Long Shelving Poems
Long Shelving Poems. Below are the most popular long Shelving by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Shelving poems by poem length and keyword.
A store in New York City,
Selling “bargains” at top price,
Lures the locals and the tourists
Seeking upscale merchandise.
Yet their famous shoe department,
Always crowded and self-serve,
Is so customer-unfriendly,
It hits every single nerve.
From the samples set on shelving
Much too high for short folks’ eyes,
You choose shoes that are appealing
Then you try to find your size.
All the pairs reside in boxes,
Shelved below the model shoe;
If your size and style are waiting,
You’re among the lucky few.
You remove your shoes while standing
(Seats are scattered, never free),
Slip the new ones on your feet
And start to waddle, for, you see,
Every pair is linked together
With a sturdy plastic band;
And when both feet are ensconced,
It’s hard enough to even stand.
Look around to find a mirror
(Yes, they’re also short of glass);
Shuffle slowly, like a geisha,
Or you’ll fall flat on your ass.
Then repeat with all your choices
‘Til you finally decide;
Wait in line and start to wonder
If this treatment’s justified.
But of course, you’ll be returning
To repeat the same ordeal,
For deep down, you’re just delighted
That you really got a steal!
I’m not sure what’s happening in this country…sometimes I think it’s being overrun by fools…in some states they’re banning books…in my state, Florida, they’re banning talking about gender and sexuality in schools.
While closing up the bookstore the other night I was thinking how crazy can this be…
as I was re-shelving one of the books they’ve banned in Tennessee.
Topics not allowed to be discussed…books not allowed to be read…I don’t have the words to express my sadness and dismay…so I walked around our bookstore and listened to what the voices around me had to say.
Kurt Vonnegut was first to speak…at how banning book displeases:
“I hate”, he said, “that Americans are taught to fear some books and some ideas, as though they were diseases”.
Mart Twain was next on banning speech and books…he doesn’t want to see us do it:
“Censorship”, he said, “is telling a man he can’t have a steak just because a baby cannot chew it”.
Next stood Benjamin Franklin…with his willingness to teach
“Whoever wold overthrow the liberty of a nation,” he said, “must begin by subduing the freeness of its speech”.
Stephen Chbosky waited his turn in the bookstore to be heard that night:
He said, “banning books gives us silence when we need speech…
it closes our ears when we need to listen
and it makes us blind when we need sight”.
Isaac Asimov weighted in next…he was succinct in what he was conceding:
“Any book worth banning," he’s said, “is a book that is worth reading.”
Up and down the bookstore I walked listening to a multitude of authors from the present and past…and fortunately for me…I saved the best for last..
It was Maya Angelou whose words are always inspiring, thought provoking and wise…She said, “You may kill me with your hatefulness but still, like air…I rise”.
I thanked Maya and all the other authors for their insights as I turned off all the lights
Then wished them a calm and peaceful sleep as I locked up for the night
Filled with hope that for those who want to ban books and speech…there will come a day when they will take a walk through a bookstore or a library and listen to what the voices have to say,
I was shelving books in the children’s section the other day…straightening up the space
when I ran across Where The Wild Things Are…and it brought a smile to my face.
Because when I enter into the world where Max and the Wild Things dwell
I’m opening up not only Maurice Sendak’s words…but a host of memories as well.
I remember reading Where The Wild Thins Are to our children…
It was a book we all adored.
I remember reading it until they reached the age
they didn’t want to read it anymore.
And so it sat on the shelf for years…
for that is what children’s books do
as the children who once read it every night…
grew….and grew…and grew.
But a children’s book knows nothing of time and waits ever so patiently
for the child, now an adult, to pull it off the shelf saying,?“Dad, do you remember when you read this book to me?”
And the three of you are happy…remembering with ease
all those nights you read together…which are now happy memories.
And the book goes back on the shelf…once again waiting patiently
until two young hands grab it…run up to you and ask,
“Grandpa will you read this book to me?”
And when Max meets the Wild Things…you say what you said to your children
“There is nothing you need to fear!”
as on your face is a smile…and in your eye…a tear.
Because you know your grandchild…
just like your children when they were young and small
are in a place where someone loves them…
Loves them best of all.
A tiny home improvement
Can instill a sense of pride
For your efforts are apparent
And results can’t be denied.
Taking charge and getting started
Are the hardest things to do,
But if things go as you’ve planned them,
All the credit goes to you.
So today I finally tackled
Unattractive kitchen shelves,
Adding bright new contact paper
Meant for folks to do themselves.
Every item got a cleaning
And a bunch of things got tossed
And the finished project’s worthy
Of the hours that it cost.
Just a minor home improvement
Yet I gave myself a gift
With some freshly covered shelving
And a lovely spirit lift.
Dangling edges
sharpening remarks
spewing anger
seething kettle
whistling tunes
chiming remorse
overflowing bath
steaming kettle
whining brewing
coffees aromatherapy
sweetening words
silencing librarys
cataloging books
shelving memories
reoccurring nightmares
unfolding pages
turning lies
waiting patiently
sitting under
currents churning
butter spreading
distasteful rumors
floating boats
sinking emotions
erupting fights
unsettling anger
surfacing tears
dropping arms
dealing cards
reading palm
trees rustling
breeze blowing
bubbles forming
habits repeating
cycles abusing
boundaries encircling
egos clashing
symbols ringing
meaningful sounds
exploding tempers
flaring igniting
fires burning
She pulls the past together, gathering weeds,
squeezing minnows of memory through shrinking nets.
My ex-wife phones from a former home,
a village by the sea now sinking
on a shelving shore.
‘Brian the pub-crawler took another tumble
he now gets rat-arsed on his crutches.
They closed the post-office.
the new Indian store don’t sell stamps.’
I see them again through a sludge of low tide.
Some have declined in mildewed cottages,
feet potted and planted,
moving sideways through time.
Some ankles have developed cankles.
The once young dangle baby toes from stout arms.
The elderly then are elderly now.
‘Jack Brown got married again,
his polyps hang like dewlaps.
Elsie Maynard divorced Ken at last,
he’s with a fat woman
that’s got studs in her eyebrows.’
I feel her need to update,
to cover sea walls with new growth or decay.
‘Albert Didcott and his wife Dotty
moved to the new estate.
Their kid – the second youngest,
was knifed on a Saturday night
outside the Kings Head, it was in the papers.’
She fills in features until images floats upward.
The forgotten and remembered
bob between us as bubbles
faces I must push
out of a glass of muddy water.
I Wait With Bated Breath...
(slack jaw froze mine countenance
when eyes blinded with figurative
daggers asper mistakes in original draft,
hence...this flood proof, fire resistant,
and fever reducing error free version.)
(yes...yes...yes, this rhyme
resembles a recent one of mine
from a previous time,
yet appropriating wands zone writing
haint no crime -
at least not yet!)
Okay bull heave me you,
at this moment
alm completely unaware
what the a muse zing
genie of poetic
inspiration will bring
possibly shelving what Calliope
holds in store for me,
meanwhile now
with impatience it ching
visa vis to discover
what this Earthling,
(albeit modest) will be amazingly
graced with pizazz, meanwhile aye fling
haphazardly, indiscriminately,
and jocosely blitz
krieg feebly attempting
to contrive ingeniousness emits
poetic prestidigitation in fits
and starts, sans "FAKE" wits
as this humble
human imperceptibly orbitz
around mister Sun,
(which about bajillion years
from now suddenly quits)
shining foisting misery,
where Nyx knocks
(paddy whack give
my dog a bone...) divinely,
knowingly and spiritedly visits
(believe me you) this trumpeting
stupid moron loser
forever doth taint
after this moment
(no need tubby saint
lee and suppress any quaint
gut wrenching chortle)
at what aint
no farce), nor literary feint
yours truly painfully,
sorrowfully, and verily avers,
he now lacks fire and fury
(as if nettled and docked by burrs)
nonetheless, which ambition
dust hanker mink thinks furs,
and foremost (Tom
morrow i.e. purrs
sues tha owl mighty,
where fame posthumously spurs
me amidst pantheon
of great writers
which dream dashed
into a million,
(no...no...no...not
bajillion this instance,
though good guess) pieces
abysmal silence replacing
(palimpsest like),
mine over active imagination whirs.
