Long Slatted Poems
Long Slatted Poems. Below are the most popular long Slatted by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Slatted poems by poem length and keyword.
Homer Brunett
1879-1912
You didn’t think it would be easy? Did you?
Life squirms incessantly,
As with the molting snake,
Turning and squeezing into mortal convolutions,
With myriad forgotten episodes
Of human triumph and tragedy,
Of endless drama in the slatted houses;
Life is constantly lurching and lunging, ever forward,
Under those silent indifferent clouds, up there!
But time is the ultimate mind master,
He knows where the switches to the stop gates are.
He knows when to open the field sluices awash!
We foolish human beings inevitably
Get taken by the rushing flood waters,
Get completely swept away by the undertow,
Helpless against the madding confluence,
Ending up as tears on the faces of the bereaved.
This is my final testament and statement!
That of an intelligent dead man!
Sitting in my backyard on a mild evening
A tint of coolness breezes in the wind
Watching the clouds show their shadowy faces
I close my eyes and rest awake
I sit with my head tilted back...
Waiting for the hot sun to redden my face
With my neatly cut grass a lay
The smell of green touches my nose
Sitting beside me, my pup Maltipoo lays in comfort...
Resting as the sun warms her mane-like hair
The forest behind my slatted fence...
Echoes, from the fluttering of blowing leaves
Shadows are everywhere
Hidden in the bushes...sparrows sing in rhythm
As my hair blows...
I open my eyes; thinking
Such a marvelous day
Written: June 18, 2026, for a contest sponsored by Constance La France
Quote: "The brain discovers, but emotions replicate past occurrences forevermore." By Poet
I glide amid suspense as the air grows dense.
Through amber fractures that scrape the fence,
Still blazed for the thrill your shadows wore—
The anchored verdict, of evermore.
A silted shard of time daze,
A wire-mesh mirror that grate and glaze,
It scrapes the shell where the marrow tore—
A signal throbbing evermore.
Through gullies choked with a sullen scent,
Through spans of gloom where lumber's bend,
Your strobes ignite on the slatted floor—
A sizzling earth expanding evermore.
You lodge inside the strained strain,
A white-hot core that no veil can drain,
The pulsing pitch, I cannot ignore—
A sinew humming evermore.
And after the casing snaps its seam
When digits fuse in a blinding beam,
This vacuum slams on a rock-bound shore—
The engine stilled in evermore.
Though metal cools in the still space.
The spirit-volt is gone, without a trace.
A hissing heat on rusty shore—
the agony intensified, evermore
The Endeavors of Lips
by Michael R. Burch
How sweet the endeavors of lips—to speak
of the heights of those pleasures which left us weak
in love’s strangely lit beds, where the cold springs creak:
for there is no illusion like love ...
Grown childlike, we wish for those storied days,
for those bright sprays of flowers, those primrosed ways
that curled to the towers of Yesterdays
where She braided illusions of love ...
"O, let down your hair!"—we might call and call,
to the dark-slatted window, the moonlit wall ...
but our love is a shadow; we watch it crawl
like a spidery illusion. For love ...
was never as real as that first kiss seemed
when we read by the flashlight and dreamed.
Published by Romantics Quarterly and The Eclectic Muse (Canada)
Esther Shugg
1833 – 1908
A woman’s heart forever resides
In the glowing hearth of her humble home.
Come Earth dwellers. Come Earth survivors.
I invite you to my warm and cozy house.
There, on the southwest corner
Of Mar Vista and Pickering Streets.
Venture, if you will, to the little white house
With the lace curtains in the front dormer windows.
Peer, if you will, through those simple curtains
And you will find happiness and priceless joy
Embedded on the paneled papered walls there.
Peek, if you will, through those transparent glass windows
And you will find sadness and hopeless despair
Enmeshed on the slatted wooden floors there.
I married James Shugg in 1855, and
Found rapture on my third finger.
I lost James Shugg in 1882, and
Found heartbreak in his bloodied handkerchief.
Come Earth dwellers. Come Earth survivors.
Come to my little cottage on Pickering Street.
Look to the old open window there, and
You will see James and me, mere ghosts now,
Waving from within,
Waving with friendly testimony,
To a life of steadfast love
And melancholy loss.
Ring damn it!!!
-
Dust collects on the closed slatted blinds
as carpet stains scream each time I walk through
leaving trails of bread crumbs and ashes,
though without you I always find my way back
to those corners in the dark
where cobwebs celebrate solitude
awaiting a face to capture
and laughing as they surf the web
A broken down couch of green fabric,
worn and tattered from unending naps,
groans of feet propped up on its arms
(Blood flow to the brain…yeah whatever)
Beer bottle rings create a drunken mosaic
on a helpless coffee table
between scattered junk mail, wayward Doritos
and a cell phone with an almost dead battery
The one I stare at, waiting for it to chime,
beep, ding, play the Game of Thrones theme song,
whatever the hell it is supposed to do
when you call…when you call
as I am reminded how much I hate commercials,
all of these happy people running around
driving new cars, going out to dinner,
finding name brand shoes at discount prices
Why can’t I forget, lose those memories
File them away somewhere, like a drawer
in the kitchen I never use, it’s no use,
you are there, always on my mind
That smile, those eyes, the times I felt truly loved
and I still laugh…me, loved? Maybe that was the problem,
maybe that was my problem,
maybe I was the problem…ring damn it!!!!
