Long Shop window Poems
Long Shop window Poems. Below are the most popular long Shop window by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Shop window poems by poem length and keyword.
Bronwyn the Barbaric was a buxom lass
the envy of all her peers
She spoke with unrivaled swashbuckling sass
her pirate-ess fashion was fierce
She could charm off the arms of the most hardened men
how they'd swoon at the sight of her swagger
She ruled over cutthroats with a dangerous grin
her hand ever over her dagger
But her smile was so lovely, her style was so vogue
that she had little need for such violence
With a wave of her hand, she could tame ruthless rogues
with a look she could cause utter silence
So, peacefully she plundered (with minions to pillage
and devotedly obey her commands)
Until a shop window caught her eye in the village
and she made a bad purchase, unplanned
There she acquired the most dashing high-heel boots
custom made (according to her wishes)
But the pain that they caused was something acute
and it made the 'old girl' act quite vicious
She kidnapped the cobbler and tortured him so
she was in quite a terrible temper
She dealt him such cruel and merciless blows
the crew could hardly handle his whimpers
She became a tyrannical, treacherous wench
terrorizing from Tahiti to Tangier
Leaving in her wake only ruins and stench
with a reckless and wicked sneer
And 'though her crew were not a cowardly lot
they dared not get on her bad side
The last scalawag was both stabbed and shot
before she tossed him into the tide
But one rakish mate had an interesting offer
her vanity couldn't refuse-
If he could, just once, get those stylish boots off her
a better set he could produce
So eyeing him, slowly, she peeled the boots off
and immediately felt such relief
Gone was her bitterness, her angry scoff
gone was the source of her grief
Seeing their pirate queen herself again
the crew gathered 'round and they cheered
Those bloody boots were thrown overboard
and their mate was quite revered
Now a barefoot buccaneer, she still
struts across the deck
And if they don't bend to her will
she'll see they're put in check!
She was worn and weathered, but still such a comfy fit
Had done her time; yet still was full of spit and grit
Hanging on a rail now, waiting on finding a new owner
With a sadness as her last owner had now disowned her
Rummaging hands maul at her to see if she still has appeal
Reduced in price now, she was more than a good deal
Another day passes, and she is still hanging on that rail
Maybe next time when she is yet again reduced in a sale
She had given all her best, but there was life in her still
Was there anyone out there to whom their dream she could fulfil
Night falling, the shop window was now under the street light glow
Hung between all the other second hand goods, not much to show
With people passing by, but not much attention was to her given
No one to see her cut, and quality, for her no such recognition
Until at last someone stopped and looked through the shop’s window pane
There a handsome young man, her excitement she could not contain
With his head tilting to one side then to the other as if to get a better view
Is it me he is looking at, when a whispered voice says, yes, it’s you
The next day arrives; she can hear heighten voices at the door
The shop keeper opens up, and they both enter onto the shop floor
One being the young man whom she saw only the night before
He was heading straight for her, with it her heart began to soar
Gently lifting her off the rail, he placed her up against his chest
Looking into the shop mirror, he seemed to be quite impressed
He took her to the counter, and bought her with a satisfied grin
He didn’t want her bagged; he wanted to wear her right there and then
She could feel his happiness; he was wearing her with pride
And she was more than happy just for him her love to provide
Yes, she was more than happy just for him her love to provide
The creator of love.
Our hero rides again at night.
All dressed in black, still he cannot hide.
The man inside continues to shine.
You all know him, but he remains out of sight.
A reflection in a shop window that disappears as you turn your head.
Maybe he was never there.
Never let a bad word be said,
About his intentions,
There is no need to mention,
The way he moved you to be together.
He is spreading love around hoping your bond will never sever.
Karma is his friend and his only weapon;
He uses good vibrations to correct the mistakes of men.
He lifts a heart with his good intentions;
As he passes by he raises a hand and a smile comes into vision.
He needs no acknowledgement,
For he is content,
Knowing he has helped the two of you to figure it out.
The questions you had, he has put the answers into your head,
With all his whispered do not forgets.
Find love; cast your net,
For there are many fishes in this wild life of a sea,
So go find what you seek and he will do the rest.
He believes in love, so he believes in you;
Begin again with a love that is new.
A love letter arrives, beginning a new love life.
No thank you needed; a total surprise.
The present arrives at the right time,
For the day you forgot to remember to buy.
In your hour of need, send a wish out to him
And your dreams will all come true, he promises.
If you think you are ready to once more commit,
Then so be it; your love is a gift.
When your love is found,
He will float back into his cloud
And look out for the next believers;
You are content and do not need him now.
