Long Bacon Poems
Long Bacon Poems. Below are the most popular long Bacon by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Bacon poems by poem length and keyword.
There are pieces of a quilt, that I still call my home
They are kept alive in memory, and are there to keep me warm
When the chill of frigid winter, or the still of an afternoon
It wraps me up in comfort's arms with love that fills the gloom
I close my eyes, and can see it there, and I am home again
The house, each room, my family, the place it all began
There are grassy acres, with long white fences and a house with no pretentions
Standing in the morning sun, a pinto horse is watching me and clamoring for attention
A small corral… my Dad in Levi's…and a pitchfork heaped with hay
A barn, some stalls, a chicken house, a clothes line, filled with white sheets, waving
Sweet fragrant fields, alfalfa rows, five peach trees in pink bloom
Across the road a melon field, intertwining through the loom
Inside the house, some bacon fries, we hear morning radio drama
Clattering of dishes, and the chattering soap-stars, and at the sink, would be my Mama
The kitchen decked in a sunshine yellow, as warm as melted butter
A breakfast nook, the table set, and a pile of school day clutter
A living room, a window wide, where a mountain towers over
That was way back when, where I began.....and now it's something other....
A wedding ring, and years went by, the home had changed, and so did I...
A different place, with acres too, and long white fences, and a house with no pretentions
Standing in the morning sun, are oak groves, fruit trees, clamoring for attention
There are gardens woven with flowers, and some growing things to eat
Clattering of dishes, and a CD playing,...Sweet!...
In the living room, from the window wide, many mountains live here too...
Living on the northern tip,....my California view
Some things have changed, some things have not
I've been quite lucky.....for what I've got
This home I knew, the quilt I’ve sewn, it keeps me warm, where I call home...
Me and my fellow buckaroos have had a real rough day.
Plumb tuckered out, we still are not ready to hit the hay.
Our bacon, the beans and biscuits have all been gobbled up.
My coffee now is growing cold inside my old tin cup.
Sitting around the fire, it feels good to just lean back.
A harmonica my friend is taking now from his "war sack."
melancholy is his tune. Two cowpokes who have guitars
are joining in with my friend Jake. I look up at the stars.
I want to liven up the scene, so I sing them my new song -
the one I wrote a month ago. The others sing along.
I love this life and being on this current cattle drive.
Not married yet, I'm saving up. At least I can survive!
It's time to get our sleep in. My bedroll's spread out. By and by,
I'll be deaming about my gal Sal beneath this starry sky!
Jan. 27, 2021
Jan. 27, 2021 for Line Gautheir's 'Cowboy Poetry' Poetry Contest
two white chairs sit waiting for the newlyweds in cabin sixty-two
they sleep late, most of us early risers now realize
gorgeous Bahama waters are bright turquoise this morning
tasty bacon smells waft from the D’Agosto family’s cottage
nature's calmness oozes in well with the Zen ambiance of whiteness
white sky, white chairs, white sand, and therefore paper-white bleach.
I am wishing the chairs were red, but I am an artist who loves color.
beautiful contrast of the turquoise sea to the beach is breathtaking.
my friend begins taking photographs. I smile at her enthusiasm.
this is our last day here, but we have never had a sky like this.
I am not sure if these enormous circles of white gray mean rain.
But I am sure the natives know.
Applesauce Cake
Once again autumn’s jubilee of gold and umber leaves
Drifts on a lazy Sunday morning rain
Past kitchen windows
Where scents of coffee and frying bacon
Walk hand in hand
Then race each other up the stairs
To look for dreamers missed by the dawn
While aunts and uncles,
Cousins, sisters, brothers,
Fathers, mothers
Squeeze side by side into the breakfast nook,
Touched by the shadow of Annette’s camellia tree
Leaves tousled by the hand of autumn,
To breakfast over fall chrysanthemums
When Grammie clears her throat,
Midst suspended coffee cups,
Declaring:
“This year I don’t think I’ll bake applesauce cake
For Thanksgiving.”
Gentle rains thunder in the silence
Before stunned voices jump to life again
Envisioning a holiday without
Her crunchy pickles,
New made jellies,
Opened for the harvest festival,
Completed by the allspiced cake
Studded with plump summer raisins
And toasted nuts;
“All right.” she smiling says,
Looking deep into her coffee cup,
A gypsy searching for the future,
“If you really want applesauce cake….”
One voice resounds:
“We really want applesauce cake!”
Outside the passing wind
Pats down the season’s
Ruffled hair
While serenity settles back
Into her place at breakfast
Once again.
When morning comes and with the dawn
a rooster crows announcing you.
I stretch and yawn, and wash my face,
Then shuffle down to start the race.
The bacon fries, the paper comes
I let the dog out in the sun
I felt a shiver, in my bones
but soon it leaves, the chill is gone.
I look beyond the window's view
The coffee perks to welcome you
You level out, with revelry,
Your beauty takes my breath away
Old friend! Gold sunrise of the skies,
You peep, and nod while passing by.
