These Food Free Verse poems are examples of Free Verse poems about Food. These are the best examples of Food Free Verse poems written by international PoetrySoup poets
Nightmares tore her sleep with unseen teeth.
Her small thin legs in constant cramp from dream running.
She was only a child, but not the only child,
beside her, across a gap of oaken floor, in a matching bed I slept.
Whimpering brought me near,"Tell me good things," she'd say.
"Make me sweet dreams." And I would snuggle her close.
"Warm, small, cuddly kittens," I'd chant
and "chocolate bunnies to chomp."
The memories long gone, linger on.
I remember her wet cheeks
and sheets of woe night after night,
until the wee girl began to grow,
to shield with the only things she knew food,
with food for thought and form sated
sleep came easier.
She grew through the nightmare of longing
our home, she grew to and past me
little mother, big mother,
she sang the songs of love to dolls,
to kittens, to stray dust-motes
Too sweet to linger in the lost land
where battles must be found and fought.
Too dear to go through life alone,
need...garnered, family formed
upon the rack of sustenance
and the twist of genetic curdling's
she blooms still.
Barricaded at intervals from the nightmares,
cramped with too large a soul in too fragile
a form, sister mine, friend of all.....
You are far away now
Off in fields of gold
Dappled with evenings hot velvety light
90 degrees of separation has dulled the sword
eased the pain
The grasshoppers chirp in unison to your labors but they no longer ache in your solar plexus
What sweet sorrow is loss and gain
I now walk down the very paths I have always so longed for
the dark rich peat paths of happiness
contentment oozes from these fingertips as I write and I wonder if happiness is poetry
Or does it preclude it all together
The night sky fills with stars
The stars fill with fire flies that burst out of them like infinitesimal lightning bolts
jettisoned to my soul
he and I chase storms on decks swirled in smoke
We banter and bay at one another
you are in a field of gold somewhere
a river bed
The smell of the wet earth of shore beneath you reaches me… but momentarily
dismissed as the ash of the bonfire of a week ago fire or the grill of last night’s
unbelievably tasty ribs he concocted from air for me and me alone
but then we shared with so many
Lingers on my lip tips…the bottom edge
I kiss him and mean it with all I am
Super beings are we
and our colors wash
upon the canvas of my life
melding into one great magnificent us
Spectacular are we
the creatures who so love life
we give our only begotten selves to each other
and never ever forsake
rice fields look the same except
for this one; this one who knew me
before i was born… and lying on her
fertile belly, she remembers how
the moon would lift its anklets
to flutter in light ballet steps,
tossing our mist of evening’s bamboo
for drops of rain to moisten skin
of gentle beasts.
through incantations for creatures
gathering in a bonfire of
twitters and jousts,
a carousel of birds wheels
in a rhapsody, then takes flight
along hems of air whisking
tiny lanterns near the shore,
while eggs of rivers crawl
on amber clay: how beautiful
can she be! her crown heady,
full of starlit winds
that which closes and bares
i must have twirled with her
on a cradle of blushing petals
swirling oh so feathery,
as if in a womb of constellations
only she can dare name
and bequeath grained glory
i wake up for some reason:
dusted flakes on my eyes collect
this one spectacle of tryst
with my rice field
where i have become different,
as my head ceased throbbing
in sweet surrender,
perhaps, claiming the very floor
of my navel in ripened harvest.
*thanks to Franco Gonza for this
Jared Picket's Collaboration Contest
nette onclaud and Franco Gonza
I was fourteen, energetic, idealistic, a closeted radical of sorts.
Injustice grated into my senses; suffocated my realms.
But boy was I too shy to fight it overtly.
Then I saw him… smooth, dark brown and handsome.
I didn’t care if he was an egg, I knew he was my knight and I was a damsel.
He, it was, who would battle my wars, bandage my wounds and lift
my heart from its cringing sadness.
The object of my derision being as it were Carl, the school bully.
Egg and I hatched a plan; I aimed; he missed Carl, but got the principal face on.
