Long Up the stairs Poems
Long Up the stairs Poems. Below are the most popular long Up the stairs by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Up the stairs poems by poem length and keyword.
These castle walls are cracked and moonlight seeps through, i hug my knees to my chest as
a sob threatens to break out of my throat. My skin is pale and thin; my bones stab through
my skin-nearly breaking it, I would look like a scraggly porcelain doll if I ever looked
in the mirror, but being trapped in this damned place for however long I have no access to
such a luxury.
My eyes are wet, my hair is tangled and knotted-unbrushed for at least three weeks. My
fingers resemble the bone underneath. I hear wolves call from under the ten foot tower, I
shake in my corner and wish to get a nights sleep that I know would never come. The marks
on my back from the whip stings like hell.
My limbs hurt; feeling stretched as if they were pulled by horses. A pain in my skull just
behind my eyes pounds rhythmically like hoofbeats galloping drunkenly on the hard
cobblestone streets of London.
The silver glow of the moon glows brighter as the silver orb centers itself in the sky.
The pain in my limbs grows more intense, the urge to scream in agony is tempting, but I
don't. I should, but do not. It will get me nowhere, and it will not help me. So, I sit in
the corner and suffer silently through such torture. The moon rises higher toward the
center, the pain grows; soon enough, I am unable to hold in the screams.
I scream.
Granted that citizens below can hear me; do they come? Do they wonder what or who could be
enduring such torture and pain? No...they do not. Never have.
I go through this for six centuries, no one looks up at the thin, slanted and dark window.
No one comes clambering, clumsily up the stairs of the tower to where my screams grow
louder and are the dominant instrument in this dark, cobblestone hell. No one comes-some
may wonder, I do not invade their minds-nor have I tried.
But, I fear not that they do wonder, probably are just afraid of what dark, evil creature
awaits them to their death. I am but a nightmare, not exactly a dream, but neither a
nightmare shrouded in shadows and hidden in scraggly, ugly branches like long, clawed
fingernails.
So, yes, I am nothing but what I perceive myself. What others perceive me as, I know not
what to think; I scream, no one comes...yet, my life is lived more for me as I am living
locked up in this hole. Locked up, and suffering. No one to hear me scream.
A Visit to Graceland
By Elton Camp
Although Memphis is nearby
To visit Graceland I didn’t try.
Elvis wasn’t much older than me.
So his home I really should go see.
I followed the young tour guide.
“Stay together as we move inside.”
Critics call the house tacky as can be,
But it seemed quite luxurious to me.
No rightful criticism could I make.
In Elvis’ décor I saw no mistake.
I had no decorating advice to give.
It looks better than where I live.
“Now up these stairs is his private space.
The tour to go there would be a disgrace.”
The guide pointed on down the hall.
“On Jungle room, please make a call.”
I stared at the steps with eyes so wide.
“Up there’s where he lived and died.”
I stood alone at the foot of the stair.
Without any guard in charge to care.
Seeing a chance open to few,
I decided just what I would do.
While nobody was around,
Up the stairs with a bound.
In a large bedroom on the right,
Something gave me quite a fright.
“How do you dare to come up here?”
He asked in a voice shaky but clear.
He had a shock of dyed black hair,
But in places it was growing spare.
Then his great size next me astounds.
He must weigh three hundred pounds.
“Just who do you think you are?
Nobody’s allowed to come this far.”
I felt like I was about to faint.
Surely, Elvis the King that ain’t.
“Everybody thinks I died years ago
They must continue to think it’s so.
I can never be fat and old.
So that big lie I have told.”
“Your secret is safe with me,” I cry.
“Before I would tell it, I’d sooner die.”
He looked at me with a trace of a grin.
“No way can you betray this has been.”
“Nobody would believe a story like that.
A claim you saw Elvis alive, old and fat.”
I realized it was all too true.
If I told it, the day I would rue.
Liar would become my name
For harming Elvis’ great fame.
“We know Elvis long ago died.
What type drugs have you tried?”
