Long Baked Poems
Long Baked Poems. Below are the most popular long Baked by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Baked poems by poem length and keyword.
‘Twas way back in them days
when the ranch owner’s ways
was just about the only law there was around
Rancher’s money was king
and gun violence reigned
till marshal Ben Miller made his way into town
Well that town was real rough
till Ben said ‘twas enough
that’s when he used his guns to bring law to the street
But there's always that one
thinks he's fast with his gun
would soon find himself face down covered with a sheet
For the next twenty years
Ben had kept the streets clear
of any no-gooders that might drift into town
Then folks started to say
Ben was showing some gray
maybe his old age had started to slow him down
The councilmen all met
said it is with regret
that we tell you it's time for you to settle down
They baked him a nice cake
a few speeches they'd make
and introduced him to the new marshal in town
Town folk gathered and cheered
told him how twenty years
was a long time to stay on this side of the grave
Ben took a look around
rode his horse outta town
with his new gold watch and the few dollars he'd saved
That is often the way
a cowboy's life got played
long ago when the country was still just a pup
When a trusted hired hand
gave his life for the brand
honest and loyal was the way he was raised up
If you think this is sad
or Ben's life turned out bad
well then this might be a little good news for you
Was the very next week
Men lay dead in the street
they had robbed the bank and stole the mayor's horse too
When they tried to get Ben
to come marshal again
sure don't take no book smarts to know how he replied
Well, he asked widow Jones
if she'd like to go along
and off to the wide open Montana they'd ride
Was a day in March when
Jasmine married old Ben
Though they had only been courtin' about a year
Said they was gonna go
where the tall grasses grow
gonna try their hand raisin a few cows and steers
Well they made it alright
through frozen winter nights
mostly cause they hadn't built up much of a herd
When the next spring turned mild
it brought both calves and child
after that first year their ranchin' blood had been stirred
It’s been thirty years since
granpap left Defiance
now I stop alongside his grave near' every day
I watch over his spread
more than five thousand head
as they grow fat right here on the Rockin’ Bar J
Ask the fingers holding
an aloof pen.
Ask, where its passion has gone,
ambition has fled.
The fingers will be still.
How...
the empty eyes will look
at the pale pages
yoked with numbers in black...
Then,
just observe...
how a curve widens on the face
as they gaze out of the window...
The far...the farthest!
Fast, it dies out.
A swarm of feelings from the heart's cavern,
pick up their last daring flight,
to die at last
of thirst
of love...
These eyes will never dream.
Words will never be welcome.
One day they will be dumb as stars,
And grey as time.
They'll give up the race,
race to superiority.
Cold the heart as ever,
will sleep in a colder body.
Frozen as dreams they were,
will leave the turbid eyes.
Will leave,
for the worms to delight
in a body so baked in plight!
And Time?
Will it mourn or joy?
That it could not find
the fragrance of a budding mind
before it too was damned.
Lost forever
in its quicksand...
I can see the smiles all over your face and something is telling me that you have found a new date, what could be so revealing when a new year’s resolution throws you all over the place, you walk by in a hurry with a pleasing personality and there is something so different about you it is as if your long-awaited dreams have come through.
Your spirit is bold, your steps are firm, and you are ready to take on the world. I can’t tell if it’s real because I am viewing it from the side of my computer screen.
Some things look larger than life and what you see on the screen can be very deceiving. I can put on an eye glass on your face, and I can change the color of your race, I can make you look younger and make you look stronger with the technology in my fingers.
I can see your smile evoking pity with the divine and there is something different about you that cause everyone to click when you start a conversation, you have that mesmerizing voice, baked in the spirit of manipulation and if you asked for a wish, I would tell you that you already have it in your dish.
There is something that is different about you that cause me to think, It is the way you maneuver your body when you stand at the kitchen sink, the brief flash back moment you had holding the umbrella and standing next to the natural juice vendor at the street corner.
I kept seeing that image everyday with you holding the mug on the StreetSide and the rats running around in the bushes and the dogs barking in the streets. You can lip sing in South Africa and your voice can be heard all the way in America, you can shout from the back bushes with the same voice and the sound can come out from someone else’s mouth, let the ventriloquist tell you what it is all about, some voices are deceiving not everyone can sing the amazing grace hymn.
