Long Top drawer Poems
Long Top drawer Poems. Below are the most popular long Top drawer by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Top drawer poems by poem length and keyword.
TS Eliot said, “Paris is a strong stimulant.”
It is - but it has nothing on Manhattan.
If Paris is a Café Crème espresso at a café-en-terrasse under the stars.
Manhattan is a ‘Black Tie Bawls’ cocktail at The Crown bar (the skyline!).
We were going to relax - in Manhattan,
instead, keep those seat belts fastened.
Lisa said, one night, “Want to go out for a bit?”
Since then, I’ll admit, our nights have been lit.
We have ten days, and we’ve decided to try every Michelin-starred restaurant we can (there are 68 in NYC). So far, we’ve been to Eleven Madison Park, Le Bernardin and Per Se. This was Lisa’s idea.
The food is delicious - if you like a corn-flake with something on it or a steak the size of a bouillon cube ($250 per person with cocktails and dessert). As we left ‘Per Se’ I asked, “Can we get something to eat now? I’m starved.” I was only ½ kidding.
It’s MY idea to visit every beautix rooftop bar in Manhattan (there are exactly10). So far, we’ve been to, ‘The Peninsula,’ ‘230-Fith’’ and ‘NoMad’ - we’ve only been at these tasks for three nights.
We’re doing other things too. We’re going to Broadway shows (& Juliet, the Great Gatsby, Oh Mary!, Wicked) and to see Idina Menzel (Wicked, Frozen) in concert and a John Oliver and Seth Meyers comedy show next Monday. We do these, as in - Dinner, show, rooftop bar.
OH, and we’re dancin’ like we’re sentient - no cap.
Our sordid troup, is Lisa and Dave (her boo), Charles & Ms Charles, Lisa’s folks (Karen and Michael) and Lisa’s little sister Leeza and Meeeee. Luckily, we have one of my Grandmère’s conglomerate, executive secretarial minions (François) booking reservations for us. He’s got ‘contacts.’
Yeah, we’re drivin’ full speed towards summer’s end - “fo-shizzle” (to quote Snoop Dogg). We figure we can rest in New Haven.
Wasn’t Snoop fire at the Olympics?
.
.
dance club songs, for this one:
One Kiss by Calvin Harris & Dua Lipa
Lipstick by Kungs
Espresso by Sabrina Carpenter [E]
Levitating by Dua Lipa
.
.
slang…
café-en-terrasse = terrace cafe
Black Tie Bawls = (cocktail) Blavod black vodka, lemon, and Bawls energy drink.
beautix = top drawer, rizz
No cap = no lie
fo-shizzle = for sure
fire = great, a standout
[E] = explicit
Tap, Tap, Tap!
Carla’s pen keeps hitting the table,
As she writes her final thoughts.
She attempts to explain to her mother,
How it wasn’t her fault.
She tried so hard,
To raise her right.
It wasn’t her fault,
That her daughters life crumbled,
Right before her eyes.
It wasn’t her fault,
That she didn’t know.
How could she?
Her daughter hid it so well.
She finishes the note,
And signs with her best wishes.
Wishes that her mother would be ok,
Wishes that she could see,
It had nothing to do with her,
Wishes that everyone could just forget.
Forget about her!
“I Love You”,
Carla adds at the end.
Three simple words,
That would be carved in her mothers mind.
Not for a week,
Not even for a month,
But until the day she dies.
Carla gets up.
Walks over to her dresser,
Leaving the note behind.
Reaches into the top drawer,
And pulls out a gun.
Her hands are trembling,
Lips quivering,
Knees beginning to give way.
Slowly making her way to the bed,
She crawls under the covers.
Places the barrel of the gun,
Against her temple.
Her pointer finger,
Lingering over the trigger.
She pulls it in,
And nothing.
No pain,
No bang,
No death,
Nothing!
She must have left a bullet out,
While she quickly loaded the gun.
Now realizing,
What she is doing.
Tears come flowing out of her eyes,
Like a salt-water waterfall.
She’s sobbing now,
Good thing no ones home.
Placing her finger back on the trigger,
She pulls one last time.
It hit her,
Like a rock thrown through a window.
Her skull shattered,
Her tears stopped
It was over,
Over and done with!
She was gone!
No worries left to think about,
No life left to care about!
Yet she was still sad.
Killing herself,
Had not given her the satisfaction,
She so dearly desired.
It felt like another bullet hit her,
As she discovered this would haunt her.
Haunt her for all eternity,
In the after-life.
The moment she pulled the trigger,
The sorrow she felt,
Would never leave.
It would play over and over,
In her mind.
Her soul could never rest,
After what she did.
Dieing was not at all what she hoped was her Last Wish!
Form:
1000 white lines sat,
There on her arms.
She covered them up,
So no one would stare.
