Long Sofa Poems
Long Sofa Poems. Below are the most popular long Sofa by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Sofa poems by poem length and keyword.
If It Bleeds After Scratching It
If it bleeds after scratching it, then you went too far.
I see a parade of dead people walking by me in this old dream.
They are eating bananas and I recognize their faces as friends,
I hear their familiar voices, and I wish I can talk to them again.
Then, as if a switch is flipped they can speak through the veil.
They tell me of fantastic sights to behold after dying from earth.
If it cries in pain after stabbing it, then you went too far.
I see dead girls from my past walking by me in another dream.
They are naked on the floor in the back room darkness.
I hear the familiar music of Copland and Gershwin on a record player.
I see young bodies squirming in a vague grunting candlelight.
They move by me like floating temple dancers in the moonlight.
If it says nothing after screaming at it, then you went too far.
I see dead friends huddled on a sofa inside my old childhood house.
They are sitting like wooden statues listening to my mother play the organ.
My mother is pressing the pedals barefooted as she fingers the Anniversary Waltz,
And my dead friends clap as she looks at everyone for approval as she plays;
The ghost in the basement loves to waltz, and I can hear him dancing down there.
Sleepless, she struggles to breathe in and out
Her nose blocked; a cough once in a while
The mucus in her nostrils and bronchi, who will rout?
A prayer on my lips; what praise report will I file
Jehovah Rapha, take this cup of suffering away
I cannot sit and listen to her as she suckles
I praise your name; even in this you hold sway
On our knees we will fight this with bare knuckles
She is awake talking to the sofa in baby talk
It is half past four in the morning, cold
Our redeemer lives; with Him we walk
Happy again; proud to be part of His fold
With baby’s permission, I wish to lie down
Will sleep escape us with the coming dawn?
I celebrate the gift of another day, without a frown
As my sleepy, happy head stifles a yawn
Another Christmas day is finally here
The very thought fills me with such fear
I have to try and control my old Aunty Mable
Once she hits the gin she gets very unstable
Uncle Arthur rushes in and opens the sherry
then sups half the bottle and gets really merry
He begins to sing carols at the top of his voice
I put up with the din… I don’t have much choice!
The last to arrive are old Gladys and Bert
Bert always wears his distasteful Santa shirt
Gladys walks through the door and starts to moan
I wish Bert would leave the old cow at home!
She whines from the moment she removes her coat
And heads for the sofa and grabs the remote
Demanding she has her dinner on her knee -
There’s some crap on the TV that she wants to see
I politely tell Gladys the dinner table is set
And the film will be repeated of that you can bet
So she sits at the table and picks at her starter
then moans very loudly to poor Uncle Arthur
The table’s soon laden with wonderful food
But Gladys is seething, she’s so blinking rude
She says the turkey’s tasteless and it's bone dry
So I pass her the gravy and I try not to cry
Bert finishes the bowl of chestnuts and sprouts
He’ll be passing foul wind in copious amounts
After rich figgy pud he crams in six mince pies …
It’s no wonder he’s gross with huge wobbly thighs
They descend on me each and every year
And eat all my food my wine and my beer
Then we open the gifts that lie under the tree
As per usual they bring just one present for me
Gladys has knitted me a horrendous jumper
it's two sizes too large, I just want to thump her
I dutifully put in on and I feign my delight …
but it will be in the rubbish bin later tonight!
At three we watch The Queen on the telly
Bert’s farting begins; the room gets so smelly
Within minute’s they’re snoring away in their chair
I retreat to the kitchen and silently swear
By the time they wake up all the dishes are done
The doorbell rings; thank god their taxi has come!
This is the LAST time they'll take advantage of me …
Cos I've booked a yule cruise on the Caribbean sea!