More than a century ago when civilization was just getting out, men of valor walked upon the face of the earth searching for an answer; they got it quite alright, but they had to put up a long vicious fight and then they walk around the bewildering town scattering garbage all around trampling the dignity of the city to the ground and the earth began to shake.
I can see the smile on your face, it’s as if you are holding up the entire human race; your heart is big, your spirit is bold but deep down the wounds are festering in your soul.
Its off to grandma's old fashion cottage we go;
past snow covered pine trees all in a row.
To her humble abode adorned in holiday charm,
And two grey horses inside the red painted barn.
Inside a crackling fire warming- nothing to compare.
With flickering flames dancing with flair,
Mesmerizing grandpa with a hypnotic spell.
And up the chimney smoke bid's farewell.
Grandma's cooking in her colorful blouse
the smell of baked bread drifts about the house,
And Grandpa snoring, asleep in his comfy old chair
in a plaid shirt and head with no hair.
Outside freshly fallen snow- a winter wonderland,
With frolicking young children mittens on hands
playing with vigor on freshly fallen snow
Their rosy red cheeks fully aglow.
Carolers singing along the snow covered street
each one adorned with a smile to greet
With sleigh bells jingling
and people joyously singing.
The aroma of roasted chestnuts swirls in the frosty air
On Maple street near the town square.
The White Chapel's steeple reaching toward the sky
A glorious symbol to the faithful eye.
Inside the tiny White Chapel with lights burn bright
a beacon to the world on this most glorious of nights.
Inside rich harmonious voices with glory to sing
As flying wild geese with the moon on their wings.
The parson adorned in modest vestment
As the choir sings- a worthy testament
Outside its silent, still and calm
Inside the congregation seeks the Savior's healing balm.
Cheerful hearts gratitude they bring
patiently waiting to celebrate the birth of their king.
For it came upon a mid night clear
as their voices raise for the Lord to hear.
Inside grandma's cottage on this snowy Christmas Eve
snuggled warmly asleep in their bed
waiting for Santa's with presents filled in his sled.
Billy, Tommy, Freddy and Steve
Next to the fireplace for Santa to find.
A glass of warm milk and cookies to dine.
Upstairs Sally and Sue unable to sleep
waiting for Santa to get a sneak peek.
Christmas Tree lights blink with a fury
the children wanting Santa to hurry
And mom and dad quietly sitting
Grandma in her rocker quietly knitting.
Decorated stockings hung with care from the fireplace
Sally’s and grandpa's adored with red and white lace
photos of grandchildren that grew up too fast
Grandmother's cottage with memories of Christmases past.
It's a wonder young children still turn out all right
With the stuff that gets crammed in their heads every night.
Things like visions of sugar plum fairies and sprites,
Or a thousand tales of Arabian delights,
A frog who turns prince with a kiss from a lass,
A girl who goes dancing in slippers of glass,
A cow that gets high and jumps over the moon,
A crockery dish that elopes with a spoon,
A boy who can fly but refuses to grow,
A difficult girl who plants maids in a row,
A magician who wants to trade old lamps for new,
A woman so poor she must live in a shoe,
A waif who sells matches out in the cold,
A king who can touch things and turn them to gold,
A dog, an old woman, a cupboard that's bare,
A girl locked in a tower, a ladder of hair,
A magical wheel that spins gold out of straw,
A guy helps a lion with a thorn in its paw,
A girl wearing red visits grandma who's resting,
Finds a wolf in her nightdress and Granny digesting,
Three kids and a wardrobe, three men share a tub,
A brave tailor kills seven mean flies with a club,
An archer makes merry with men in the woods
While relieving the rich of their money and goods,
Kind huntsman, fair princess, a vain evil queen,
Seven dwarves, and a prince who gets caught in between,
Hateful fairy, a baby, a hundred-year snit
'cause her name's accidentally left off a guest list,
A piper who lures out of town rodent varmints,
An emperor with new but invisible garments,
A farmer's wife butchers three handicapped mice,
A house drops on top of a witch who's not nice,
While another with gingerbread children seduces
Then gets baked by some twins in her own savory juices,
A giant and a beanstalk, a cat who wears boots,
A wolf who's outfoxed by three pigs in cahoots,
A bad little boy who sticks fingers in pies,
And another of wood whose nose grows when he lies.
