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.
Everyone, while alive, longs to be an actor,
To direct their own life and be its author too—
All of it modeled on unvoiced, hidden fantasies.
A touch, a hurried breath, a whispered kiss—
All unfolding behind the curtains,
Yet displayed like a fetish in a brightly lit shop window.
"Dreams come true if you wish for them," goes the slogan,
And the body quivers in anticipation, until the over-saturated mind
Admits defeat before the unforgiving onset of old age.
But meanwhile, oblivion—written into the laws of humanity—
Comes to wash away the searing mark left by the tempest,
And the blood grows calm, lost in the winding paths of solitude.
Navigating the sidewalk
up 9th Avenue from 34th Street.
Busses, cars and trucks clank and clatter
on their noisy way north
over the manhole covers,
ignoring lane markers.
Horns volley insults.
Bus fumes shove me aside.
Doorways have a voice of their own,
Some have not opened in decades.
Business hopes gone down.
Rays from the sun reach the shop window.
Fading the intent,
Fading the will,
Fading the future.
Trash groans by the curb.
Crushed and torn coffee cups,
Empty and sighing
Some sinister liquid drooling
from the plastic trash bag
The smell lurches out,
Shocking my composure.
The butcher shop displays
animals hanging upside down.
Dead, skinned and up for sale.
Eyes of the owner as he packs up a pound,
Unyielding, surviving, longstanding,
sad, strength.
Around the corner,
the studio rises,
inside, off the sidewalk.
A bright classroom
where breezes of learning swirl,
moral strength ascends
Passion and aspirations compel
intricate, thoughtful scenes.
“The play is the thing…”
Hope permeates interactions
and street trash is
left far behind.
Away in time and space from that sidewalk
Thriving artists, mature now, reflect the full,
confounded lives
of the bus driver;
of the failed businessman;
of the unyielding butcher.
From the learning room,
where a discipline was studied,
to the cosmos of the proscenium,
mortal stories are brightly revealed.
Connections and delight,
Triumph over trouble,
Catastrophe and diversion
These motley, glorious
tales are celebrated,
unveiled with magnificent scripts,
lights, costumes, music, sets
and they lift the audience
far above the mean streets.
Some go to canberra to look at the sights.'
Some went in 22, to complain on its blights.'
Its a strange old place canberra.' A shop window of sorts.' A (w e f) example of just
What has been bought.' Gee thery are a strange mob in 'that place' but the best place
TWOT'S; to see..And in great numbers; just take it from me, maybe that could become
Passtime.? We'll have to wait and see.'Go up there and (count the TWOTS?) Well you'll get a whole lot.' All in
One place they be .' ( its almost a humanistic zoo) My proverbial God.' Its
TWOT town Australia..' but you need to be in a good
Numbered crew, cause they can be quite savage, wow I'm tellin you.' They
Have been known to be agressive.' To spectators when up close.' I saw a TWOT once
Ram a convoy..Screaming expletives mouthing hatefull boasts..But go on up by all means.!
Just stay protected from ( their cookers ) and
Don't let them know you're counting..Thats a
' thing i'm told; best never done in front of hookers'
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
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.
Pavement cafe, nine fifteen cradling a coffee (as you do)
from my left the china doll with clicking heels strode into view.
Tempting lips kissy-kissed with crimson, cheeks caressed
with blush, and poreless,
painful teasing made those scimitars for eyebrows nigh on flawless.
Hair of sunlit copper billowed like an Eton teacher's gown,
open trench coat followed suit as china hurried into town.
Head turned sideways, in each shop window she looked at her reflection
checking for the slightest hint of any sort of imperfection.
So wrapped up in herself, my my, how deep self worship had bit you
that you didn't see the lamp post until suddenly it hit you-
walked straight into it with quite a clang at such a rapid pace
recoiled, lurched back, bewildered- it was then I saw her face.
The laughter from the passers-by just made it even worse
as, shaking, she sat down near me and fumbled in her purse.
Tearful now,still reeling from her public humiliation
she got the make-up mirror out for damage limitation.
Haughtiness gone, the facade broken sat lovely Amanda,
legs like a flamingo but her right eye like a Panda.
Following the tumor blooms
that muted my throat and gut,
I duct taped my mind
to the wordless, I put my head down
charging at daggers, and
thanks to pain bullets and cancer bombs
my thoughts are catching a little headwind.
I'm looking at a sea otter floating on its back
agilely playing with stones,
it’s definitely working the crowd.
I'm looking at a lion staring into a camera,
under its heavy paw a gazelle is also staring into a lens;
are they waiting for applause?
I'm looking through a shop window
at televisions that are
revealing all this, plus my gazing reflection.
We can all do better, more rehearsals
will eventually take our perfect picture,
meanwhile it’s important to look good
as time stops, then continues to drain away
in its usual hazardous way.
I took it in my palm
A stray that looked familiar
Confused, lost, beaten
It was my silhouette
It had left me a decade by
We had a difference of opinion
And we walked a separate road
I'd often think of him
In passing
In a shop window reflection
In a quiet winter morn
When I was alone
We had been close once
Fought battles in playgrounds
Lay beside me in darker times
When hormones grew
And life was confusing
He held my hand
Whispered the right words
That brought comfort
I missed him
It made me sad
That I could be alone in a crowded room
My wingman somewhere, lost too?
Missing me, maybe, maybe not!
Today though unexpected he returned
Bedraggled, worn at the seams
Just like me, I suppose
That mattered not
Just that he was here
My true friend home
Together once more
We sat for a while
Hugged, traded times
Then drifted, to sleep
And dreamt of tomorrow.
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.
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: