Long Tidied Poems
Long Tidied Poems. Below are the most popular long Tidied by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Tidied poems by poem length and keyword.
After she left the house for realities unknown,
the abandoned rooms hollowed out
small discrete spaces for her to rest within
should she ever return.
Buses still stopped next door,
sparrows hopped over the stalks of phantom roses,
Eventually, Girl Guides selling cookies nixed
her address off their clipboards.
The mail began to forward itself to nowhere.
The house tidied up the way den denizens do.
sifting through mites and squamous dust
for signs of her in-dwelling mind.
It found non-intrinsic parts of her
which it glued to the stale air as her likeness,
yet this remembered facsimile
kept dissolving in puddles of moonlight.
The house began to whisper to passersby’s.
It called to migrant cats, homeless mice,
indigenous tribes of Carpenter bees.
A face on a board was planted in the yard,
prospective buyers entered and left,
none moved in.
The previous owner came back for a while,
She occupied the new spaces
pleased with the improvements.
Then she left the house
riding upon a starlit stairlift,
her ghost moving upwards to a safer premise
where grab bars and access ramps
were reimagined
in a newly renovated sky.
It doesn’t happen loudly.
No thunder, no shattered glass—
just the quiet subtraction of you.
First, your edges soften.
You stop correcting them
when they get you wrong.
Then your voice lowers—
not silence yet,
just… less insistence on being heard.
You begin to edit yourself
mid-sentence, mid-thought, mid-feeling,
trimming away anything that might not fit
inside the space they’ve made for you.
Love, you say.
This is love.
But love should not feel
like translating your soul
into a language that has no word for you.
Days pass, then months—
you forget what you sounded like
before you became agreeable.
You forget what you wanted
before wanting became inconvenient.
Even your reflection hesitates now,
as if trying to recall your name.
And still, nothing looks broken.
No bruises, no smoke—
just a life tidied down to nothing.
That’s how it kills you.
Not with endings,
but with edits.
Not by taking your breath,
but by teaching you
not to need it so much.
Until one day,
there’s nothing left to erase—
and no one left
to notice.
sometimes coffee in an Antigua cup
or red,
not often, tea,
loose or bagged.
does the string stop the drowning.
occasionally, dandelion,
bitter, mildly unpleasant;
such as a visit
to the deck, tidied,
vacuumed, except for a corner
kept with leaves
waiting for a spouse
to hurry up and finish up.
a three-way
confusion, static;
like a bus-hop,
it’s no party, not even
an old-fashion
party line.
not likely to listen
to reason, cutting
remarks, saturated
in control.
chocolate cream, distilled sips
in a cordial glass,
stem pinched by thumb
and pointing out tact.
sometimes wine, red
in a heaping purple goblet,
only a quarter full;
I’m no fool.
falling into the coolness
of rain, insane
how things change, shift,
stay strangely the same,
and out of order.
hey, while I listened,
a lingering trash bag
disappeared.
this is why
complaining is
for nought.
perhaps tomorrow
will wake up sunny,
and exhausted,
rumpled and relaxed.
a three way cheer
of tact,
bittersweet parched.
He's so phoney in poems, moaning only,
same tone, same story,
a war he can't endure anymore that beats him sore and sorry,
exploring his core for strength absent before in writes of sheer folly.
Wanting to write powerfully like Churchill or Eminem,
but unable to create an impact as do many men.
It's easy to ridicule the metaphorical irrelevance,
as he revamps old writes lacking in intelligence.
Always using the same twist from behind a different mist,
ending with insistence he can return from great distance,
but he's not fooling anyone,
his fall's evident to everyone.
If he'd focused when he wrote this and applied a thought process,
he might have aspired beyond mono syllable rhyming and formed continuous structure,
but too useless to see it rewrote and tidied of mess,
he tirelessly goes on n on with simple investment of
contagious rupture.
He used to try and rhyme three words in each line,
double-rhyming words that evoke the mind,
concludes over time ease occurred with decline,
now forcing sounds heard or spoke in the rows behind.
By this point in the poem he is aware of his failure,
after reading back the words he's just tailored,
happy to cliche but not be a sunken sailor,
he tells of new fire, desire and determination to respond braver.
Follows the procedure of "seeking the peak",
covering up the fact he's pathetically weak,
forgets he lives worn down, always too tired,
and suddenly he's electrically alive and wired,
the traits of the self conning compulsive liar.
Self critical now in his inhospitable soul,
existing solely pitiful on the whole,
typically critique doesn't motivate towards the goal,
believing he's snowballing too fast to stop the roll.
All he takes from being mentally broken,
is his bravery to tell and let it be spoken,
doesn't care how they judge his way of coping,
because all he has left is being completely open.
At dawn the bugle's piercin' call roused troopers for another wretched day,
Of curryin' horses, shovelin' manure, drillin', guard duty and gatherin' hay!
Another day of bellerin' sergeants and pompous officers that they must obey!
This and more for a mere thirteen bucks a month - a private's meager pay.
Stumblin' around in dim light they made their bunks and tidied up the bay.
Breakfast was the usual stale bread and rancid bacon, much to their dismay!
After muster roll they fed and saddled their horses for arduous hours of drill.
Fatigue duty was meted out - some hapless lads to fell trees for the mill.
Others detailed to police the grounds, some to tote water from Laramie Crick.
There was always holes to dig and squads were handed shovels and a pick.
At the bugler's call 'To horse!' troopers were sent on perilous missions.
Through hail, rain, mud, dust and snow they endured appalin' conditions!
They took a bath once a week on Saturday night scrubbin' in a barrel.
Recruitin' sergeants failed to mention that a trooper's life would be so sterile!
On paydays they'd visit 'soiled doves' at the 'hog ranch' just down the road,
Or get soused with booze at the sutler's store, then face the penal code!