I Wait With Bated Breath...
(yes...yes...yes, this rhyme
resembles a recent one of mine
from a previous time,
yet appropriating wands zone writing
haint no crime -
at least not yet!)
Okay bull heave me you,
at this moment
alm completely unaware
what the a muse zing
genie of poetic
inspiration will bring
possibly shelving what Calliope
holds in store for me,
meanwhile now
with impatience it ching
visa vis to discover
what this Earthling,
(albeit modest) will be amazingly
graced with, meanwhile aye fling
haphazardly, indiscriminately,
and jocosely blitz
krieg feebly attempting
to contrive ingenious emits
poetic prestidigitation in fits
and starts, sans "FAKE" wits
as this humble
human imperceptibly orbitz
around mister Sun,
(which about bajillion years
from now suddenly quits)
shining foisting misery,
where Nyx knocks
(paddy whack give
my dog a bone...) divinely,
knowingly and spiritedly visits
(believe me you) this trumpeting
stupid moron loser
forever doth taint
after this moment
(no need tubby saint
lee and suppress any quaint
gut wrenching chortle)
at what aint
no farce), nor literary feint
yours truly painfully,
sorrowfully, and verily avers,
he now lacks fire and fury
(as if nettled by burrs)
nonetheless, which ambition
dust hanker mink thinks furs,
and foremost (Tom
morrow i.e. purrs
sues tha owl mighty,
where fame posthumously spurs
me amidst pantheon
of great writers
which dream dashed
into a million,
(no...no...no...not
bajillion this instance,
though good guess) pieces
abysmal silence replacing
(palimpsest like),
mine over imagination whirs.
She pulls the past together,
gathering weeds, twisting kelp,
squeezing minnows of memory
through shrinking nets.
My ex-wife phones
from a former home,
a village by the sea
now sinking
on a shelving shore.
"Brian the pub-crawler
took another tumble
he now gets rat-arsed on his crutches.
They closed the post-office.
the new Indian store don’t sell stamps."
I see them again
through a sludge of low tide.
Some have declined in mildewed cottages,
feet potted and planted,
moving sideways through time.
Some ankles have developed cankles.
The once young
dangle baby toes from stout arms.
The elderly then are elderly now.
"Jack Brown got married again,
his polyps hang like dewlaps.
Elsie Maynard divorced Ken at last,
he’s with a fat woman
that’s got studs in her eyebrows."
I feel her need to update,
to cover sea walls
with new growth or decay.
"Albert Didcott and his wife Dotty
moved to the new estate.
Their kid – the second youngest,
was knifed on a Saturday night
outside the Kings Head.
it was in the papers."
She fills in features
until an image floats upward.
The forgotten and remembered
bob between us as bubbles
faces we push to the center
of a clear glass of muddy water.
We have been blessed with good health…Both my wife, Deborah, and me…
which is why we both have DONOR listed on our drivers license/ID.
But now that we’ve grown older we are pretty sure…
Doctors might not want our old organs anymore.
So, if we can’t be organ donors…
Before we move away…the two of us agreed…
To donate some of the furniture…we no longer need.
Because unlike our old body parts…the two of us conceded
our old furniture, though old, is still wanted and still needed.
We loved our old furniture…and rather than sell or simply lose it
It’s nice to know it now resides with families who can use it.
Our couch, rocking chair and day bed…
now live in our neighbors growing family’s safe keeping.
They can sit on our couch, rock their baby in the chair
and the day bed is where their daughter will be sleeping.
Some bookshelves and a nice long table…now complete
a work station for the newlyweds who live across the street.
Our old roll top desk, Hawaiian chair and file cabinet…Have found a way to blend
into the house of two older newlyweds…who have become dear friends.
Our love seat and IKEA shelving unit… were quite heavy
so with a few grunts and groans…
they now sit in the first apartment of 3 young men…
starting to live out on their own.
Some of Deborah’s Fiesta ware…in all those bright colors we love to see
have found their way into the houses of friends and family.
We are happy knowing our furnishings…
will live in other houses where friends and family dwell…
and we sat around in our ever-emptying house…we wished we had an organ
so we could have donated it as well