Long Wardrobes Poems
Long Wardrobes Poems. Below are the most popular long Wardrobes by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Wardrobes poems by poem length and keyword.
We carry small talk above our heads, ceilings drip clouds.
Nothing is put away. Coats dangle over chairs in layers.
Drugged by spate and mizzle, denim droops,
snagged over rummage
and the outstretched arms of impedimenta.
The house awakes to a soft toed patter.
Around us, cuffs pull the roof closer to damp collars,
hangers weep in wardrobes,
while the unhung sink in muddy shallows.
Before the light paddles away, calico, cotton, and shirttails
are rescued, bundled into higher heaps;
the soggy separated from the merely mildewed.
The muddled and fusty raised above an imagined tide.
Tomorrow, front steps will be scoured;
the washed-out made to flap.
Squirrels may walk the earth again,
and if a blotting wind returns, we will wave
from dry bathtubs.
i saw the devil as doubt and my mind relaxed and recoiled at the thought eyes studiously staring at each flaw finding reason to turn away realizing that all along it was an illusion that kept me awake at night and daydreaming out of the side of my eye fast shadows fly as i pray to Jesus for salvation the quiet tears dreams of reptiles without a plot searching with their tongues for flesh i open my eyes in the darkness of morning body aching hardly able to rise my left hand cramping fingers curled in pain i turn on the lights their soft electric pulse vibrates in my chest the sun is still sleeping but the clock keeps on reading one more minute after another decades dying in my memories measured in other people and their opinions changing with my words and worn clothes clashing with all they possess paradise lost in their eyes glued to phones unaware of how the wind moans every generation changing wardrobes fading into histories of war in the ceaseless hunt for increase in pleasure and wealth begging for health fighting the decay that occurs day to night afraid of falling asleep without waking
The ship of dreams
Opulent surroundings
Fancy bed linens
Luxurious dinner plates and tablecloths
Gleaming virginal utensils
Dazzling crystal chandeliers
Polished walnut woodwork
Gold gilded fireplaces
Wardrobes ready for furs and dresses
An experienced captain
Eager staff
Bustling activity
Musicians, artists, businessmen aboard
High ranking officials, wealthy industrialists, celebrities
Cruising flawlessly in clear blue sea
A haven and heaven during the day
Easy sleeping and dreaming in the evening
J.P. Morgan was disappointed to have to cancel at the last minute
Four glorious days of sailing
Around Midnight April 15th, 1912 the Titanic struck an iceberg
The chunk of devilry slashed a three-hundred-foot gash in the hull
Haphazard evacuation ensued
First lifeboat could have held sixty-five people
It left with twenty-eight
The dream ship broke in half after filling halfway up with water
In two hours fifteen hundred people died
The majority of them froze to death in the North Atlantic
We sat beneath a night sky of graduated charcoals, blacks and interstellar blues. Fall’s begun its indispensable work, banishing the harsh sun, the creepy lanternflies and hot summer nights.
The stars seemed hesitant tonight, like they feared the sun might change its mind, reverse its course and run them back off - except one, which Peter says is Jupiter (and therefore not a star at all).
We were (Peter, Sunny, Anna and I), studying, in our fold-up lounge chairs and reading by little kindle lights clipped on our books. Leong’s there too - supposedly studying - but in reality, she was waiting for her date.
Leong and Sile have been flirting since last year and tonight’s their first, official date. Leong’s never been on a western date before or ever been alone with a boy in a car. She’s only seen romance in movies or from afar, like an astronomer viewing a distant moon through a telescope.
Her outfit, though casual, was coalesced from six wardrobes and no king or questing knight has ever been dressed more carefully or with greater ceremony. She even positioned her chair at a carefully chosen angle, to show her, initially, in her best light - “Zhù ni hao yùn!” She insisted (It’s good luck).
She’s a gorgeous, brilliant, amazing woman with a razor-thin veneer of amorous confidence. I know my nerves playup when I’m uncertain about things, but Leong’s playing it off, acting casual.. ish.
Finally, with an almost physical jolt, she saw him enter the quad. As he approached, his every aspect was scrutinized by vigilant, overprotective roommates. The air was filled with the whispered buzz of shared analysis.
Soon they were walking off together and chuckling at something we couldn’t hear. It’s funny, I’ve never felt so much like a parent.
I am a little star that cannot brighten this black paradise.
A land so rich with the flesh and bones of my parents and ancestors.
A kingdom of the black wolves, cleared by the white alphas.
In this land of peace, where every dream follows screams, history rewrites.
The silence of spears, knives, and others is replaced by the whisk of bullets that run from door to door.