She wore her long sleeves,
Everyday of the week.
Hoping no one would notice,
Everyone just thought she was cold.
She seemed so happy,
Just on the outside.
But deep down inside,
No one knew just how much she was hurting.
She would keep to herself,
So happy and smiley.
Not one thing could be wrong.
That's what they all thought.
When she got home,
She would go to her room.
With her door locked,
She sat down on her bed.
She rolled up her sleeves,
And her arms started to scream.
The names that they spoke,
Made her eyes spring with tears,
And her nose really runny.
She pulled out her knife,
From the top drawer of her dresser.
And glided it carefully,
Through the skin on her arms.
The blood prickled up,
So warm and so red.
Maybe, she thought, she'd be better off dead.
So she took the used blade that she had in her hand,
And made an incision,
As deep as could be.
She lost blood fast,
As her time ran short.
And with her last breath,
She wrote on her wall,
with bloodied up fingers.
'I'm sorry for this.'
The words boldly projected.
Hours went by,
And her mom called her for dinner.
When no response came,
And no footsteps were heard,
Her mom became curious,
Just like she should.
She stepped up the stairs,
And opened the door to her daughter's room.
She ran horrified over to her daughter's side,
As she lay still,
The light gone from her eyes.
Her mother's eyes glistened with tears,
As she saw the clear message.
"Why?!" she cried out.
She then ran for the phone,
And called 911.
But it was too late.
1000 white lines,
Now glitter her arms,
As she lays in her casket.
She's now with the stars.
Everyone she's known is completely heartbroken.
Just knowing she's gone.
It's all because of those thousand white lines...
I opened the top drawer of my mind
and carelessly took out some words.
I threw them about with little thought
of where or on whom they might land.
Many bounced when they hit becoming scattered and lost;
Some stuck like burrs holding fast where they fell;
A few jabbed like barbs causing prickling and itching;
One flew straight as an arrow into the heart of a friend.
But I was amused at myself and filled with conceit,
there in the midst of an admiring crowd.
Caught up in the wonder and pride of it all
I gave no thought to the missiles I'd fired.
But wait, the crowd grew quiet, and
suddenly I knew something was wrong!
They were all looking at me with disbelief and fear;
then the circle parted and I gazed on a terrible scene.
My words had become visible, each ugly one of them,
glinting and mocking me everywhere I looked.
I ran from the crowd, from their jeering delight
thinking only one thing, disappear, disappear.
It was then I saw my friend.
Fighting for breath and losing the fight;
impaled and dying on my careless word.
I cried, "Oh my dear God. Please, what have I done!"
And I ran to my friend saying, "please, please hold on."
Then I opened the bottom drawer of my mind
and carefully, so carefully took out some words.
I carried them to my friend and gently held them out
hoping, praying that they would be enough.
My friend lived that day, no thanks to me,
and forgave me for my awful deed.
But oh what I'd give if I could recall
that word and the pain that it brought.
To you who, like I, have been careless in your talk,
take care what you say, set a watch on your tongue.
Else you too some day will see effects you never meant
from words you can't get back, ever.
Submitted 5 Sept 16
Alexander Kielland
a Norwegian writer regarded as a fine author, if not the top drawer, but somewhere in the middle, one does not need to stretch up or bend low to read his work.
I read his books when sitting in the library, skiving as my teacher would have said
After seven years we, who didn't have what was said, did not need further education since we were worker
material, which in a way, makes sense after all, most of us ended up in factories as our elders had.
The day before our sour-faced teacher gave his farewell speech, and, gave us advice on how to go through life humble and respectful of higher orders, I read a short story by AK about little Marius, who could not grasp the Latin language.
The priest had told him he could not be a cleric if he didn't understand Latin, his teacher despaired, and his
poor parents ashamed that their youngest son was so dense and refusing to learn Latin verbs.
I can't remember how the story ended, but little Marius disappeared, fled to Germany became
a tycoon in
the valley of the Ruhr bought a big castle and denied
he was little Marius. His sons joined the Nazi party and
and were the first go to defeat Norway to squash rumors of the Marius, unable to learn Latin and AK
books were banned.
When our teacher came into the room, we stood at attention at our desks
He told us which factories were seeking apprentices
and stables needing lads to run errands
He looked at me and said, there is a training job for
cobblers I impress upon those who are hopeless to seek employment as cobblers.
No, I'm not little Marius, but I do live abroad.
Queen Hillary's election to the presidency seems a foregone conclusion,
Brought about by back-room deals, magical tricks and considerable illusion.
I thought I'd offer suggestions for her cabinet officers (as if she cared),
To surround herself with top-notch people so that she is fully prepared.
Jane Fonda, who loves the military, I'd suggest for Secretary of Defense.
Tax evader 'Rev' Al Sharpton, as head of the IRS would make a lot of sense.
