Long Apples Poems
Long Apples Poems. Below are the most popular long Apples by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Apples poems by poem length and keyword.
Fifth dose, same overdose
I've got a nasty habit of gorging on low hanging fruit
It's fruit, right? Gotta be sweet
But these grapes are sour and apples bitter
But a rotten orange is a delicious feast
For those starved of the taste and sensation of being full
Yet that same rotten orange
Cannot be a diet unto itself
Yet for eight long years
I've satisfied myself with rotten, sour fruit
After all, I am the Sun of this greenhouse
And skin cancer awaits all who bathe in the light for too long
It's never enough and can never be enough
So long as this cycle continues
Eventually, someone is going to overdose and die
And leave the entire farm with blood on its soil
These are my familiar trappings
An addiction to touch and the need to belong
And to shoulder the weight of two lives
And break beneath it, leaving us both hollow
I don't claim innocence
As I promise far too much for one human to deliver
Yet if given the chance to be excised safely
I'll bear my weight solo gladly
Some people are not meant to be united
My role is ever more abundant as the days bleed together
To deliver content and entertainment from behind the screen
As a benevolent God that cannot be met
Many tragedies are born from gods interfering with men
And thus, he hides in his Heaven where all can be alright
And as a frail man clinging to a title for power
So too shall I hide.
Apple Pie
Look out Abby! Don't you cry!
Grandma's gonna make a pie!
Grab some flour! Don't make a fuss!
Add some fat, we'll make a crust.
Work it, roll it! One, two, three!
A little water, and we shall see.
Roll it till it's nice and flat,
Like Grandma's old communion hat.
Chop the apples add the spice,
And brown sugar, that'd be nice.
Stir them up! Now ain't this fun?
We'll add a lot of cinnamon,
Top it with another crust,
And some butter, that's a must.
Apple pie, we know it well.
Especially we love the smell.
It's best to top it, so it seems;
While it's hot with sweet ice cream.
Look out Abby! Don't you cry!
We're gonna make an apple pie.
I pricked my finger
on a thorn of Voodoo roses
felt the stab of crimson
and sweet burn of saffron
in a tequila sunrise
I smelled apples but tasted oranges
as a clock chimed with mockingbirds
in the chartreuse trill of Spring
Summer's cerise burn passed
in a steamy haze
with the glistening sting
of hazelnut sand between my toes
and the white capped kisses
of salty teal on my face
before the cresting of absinthe foothills
One chill morning dew appeared
on pointed leaves as wisps of cirrus
sped in a porcelain sky
and salt lay on my cheeks
not of bright Pacific dreams
As I groped for apricot skies
rose petals fell and curled like ashes
acrid as whiskey and bitter as gin
lost in the gust of October's amber swirl
April's scarlet whisper was silent
in Autumn umber
the seasons having passed
in a sapphire moment
with the piercing shimmer
of Voodoo roses in bloom
10th Place
The Poet's Ear Contest
Sponsor: Greg Barden
Written: 7/16/17
-The Windmills of Your Mind-
in a hot skillet
add olive oil
garlic
persimmons
onions
sauté unitl onions are translucent
add apples
fresh ginger
cabbage
mushrooms
(wilt cabbage)
remove from pan,
in the same skillet
add ground duck and ground lamb
stir to brown
add cumin, rosemary
sprinkle salt, cayenne
and bourbon
add veggies back in the pan
stir until the mixture is less drier
than it was at start.
one large pork lion.
about 5 pounds, with the butcher strings around.
using a dowel
stuff the loin with the stuffing to
fill the bottom to the top
sprinkle cayen, salt garlic and onion powder top the surface area of the loin
bake at 360 for about 1 and a half hours.
..............................................
the sauce for the pork
1 cup of vanilla ice-cream
2 cups of pork stock
1/2 cup of masala
4 tablespoons of olive oil
1 cup o9f caramelized onions
1/4 cup of green peppers
1 tablespoon of garlic
1 tablespoon of red pepper flakes
1 teaspoon of thyme
1/4 cup of chopped parsley
in a sauce pan heat olive oil add green peppers, garlic, add onions. add pork stock and reduce, add ice-cream and masala, and reduce further, add parsley and thyme and remove from heat.
severe with mash potatoes!
Kill the trees
They have no place here
They’re not gonna do anything
They never did anything for you
Kill the trees
Break the boards, demonstrate
to the students of the earth
Show them what happens
to the trees that invade our land
They shall know
that man has come.
We will rob you of everything
We replant the apples we feed on
To expand our horizons of knowledge
And then we kill you
Because we don’t need you.
Man has come to rob you of all life
Until man stands alone
and his brother is the last witness
To the death of a trillion-thousand stars
"That's utter balderdash," I loudly screamed
you can't catch a dragon with a mousetrap.
This operation proves you have no clue
we're in trouble; put on your thinking cap!
I'm sorry, but luck is not on our side
and we don't have the time for dissension.
Apples to apples we don't stand a chance
it's your life; you had best pay attention.
Jumpy, you're frightened of your own shadow
and before nightfall you'll be hearing things.
Setting traps is a total waste of time
it's a foolish plan, for dragons have wings.
You boggle my mind; I have to speak out
let’s let common sense affect the outcome.
Don't risk getting seen, until we spot it
and don’t attack it with pitchforks, that’s dumb.