And right then I began to shake
Until it brought me wide awake.
My own bedroom I did then see.
In Memphis town I couldn’t be.
No matter how real it did seem,
It had been nothing but a dream.
But I didn’t really so much care
That it had only been a nightmare.
For if Graceland I ever visit for real
And find Elvis alive, I’ll never squeal.
Trim and handsome all want him to be.
No unfavorable image should they see.
We drove in two separate cars a few miles along the ocean shore
I am not afraid, life has been depressing, I just don’t care anymore
We turn down a pebbled driveway, with lion statues guarding the gate
I am shocked when I see us approaching an old Victorian mansion estate
Frank gets out of his car, his blue eyes bright and with a smile on his face
He tells me he just inherited this mansion and is busy renovating the place
He takes my hand as he leads me up the granite steps and into the foyer
He tells me he has a case in town, and has also been working as a lawyer
We walk through a marbled living room and into a nautical themed den
He tells me he has lived here since May as he inherited the mansion then
He then tells me that he has known about me and is distant cousin of my ex
I start to let my guard down, even though I am not sure what will happen next
He looks into my eyes and smiles, takes my hands and gently kisses me
I enjoy his kisses and let him embrace me closer, not feeling afraid only free
He leads me upstairs to his master bedroom with a view of crashing waves
I am so amazed and elated, but I need to slow down and not give in and cave
He takes my hand and leads me out through the French doors to the balcony
We sit in antique wrought iron chairs while sipping wine, just like a fantasy
I suddenly start to feel very sleepy, woozy and faint, not sure what is going on
He then carries me to his large bed, lays me down and the curtains are drawn
I wake up the next morning, realizing I am naked under the covers in his bed
Trying to remember last night, as I start to worry with some feelings of dread
Relieved, I hear Frank coming up the stairs as I start to relax and calm down
But instead an older woman walks in and stops and stares at me with a frown
I am shocked, I ask her who she is and if Frank is here somewhere downstairs?
She tells me she’s the owner, Frank was a contractor hired to do some repairs
She’s been scammed, the job’s not done and Frank's gone with all his tools
I feel a tear run down my face, as I realize I was played and now a gullible fool
11/2/19 The last and 4th part of The Distant Shores Series
Anything You Want Contest
Judged and NA'd on 11/2/19
Writing Challenge - December - Any poem NA'd in November 2019
Sponsor, Dear Heart- Wiishkobi Ode
“Chasing Ghosts in Cars”
Like automata
we walk inside
winding up the stairs
it’s all mechanical
the romance
programmed
by steep degrees
in the
well-routined
we can walk
through walls
anywhere
to look out
our windows
towards the better view
each cell in the body
and mind renewed
we expurgate
the misplaced
misconceptions
of others, of ourselves
it’s fair-weather sailing
out there,
the transparent come and go
best to turn
a blind eye
a swift kiss on the cheek
make it brief
then close all
your doors
to their artful dodger hauntings
friendships and felicitations
their joyful gleaming commiserations
whole oceans
full of souls
walking and swimming
treading water
all the floating
poesies planted
mindfully fragrant
fresh bits thrown
parlayed introspection
deliciously blooded with the sharks
such hungry poets
with a well-adjusted
deep knowing
and a quiet
unthorough
understanding
of another
unknown equation
in the real world
never making
premature
judgements
outside is a risk
we all take
we write what we know
we know what we write
ghost written
in the Daily Phantom
in the gloaming fantasy
there still exist
real ghouls calling us in
hungry for kindness
burying pity for
the honesty it lacks
inside we are listing
the volume we turn up
to hear messages better
we are
listening
to cars
lyrics
we wish you
to know
to be understood
when you are
chasing ghosts
some say
they’ve gone too far
they’re too far gone away
forget-me-knots
hanging loose
chasing ghosts in cars
Machiavellians
gone astray
the naked minds
of
undressed nuns
and
sanctimonious preachers
oiling their guns
(LadyLabyrinth / 2022)
“Here in my car
I feel safest of all
I can lock all my doors
It's the only way to live in cars
Here in my car
I can only receive
I can listen to you
It keeps me stable for days in cars”
listing/nautical.