Fiction write
12/14/17
There is no poetry without you
Softly flows the sunset colors
painted on tired skies with fire
Igniting a wafting cloud in orchid tints,
the fresh scent of pine lingering within its escape
Drowsy horizons boast their claim
along seaside waverings in salted mist
Romance swims on shorelines engulfed
with all of the pageantry a white cap stanza can bring
And I whistle as I walk along,
taking in this wonder that has followed me home
Resting on a porch swing, feet off the ground
as morning glories sleep beyond white painted balustrades
Satin fingers intertwine with mine,
milk pudding lips bring their flavor to me
Luscious frosting in a whipped frenzy
coating my mouth in sugary mass
I point to the sky, the stars they beckon,
heart shaped constellations for two
Twinkling in your twilight eyes
as I reach for my pen and pad
Only to realize that this indeed is my imagination,
lounging on a worn out sofa, tattered cushions,
empty beer cans acting like so many ashtrays
leaving wet rings on a table, but who cares
There was a time when poetry flowed
from these nicotine stained fingers
in paisley emotions and violet scentings
climbing the arbor of love
But since you left,
leaving behind the shadows which claim my eyes
my ink is dry and my paper tossed, tiny balls in random patterns
on a floor that begs carpeting, but only bares soiled footprints
As I struggle to my feet, to the front window
desperately waiting for the grass to grow and butterflies…
I stab the wooden sill with my pen, I need it no more, for…
there is no poetry without you…and never will be again
The reason I feel this poem is trophy worthy is it is exactly how I was feeling at the time I wrote it, it came from a very deep place in my heart. It covers the wonderful happiness I felt and the sad loneliness that came afterward which for a time did take the pen out of my hands.
My two pet rats so cheeky and bright,
one brown and one black and white,
who live only a short age
rattlin’ around in their cage.
I love their soft smooth furry coats
and large bulbous scrotes -
that long ratty tail that grows,
big eyes and ears and twitchin’ nose!
Jumpin’ and playin’ and runnin’,
so adventurous and so cunnin’.
Always fastidiously cleanin’ -
primpin’ and groomin’ and preenin’,
or on the loose goin’ AWOL
in the lounge room or down the hall
busy chasin’ and busy hurryin’,
and busy climbin’, hidin’ and scurryin’!
Hear them up the Christmas tree
jinglin’ and janglin’ - a joy to see.
Or on the sofa playful and bolder
huddlin’ on my shoulder -
scamperin’ down my shirt and sleeve
furry heads in and out weave.
And truly I am a lover of all
God’s creatures great and small -
my gorgeous little rats so loved by me,
one called Hunter and one, Karmy!
Written: December 2015
I saw a ghost, when I was small,
It had a shadow, upon the wall.
My mother left, to go to the shop,
And the house is where, I had to stop.
Me and Buster, my precious old dog,
Who sat on my lap, like a heavy log.
We watched TV, and played around,
But got disturbed, we heard a sound.
A loud bang was heard, Buster took a look,
Whilst I lay still, for I was quite shook.
His snout went up, towards the air,
And he fell into a long, and gazing stare.
He barked as he ran, towards the door,
But soon he stopped, and looked at the floor.
He ran back to me, whimpering and scared,
And I cradled him, as he watched and stared.
I creeped to the door, to a long narrow hall,
And saw a shadow, upon the wall.
I gasped in awe, I was petrified,
‘There’s something here, it’s come inside’.
A door half open, at the end of the hall,
Began to move, and creak, then stall.
My eyes did widen, cold entered inside,
‘What is there?’ In the room it would hide.
The door would move, once again,
It widened the crack, and suddenly then,
Buster did run, away from me,
There was somewhere else, he’d rather be.
He hid on the sofa, as I slowly looked back,
Down the hall, and towards the crack.
Then I saw, the ghost appeared,
The crack in which, it slowly neared.
The room was dark, but light enough to see,
A large dark figure, that was looking at me.
The dread I felt, on that faithful night,
Kept me awake, until morning light.
My mum came home, and I told her the story,
Of a dark floating figure, with feelings so gory.
We went to bed, and the following day,
Her face was white, she had something to say.
‘You know that thing, you saw last night?’
She said to me, with her face of fright,
‘I woke up this morning, around quarter to three,
And the figure you said, was stood next to me!’
A true story
When I was young my mom, like most women, donned a hat when she went out.
Dad said it added to her beauty…of this I had no doubt.
My mom had a collection of hats she stored in boxes under her bed.
So many different kinds of bonnets that sat atop her head.
Moms of today are different they go out with their heads bare
but one thing they share with Moms of the past are the many hats they wear.
If we tried to count the hats they don...we couldn’t...they go on indefinitely
Perhaps one way to approach it...is alphabetically.
Moms are:
Accountants
Babysitters
Chauffeurs...they do what
Doctors and
Electricians do…they are
Farmers
Governors
Housekeepers, and
Ice cream makers too…they are
Janitors
Kitchen and
Laundry workers, and
Maids who clean the floor…they are
Nurses
Optometrists,
Painters
Quality control inspectors and furthermore they are
Receptionists
Seamstresses and
Teachers…they can
Upholster that sofa or that chair…they are
Valets
Washroom Attendants and
X-Ray technicians…ready anytime and anywhere…they are
Yard managers and every Mom I know is also a keeper of the
Zoo
That’s 26 different hats they wear…
26 different jobs that all Moms do.
