Long Sitting room Poems
Long Sitting room Poems. Below are the most popular long Sitting room by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Sitting room poems by poem length and keyword.
I stood at the edge of the universe,
cradling a heart wrapped in twinkling lights,
an ornament for a tree
that never adorned my sitting room.
“What a quirky thing, this love,” I thought,
as you strode in, a meteor in a suit,
sprinkling stardust on my insecurities.
“You’re a masterpiece, even in progress,”
you said, while I toyed with tossing it all out -
how to love someone
who stumbles over his heart
while tying his shoelaces.
But your smile halts the universe,
a speed bump on this cosmic highway,
drawing me back,
sipping the absurdity
of loving you while juggling shadows.
So, I didn’t discard it.
I placed it beneath my pillow,
a tangled reminder that even as doubt enfolds,
this messy web of love is worth unraveling,
that perhaps in loving you, the gap
between who I am and who I’m becoming
might close.
I woke this morning
to the thick breath of heat,
a humid Sunday rising slow as regret.
The tulip tree leaves hung there,
backlit like stained glass in a forgotten chapel,
and beneath the sagging feeder,
a ragged pile of feathers—gray, white, brown—
strewn across the grass,
as though something holy had been torn apart
in the night.
Fox, coyote, hawk—
it hardly matters.
Something lived, and something else lived longer.
I stood there,
thinking how easy it is to mistake hunger for cruelty,
but the air was already moving on,
taking the story with it.
From the television in the sitting room,
the voice of a tired reporter cracks
over the flash flooding on the Guadalupe,
bodies pulled from the brown water,
while the ban on transgenders from the military takes hold,
quiet as a closing door.
-----------------------------
Note: Another poem reflecting James Wright's style
The north wind blew and we were home
in front of a roaring fire amid perfumes
of plum puddings, pies of spicy mince,
fruit cakes, marshmallows and eggnog.
All around the warm sitting room
colorful balloons, tinsel, and ribbons
lighted our house with joy,
trees blinked their softened lights
as we munched hot chestnuts
and drank sweet punch and cognac.
The south wind blew hot and humid.
The earth was arid and unproductive.
Children crawled on thin emaciated legs
bellies rumbling with hunger
and mouth parched with lack of dew.
Blow oh north wind, for we are safe,
Who cares what happens in other spheres?
Note: For how many years will Africa face famine. Right now around the world, five children die every minute as a result of malnutrition. Millions more live with the effects for the rest of their lives, because their bodies and brains haven’t developed the way they should. We need to act now to help these children. What was done by each Christmas?
At least go everyday to this site and click on the help food program button. It will cost you nothing.
The Hunger Site .
Only three of us now who knew
both sets of our grandparents.
The three of us, 96, 94 and 88,
how much time have we left?
There are sepia photos from the
old, first Brownie cameras, a few
portraits of some from a bit later,
all still, silent, as they were not in life.
Being the oldest, I recall two great-
grandmothers, albeit vaguely,
one only in a darkened bedroom,
the other short, chubby, with the
horn she put to her ear to listen.
My mother’s father, Grandpa Jones,
studied his Bible lessons every day, but
he died when Dan and I were little.
Who but we three now remember the
stern but kindly mother of my dad?
Grandma Pope had endless patience
teaching my small hands to make jam,
can tomatoes, make pie crust and bread.
She had an infectious laugh which sent
tears rolling down her cheeks.
She let me go alone to
the bakery to buy penny rolls.
Grandpa Pope first showed me a keyboard
and named the keys. An accomplished
pianist and organist, who had worked
for Chickering Pianos, he didn’t play
often any more, as he had toughened his hands
in the factory where he worked during
the Depression, but when he played
everyone was completely entranced.
My mother’s mother, Grandma Jones,
was Boston proper, a wonderful seamstress
and seemingly stern, but very loving.
I often would crawl into her bed at night.
When I had mumps she made me hot chocolate.
She would be sure I had hat and gloves
and take me to lunch at Jordan Marsh.
We did endless puzzles in her sitting room.
So much more to these people than
ever can be seen in a photograph.
Even this poem only scratches the surface.
The love, quirks, personalities are missing.
I suppose, some day, my descendants
will look at pictures of Doug and me
and wonder what kind of people WE were
and what WE really were like.
Nellie Gray Holland
1885 – 1899
I was never aware of the clock ticking
Or the spring spreading of the rose bud in my mother’s green garden.
I never saw the moonrise on a gray October night,
Or tasted the tart fruit of first love.
I never heard the cry of my baby
Or felt the warm heartbeat of a husband next to mine.
For birthdays and holidays
I lit the candles,
A dozen scented red candles,
And watched the ghostly shadows flicker on the walls
Of my mother’s special sitting room.
Shadows that danced and swayed and galloped.