A lonely single person who is in need of being loved,
Will always find him when they need him,
For he is
The creator of love.
(C)2017 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Form:
Pulls the trigger…
Bang…Bang…Bang…
Blood and nothing else…
Screams, shouts, horns
Rain, wet, soaked
Ringing bell,
Cheerful faces full of hope
Colorful clothes, bags, umbrellas
A worried look, anxious to get home
A cloaked figure
With malicious gaze
At the passersby
Crawls into darkness
A ringing sound…
No movement, no answers…
Answer machine mourns
Over the sad message
A shaken figure,
With torn clothes
Holding the last drops of money
In her clumsy hands
Falls into a drunk pit
Calls out for her son
Knocks on the door…
No movement, no answers…
A piece of paper
Words shrouded in sorrow
Waiting to be read…
Cloaked figure reaching into his pockets
For the little pink and blue boxes
Tears the ribbon…
“Oh … a silver ring”
“Oh… a teddy bear”
The bear soon finds itself
Lying on a pile of trash
The ring glowing in a shop window
The worried face reaching the doorstep
Afraid to knock
To enter
To call his mother…
A note awaits him
To take him deeper into
Whirlpool of disillusionment
The shaken figure has managed to get up
Fumbles in the darkness of water
For her dropped coins
The cloaked figure is at home now
Stretching its evil feet on the sofa
In his cozy house there is fire
Dancing flames of warmth
Ensuring him of his happiness
The worried face is now drenched
Not with the rain but watery lavas
Of his volcanic eyes
The shaken figure is on her way
To her home
Where her son may be waiting
For bread and butter
Their royal food!
The worried face hears
Knocks on the door
Rushes to see his mom
“How should I tell her?”
The shaken figure comes home
Only to see her son with
A mourning look
No need to ask
No need to say
Sorrow has devoured
The only possession left to cherish
Family…
People walking head down staring into their cell phones
In pairs or all alone
Children pushing their children in buggies and prams
Traffic wardens and traffic jams
Zombies trying to walk through you with masses of shopping bags
Gangs of girls gangs of lads
Shop window displays to entice
Everything from ladies knickers
Toys and carving knifes
Shoppers sat in fish tanks having tea
Long queues at the bakery
Pregnant girls in tight fitting skimpy clothes
People with tattoos and rings through their nose
Police officers out for a gentle walk on a summers day
While the robbers elsewhere make a clean get away
Unruly children screaming
Clouds of choking cigarette smoke
People laughing telling jokes
Shoppers taking a rest on a bench
Old men staring at young wench
A busker playing the same song over and over on guitar
For pennies hoping someone passing
Will make them a star
Street vendor vultures prey on the unaware
''Have you had an accident''? money signs in their eyes
Bad accident they don't care
Gangs of people stood in shop doorways
So you can't get in
Lads like me trying to impress the girls
and holding our beer bellies in
Bargain here bargain there
This weeks special offer managers special
A broken chair
Knuckle dragger unshaven smelly men
With model looking babes how on earth do they get them?
Free passes to the gym if you're fat we''ll make you slim
Bumping into people that you know
Hows uncle Howard and his poorly toe
A glimpse of life on a weekend in town
Don't miss a bargain get on down.
Peter Dome.Copyright.2015.May.
Today I went out into the city with my soul turned inside out, like an old coat reversed,
And on streets filled with shadows and lights, people looked at me with curious eyes,
As if they had glimpsed a stranger in their own story, a character without purpose,
And friends called me, their voices like echoes from a distant past,
Telling me they didn’t know I was a poet, as if my words were hidden,
And I replied with a lost smile, that I didn’t know either, that maybe never.
I felt like a wanderer on boulevards of thoughts, under that gray sky,
Where each step was a note in a melody played softly in the soul,
As the world unfolded like an old scroll, revealing unexpected secrets,
And in every gaze I met, I searched for meaning, a connection, a moment of truth,
As if I were diving into an ocean of silences and whispers, without a compass, without time,
Wondering if poetry is nothing but a reversed coat, worn inside out.
Thus, my steps trod on the cold asphalt of the city, becoming a dance of shadows,
And in every shop window, my face changed its contour, becoming a mask of desires,
While words mingled with the wind, carrying my thoughts to infinity,
And the soul turned inside out revealed itself fragile, like a spider's web under the moon,
Waiting to be discovered, to be understood, to be read like an unwritten poem,
For perhaps, on this day, I discovered that poetry is life itself, worn inside out.
I fell.
Not with a cry, nor with glory,
but as a cross falls
from the chest of one who forgot how to believe.