My elusive fantasy of liberation dissolved into a sickening rotten stench.
And thus started my nightmare in a hell called boarding school.
… I never want to see you again Egg...
Alphabet soup served piping hot
In your bowl ladle up the lot
A Poet Destroyer stirs up the soup
While A Nathan joins in the diverse group with his works
Michael Ainsley joins the conglomerate
with his poetic alphabetic tricks
Who in the bowl floats up next
Daver Austin a music whiz laying out stanzas quite appetizing
Which letter would I like to see now
Maybe some who have come and gone quite recently
Therese Bacha who pours out her soul
Poems written with passion and emotion into the bowl
James Fraser whose romantic and passionate lines
Filled the bowl with affairs of the heart
Now they've gone missing from the soup pot
Sponsor: Yasmin Khan
Contest: Meeting The Soupers
Written on October 31, 2013
Poet: Sara Kendrick
My coffee, my house,
cinnamon and hint of clove
in a full bodied french roast...
acrid, bitter, pungent deliciousness
wafts thought the air
before even the eyes are open
the buzz of conversation over
the tinkling of spoons stirring
the clanking of cup on saucer
the shooshing of steamy cream
a lush, rich aroma,
with the feeling of rightness
around the edges
like a cozy blanket of comfort
wrapping around your shoulders
Sipping in silence,
watching the sunrise,
simple serenity to start the day.
For several thousands of years
you upheld the sacredness of Nature
avoiding wanton destruction
of plant and animal life
taking only what you needed
since their sacredness was
just as important to you
as the sacredness of humanity
When harvesting wild rice for food
you let some fall into the water
to produce crops for the future
Surrounding a pack of wild sheep
while hunting in the mountains
you let a male and female escape
so by their reproductive process
they would ensure the
continuation of their species
You saw yourself as part of Nature
living in harmony with it
and not plundering it with greed
Your religion was to respect Nature
viewing all plants and animals
as parts of its magnificent fabric
Abuse of a part of it was
an abuse of the whole
Your way of life
provides valuable lessons
that can teach mankind how
to deal with today's ecological crisis
that threatens the survival
of all life on the planet
You were the genuine
Guardian of the Environment
I have always admired the way of life of the Native American Indians living in harmony with Nature before the advent of the Europeans. By extension, this applies to all indigenous peoples including the Amerindians and Polynesians. This piece is dedicated to them.
Young, tender and succulent
Smothered in cream
Yellow fluffy omelets
Garnished with herbs
Eve's pudding bathing in custard
- temptingly -
-a gourmet delight -
Served with green salad
plus chips and icecream!
A glass of white wine - Pinot Grigio
- decadence -
Madness sets in - slowly
I imagine how happy I'll be when I'm slim
A young flirty lover
With lips made of chocolate
Just waiting for kissing
Delicious and sweet
Courting my taste buds
- disgracefully -
I take firm grasp of the handle
My goal reflected in the steel of the knife,
I put the knife to its green face
Its' checkered skin;
I flex my bicep, grimace with thirst
I remember the day’s troubles,
The day’s triumphs, And I cut
The blade breaks the rough surface
Shatters the smooth oval,
And sinks deep into the soft redness beneath
Juice flows over my hands, and I forget my thoughts,
I reach in and take firm grasp of its heart
I wrench it out with red dripping fingers
Slobbering it into my mouth
The sweetness of the watermelon sends my heart racing with joy
And I reminisce that I had forgotten the plate.
P.S, for those who may not know, the sweetest part of the watermelon is the heart (hence
reaching for the heart)
© Samir Georges
Broken fruit stacked forward, with
their tender lip-soft skins
scuffed among her unspoiled sisters.
Lonely is the unripe peach
hoping to be chosen,
turning her sun side out, beckoning,
longing to be washed and tasted, and
not knowing of her immature bitterness.
They always reach back
for the fresh loaf of bread
at the back of the shelf.
its not the same for fruit.