Short Disused Poems

Short Disused Poems. Below are examples of the most popular short poems about Disused by PoetrySoup poets. Search short poems about Disused by length and keyword.


Premium Member Toy

Tarnished, cracked, and parched without your love.  
Oh, why hast thou forsaken my devotion?  
Your impulsivity led to my demise, accumulating dust among disused collections.
© Sara Jama  Create an image from this poem.
Form: Acrostic


Premium Member Checking Out: One's Own Soul

Listen to poem:
Rhapsodic impulses of skin suffused
Exulted passions rendering, disused 

Intensely emotional of flushed amor 
A mere filament lisp of a lustful gore

Susurration; within my own sad soul
Mellifluous lullabies 'till I, rest whole
Form: Couplet

Charlieku

Syllables 2-3-4

sparkling
asteroid;
nature’s fireworks.
_______________

sunlight
sweeping fog;
colorful life.
_______________

Syllables: 3-2-4

disused house;
old cage,
hanging bird's nest.
_______________

Date - 18th October 2018

Contest - Charlieku by  Charles Messina
Form: Haiku

Character Change

He lost his cheque book
then blamed me
throwing all his disused newspapers around
Dementia was acting fast
I left, glad to disavowal myself
from this character change,
claiming he didn't want to see me tomorrow.
Availing myself to several phone calls
he eventually rang me
on my landline by mobile
and like a bad dream, venom's folly, was shot
age

Medical

I am in that basement ward,
the disused one,
the one they park you in
on the way to the morgue.

The usual clutter of broken wheelchairs,
torn screens,
long defunct electrical equipment.

I sense that this is where you are left
until they figure out what to do with you.

In the morning I go to work.

I want to be somewhere else,
when they come to get me.


Premium Member An Old Shovel

Old
Digger, lifter, mover, slicer
Friend of ScoopDog and Dugger Graves
Lover of landscaping, building, and gardening
Who feels less sharp, disused, and edgy
Who fears dull blades, broken handles, and rust
Who would like to see verdant gardens, straight fence posts, and freshly laid sod
Resident of the junk section on the old wood fence just outside the tool shed
Shovel
© Mark Toney  Create an image from this poem.
Form: Bio

Vacant Perdition

Vacant Perdition


Reeling listless
Empty story
Gazing, endless
Mandatory
Purgatory
Muted motion
Thinking sorely
Null devotion

Sudden urges
Fleeting feelings
Will emerges
Sailing ceilings
Disused dealings
Mislaid purpose
Broken meanings
Without service

It’s insipid
Bouncing bluster
Wisdom wicked
Nothing mustered
Lacking luster
Sempiternal
Filibuster
Silence vernal
Form:

Abridged

it happened just as I say it did:

I was ten or sometime after.
late for school,
running uphill

then I stopped running

and walked into an open field
knowing I was nobodies problem.

I left town following a disused railway track
and never turned back

except the ending of this story
has been rewritten by time

for that same day,
like a wet dog
coming in from the rain
I returned.

Premium Member - Longevity -


  I know a lady who is 99 years aged
  she will be 100 by winter
  Every day she walks to the disused post office
  - an hour each way

  Eats, drinks healthily ... 
  and does all the housework herself
  Even in the garden she is diligent
  You should have seen her roses

  In the evening she has a glass of port wine
  and a piece of chocolate liqueur
  It gives her a peaceful night's sleep
  - without medicine
Form: Narrative

In my Room

In my room with its broken latch
There's postcards of hens and foxes
and a disused TV set
There's a collection of analogue cameras
Some I use
Some of my lightbulbs are out
There's a book of Trakl and his Blue Melancholy
and Sylva Plath with her German Mannequins
 There's albums out of time
Susan Pilsbury and Jimmy Campbell
You see  the past comforts me
There's poetry of my own
some bonded others nestling on my cupboard
I hope to get published soon

Nectar

I had become less watchful
in this honeycombed body,
blind behind a thousand windows;
windows boarded up, abandoned,
not disused but closed off,
the way a hive becomes blind
one window at a time.

It is the slow drowning of long winter
that opens fusty shutters.
for now is the 'becoming' time,
a time for the winching resurrection
of awakening trees,
of honey-suckling days.

I have windows and behind each one
there is a lively hum and light,
and golden eyes polished bright.

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