Which beers my dears bring you to tears
Beardy weirdy freaks hipster peaks & nadirs
Slatted bar with glam flutes or bizarre jam jar
Cheers to toots & hoots hirsute tatted peers
Sham craze for cloudy ales or clear yesteryear pales
Old school IPA mule or cool daze ways holds sway
Some fools viral spools spiral amaze as they drool
Not a phase always had haze it's the cardinal rule
Or a silly quip & blip has a nip of a chilli dip in it
Knows zip flip let rip Indian trip phrase you twit
Gawking and balking because they're talking s**t
All about malty pout haughty clout of a naughty stout
Cooed am a lamb to the slaughter for rip snorter porter
Wooed by stock of stellar Bock or cellar brewed Keller
Wheat poo pooed too funkily sweet for this crude fella
Rude taking the mick trick to pick a drop in perfect nick
Chaps won't cower to the lure of cocktails at happy hour
Ruddy cheeked fuddy duddy who is perhaps too dour
Appears fake dreams it seems of a career as a critic
Slating grating ratings mapped trapped on untappd
Skeptic fears musty skunk & fusty funk that is lambic
Brett regret bristles don't fret won't let whet my whistle
Sneers debunk the rusty gunk flower glower of sour
Jeers but bet the ripple of Tripel is still the top tipple
For any cynic or pundit in their Merchant Ivory tower
Hail tale of quirky murky or another stale lager saga
Heaven forbid get rid of sweet & sickly treat for a kid
Snooty about the booty of rank dank stank too fruity
For fecks sake must forsake that milkshake mistake
If tasked or someone asked what's my perfect beer?
Not the new frontier..bask in cask ...holy grail of ale
Suggest zest from noble not global hops treasure chest
Attest not treason manifest reason better than the rest
Beer to pleasure every season that stalled then schooled
What is after all the true quest & have you got a clue test
Which is why I contest you go with the one called "Best"
Thank you
“And if the sun refused to shine”
Music finds my sleep and calls
from a bedside table,
slits of light through the slatted blinds
create mini horizons on the wall
Time has caught me once again
as Led Zeppelin reminds me
“I would still be loving you”
For the morning throws me back to reality,
the longing in my heart which faded
beneath the moon has returned
to view this bed of only one figure,
reaching out for what was
“When mountains crumble to the sea”
Finding the rocky coastline depicts the feeling
in my heart, as I stumble
Tear filled eyes a constant,
empty arms waving freely in the air
to the haunting rhythm
of a plastic clock radio
“There will still be you and me”
If only music were truth, and truth was a melody,
easily sung regardless of tempo or flow
Key changes finding a bridge
of lonely footprints that take me to your memory,
remembering the good, remembering the days,
and forcing a smile, for each day I whisper
“Thank you”
The italicized lines are from the Led Zeppelin song “Thank You” which inspired this piece
11/14/16
For “The Poet’s Ear” poetry contest
Sponsored by: Greg Barden
If I search through old memories, shaking dust from visions long filed away, I can see scenes from my childhood. Whenever I am feeling old, I pull a few out, polish them up, and put them in a frame for a while. A constant rotation of nostalgia. They hang on the walls of my skull, eight by eleven and a half inches of glass reflecting the early morning sunlight that pours through my ears.
The vision that hangs behind my forehead now shows me a scene of green and orange on a field of sandy, shell-shocked earth.
The fox lived in that great floral house long before we moved in. From our deck, its joints creaking with each small step I took, I watched him check off things from his to-do list–grocery shopping, security checks, singing lullabies and other sweet songs to his children. We weren’t friendly neighbors per se, I never learned his name, but we coexisted well enough. From certain angles, he would look up through slatted wood and chitter an amicable ‘hello’ as he walked off in search of breakfast.
summer sunset
behind evergreen curtains–
the fox
The meeting point. Where candle smoke, mixed with incense, meanders through the air. A latent image developing, like a polaroid of prayer, into microscopic particles of silver, weaving into an undulating bridge reaching to heaven. This writhing wreath of smoke, twisting in the sun’s rays, that probe with bright fingers, through slatted windows high above. Here, in this place, the fears, the worries, the kaleidoscope of chaos we call life, melts and dissipates, like the drifting, venerable vapours. I am emptied but enriched. In the presence of a love that bids me return, that reassures me, gives me courage, fulfilment and peace. The spirit surges, firing up within me like the old boiler in our hallway, roaring with love, re-igniting the flame planted within in me long, long ago.
Renewed, forgiven.
Reconciled. I understand.
I am not alone.