“Listing” is a nautical term to describe when a vessel takes on water and tilts to one side. A ship can list either to port (left) or starboard (right). By contrast, a ship is said to be “trimming” when she tips forward or backward.
To the common folk the life of a merchant may seem to be a dull and boring one.
But I declare it is not, it is a life full of many wondrous adventures.
For a young elf like me quick and light on the feet and easy to hide it is the perfect life.
It is also a life that gives many stories to tell and today I will tell you one.
I was far outside of my realm, in a new dangerous place I had never been before.
A land full of monsters and many other mysterious dangers lurking around every corner.
Traveling through the forests running as fast as I could, trying to reach my destination and hoping not to be discovered.
I ran out of a world of trees to be greeted by wondrous and peaceful new road full of green fields as far as my eyes could see.
Built in the hillsides was a lovely quaint with a large oval stone door surrounded by bushes with low windows on both sides showing in.
On the door transcribed in a glowing green bright light, the etching stated.
"This is a wizard door
if you are not a wizard
you cannot open it."
A great curiosity took over my body and I reached out to turn the knob of the large stone door.
I did not open, It was not as if this door was locked, my hand simply phased through the door as if it was a phantom.
I stepped into the bushes and peered through the window and what I saw before me I could not believe.
Five full grown wizards dressed in their mage outfits with large pointy hats, with large untidy monstrous beards and they appeared to be as tall as the tallest trees.
They sat around a large table enjoying tea and cake, playing board games, sharing tales of many grand adventures and using their wands to practice spells with one another.
One of the wizards came stomping up the stairs, I leaped quickly hiding in the bushes.
He came out of the door and stood raising his hands, stretching and yawing.
A real wizard stood near me an ordinary elf but, he did not stay long as soon as he came out he rushed back into the door to continue with his party affairs.
I rushed out of the bushes and continued running down the road in order to make my delivery, as I ran only one thing was on my mind.
The great stories I could tell my grandchildren, such as the time an ordinary young elf like me witnessed a great wizard party.
In my imagination I have 16 nostrils,
As you can imagine that’s quite a buildup of green snot,
But it doesn’t matter because in my imagination,
I have 16 index figures, each one with a little mouth,
With razor shop teeth, perfect for eating bogeys,
And at the base of my palm there are 16 little bum holes,
Defecating with continuous aplomb the bundles of snot down my sleeve,
In my imagination there is a tramp living under my stairs,
He lives off the dry goods, crackers, rice krispies and digestives,
Only I know that it’s really an Indian yogi,
Who sits whispering prayers to protect my affairs night and day,
In my imagination there are 12 maggots burrowed deep in my brain,
And they are eating my brain cells continuously,
But they only eat cells that communicate information about Osteopathy,
And other holistic therapies,
In my imagination there is a fly who is desperately worried about his starving kids,
So in my imagination on a night time when I’m asleep,
He sits with his arms folded leaning in my ear and reads from various holistic health books,
In an attempt to educate me on the arts of the healer,
But it’s all in vein because in my imagination I’m tone deaf,
In my imagination my face is a lofty building,
A corporate situation or maybe a civil building, something like passports and immigration,
The façade of this grey concrete building is flanked with many stairs,
Row up on row of steep dangerous stairways,
All leading to a small roof with a hatchway into my mind,
And in my imagination all day and all night,
Tiny men and women run from the revolving doors at the front of the building,
And track nimbly and urgently up the stairs carrying important documents,
One after another with anxious faces they, tight footed, make their way to the roof,
And in my imagination they disappear into my mind to deposit their paperwork,
Tragically it all gets overlooked because in my imagination there is so much red tape,
That government officials can never push forward with their plans,
In my imagination dead things don’t rot,
Because in my imagination instead of decaying corpses become lighter,
They become so light that they begin to float like helium balloons,
So in my imagination the skies are full of gently bobbing cadavers trailing into the sun,