We'll need to do everything in stealth mode
using a password other than guess who.
And by employing our wits, we’ll listen
for a kerplunk; dragons like water too.
And then we’ll fling out all our fishing nets
that we'll secretly prepare in advance.
And hope it gets hopelessly entangled
for I think drowning it is our best chance.
(Quatrain)
Mar. 04, 2019
`
"Amid the jagged shadows of mossy leafless boughs; "
- Samuel Taylor Coleridge
Where demon seed, long cast o’er hallowed ground
pierces the death hardened soil,
thorn and bramble gather over darkened culverts
as a magpie peers from a barren branch,
seeking chain and splint, shards of the past and refuse
cast along greasy curbs, urine stained and flocked
Street lamps flicker, spitting kerosene among
dampened dreams of misty prophecies,
dripping senseless feelings ‘pon
fractured sidewalks while muted footprints wander,
muddied tracks woven in the darkness
of another’s hope, disappearing beyond the rusted gate
And I, fearless in the cold, frigid winds
gusting towards a tomorrow’d passion,
a bough of moss creaking along desolate twigs,
tortured thoughts and worried chapters,
leafless in this winter of no vacancy
and spoiled apples call…
for I am the Night Keeper, the harbinger of moons,
restless on this eve of starless wishes,
broker of destitute destinations, waiting in
these jagged shadows of your own making
midst crying vestiges of failures found,
to lead you into the depths…
…of your deserved delusions
11/22/19
Writing Challenge 3, November - Any Form
Sponsor, Dear Heart - Wisshkobi Ode
APPLE FACTS
An apple is an apple. It is an apple to the core.
It is an apple because God made it an apple.
It needs nothing more to make it shape, taste,
or feel more like an apple; so it’s great at being an apple,
because an apple is just what it is.
No matter what color an apple it is, red, green,
or yellow, it’s still an apple.
And if it could bleed, it would have apple blood;
but it has apple seeds, apple skin and apple flesh.
If we extract its juices, we’ll have apple juice.
If we puree it, we’ll get apple sauce.
If we cut it up and make pies, the pies will be…
apple pies.
An apple is a fruit, and it should never be taught
that somehow it may be a veggie; I am sure then that it would not have to prove, apologize, or fight for the right to be fruity.
If we plant its seeds, it will produce other apples,
and that is proof enough that it was meant to be an apple. Surely we can genetically modify it to become something other than a pure apple.
But it is an apple by nature, meaning, that it’s simply natural
for an apple to be the apple it was created to be.
Fact is...an apple it is, an apple it was in the beginning,
and an apple it will always be.
And however it shall perish, whether for food for the body
or to the earth again to produce more of it’s kind,
by God and nature, it was surely an apple.
We humans can learn a lot from an apple.
There's a chill in the mornin' air as autumn in Vermont unfolds.
Splendor is revealed as trees assume their cloaks of reds and golds!
Fodder shocks gleam in the risin' sun and 'punkins' sport a tinge of rime.
Crimson and yellow apples are ready for pickin' havin' reached their prime!
In yon vale peekin' above the mornin' mists shines the steeple of a church,
Towerin' above the riot of color of its guardian trees and a grove of birch!
Skeins of snow geese wingin' southward grace the pristine sky.
The serenity of the autumn morn is shattered by their plaintive cry!
'Tis syrup renderin' time as maple trees surrender their free-flowin' sap.
Their hardy boles again withstand the trauma of an annual 'spinal' tap!
Apples are 'pressed into service' to make cider for sippin' by a cozy blaze,
As folks gather on winter eves to reminisce about the good ol' days!
Crusts of ice begin to form on streams flowin' 'neath covered bridges.
A dustin' of snow is tinted by the dawnin' sun on the yonder ridges!
Along country lanes the sun casts its mellow glow in the late afternoon.
On moonlit nights majestic stags are silhouetted against the harvest moon!
Families bundle up against the chill to enjoy hayrides and wiener roasts,
And toast marshmallows over a roarin' fire and tell of lurkin' ghosts!
An Indian summer is welcomed - the comin' winter gales it will delay.
Autumn in Vermont is more spectacular than even Mr. Rockwell could portray!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
My Grandmother’s Baking Pans
I remember peering through Nana’s broken window countless times on my way to St. Augustine’s Girls’ School in St. George. But that day felt different. As I watched the black birds pecking at her ripe golden apples in those tall, windy trees above her wooden shack, I sensed a shift.
Nana would harvest those apples for the summer. The soil-covered ones were reserved for making June plum juice—a sweet treat for us. Those apple trees and mango trees were her livelihood. When times were good, I’d assist her in packing the fruit for the market. They were always moist and incredibly delicious.
And now, here I stand, about to open a new chapter of Nana’s memories. I carefully unwrapped a faded box labeled “Nana’s Things.” Inside, an old newspaper from 1983 greeted me. But it was the Nana bread pan that caught my attention—the one with two handles and an old burnt crumb lodged in the corner. As it fell into my hands, I couldn’t help but smile and shed a tear. Softly, I whispered, “Hello to you too, Nana.”
my heartfelt recollections evoke a sense of nostalgia and connection to family traditions. Keep those memories close—they’re a testament to the love and warmth what Nana’s baking pans held. ??