Schools still give out permanent holidays after graduating immature warriors.
Offices continue to have empty top tables, with many wardrobes under them keeping bones for every dog that barks.
Dung on the streets points at us whenever our eyes meet, while the wind piles rubbish at our doorsteps.
The white eagle flies to and fro, grabbing anything in sight—from our relatives’ bones to stones and everything.
Education is now key, but the key holder has become the clink and rasp of money.
The hospital is stained with blood and filled with flies that help the doctors with the rotten smell, yet each time banks release papers.
All churches and mosques preach, but it is the pews and floors that hear the puff of riches, not the ears that hear the preaching, while loud sounds tell us how the devil is black and the angels are white.
I have seen global equality, where white dresses are used for celebrations while black is used for burials—equality where all blacks bleach themselves to become white.
I am a star from a little culture once raised, now fading back to what our ancestors once warned.
The chirr of parched insect wings –
bible dust preaching
from long abandoned boots.
Baked into the sky,
homesteads linger on the burnt stumps
of exhausted summers.
Dander creaks on dry porches.
Fallow rooms open wardrobes
in a denim haze.
Homesteaders planted a light here,
then at days end,
dug it up
in earthen mouthfuls.
Aprons were filled,
table-tops charged.
Out of the back of a model T
a dapper man sells brushes,
he speaks of things unfarmed,
the Brylcream shine of city sights
until she is swept away.
Such moments go unrecorded
unless by chance you find
a strand of long hair
whipping astray
on a skewed field gate.
Summers sun is setting,
The twilight a held breath,
Excitement for the season of change,
To see everything in a warm haze.
But I, as many,
Have persuaded myself -
Talked myself into thinking
Every year.
When the leaves change, and plants die
When wardrobes change, and winds sigh
We see change so close
We think that everyone's experience
Aligns.
What a joke -
My fall, warm glow.
My Autumn is welcome,
Another's, pure woe.
I have lived through trauma,
But so has the world,
My Autumn is shallow,
Another perspective, absurd.
So, as the season begins,
I finally sit and reflect.
I crave the knowledge
Of how the world lives this season.
Do they all see the beauty,
Or hold hate beyond reason.
We should all take a breath
As Summer finishes it's act,
And remember only the mirror
Has your experience, exact.
LOVE’S MEMORY-A STRUCTURED PROSE
Two hearts as one,with love held dear,
each others secrets to confide,needs and
desire to never hide,love-lines to share,
tribulations together to bear.Each other
in submission lean,sacramental in unison
of love’s mutual bond.
INNOCENT NAIVETY-A STRUCTURED PROSE
Love has no boundaries in its heart,
in its passion holds all things dear,
giving all,trusting without fear.Flowers
of mutual fusion,incensed,by aromas
of love.The attraction of natural magnetism
is sealed in perfect harmony inherent
and universally held.Again,again this
siren’s call beckons loves innocent
naivety,rose-tinted,short-sighted
views distort perspective out of true.
A DOMESTIC STRUCTURED PROSE
Her cardigan on the chairback,
shoes left in the hall,slippers ‘neath
the double bed,undies on the stool.
Handbag filled with this and that,
bathroom shelved of creams and
much besides;wardrobes,wall to
wall.Medicines boxed ,arranged so neat,
cellphone ready for a call,a text,
a chat,a listening ear,empathy to all.
Listen to me recite these structured prose on youtube under my pen name ichthyschiro
The chirr of parched insect wings –
bible dust preaching
from long abandoned boots.
Baked into the sky
homesteads linger on the burnt stumps
of exhausted summers.
Dander creaks on dry porches,
wardrobes and rooms open
in a denim haze.
Homesteaders planted a light here
then at days end
dug it up
in earthen mouthfuls.
Aprons were filled, table-tops charged.
Out of the back of a model T
a dapper man sells brushes,
he speaks of things unfarmed
the Brylcreem shine of city sights
until she is swept away.
Such moments go unrecorded
unless by chance you find
a strand of long hair
whipping astray on a skewed field gate.
~~~~
edit
Have you ever cleared your closet?
Relationships are like wardrobes
They need to be reviewed
Have you ever packed your bags?
A heart is like a storage box
It needs to be sorted
That lingering thought,
Pacing around the room
The reinvention of ideas
It is the biggest ever
Looking at the mirror
The admiration of a human being
It is the scariest thought
Am I the best?,
Have you ever cleared your heart
Feelings can be a deception
They need to be evaluated
Have ever packed your makeup bag?
A face is like a hidden mask
It needs to be taken care of
That lingering thought.