At days end they mustered for parade as the bugler sounded 'Retreat',
And for supper they 'enjoyed' more stale bread and rancid bacon to eat.
At last, well-earned rest as 'Taps' resounded as in their bunks they lay.
This and more for a mere thirteen bucks a month - a private's meager pay!
I believe I can visualize a bird and a tree.
This is something I could describe as poetry.
As yet, allow your inner poem to flow freely.
It offers a firm base on which to uplift deeply.
The beauty of "Conceivable" is in its nothingness.
Tidied with the expectation of becoming a star
Scars form on the hands as this occurs in pettiness.
Of the individuals who opt to assess the bizarre.
Therefore, let us plunge swiftly from the heart.
Also, praise your commitment part.
Imagine the happiness that would bring.
Without giving away the game secret string.
The evidence is right here on my fingers.
Your flesh was preserved solely by luck.
Closeness was once divvied; it now lingers.
Your phantom appeared and equally struck.
You must ingest an extensive round of inquiry.
They lurk behind my teeth, where nothing is tidy.
Almost every day, I start trying to light my lips.
Reverberated by the faint voices of my scripts.
I must tell myself to harbor my mouth abhorrent.
This bogus love is a fragmented, twisted torrent.
My pen, for some reason, keeps its artwork.
I opine that's vulgar after so much time at work.
I can barely elude the lump in my throat.
Either that or butterflies in my chest buzz smote.
Each time I mind you, I saw the tweaks to your face.
Thus, anchoring ideas into bits of my heart's grace.
There is no need to drain your inherence.
Or implement the desired appearance.
Strive not to stop till words failed to emerge.
In fact, you may gain peace in your inner urge.
Written: August 29, 2022
I write because Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Anoucheka Gangabissoon
The day drags its feet, despite my efforts to speed up its pace. I got up late, so that I could sleep away the morning hours, aiming for a shorter day. Yet it’s only half past ten and I’ve already eaten breakfast and put my dishes in the sink. Glaring at the clock for the umpteenth time, doesn’t help, it just keeps on ticking away; yet I swear that it hasn’t budged since the last time I looked. I already tidied up my room, and picked up last years toys. And I’ve even put some milk and cookies out, hung my stocking up over the fireplace and wrote a note to Santa; yet it’s only noon, now what? What am I going to do for the next eight hours? Why does it always take forever for sleep to come, when Christmas day is the next day?
Cloudy skies explode into puffs of snowy flakes,
Harbingers of excitement and sweet sugar cakes.
Ringing bells peal and chime, blessing this joyous day,
Invitations to celebrate Jesus's birthday.
Santa's reindeer are all set for their flight tonight
To deliver presents; to every child's delight.
Mommies and daddies are all smiles and hugs of love,
As youngsters eagerly search the skies above.
Slumber fuels dreams of elves and a flying sleigh,
Dozing off to sleep, while awaiting Christmas day.
All the months of waiting will soon be at an end,
Yuletide spirits filling hearts as fun and faith blend.
(Haibun/Acrostic/Rhyming Couplet)
her ethereal gaze tucked me into nirvanic waves
tore me asunder amid quixotic abyss and seraphic throe
I harvest pearls from mollusks in swimming oysters
strip it in kaleidoscopic iris fiercely fleeced mote sand
pearls evolved into a sumptuous elixir necklace
a seashell conceals a jewel-like hair as dark as obsidian
pristine girl with a pearl necklet and mellifluous voice
with her smile flings delicate pearls
her eyebrows cling to me beckoning me near
abrim with tears cleansed her azure iris
I tidied her sylphlike trail some sobs stuffed a cup
It soaked roses threw daffodil pearls bit jujubes with hail
hence my previously sealed heart thawed
a phoenix in its zenith sweeps me to skies
In a cosmic splay studded with stars I dwell
her wispy eyelashes distract me from her gaze
she eviscerates dumbfounds me with dark detritus
may my love ram-raid and induce her to ponder again
"Through It All" feat. Glenn Hughes - Device
-------------------------------------------------
Left to fend for self, alone
In this lovelorn world
That is when I realize
I be better gone
Wait, I feel so lost
Wait, I love to learn
Wait, I love to live
I stall, I stall to think
What went wrong?
My luck, my muse,
My fortune is that all?
Is one’s life a pity, just
If short of wealth, if
Short of health?
Is that all to worry?
I feel lost for a second
I don’t live for all
I live for my all, I
Forget not the Lord
I am here for His cause
to suffer, I suffer
so I seek Him in myself
I am well governed by Lord
I won’t be gone
As others wish
I am now His wish
I rise to His cause, now
( I feel so charmed, I feel so new, Lord,
I have tidied my mind, I survive)
(I feel so charmed, I feel so new, Lord,
I have tidied my mind, Through it all I survive)
Mother, you’ve been gone for twelve months
I write poems upon your desk
The house looks different, you wouldn’t like it
Now I know why you worked and worked to keep it in order
I comprehend why you polished the silver
I believe the dishes should be put up every night
I see why we shouldn’t bring food to our rooms
Mother, we miss you terribly, we love you so
I sit in the living room, I write upon your desk
The couch smells like your perfume
The pictures rest in the closet, I don’t know why
Mother, your voice rings out on the second floor
Now I know why we tidied our rooms in the mornings
I comprehend why schoolwork comes first
I find myself being just like you “pick up your clothes”,” feed the dog”
Mother, how I wish I told you I loved you more often
The house looks different, you wouldn’t like it
Now I know why you worked and worked to keep us in order
Mother, you’ve been gone for so long
I write poems upon your desk
It feels like you’re right here
06/10/2021
Written for Lipogram Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Emilie Pinet
(no letter a)