Long Shut Poems
Long Shut Poems. Below are the most popular long Shut by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Shut poems by poem length and keyword.
Take me away from the place I am
it's comforts have long ceded
Boarded are my old neighbor's homes
I feel as though my street I am alone
I bolt the doors turn on the porch lights
hoping to disarm any theft at night
sleepy edgy and ever slight
It's time for a new home
Well I miss the old spread
for decades in it I made my bed
Family and friends echo from the walls
so many tears and laughter to recall
The roses that bloomed every spring
in summer the smell of lilacs sing
The kitchen big the bedrooms small
the linen door that won't stay shut in the hall
Old and creepy worn and dim
looks like my house will faint, so many repairs needed
The city demolished the old Jones house
and soon to be gone is that of the widow Faust
I could patch up my house and make it swell
but I fear alone with vacant lots I would dwell
It's time to move but would my place even sell
looking for a new home
The purge started with honest appraisal.
A deep peer within to unlock the knots
tying 'never too open' lockets shut.
There were regrets, fall-shorts, damning selfies
all to be opened with tear drops and fears,
exposing the scars, hurts, raw open wounds.
Effective catharsis by expungement
was the only way to wipe the slate clean.
So with scalpel and scraper the rot gut
was excised by wiping bad memories
away with a total system refresh.
The unresolved was foiled with stark parries
the aching boils were lanced and puss squeezed out
Each locket expunged was burnt at the stake
so regrets and short-comings had no where
to hide, no chance to beguile the future.
I enjoyed the glow and stench of the fire.
catharsis smoke and ashes blackening
the sky, carried away by wind disgusts.
blank verse
The winter of two ought fourteen
saw numbers plunge as ice storms rage,
and for the record, deep snowfalls.
Ma Nature showed her nasty side.
Capricious temperatures’ ebb tide
made life erratic: broken bones,
pow’r outages and highways shut.
Ma Nature found a callous streak.
Bizarre display of weather freaks -
appointments cut, no school for days.
The household suffered much on edge
for teasing found in Nature’s veins.
Now spring holds promise in her reins,
Ma Nature works redeeming grace
transforming what we knew would come .
Renewal is her middle name.
The same holds true throughout the year
each season bows to Nature’s call.
written March 10, 2014
Wounds, like windows,
when opened,
let in light and the breath of something new.
But it takes courage
to unlatch what pain has sealed shut.
We board them up,
plaster the cracks,
pretend the draft isn't there—
but silence has a smell,
and you can only hold your breath for so long.
Sometimes, healing sounds like wind
whistling through what broke—
a quiet reminder
that damage doesn’t mean done,
that ruin is not the same as ending.
Air moves different through a wound,
cool against what once burned.
Dust shifts in forgotten corners.
And the light—
not blinding, but patient—
lingers,
touching the rawness
without demanding repair.
Let it.
Let the ache speak.
Let the light crawl across your ribs
and settle into the hollows
you tried so hard to erase.
Wounds, like windows,
don’t have to be beautiful
to be open.
They only have to let something in.
I’ve seen tears fall on marble floors,
Where golden gates hide silent wars.
Where perfume masks the ache inside,
And sorrow wears a suit of pride.
I’ve heard laughter in a leaking hut,
Where doors creak but hearts stay shut
Only from the cold, not love or fear—
Because even hunger feels warm here.
In mansions, beds are soft and wide,
But many sleep with pain inside.
Servants come at every call,
Yet no one’s there when teardrops fall.
In thatch-roof homes with broken chairs,
They pass around both food and prayers.
And though the pot may not be full,
Their joy makes every moment whole.
One cries in silk with diamonds near,
The other laughs with goats in ear.
The world may choose the flashing light,
But peace lives where the stars are bright.
So weigh the gold, but weigh it true:
Is comfort worth the peace it drew?
For what is wealth, if soul must bend?
It’s better joy with less to spend.
A Beautiful Drug
This Drug, became a habit,
the habit became sorrow,
the sorrow became a nightmare,
the nightmare became change and loss
the loss of – what beauty was imagined,
has come to an acceptance, of a reality,
a reality that existed from the beginning.
Change, will not go easily into that black night.
Chance, will not give up easily, not without a fight !
This grape, will not a raisin, become !
This ivy refuses to metamorphose into a chameleon !
The shadow, the door, the window, the drug remain alive,
The life in them does not want to be shut out, shut down.
The feeling though – is – it all dies on a vine !
The feeling is, in that inner space, it all - remains ?,
the burial ground for change, for the future,
the end of hope and dreams never seen.
The essence of change, sometimes is a force so mean !
B. J. “A” 2
March 17th 2008
*This poem is re-posted because poet Richard Lamoureux was inspired by it and posted a nice poem on his page in return, titled: Miss Understood. It is worth reading! :)
Do you ever feel misunderstood and lost?
Haunted by things like a cold returning frost?
The clock ticks loudly, as the days pass by.
But it feels like the clock stopped, why?
Those old thoughts return like a ghost.
Bringing, what no-one will understand the most.
Slowly your heart falls in an empty place.
People don’t see what’s inside, just your face.
Your soul feels like no-one can reach you.
All you hear is the clock tick, one and two.
What is this place you find yourself in?
Feeling like you’re losing, but want to win?
