still flirting with the moon in awkward notes,
As if she might look down and almost care.
The moon, a chalice tipped by unseen hands,
Spills silver like forgiveness hard to earn,
It knows the jokes of those who make their stands,
Alone, yet hope the heart might someday learn.
I ask the dark if love will still return,
Or if God keeps it shelved for wiser years;
The answer laughs — live well, and let it burn —
So grace pours in, despite unanswered tears.
"Hymn to Blue Sky"
All the music
now kept safe
inside
all the poetry
buried dead
in deep trenches
Blue Sky
watched daily
now
while worldly
saviours
tell a bad story
imploring
real needs to
I have a dream
wobbly friends
who smile
and applaud, courageous
standing ovations
to be shelved
time is falling
on lives
bombs
from sky are falling
daily his people die
in large numbers
words
mean nothing
when all the poetry
is buried dead
in deep trenches
all the songs taken
from the broken,
the tearless open eyes
of murdered children
the value of endless
applause and ovations
resounding pale rhetoric
now a calling
is heard bells ringing
boiling deep inside
for something
higher
in the actions
what light
remains in
man
to finally
arrive
on clouds
the courage
to stand
with another
while all the poetry
becomes buried
in deep trenches
the conflicted
begin calling out
to the higher selves
of each other
Blue Sky
watched daily
now
a worldly saviour
watches
time passing
beseeching
true friends to
deliver kind messages,
dreams become
the need
to stand united
like angels
legions in clouds
guarding his sky
to finally
arrive
Blue Sky
watched daily
now
(LadyLabyrinth / 2022)
"I Draw My Life"/ Ameli
https://youtu.be/dzPmfaWXsvE
“Hurricane” / Cannons
https://youtu.be/Uu6NtmEkdto
Ukrainian President Volodymyr Zelensky: Light will win over darkness
https://youtu.be/LLuC48dX_U8
He’s in plain sight; He does not hide
to those who simply open wide
their eyes, their minds to what is plain:
the ordinary and mundane.
Though some will look, they will not find
the caricature that fills their mind,
the god they’ve shelved inside a box,
and therein lies the paradox:
to glimpse their god, they’ve made him small,
and thus, they see no god at all.
Their certainty at what he’ll do,
activities he would eschew,
forms cataracts or opaque scales;
the search to find him utter fails.
But there, amidst our deepest grief,
where pain devours without relief,
or filled with wonder like a child,
when logic can’t be reconciled,
when order's where it should not be,
or forms take shape exquisitely,
or colors pleasing to the eye,
or minds that ponder how and why,
'tis there He’s been, and all along,
a presence near and oh so strong
in all we think, and all we do.
You cannot hide; He’s there with you.
----------
for the Where Is God Hiding Poetry Contest
sponsored by Unseeking Seeker
written on 08/24/22
Rosebuds draft in scarlet, crimson, or maroon,
dreams to capture the viewer's point of view,
as its blossom's sheath their basis to its prune,
magnificent achievers rise in rows queue,
as the loss of age cast their field of thorn strewn,
shadows the facades to pipe a distinct tune,
shear away those sharp pokey points of danger,
and frail petals to amend its life-changer.
Amendments trail the housed maxed of tabletops,
of revived rosebuds claim a home as their own,
a treasured wealth trades with the town's floral shops,
then set at one's front wicket by an unknown,
or adorn tombstones as floral wreaths that props,
and crowned on a princess who sits on her throne,
a taxing burden to detain the death masque,
not tiny but thornless as Bonsai craft's task.
The Pyramid steps like the Baguio steppes,
where Filipinos view as their time-out spot,
the other is ancient for tourists who peps,
while an isle serves the rosebuds to sprout and squat,
nature confides stemmed thornless maroon by reps,
students check articles of the course they plot,
as a new breed of rosebuds shelved a terrace,
elegance embrace the solitaire heiress.
Loosely sketched parcels that the rosebud dwells in,
fresh sod fertile and well-sopped sealed neath the sun,
from its current strain, since its birth in Eden,
inspire blossoming with faint buzzes outdone,
coy rumors, green greener, red redder, seeds in,
East rises, and West sets, how the rosebud won,
Bonsai is an ancient craft not deemed as new,
man named rosebuds since their virgin birth, it grew.
Spring sprung sprouts as their healthy roots hug the ground,
a wealth of newborns reach for the warmth of skies,
its outstretched stem hardens merely being gowned,
a promised promenade paramount to rise,
by patrons, the sun, moon, and earth make their round,
a glowing shape as a rosebud is its prize,
the fields are graced with rosebuds color-filled rows,
as they grow in opened splendor till it snows.
Botanical Society best: Sowers.
ranked by their breeds and regions where they were raised,
down to idyllic truths, forthcoming growers,
who take pleasure in their leisure being phased,
where growth is best tended as their height lowers,
promised its dowery by virtuous praised,
reach prosperous glory in you or outpours,
rain or shine achievers within or outdoors.
It doesn't pay to criticize
The world we see before our eyes
But I'll admit, it's very strange
Accepting each not-needed change.
Alexa keeps your shopping list
(A paper one has been dismissed)
And all the bills are paid online
(A mailer, stamped, did suit me fine).
The things we get from Amazon
(To name them, I'd go on and on)
Once waited, shelved, within a store;
Such shopping trips exist no more.
You program music on your phone
(The CD player left alone)
And brand-new shows you get to stream
(TV's no longer reign supreme).
Yet what's the point if we complain?
There's nothing we can really gain.
We must adapt or we'll be linked
With others who've become extinct.