Long Unpacked Poems
Long Unpacked Poems. Below are the most popular long Unpacked by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Unpacked poems by poem length and keyword.
The holiday cabin smelled of wet pigeons
but it was lakeside and cheap.
The lake was not popular,
too deep and weedy for swimming,
too shallow for docking boats,
yet it suited our make-do mindsets.
Of course,
we were romantically attached at the hips,
feet glided upon air
as we wandered upon the pebbly beach
fingers entwined in a dank mist.
Graham crackers and marshmallows
were unpacked
alas the firepit was soaked
with too much leafy fog.
A desultory fire was sparked
in a damp bed beneath a mildewed roof.
We had only tomato soup, tough bagels
and a pack of Marlborough.
We had not planned for chills and hunger.
Inevitably the vacation
grew lukewarm.
Runny noses and sneezes,
the cheesy smell of wet footwear
all seeped deeply into our gestalt,
philosophically
we bailed on the quickly drenched dream,
and each other.
Ended is my week to make Satan smile
The weather forecast calls for sun all day
My camping gear sits in an unpacked pile
As, of course, pouring rain has come this way
I was headed outside to cleanse my soul
By camping out under open blue skies
Although my good plans may have come undone
I will not change my goal
This win the devil shall not realize
As I will engage in rainy day fun
I start a fire in my fireplace
Spread the down sleeping bag across the floor
With marshmallows and chocolates in place
I devour some of my campout smores
I digest my book on astronomy
Learning the position of all the stars
Getting prepared for the next night that clears
Reading Ptolemy
Find out exactly how to locate Mars
Gain the intelligence to last for years
Rain will not compound this week’s misery
Beelzebub shall not have his will today
I have learned from my long past history
Not to let some rain get into my way
My fingers will make love to the guitar
Sitting right here on my living room floor
Even though I may not be outside now
I know what good times are
As I throw on a couple of logs more
And I still cleanse my tired soul somehow
I am now "away from the noise,"
my fruit gum I am chewing.
Sitting here wondering what the boys,
could be doing.
Now all unpacked,
a book I will read.
Need to use bug spray before I am attacked,
Oh no I do not want to bleed.
All "satisfied and alone,"
I thought this trip would be more fun.
The rain has me chilled to the bone,
maybe I am done.
Campfire cologne will always stay,
since I used an orange can of bear spray.
'Finally, another moving box unpacked', she thought to herself, while leaning towards the rest of the boxes, rising 4 pillars of 5 cardboard boxes each in the middle of the living room. She never thought she had that much, the most common of her thoughts after every move; here once again she had a shock to the system, as if she's being oblivious to the abundance of books and trophies and statues and trinkets. Each piece holding a story, of course, a memory and a collection of emotions, and she had savoured all of them in an attempt to observe her own growth towards being free from the need to be Free. She didn't have them to look back and live in the past at all; instead they were stepping stones to the future. To choose whether to keep or leave them behind, and to own that decision, was motivating, encouraging, and put a smile on her face. 'At least I'm not broken', she thought next, here moving away from toxicity, healing all that pain, leaving shame behind, owning up to the responsibility of self-care, learning to love herself, facing fears, annihilating regrets, not dreading all the years taken from her by others. Now, standing in her new home in a new town - number 47 to be exact, humble by the fact that new walls and floors would hold her safely on her journey. She was grateful for the opportunity to breathe, and for the love that her mirror had welcomed her with. This, right here, was Freedom.
Her dreams were still safe.
In her Inner Most Sacred,
A Rising Phoenix.
My typewriter
was not a good typewriter,
its keys were weighty,
you had to use brain muscle to work it,
nobody wanted it.
My son unpacked a home computer.
I stood by and watched
as all the electronics were laid out on the floor
and surgically knitted together.
I knew then
that I would be consistently out of touch,
and possibly would remain
stuck in an obsolete year
trying to catch up
from the rear of the field.
I wrote my first poem
on that clickity-clack manual machine,
then a dozen more,
all of them were heavy handed,
yet that hefty labor
made me think
I was crafting something worthwhile.