Moms are the original and still the best multi-taskers the world has ever met.
In fact, I didn’t run out of hats for them...I ran out of alphabet!
I guess it’s a good thing each job doesn’t have a hat that sits atop Moms head
for there wouldn’t be enough room to store the boxes under their beds.
They are visionaries, they are cheerleaders, so much of our existence they adorn
yet they had no experience as a mother until the day when we were born.
Because it was at that miraculous moment, despite their fearfulness and qualms
when they smiled as they looked at us and realized……’I’m a Mom.’
For that is the hat that encompasses the rest...the hat we call motherhood
and I must admit, from where I stand
Moms…you make that hat look good.
So Moms, here’s to a wonderful Mother’s Day as this poem bids you all adieu
For all the many hats you wear…
our hats are off to you.
HAPPY MOTHER’S DAY
It tolls eighty eight, times to symbolize that someone has died .It wasn’t the ordinary man in the street or the man that frequently disrupt the people’s heart beat; it wasn’t the fellow down the road or the man tending to sheep up the road, it was the man that wore the papacy cap and walks around in a woman’s frock.
He ministers to billions around the globe and his boldness, mercy and kindness captures the soul of the world, his style was different and news of his passing was sudden. The people did not know who until the morning news broke, and four men dressed in black announced that the pope passed away at 7:35 am , Rome local time but his spirit was divine.
My aunt was in the kitchen and she dropped the tea cup on the ground spilling hot tea all around when she heard the news. She dragged herself in the living room and squat into the sofa until the news broadcast was over.
It took some time for it to sink in as she contemplates the final event at the square before he passed away, he was waving, and saying prayers aloud for them, and at the wink of an eye his spirit elevated into the sky and his body lay motionless on the bed.
My heart goes out for you, I know what I was feeling was true
since valentine day he was taken away from you and
I could feel his spirit drifting away in the dust.
Your mission was true and the whole world endures you
the garden that lies behind the gates is springing
new flowers that honors your faith; pick three flowers
and place them in the room to honor the people of the world
especially those that lived without water or food.
You have fought your way through but life was bigger than you
you have fought for life for almost three months, and you have paid that endless sacrifice but you kept holding on to life, and when I saw the daisy in the garden began to bloom I know that things were coming to an end soon but I just could not tell when.
And when I heard the bells of Notre Dame began to tolling from a distance, I know that your spirit has finally gone home to heaven.
But when the bells of Notre Dame began to ring my spirit began to sing and so the tolling of the bells, tells the story of a man’s painful journey to heaven.
They take a walk together in the morning
They watch old TV shows
They fill a picnic basket and drive to a spot down by where the river flows.
They walk along the beach…sometimes barefoot in the sand.
Often, when you see them, you will see them holding hands.
She has her favorite sofa to sit on…he…his favorite chair.
They’re not afraid to sit in silence knowing the other one is there.
They have their favorite movies, favorite books and favorite tunes…
They love watching the sun rise and set…
and the changing faces of the moon.
They love giving gifts to each other…
with no explanation for no reason at all.
They love celebrating the big days in their life
as much as they do the small.
They try to make the most of every moment…
every moment of every day.
for they know their time together
is too precious a gift…to let it slip away.
For they have learned…in all the time they’ve spent together…
now that they are old and grayed…
It’s not the size of their memories that matters
It’s how many memories they’ve made.
I am a general practitioner in a world where there's nothing but specialists,
A melting world with non-melting specialists.
(“Himatanthus Willd!”)
And my pain has completely lost Her voice as
Science in the last two centuries has tended to be ever-dividing-dividing-dividing with My
pajamas up since seven on the sofa now eleven...
(“Frangipani!”)
Where, in abundance, can we shiver the leaves and have our heads shake things out?
With them Hawaii grows so abundantly many people think they are indigenous to the
The Island System like quarreling lovers are burrowing mothers
Are sorrowful daughters, all terrible fathers we are,
And related to Oleander they are…
Pajama thirty now on the eleven-spot now “Zap-2-it” on-screen,
Humankind as the primer by which Gaia will reproduce and
I say all this because I love you and me,
Though only because you love me do I love me
And know what love means, like the poisonous, milky sap
So similar to that of Euphorbia…
Can I paint broader strokes stepping out of the window of the house I am painting?
Paint the colors of the paint?
Paint the Carl Sagan Cosmic Viewpoint of the ‘59 space probes:
A planet in preparation to go to seed?
Where were you when you were born: in a house or in a womb?
On your mother or on the ground?