Long Streetlight Poems
Long Streetlight Poems. Below are the most popular long Streetlight by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Streetlight poems by poem length and keyword.
It’s a cold, wet, windy night tonight, a cold wet windy night. The Crow’s calls I hear moving through the black of night but with sight I see no Crow.
It’s a mean and menacing night tonight and I hear the groans of trees say it so. Rain beats down so very hard tonight as it competes with the winds and cold.
Glistening stone sits in the cold tonight beaten by wind and rain together and on their own. Dark sheen with shadows moving quickly out of sight as clouds pass by streetlight and the Moon.
It’s a cold, wet, windy night tonight and I’m glad to be at home. Driving tightly must be the way tonight as nature makes danger of and on the roads.
It’s a cold, wet, windy night tonight a night of rain, wind and cold. As I close my eyes to sleep tonight I know that the wind and rain can’t make me cold.
With weary eyes I now gaze
Upon a street corner where we used to play
While reminiscing a tear did gleam
By the streetlight where Sunset and Adams meet
This is my hometown, but I recognize it no more
As another Eighties memory washes ashore
In the grey of my mind, I seek a reprieve
From how time has covered our footprints with leaves
These days you may bump into an old friend
While walking down the old paths in West Bend
But today I stand still to see where memories spawn
And in these wee morning hours, I wait on the dawn
In these moving pictures I see
The child who stumbled, a young man's foolery
Out in the streets where we once played
Seeking a sun rising fine Sunset decayed
Faces of youth now finding lines
A mirror, once friendly, does not fit for disguise
Statues remain only slightly aged
This seemed to me a comfort among the decay
Friends are somehow different these days
Tattered and torn but not out of the game
With “how do you do’s?” and “how have you been?”
Conversations closed with “I'll see you again”
“Don’t be a stranger” are the lyrics we sang
To a melody of plucked heartstrings we used to play
The streets are the same, some names have been changed
While we walked the ruins of Sunset decayed
“Where are you now?” these thoughts I revere
Since we've all grown up there's no time together
Visits happen maybe once, twice a year
Now letters are where we meet and where we hear
“Hey look who's back in the old neighborhood,
Yes, I've come back and times treated you good”
With a picture and a thousand words
I'd like to make up for the time that's been burned
It’s so long not goodbye I offer this day
With hope and tomorrow I find Sunset replayed
In the country we see more
when it is the darkest.
Horses shine in the moonlight.
Stars bore holes through infinity.
When a full moon
leaps over the trees
the land ripples
with nocturnal exposures,
things unnoticed in daylight.
After a deep gloom
when nothing glows or shimmers
the dawn can look like a shipwreck,
as if a night sea had crashed
upon sleeping eyes.
Later, daylight struggles up its beach
shaking off a leaching blindness.
In the country,
just one star is enough to see by
we don't need a starfield,
but in the city
just one streetlight
can cast acres of shadow.
In the country
we look up to confirm where we are.
In the city
we look up and wonder if we are lost.
PART 1: THE FREE VERSE (PENSIVE NARRATIVE STORYTELLING)
The clock is a slow pendulum
of dust,
chopping the midnight into
thin, useless slices.
I sit with a handful of
discarded beginnings,
watching the ink pool like oil
on water.
We spend our lives trying to
outrun the endings,
building scaffolds out of
syntax and breath,
hoping the spine of a book
will hold up the sky.
Outside my window, a single
streetlight cuts the fog,
illuminating nothing but its
own small circle of grit-
much like memory, I suppose.
We only ever see the parts
that hurt enough to glow.
I am searching for the exact
syllable,
that can carry the weight of
an old man's sigh,
when he realizes his children
have forgotten his voice.
But the page remains a stubborn
winter field,
and my pen is just a rusted
plow,
scraping against frozen
stones,
waiting for a thaw that might
never arrive.
PART 2: THE SONNET (REFLECTING ON THE NARRATIVE)
The old book lies upon the
table, torn,
A heavy sigh escapes the
fading night.
Through quiet rooms a lonely
ghost is born,
To watch the shadows
swallow up the light.
The pages turn to show a
forgotten past,
Where broken words remain
inside the ink.
We built a fortress made of
glass to last,
But stood too close to
danger on the brink.
Now silence falls across the
dusty floor,
The narrative is finished, line
by line.
No hand will come to knock
upon the door,
No golden sun will ever
choose to shine.
The final chapter ends
without a sound,
And heavy grief is buried in
the ground.
I find what I think most about is family, love and home
I imagine that’s why these three gifts are infused in every poem.
Sometimes on my morning walk I find it gratifying
to extend my arms out to the sides…and pretend that I am flying.
Ever since I was a child I have found this has a certain appeal….
Even now when I see my shadow in the streetlight…that’s exactly how I feel.