The Department of Labor needs a person who is considered top-drawer;
The only guy who I can think of for that job is super-patriot Michael Moore.
The Education Department could be offered to Jesse Jackson, the 'preacher',
And from that bully-pulpit expound his inane babble to every teacher.
Pelosi for Department of Transportation since she knows her way around.
She's adept at using government planes for junkets for which she's renowned.
The inventor of the internet, Al Gore, would qualify for Secretary of Interior.
He could rant and rave about melting ice, a topic about which he feels superior.
How about Barbra Streisand for the important job as Secretary of State.
(She'd outshine Hillary from all her antics we've learned about of late.)
Former Congressman Anthony Weiner might possibly serve on her staff,
But I'll leave his job for Hillary to name -I want no part of that gaffe!
There must be something for Bubba Billary to do, her ever-faithful spouse;
Ah! I know! He could 'manage' young female interns working at the House!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
She Didn’t Know
I had my plan memorized, and I picked the right time.
I walked into the bank when there was no line.
I walked up to the teller and presented a note.
She hadn’t lived my life, ya see I was going for broke.
With a white painter’s cap,
matching sweat suit, and nice sneakers.
I thought I could have passed for a rapper,
but I was a thug wanna be.
This bank didn’t have a guard
so, for me, the money was free.
The way she looked at the note
I could tell she wasn’t impressed.
See I wrote it with an orange crayon
and well... I did my best.
That’s when I unzipped my jacket,
to show her the sticks of dynamite
duck taped to my chest.
I pulled out an old cell phone,
extended the small antenna just for effect.
I said lady, this is my first bank job,
I’ve never done this before.
I’ll take all the money you have in the top drawer.
She saw my finger on the button,
I was in control,
and didn’t wanna get caught by the local patrol.
Knowing I’m going to be on TV.
The lead on all the news channels.
She didn’t know, with these road flares and old cell phone
I could blow out a candle.
She gave me two bags of money, that felt good in my hands.
Then I made my get away, it was all part of the plan.
I didn’t drive, and some will think on foot I won’t get far.
But the cops are on their way,
so, I’ll finish this poem on another day.
I have a fondness for gemstones that meets crazy at the border.
Today I sorted out the top drawer of my desk, and realized this is where
A million of the missing pieces are hanging out.
Laughing at me probably as I type above their heads
Having no knowledge of them whatsoever.
How jewelry gets stuffed into drawers I do not know.
Are there shoving elves that come at night?
Because these little rascals have commandeered
At least two, maybe three kitchen drawers also.
I clean them out every year or so, and yet,
Everything seems to make its way back.
I found six hundred and eighty-two dollars in change
One summer week when I was cleaning out
My husband’s drawers.
No pun intended, and no, I am not a hooker.
But thank you for showing me that your mind
Also wanders into the gutter keeping mine company.
What is that? The jewelry is screaming for me to wear it.
All of you? I ask.
It nods savagely.
If I had thirty-six fingers, I would.
My toes are large though, and I do not want
To even glimpse at toenails I can use as spades now.
I have to go. There is a little riot here, and I am the sane one.
I never really realized
How crucial friends can be
I used to think that one or two
Would be enough for me
But now I think I'm changing
How I view this need to share
The good things and the heartaches
With ones who really care
We moved here from the city
With a group of folks like us
To wile away our golden years
To relax and avoid the fuss
Since moving to this paradise
I'm now a different man
I welcome conversations
Bout neighbours and their plans
To share each other's happiness
And cry when losing one
We're all so very much alike
No matter where we're from
It's not a competition
To see who wins the prize
It's all about companionship
To feel the bonds that tie
Now if I were just to count them
There'd be twenty-five I'm sure
Some more close than others
But all of them top drawer
So if you see me walking tall
And whistling a happy tune
It's because I've found my paradise
No more doom and gloom
© Jack Ellison 2014
I am sitting at a teacher’s desk.
Not my desk, a borrowed room.
Staring at an orange backpack with
A broken zipper and a cat emblem.
This desk is familiar. There is a torn paper
Plate, a half-eaten sucker, two paper clips, and
Several stacks of ungraded papers dated
A couple of months ago on this desk.
With a two-inch pencil, I dig out a small half
Broken daisy key chain from the rubble.
The edge of one paper has cocoa or pudding
Spilled on it. I am comfortable here. This
Mess is familiar.
Part of my day entails going class to
Class. When the teacher leaves, if I’m
Comfortable I might pry. I’m at a new desk
Now. A recently sanitized desk. I slowly
Pull the top drawer open. There are two
Crisply sharpened pencils. Nothing else.
I slam the drawer shut, uncomfortable
Poking around in this desk, knowing
When the teacher comes back she will
Know if I have switched these pencils
Or even looked at them. It’s that kind
Of room. There is nothing on the
desk top.