Long Unlatch Poems
Long Unlatch Poems. Below are the most popular long Unlatch by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Unlatch poems by poem length and keyword.
The lichen clings to his trunk
Like she has for ages
Holding fast, curling tight
In pale green companionship
The oak tree smiles down at her
Craggy smile, chafed and gnarled with time
To admire her diligence, to coexist
At the meeting place where two form one
When the rain taps in multitudes on his leaves
When the night sweeps over like a funeral veil
When the day lifts it as a morning bride
Still she holds him, squeezing herself to his chest
He begins to wonder, as trees sometimes do
If it is time for her to uncurl, unlatch
For all the gifts that she provides, and he returns
Perhaps it’s time to diverge, to greet separate horizons
But a stubborn, steadfast thing she is
And for all his hoping and itching for progress
She holds on, past the eleventh hour
Past his need for her embrace
And now when the wind whistles through,
It sounds more like a wistful sigh,
For the lichen promises and whispers
And the fond old oak tree complies
“Loving someone enough to let them go
doesn’t always work.”
Saturday, January 30, 2021
For Joseph May’s contest “Fabled Musings”
Rain drags words out of a dark sky.
Words raw enough to grow antlers,
lightsome enough to slip between
parting flesh,
unmade words grown
from mouse ears and the stringy lips
of hollow reeds.
A long untrammeled Celtic rivering
unabridged and uttered sheer.
If I croon a cobbled nursery hymn
then that blank meaningless verse
might transmute into the ancient rattle
of pebbles on a Scottish beach,
or a seagulls blare from a bobbing coracle.
Something frail and Irish stumbles by,
size it up, seize it, snare it,
unlatch its tenuous tones, the lull and hum,
let it rest between harboring cheeks
recall itself through the hollow bones
of the fierce and fallen.
I cannot understand languages,
not broken languages and their scrabble
their luggage was ever too heavy on my tongue,
but Gaelic is a raptor in my blood
or a cuckoo born
in a ten thousand year old nest.
Here in the flood of a singing rain,
I could be damaged enough
to be what I seek,
then perhaps faraway mountains
would haunt no more.
The other side of the Gate
There’s a feeling of sadness
A feeling of loss
A feeling of loneliness
A melancholy feeling
It washes over me
As I make my way to the garden
I unlatch the old wooden gate
step into his favorite place
Our special place
I wait for him to come
Watch for his faltering step
Look for his wagging tail
Listen for his bark
I kneel down in his favorite spot
Pick up his favorite toy
see the hole that he dug
The one he buried bones in
I feel his presence
I close my eyes and I can see him
Ebony muzzle
Glistening black coat
I see his easy gait as he runs to me
Hear his not too ferocious bark
Feel that nose always wet and cold
Hear his breathing
See those dark brown eyes
Eyes that saw into my soul
I whisper his name
I tell him I love him
And I know he hears me
A blowing wind spins up from the still and serene
Late at night a summer heat
When the sun’s not there to instigate
Knocks upon the old forest doors
Jiggles handles of Walnut trees
Latch unlatch latch unlatch
Jounces the stars from their blackberry jars
Bread crumbs for the young treasure hunters
Embers of Pied-Piper mice
Scurry from the lady’s midnight fire
Deep to the black woods
She stands up
A scarecrow of cancer
Brings down her arms
Allows the airy wand
To tap her body
Throat stomach thighs
She throws open the door
Lets the wood dance and sigh
With this charged billow of summer magic
Her skin soothes as chambray
Hair grows like wheat in fields
Bones weightless leaves in the trees
Ruffling ruffling
She is free she is free.
Wounds, like windows,
when opened,
let in light and the breath of something new.
But it takes courage
to unlatch what pain has sealed shut.
We board them up,
plaster the cracks,
pretend the draft isn't there—
but silence has a smell,
and you can only hold your breath for so long.
Sometimes, healing sounds like wind
whistling through what broke—
a quiet reminder
that damage doesn’t mean done,
that ruin is not the same as ending.
Air moves different through a wound,
cool against what once burned.
Dust shifts in forgotten corners.
And the light—
not blinding, but patient—
lingers,
touching the rawness
without demanding repair.
Let it.
Let the ache speak.
Let the light crawl across your ribs
and settle into the hollows
you tried so hard to erase.
Wounds, like windows,
don’t have to be beautiful
to be open.
They only have to let something in.
In the never ending dream I keep walking
Through the insufficient scheme I keep talking
It’s a crying shame, still not quite enough
You may call it lame, call it boring stuff
In the morning street on a shady sidewalk
I move on whispering inner monologue
Wouldn’t be surprised if you do the same
We’ve got something to alter this lose-lose game
In the fading dream, that doesn’t fade too much
There’s a hidden door, that I can’t unlatch
But I tend to suspect it’s an exit door
Must be cold outside, colder than before
So this narrow passage leads to square I know
And I’m welcomed in again, where I used to go
And the waiter turns up with a tray of grapes
Offering a complimentary aftertaste.
In charmed slumber throbbing waves break away
Mist of evenfall, fading from the day
Closing against vast sky into the spring
Moon's brightness. Umber earth and blue birds sing
Beneath its coverlet. Tulips, poppies,
Morning glory, moss rose, spring grace copies
Close to encumber their paddles for slumber
To open in the morning by the number
Fragrant gold flaming honeysuckle vine
Twining entangle braid tendrils entwine
Around garden's heart breathing once anew
A spider's web in tears form morning dew
Daisies bright, butterflies flutter lithe reach
A romance of nature a kiss to each
4/27/2020
Spring Rhyme Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Emile Pinet
In ancient mythology the Apple is one of the most sacred trees. Symbolizing good health and future happiness. Since ancient times it has also been known as the 'Tree of Love' associated with Aphrodite, goddess of love.
Beneath the ancient moon the apple tree stands firm
dressed in clinging leaves and golden rays of night
Over by the garden where a ruby heart confirms
a tree trunk stands upheld by the crowning of the light
As stars of Eve appear with sparkling tails of every hue
the diamond shimmering mist of night, befalls
Drenching bark and branch with whisperings of I love yous
it stands still and listens, to a Nightingale's sweet call
This is the tree of love and here, love never dies
long after the giving, it remains attached
Blooming even in the thick of winter, I will now surmise
Mother Nature holds surprises, that we cannot unlatch.
His charm was deceptive; you were easily impressed.
You held him like a chip bag, a comfort to ingest,
but soon he treated you evil, apathetic at best.
You'd hold tightly to the anger, no longer suppressed.
Soon your sweet countenance turned to lemon zest,
screaming and crying, as if demon possessed.
Revenge was your method on which you are obsessed.
Your mind, once playful, became a hornet's nest.
Let loose the necklace chain betwixt your breasts,
The metal one on which a hanging key rests.
Unlatch the crevice inside of your chest
to release the beast, between heart's walls pressed.
Free the gnawing creature, be it your foremost quest.
For I miss the princess who treated all as guest.
Forgive the great offender; put all debt to rest.
By the cross' power, you can bless and be blessed.
Guarded and closed off, that's what he knows best
It just takes a noise to peak his interest
Don't bother to knock, 'cause he won't letcha in
Caution encloses the world he lives in
Four cats are his passion he keeps them well fed
But fear sends them running back under the bed
He's gone beyond trusting, I'll never know why
He's jumpy and nervous, alertness on high
Drawing the curtains, unplugging the phone
He's almost certain he's never alone
Peering out windows from behind the chair
'Cause he never knows what's lurking out there
He sees his newspaper out on the walk
Won't open the door or unlatch the lock
In this wary obsession, he can't help but feel
a need to distinguish the false from the real.