There are times when I have no trouble soaring independently across the sky
and other times when I need some support, some encouragement…a little help to fly.
That’s when I look to my family…because it is their love I’ve found…
that helps me find the strength to spread my wings and lift up off the ground.
I have found days I feel weak and have a fear of falling and the pain that falling brings
when my family puts me on their shoulders and shares with me their wings.
And, likewise, if a member of my family is in fear of falling….
and the pain that falling brings…
I will put them on my shoulders and share with them my wings
Now as I walk in the morningI have this overwhelming feeling of delight
whenever I see my wings extended in the shadows of the night.
Because I know even though in the shadows it looks like Im flying on my own…
with my family in the wings…I will never fly alone.
everything that used to be is gone
grass and rust has now taken over
the new generation cannot be to blame
they are making their own memories
i just take a breath and smile at the thought of my own
i just wish that mom was here to reminisce with me
old ugly ileus made sure that did not happen along with the colon cancer
now the tears threaten, but i refuse to let them flow
i just think about the place that i grew up in and leave the rest to my active imagination
maybe i can write a poem about it, but i am not that good with words
maybe i can plan some type of event, but i am not that good with planning
i think i will just sit in the darkness of my dusty apartment again
the streetlight will shine attention on the much needed privacy and peace
they are all that is left
everything that used to be is something incomprehensibly new
change is water, but not always
you keep me here
begging at the bush
as it still blossoms....
commemorating when
you vanished
i remember the night
when i cried and let the
tears fall strategically in
the center of the dent left
on the pillow that you slept
on
some nights, i would just sit
up and watch the streetlight
spotlight the radiance of your
gentle being while praying to
God to strengthen the foundation
of our bond
forever had potential with us, and
i put in some work trying to etch that
dream into infinity
but alas you were no competition for
the sun, and i apparently represented
the clouded obstruction of your view
it was then that i learned to add
refreshing colors to the thriving
center of myself for the necessary
sake of comfortably being....
moving forward has been like pouring
water into a cup since then....and wherever
it flows within me provides the essential
cleansing that makes it possible for me to
exist in forward motion and its eye opening
continuum....
I grow dizzy beneath the night sky,
as if my thoughts have drifted too far
and forgotten the path back to me—
between fading streetlight
and a silence that won’t settle.
I keep moving through it all
not for victory,
not even for meaning anymore,
but for a quiet place in myself
where nothing demands to be proved.
I once wanted a life without weight:
days that didn’t resist me,
joy that didn’t ask for return,
time flowing forward gently
like it had no memory of pain.
But life didn’t stay like that.
It shifted slowly, without warning—
not cruel, not kind, just real—
and every attempt to escape it
only brought me back to the same room.
Somewhere behind me, voices thinned.
Plans I once held tightly
lost their sharp edges.
My father’s quiet faith
still sits in me somewhere,
and my mother’s hope
feels like a small light left on
in an empty house.
I ran toward pleasure
and called it freedom.
At first it felt like warmth—
then it started to fade
without leaving the room.
Now I understand a little more:
pain and pleasure aren’t opposites—
they trade places too easily
to be enemies.
So I stay here—
not resolved, not victorious,
just someone learning
how to carry a life
that doesn’t explain itself,
while the world keeps turning
without asking permission.
The night you left with our love's withered flower,
the gloomy sky was falling down in strong shower.
In the soft streetlight I saw your sodden silhouette
disappear behind the rain screen, I couldn’t forget.
The scene got trapped in the maze of my memory,
weaved for years the tapestry of our untold story.
I thought someday I’d unfold it in my poem new,
the only one I’d dedicate to our times and to you.
Memory has an ingenuous habit of making dream,
appearing in vista of sleep, unreal they don’t seem.
One night my eyes on edge of siesta see you return,
the way you departed, made my mute heart churn.
I open the door to let you in to embrace you again
in the desolate dark night , pierced by pouring rain.
I stand alone hit by the splashes of cold water spray,
as I dream I hold you in my arms, won’t let you stray.
________________
August 10, 2022
Contest : As I Dream
Sponsored by : Mystic Rose Rose
If she arrives soon
it will be too late.
The one who makes you weep
like sparkling rain,
happy to be her joy, her pain
that one will come too soon;
for you will be gone
your longing
just an echo in a music box.
Kismet is for Arabian Nights.
The bright points of departure and arrival
are always moving, nothing is fixed,
some blink on; some blink out
as if they were long lost wishes
upon a star map.
When she waits for you
you will have found another.
When you seek her
she will always be beyond
the next streetlight
in a foreign city.
The rain will weep,
the poetry of loss
will remain unfound,
yet if she returns
entering your life
out of a missing yesterday
then let that be your future
a tomorrow that arrives
as timeless
as a song yet unsung.