Longing for someone to just understand.
Someone trustworthy, to hold your hand.
But that person you trusted is no longer here.
The longing gets tougher, nothing is near.
The pain is like a burner too hot to touch.
You try to avoid it and it still hurts too much.
Then you shut down, the wall rises, doors close.
It’s easier than trying to explain to those
Who weren’t there, who cannot see.
It’s quite simple, you just want to be free.
So you ponder, you wish and you wait.
For the door to open again, it is late.
Like a miracle, somehow you know it will.
For time is a teacher, bringing warmth in the chill.
Heidi Sands
Copyright © Heidi Sands | Year Posted 2016
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Guerrilla war in the Athens
Athens a confusing in August, what with the heat and pollution, I had spent the night sitting
on a park bench, looking at a white wall lit by moonlight, waiting for a movie, any movie
forenoon staggered into a church and joined a queue; a priest was handing out paper bags of sweet cakes, but the old lady behind got none since she had been in the line three times. I ate a cake and gave the rest to the lady. Grateful, she ate the cakes, blew up the paper bag, hit it against a tree, and we were surrounded by an anti-terrorist squad.
The lady, a known, would-be terrorist, had been blowing up paper bags all over town, was arrested, and they were going to arrest me too since supplied the paper bag; I was a tourist, and the police, let me go with a warning.
Deep in the park, I found a cave walked in and saw baby Jesus inside a small aquarium; he appeared like a dead angel as painted by Caravaggio; Jesus opened his eyes, smiled like a street urchin selling himself to paederasts, and began masturbating, chocked I took a step back and collided with two nuns who laughed hysterically.
Escaped and found a cellar bar drank ouzo served by a woman who looked like a horse; she was
a pony that had escaped from a Swedish circus.
We hit it off. I have always been fond of horses since an Indian chief in Alice Walker’s poem. I have forgotten the title of, who says horses make the landscape more beautiful. Midnight, she shut her bar, and bareback, we rode through Athens mysterious night.
Sand scrapes my skin as I wake,
Warm water around my shoulders break,
Spluttering, I shake my head and open my eyes,
Palms and dunes to my surprise.
Shock constricts my body as I cannot register time and space,
The bar, the music, the fast pace
Am I dreaming?
What is this place?
Try to rise but there’s a heavy weight,
Body entangled in a putrid drape,
The marine meadow; a slimy constraint,
A sea tangle, I must escape.
Rigidly I strip away the remnants of the sea,
And drag myself to the water's edge to cleanse the whole of me.
Crustaceans, salt, an external coat of slime
Begone the foulness drying with time.
The pristine coastline,
White sand stretching around,
The cove overshadowed by palms and vines,
An escape, if invited, to relax and unwind.
Mangoes and coconuts,
But where is the wine?
The wine that blanketed my mind.
For somehow I have been transported to a time,
Of an unknowing adventure, that was not planned by mine.
Flashes of a yacht, bright lights and sound,
A heavy splash, to a sinking drown,
A sea coated awakening, a heavy frown,
I’d fallen over, but not shut down.
Heavy of heart, I wander through the brush,
Unforgiving terrain cuts at my thighs,
I seek the higher ground,
My body persists with audible sighs.
The top; a vista of incredible size
Without division between water and sky,
I feel lost and abandoned,
Overwhelmingly I cry.
A reflective sparkle from down below,
Catches my eye as a shape appears to glow,
My yacht, my friends,
My place in the world.
Scrambling down,
Excited and desperate,
I stumble, and crash,
My body too wretched.
The target is near,
life saving and clear,
But I cannot see the ground beneath me,
Anxiousness enveloping my all,
And I fall.
Fall, and fall.
The facade leans out, like a medieval pell,
As I descend into a violent chasm,
Torn and broken, a cry ringing in the death knell.
A heavy thud easy to fathom.
I feel I talk too much, incessantly,
Not in a pleasant way, nor necessarily clumsily,
I speak as if revealing my soul,
Showing how uncertain I am, without a protective role.
I talk, unveiling all I am, without essence,
Doing an injustice to myself and those in my presence.
I try to break a wall between my being and theirs,
To unite us, for them to feel what I feel, not just stares.
I speak to make them empathize, not just sympathize,
But it's exhausting, this effort, it drains and defies.
The wall between us remains, painfully aware am I,
That I will never tear it down, no matter how hard I try.
It's a cycle, I talk, the wall stays intact,
I shut down, then miss the connection I never had in fact.
I start speaking again, the snake eats its tail,
But maybe I should whisper, let my voice prevail.
I don't have to break the wall to be heard,
Perhaps people can listen, even beyond the absurd.
The words inside me are many, but I like only a few,
I keep my circle small, not to burden those true.
In the end, I feel I talk too much, it's a fact,
Perhaps I should write poetry, give my words a different act.
The words within, threatening to overflow,
Could turn into charming springs if written, not just a show.
Here I am, for I feel I talk a lot,
Drowning those I love with my overwhelming thought.
I write this because I fear I talk too much,
Trying to break walls and be heard, feeling out of touch.
I've done injustice to you and to me,
Trying to integrate our beings without any mystery.
Now my arms are weary and my soul aches with care,
For I fear I talk too much, without finding solace anywhere.