You come each day to warm my face
You race across all time and space
Old, brilliant friend, of rising sun…revive the crevice of my soul!
Sail the rooftops, over lawns, over the crest of the early dawn
Warming,………greeting,…………….skimming along…….
You come each day, to warm my face, you comfort me and show the way
From morning’s journey, long past noon, from east to west, a well worn path
You race across the time and space, an ancient clock, while keeping pace
And as the twilight comes too soon, you blaze a trail with redder hues
Although I know how soon you’ll go… I wonder why I miss you so…?
My brilliant friend, the setting sun, it’s time to wave a sad goodbye
I wonder why, at end of day, you play for me, a sadder song?
Yet still, I’m here, in silent awe, to watch you burn away
Slowly………fading………………………………………gone
Choices
There are so many choices to be had
When ordering a sandwich
What kind of bread
What kind of meat or any meat
What kind of cheese or any cheese
Whether to have sprouts or not
Whether to have a pickle or not
Whether to go with a classic peanut butter
And something sandwich
I loved peanut butter sandwiches
As a kid
Peanut butter and sweat pickles were my favorite
Peanut butter and banana is good also
Peanut butter and strawberry jam
What a delightful memory
My current favorite
Is a BLT with sprouts, avocado, and kosher dill pickles?
Heirloom red tomatoes one slice per each half
Avocado one half per each half
One half pickle on each half
Bacon cooked just right – well done but not black
Sprouts and lettuce just right
Timamook Yellow smoked cheder cheese
On each half
On Gluten Free bread
with chipotle mayo
And Dijon mustard
Cut in half
Truly a sandwich made in heaven
And bacon makes everything
Taste so damn nice
And God if you are reading this poem
You had better prepare them for me
Or Heaven will not be worth it
Does Satan serve BLT sandwiches
I wonder
Probably not
Probably you become the bacon
In his hell sandwiches
published in Duane's Poetree
Peeling splintered wood,
rust and creeper - a door.
When pushed, it dragged on the ground,
opening a gap just enough for a boy
to slip through.
Inside, partly mulched newspapers,
their edges still dry enough
to flap in the wind.
There are other misprints,
dead birds smudged by decay
desiccated wings
trembled by feathering gusts.
There is no house,
only foundation and rubble.
Sinewy weeds, bacon rinds
and other grinds
spiral among overgrown stems,
casting parasitic shadows.
Then a real find;
a plastic pen with a lady on it.
If you turned it upside down
her clothes fell off.
He felt that a door
had ushered him through
to where the flightless flew,
a place where the world of adults
became open graves.
That night,
he looked at the naked lady,
seeing her more as a door
than any plaything.
A door
he now curiously pushed against.
A spark of inspiration
Ignites in my mind, listening...
To life on a daily basis.
Some women walk by me on the street
And I hear their heels clack.
I love to listen to the autumn wind howl;
I see it flap an American flag mounted
High atop a roof. When the wind blows a whistle
Dry foliage does rustle and my wind chimes
Does tinkle from time to time.
How wonderous to pause and absorb
Sounds in and out of home.
I hear the long hand of the clock tick,
Bacon on a hot griddle sizzle;
Sometimes I hear a crow caw
Some mornings, I hear chickadees chirp.
In the dead of twilight, crickets shriek.
Impatient drivers whiz by on the road
So fast their car tires screech.
I listen to life, daily. Preferably out in nature.
Onomatopoeia Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Emile Pinet
Date written: 10/31/2021
There’s a farmers market near campus.
A young couple has a pizza oven on a trailer.
They make a breakfast pizza - bacon, mozzarella
some egg and green peppers. It’s SO crispy and delicious.
ALL I had to do this morning was say “breakfast pizza!”
and six of us were ready to head out fifteen minutes later.
Let’s wax poetic, shall we?
There are some young ladies who live in a dorm
sometimes it seems like they only have studies
but once and a while on a Saturday or Sunday
if we have our druthers, we get out, in swarm
and find ourselves some pizza-like brekkie.
.
.
Songs for this:
PIZZA by Oohyo
Le Breakfast Club de Paris by Gabrielle Chiararo
When I’m lying down.
And my arm falls asleep.
I’m breathing in my sleep.
I can predict-
Breakfast cooking tomorrow morning.
Bacon, eggs, and pancakes.
Everywhere, covering the table in stacks.
I can do anything.
Forcing everything to happen at once.
Then it does.
I’m the only one who knows how to fix the leaky faucet.
By tearing a hole in the wall.
Everything does happen at once, sometimes.
Flooding the kitchen.
Happened all at once.
While I’m sitting up straight on the edge of my bed.
Everything is brand new.
Even the dusty old lamp.
I don’t question how,
Everything is slippery and awkward.
Everyone is nice to me during the day.
But when I dream, they’re mean.
I have to explain how I’m feeling sometimes.
I have to fall asleep tonight.
I’m a bad person.