I fell on a Wednesday,
when the rain smelled of raw fish,
and the hurried world drew its umbrellas
like mantles
of indifference.
No one saw me.
They were busy with their bicycles,
with their phones,
with their eyes,
which no longer weep, but only check notifications.
I fell on a bench
where an old Moroccan woman was sitting,
murmuring something in Arabic.
Maybe a prayer.
Maybe a longing.
Maybe just hunger.
She handed me a mandarin
and said: “Allah ziet alles.”
I felt ashamed.
I fell in front of a shop window
filled with blind mannequins.
In them,
I saw all my dreams,
dressed beautifully,
but hollow within.
At the Van Gogh Museum,
a little girl asked:
“Daddy, why did he paint stars on such sad nights?”
And I thought: we all paint…
only some of us have no colors,
only ashes.
I fell slowly,
without a sound,
like an unfinished verse
written in a hotel room
where only the cold can be heard.
And no one asked,
“What’s wrong with you?”
for no one asks anymore.
They just pass by,
faces turned toward the future,
souls wrapped in plastic.
But maybe I wasn’t lost.
Maybe I just saw myself
for the first time
in the dirty mirror
of an Amsterdam canal,
where the sky falls
every morning,
and no one asks it
why.
I don’t have a blueprint,
just this smudged version
of what she would look like,
an impression in a shop windowpane,
just as the light catches her in mid-thought.
To recreate, I must fillet an idea until
it is just a pulse, a blood surge,
a milky image of smoke;
I must work on her from the inside,
teasing out strands of mutual desire
from slim neck bones
and a tidal whelm.
My hands are palms outward and kneading;
a kind of questioning masturbation -
that is the gentlest way
to daub such imaginings into prayer.
Maybe I could chafe that conceit, like fresh
Virginia leaf between my fingers,
dunk her in a glass of Folonari Valpolicella
then place the wad between my gums,
chawing on it until she takes shape in my mouth.
No need to ever take her out,
she will disappear soon enough
into a space reserved only
for dwindling morning stars.
Perhaps she will suicide
on high-tension wires. An electricity
flaring her into a wind-blown gawkish appearance.
The sculptor in me leaves a fatal wink in this ideal,
one that will metamorphose into something
too fair for my skin-leaching hands,
too transient for still-life.
Then, when all is said and done,
she will simply remain this poem,
an on-going motif,
one that will surprise me again and again,
as I glimpse her once more
through a forever blurred shop window.
Shadow & Reflection ( always yours)
“Just a fun instant write”
I realise a scent, a sniff, not a nose to the ground visual image
hot on its heels, it feels, not a ear to the drum noisy hum,
luminous lit, it burns, not a heat to the touch, skin scorch
carried aloft , to announce, an appearance, beamed by a torch.
Never alone, not solo, accompanied close in this life’s quest,
two others, three of no brothers, or sisters, same mothers,
one dark elusive depends on light, maybe a sun, never night
the other as glass,a lake maybe a mill pond,a mirror is right.
Your shadow belongs, only to you, not to a neighbour or friend,
it follows like the breath you breathe, never speaks, never please,
when invisible to your human eyes, like a ghost in its sunless sighs
It exists nature chooses its appearance, high noon,its short stance.
Your reflection, obvious dependant on glass, as you skim past,
you love it with a passion, when you look good in fashion,
diet fails, it reminds you its harsh, a glimpse will do, a car crash,
unforgiving its there, the darkened shop window, stare.
Hold them both close, they had no choice when allocated your being,
never shared with others, even when unseen, their born with chains,
be grateful, in this journey not walking alone,
just a fleeting glimpse, not a selfie on your phone.
The other day I was walking past ironmonger row
When I noticed boarded up, every shop window
I dare say they will be sold or knocked down too
This town just seems a contrast of old with new
Why destroy every land mark like the old fire station
Why not build a theme park or more commendation
Where’s the green belt and where are all those trees
I just felt I should mention all that’s left is memories
I remember Owen and Owens before it became alders
And now yeah they have changed the place yet again
Dose anyone remember that little shop called ralffers
Well yeah I know, everyone says that was all back then
They can change the city but not the views of the people
The only place that retains it's history, is the old cathedral
And what dose Coventry mean to me?, like most I just frown
Well nothing really, like everyone says it's just a ghost town
Inspierd by conversation with someone in libray
Short and sweet just something else to write about a time
pROBABLY SOUNDS ABIT CYINICAL BUT BEING HONEST
COVENTRY DID HAS SOME GOOD POINTS BUT NOW ITS FADED AWAY
this was apost to be entered in to a a small compotision back in sept 2009
but missed dead line unsure of subject matter at time