I lay my head down to sleep to the calm and peaceful sound of music flowing through the thick trees cruising from the subdivision below my dwelling.The rhythmic sounds of crickets and frogs composed a beautiful sympony and spawned a strange unfamiliar song that lay motionless on my ear, forcing me to absorb the quiet scent of the night and fall asleep without fear.In the dead heat of the night something thrust me from my bed and I found myself in the tumult of everyday life wrestling with the bearded probe again .I discovered my truck in a parking lot with bright white paint applied to the side. A sheet of paper lays flat in the windscreen bearing a name and number "Why should someone paint my truck in white", I muttered silently to myself.This strange happening propelled me to anxiously called the number.A high pitched voice woman answered the phone and gave me directions to find her. I drove endlessly humming a tune until I ended up on the other side of town. As tacky as it seemed and as gloomy as it appeared I entered the place without fear. I parked outside an unpaved parking lot and entered a tall gigantic apartment building and walked up the stairs. Suddenly two young women met me half way and told me that they would take me to the person who painted my truck .All three of us ventured down the stairs and pounced upon a confused crowd of people walking aimlessly up and down the streets while motor vehicles sprawled out everywhere.We hurriedly walked passed a depot and saw hard working men dressed in military suits standing next to barbed wire fences loading people urgently into trucks.They were recruiting barbers and people with skills to join them while screaming and shouting as if they were on the auction block. Many people boarded the truck but we shoved our way through the crowd until we reached a crowded market. The two young woman suddenly disappeared and left me alone standing there.I searched for my truck but I could not find it.Dawn brought the night's fury to an end and I was relieved to be back to reality again.
©2014 Christine Phillips
The morning dawned grey and cold
Shock and fear had taken hold
Blinded and struck by disbelief
We rushed, jolted beyond belief
I still remember how Mother screamed
As she ran up the stairs
To confront that of which I had never dreamed
A life without YOU
With trembling steps, I reached the door
Only to see you lying peacefully on the floor
Still, silent, small and beautiful, like a crushed rose
I saw her bleed tears of agony, as I maintained my rigid pose
Quivering within myself, I approached you
A purer countenance I've never seen
Even in Death, you were as true as you'd ever been
The whispers abounded, indistinct and immaterial
They had come to pay their respects
A few out of love, a few due to regret
They spoke of your virtues, about your contribution
As if they were items that needed distribution
You moved from reality, into a frame
Your essence lost, we were never the same
I wonder why you've gone, leaving me here
When I've lost that which I hold most dear
Your smile, your presence, your embrace
Things which surpass all praise
I remember when I'd ring the bell
You'd throw open the door, with the most beautiful smile I've ever seen
Now, when I come here, I wonder where I've been
For you, sickness and mood held no regard
For me, love was all you ever had
I'll never forget the meals, that you cooked so lovingly for me
Regardless of the heat of the stove, or the condition you were in
You always believed in me, more than I did myself
You backed me, when so many others had left
You taught me right from wrong
O Grandma! You were always so strong
Even when your hearing deserted you
You always gave your best
Without bothering about rest
You worked tirelessly, the way you'd done all along
70 or 17 made no difference, only YOU did
The house was your world
Asthma and old age had done their trick
For you, every pebble had become a brick
You lived a soundless life
Yet you were the Ideal wife
You were the spark in his life
You gave Grandpa a lifetime of support
50 years, every step of the way
Until Death came to play Spoilsport
I remember the day, when I was but a child
How you soothed my tears, and held me close to your heart
I was secure, and nothing could keep us apart
Continued in part 2
Canny remember this Lass's name,
but fur the poem's sake let's assume she's Jane.
'Jane ' this per wee soul had fingers lighter than a blidy feather,
aw things within her sicht yea had tae tether.
Wartime is no jist a time fur wurry or sorrow,
Certainly no fur Jane, aw things she wanted she jist borrowed.
Aye aw things she'd borrow without askin' if she could:(
frae clothes pegs,newspapers an' oany flippin' type o' food.