Later, I was enslaved to a computer keyboard,
chained as I was to its subsonic urgings
I could tell
the world was speeding away
faster than I could write.
When my kind of poet dies,
he is immediately ed,
for all his contemporary poems
turn into digital wormholes
that suck him into an unknown grave.
The young look to dead poets for wisdom -
truth is,
that those ham-fisted plodders
have long ago
turned into chunky typewriters
that nobody wants.
Now halfway through your senior year,
you'll graduate high school in June.
Dear grandson where did those years go,
and how did you grow up so soon?
While searching for tree ornaments
tucked safely in our cellar space,
I found your old electric trains
still resting in their same old place.
I can't remember which sad year
they crossed the point of no return
and never made it 'neath our tree,
for somehow lost was your concern.
For years your trains remained unpacked;
for sure their worth did not survive...
their point of no return made way
for bigger wheels which you now drive.
Sandra M. Haight
~3rd Place~
Contest: Point Of No Return
Sponsor: Nicola Byrne
Judged: 12/14/2016
I’m sporting this new lipstick
it won’t fade, smudge or smear
I’ll be lucky if it wears off this year.
I’ve got this new eyeliner that’s like
a luxurious, glittering, penciled tattoo
Leong asked, “How do you get it off you?”
I unpacked these chemical wonders
to see if they’ve lost their luster
by being neglected since last summer.
When you study too much, you feel pent-up,
so my compadres and I chose to get dolled-up,
rolling-up to dinner, like beauty queens on parade,
and not just sophomore scrubs trying to make the grade.
.
.
Webster: compadre: a close friend or buddy
.....................GOOGLE
quick look
fact book
TWITTER WIKI
quick thoughts free facts
once short unpacked
NOTE:Each of the above is a FOOTLE ,a two line lines,2 syllable verse with an integral title-Light Poetic verse form,witty,pertinent,topical etc (technically a trochaic monometer and not necessarily in rhyme).
Footles on the otherhand(with an 's' ) is a 'hybrid' innovative sequenced variation that has developed over the years (since 2009)alongside the original definition.
For Aunt Carolyn, in memory of Uncle Dennis
They were just teens outside a gift shop door,
He said, "Come on, Darling, let’s go explore."
With a wink and a grin, and her hand in his,
They stepped into life, not knowing how rare love like this is.
From navy bases to state lines they flew,
Boxes unpacked and smiles that grew.
Never a house—always a home,
Because love made each place their own.
He’d kiss her forehead, she'd fix his tie,
Even their bickering made cupids sigh.
Like teenagers dancing in a kitchen floor war,
Even their "fights" left you loving them more.
They held hands through hospital halls,
Through birthday cake crumbs and late-night calls.
And even when life was painfully tough,
They reminded us all—true love is enough.
Now she stands where he once stood near,
A bit more quiet, but holding him dear.
Because the thing about love that’s truly true—
Is it doesn’t end. It just waits for you.
So Aunt Carolyn, brave heart, please know this is true:
He’s just ahead now, saving a seat for you.
Still saying with that boyish grin so clever:
"Come on, Darling... let’s do forever."
A reprieve arrives, hopefully to stay
casting faint glimmers of the sun
so long held hostage by the clouded grays.
now undone.
The needed rain pulls back
but the landscape is still pale green,
frozen in time unpacked
a lime mist floating on the air can be seen.
It appears all creatures were released
from hibernation of the sudden chills
and the yard comes to recognize a quiet peace
that pervades gardens and unleashed growth is spilled.
A woodpecker knocks repeatedly
answered only by the call of distant geese
and the glow of the sun warmly heated
and robins hover singing in the trees.
A grond-hog climbs a frail cherry weeping
to challenge the squirrel presence
and the heron struts boldly around the pond creeping
looking for life and its inner essence.
Spring is reborn
producing life and color to the earth
as winter looms in the background unadorned
and spring comes alive in its rebirth.