Shadows that understood me
And listened to me.
They knew of my weak diseased heart
And of my impending early exit from Earth.
Clark Cemetery is beautiful in the fall.
The owls in the trees screech loudly
And the western winds make a music only I can hear.
My friend, will you kindly light a candle for me?
I am in the dark here
And I wish to see the dancing shadows again.
The CRUNCHING of tyres on the gravelly driveway
The CLANG of the garden gate sharply closing
The CLICK of the key in the lock
The old door CREAKING open on its hinges
The SNAP of the light switch to brighten the house
The SWISH of the curtains being drawn
The CLATTER of crockery being laid on the table
The GUSH of water from the tap into the kettle
The WHISPER ,HISS and SPLUTTER of the boiling kettle
The annoying SLURP of a GULP of tea
The CHORTLE of laughter around the table
The SCRAPING of chairs being drawn back
The CRACKLE of the open fire in the sitting room
The SCRATCH of a match to light the pipe
The comfort of being indoors at the first CLAP of thunder
The even more comforting CLINK of glasses for a safe homecoming
Your bedroom with a garden view
Includes a view to the field
Here we are, looking through
Leaning on the window sill
It’s calm, the early dusk hour
My favorite time has come
I sense the smell of every flower
I breathe the tune you hum
Down in the sitting room
Comes Pippa to lick your face
She’s jealous, you say, and the fume
Of your blackberry vape fills the space
Then our images blur, the sound worsens,
Interrupts, and the call fails
We're too good for the real persons
Just two characters of a tale
It’s over now, all of a sudden
I can’t bother less, you’d say
I’m promised another garden
See you sometime, one day
A quiet spot in the house,
not frequented by visitors,
set aside, distant, aloof
solitary refuge, retreat,
escape, safe haven, sanctuary
from life trials and tribulations;
points of memory, subtle laughter,
remembered heartache and tears,
in picture frames, photographs, and reading books,
old school technology with paper, ink, and pen
scratchings of time and place,
etchings recovered and erased;
windows clean and wide,
open view portrait, vignette, a snapshot
to the world outside
visionary images of changes of the seasons
spring buds, blossoms and blooms
summer gardens exuberant with living visions
autumn color cavalcades
glistening thru the shade
warm sun lilting in reflective passage,
aging armchair warrior greeting time as it passes
clinging to the memories revived
within my sitting room.
The sofa may be stained and old
But what stories can it unfold
Sit ye down and you'll be told
It was on that sofa i met your mam
A few more kisses, and a few more drams
Through the bottom of the glass
She looked real glam
For in the morning
After the night before
To sleep on the couch
I'd always end up on the floor
The sitting room door always creaked
It was her father who always peaked
Just to be sure he knew i was there
And not slowly sneaking up the stair
So the sofa's in house's
With so many tales to be told
Are we going to divulge
And be so bold?
For there are kids called Brooklyn, India and Sahara
Kids of today, and kids of tomorrow
Children from Europe, and from Poland's Craiova
Not many kids have been called Sofa
" This just came to me after seeing the word Sofa in Doris Culverhouse's poem Stained "
Just because we can’t concur
Doesn’t mean we can’t confer
Yes, the world is in a mess
But that don’t make me Rudolph Hess
They state that soon in every street
There’ll be the stomp of booted feet
And yet the misinformed will tweet
“It’s our new world so don’t you bleat.”
It’s, “If you don’t agree with me,
You’ll get such bad publicity
No radio and no TV
We’ll cancel you Immediately.”
Fresh from school their mind is made
Opinions held shall not be swayed
New rules on a whim and prayer
And we must all be there… or square
Has the world gone truly mad?
Half of it is Leningrad
A fellow with a hasselblad
Takes candid shots of next doors dad
He bought a shiny new Suzuki
Seemingly that makes him kooky
He, perhaps I should remind ya…
Should have bought that car from China
In Britain, Lefties won the day
To many people’s great dismay
Still the left are in a lather
Each, a budding Che Guevara
Lenin’s in my sitting room,
And Stalin’s got a brand new broom
While right outside is Kim Jong Un
And Mao Zedong will be here soon
It’s, “I don’t like your point of view
I’ve got a slug of lead for you,”
We’ll tell the paparazzi too
That you’re a nazi in plain view
It’s, “I am neither he nor she…
So don’t you try to label me
Leave that oil beneath the sea
Just bring some from the UAE.”
They preach about reducing bills
With all those very still windmills
“And from the Sun,” they shout out loud
While disregarding thick black cloud
The gullible will state their case,
“We’re gonna save the human race,
Our climate’s gonna make us fry
You must not fly or we will die.”
Some spread the wealth by looting stores
Then drive home in their four by fours
But then some respite; sadly, brief
It’s summer… They’re in Tenerife