Funny thing tho' is ,she wis hard tae catch,
wae Jane, things vanished, even oot o' awbidy's veggie patch.
Noo this went oan fur sum munths -even a year.
every week sum wee thing wid jist disappear.
Everybidy jist kent is wis this lass Jane,
bit ivery bidy's attempt tae catch her wis jist in vain.
Yea kid be talkin tae her an' she kid steal yer blidy teeth,
nae kiddin' this lass wis beyond belief.
We lived in number three oor wee But'N'Ben,
Jane lived in five or wis it ten?
Nae matter- she lived in tapmaist flat,
jist hersel' withoot luv an' no even a wee tabby cat:(
No oor family didnae want tae drop her in the poo,
jist teach her a lesson ma dad said he wid do.
So ma Dad an'ma uncle Harry made a parcel wae a few frills,
An' left it oan the neighbour's doonstairs windae-sill.
Sure as itchy flees oan a wee cat's bum,
it wisnae lang before Jane did come.
She walked past the frilly parcel here oan the windae-ledge,
ma Dad an' uncle Harry watchin' -nerves oan edge.
Quick as a blidy blidy' flash,
that said parcel unner Jane's airm an' oaf she dashed.
Up the stairs tae her flat in number ten.
dad an' uncle Harry waited fur whit they didnae ken.
Suddenly the level three tap windae o' Jane's wee flat,
an' oot came that undone frilly parcel like a blidy scalded cat.
It landed at ma Dad an' uncle Harry's feet,
whit wis in that parcel a canny easily repeat.
Dad an' uncle Harry wir in fits an' tears,
their laffin' muscles wir in tap gear.
A wee clue tae the contents - Coo's S#!^#,
stull wonderin' eh? Rhymes wae Kite.
Noo cross ma hert this story is true,
cos' we had a dairy roon back which had lotes o' coo's poo.
As for Jane - weel she kent we knew she had fingers light,
never again did she pick up parcels full of S#!^#.
Aye the last wurd rhymes wae Kite
The Auld Yin.
Tribute to The Story of An Hour by Kate Chopin
A subtle blank stare filled her eyes
As she , Margery Bollard ,locked them with whom she took her vows
A photograph of him against the floral wallpaper
Haunted her soul
She fainted and collapsed onto her living room floor
Within half an hour
She drank a glass of water and mingled it with tears
Cold and heavy tears
Aged her by fifty years
She climbed up the stairs to her master bedroom with which she shared with her husband, Daniel Bollard
Their boat sailed to lover’s lane
A speck of light drew her eyes towards the small squared window
She pulled her large arm chair by the window and
Sank in its warmth
Now
Under her breath, a sharp whisper fled her clenched lips
Filled her heart with horrid rage
A widow out of place
Sweet freedom show your face
Joy, joy, joy I embrace
Fill my heart with everlasting blood
Young, without child
Have me live yonder miles
Her heart swelled and broke
A moment of grief pursued
Her ears rung with song
Let freedom come
Her teeth chattered
And her hands trembled
As if on a mission of world domination
From outside her bedroom window she saw blue skies and green trees
Rain took the skies
And owned it’s rights
Tart was the fruit
And bitter was its rind
Radiant rays of sunshine cleared the sky
I shall cry no more
No more hits to the ground
Sweet freedom , roar
The sound of foot soldiers on command
And swinging doors dared her to get out of place
Margery, Margery, I’m home
Soldier Bollard ran up to the master bedroom
Haven’t seen you in months , said Daniel
Haven’t heard from you in a year, said Margery
Wasn’t there a major attack on your post?
Few survived, I’m one left behind
You look sick, Marge
Have you slept?
Your hair is unkept and wild
The stove is empty
This is not my wife
Margery nearly died, angry and out of breath
She collects herself and screams from the top of her lungs
I’m a woman
More than a mother and an obedient slave
Before Daniel could respond and react
Margery collapsed yet again
This time within a heartbeat, she was cold and without pulse
Marckincia Jean
Narrative
06/30/19