There are others, of course, far too many to mention,
But I hope these will serve to excite some attention.
With stories like these knocking 'round in their heads,
It's no wonder if kids toss and turn in their beds.
Yet throughout countless ages these stories survive,
Kids listen, and dream them, and still wake up alive,
No worse for having been charmed or affrighted,
Imaginations are stoked, little minds are ignited,
And continue to hold them in dear veneration
As they pass them along to the next generation.
I wake up another day on my bed
A bed crudely made of stones and rocks
It's dark outside as usual, and again
I'm awaken by tremors and aftershocks
It's the same from the day I was born
There was no one to care for me, except her
She always shelter me and clothe me
Who is she, you ask; she is my Good Mother
The days are hot and dangerous here
The sun burns and blisters my skin; I cannot go out
I have to remain in the womb of the Mother
From sunrise to sunset, in a fetal position throughout
In the night I roam for food with efforts futile
Many a times I starve, few lucky instances I eat soil
There is no animal, no bird, no river, no lake, no tree
Not even a hint of grass, which makes my blood boil
Where there used to be trees, there are withered roots
Where there used to be grass, there is scorched earth
Where there used to be water, there is baked land
And I haven't seen a single animal since the time of my birth
There are no rains to fight the endless summers,
No flowers to distinguish scents and colors,
No sounds which feel music to your ears,
There is only darkness to see and all you feel are tremors
The mountains give you a view of agony and distortion
The earth has opened up with pockets of hell inviting you
The air is stale and you feel dizzy when you breathe
The world has shades of red and black 'stead of green and blue
Today I walk the scorched earth staring at Hell below
Wondering what the Devil might be thinking of me
Cursing my destiny, when I tripped over something
And I saw a defiant sapling aspiring to be the biggest tree
I saw it more closely, watched the young one fight all odds
It had strong roots stretching far beyond the horizon
I wondered where it found that much energy and life
And it came to me, that it was the Mother who had it chosen
A Mother who creates the best out of her children
A Mother who always cares for all, young or mature
A Mother who always gives but asks for nothing in return
Who is her, you ask; I say - She is Mother Nature
Unlike God, she never forgets her children,
Unlike Humans, she is never selfish,
Unlike me, she never gives up,
Unlike mortals, she will never perish.
A new world will rise on the ashes of old,
Life will again find a humble abode,
This time there will be no races and religions,
Because Nature will be our "GOD".
Form:
(alternately titled: impossible mission goes awry
probably mortal enemy cast spell binding jinx)
Both mental versus
physical tasks necessitate
laser sharp attentiveness
triggered within blinks
similarly on par when people toast
momentary instance utter silence
before more'n one
wine glass simultaneously clinks
cheering hurray, especially
if delicate circumstance
incorporates telecommunications downlinks
critical vital communique transmitted courtesy
think outlier (christened
Saint Matthew Scott Harris)
with acute instincts
held hostage between warp,
and woof fifth of dimension
far away beyond where
outer limits exhibits kinks
nsync with twilight zone
dwell alienated ratfinks
resembling authentic animated
Doctor Seuss characters
where one after another
third eye blind winks.
Lame excuse told cosmic speck (me)
sending yours truly on wild goose chase
an underhanded way to rub
inept feeble poetaster punster
out webbed wide world existence
purportedly great eats boasted
deep inside black hole sun pub
must make posthaste
to nearest galactic grubhub
mission control haint made no flub
boot deliberately thought
ineffectual doling out futile drub
cuz mister flibbertigibbet (me)
ostracized from highly selective club.
The aforementioned synopsis and
ultimate banishment cheered with big bang
decreed courtesy kangaroo court
constituting beastie boy gang
think star wars movie,
where farcical charges trumped
offering accused two choices,
either to hang
suspended (think piñata) and beat
to (fictional) pulp
torturers obviously ignoring pang
of utter emasculation, but rather sang
a song of sixpence*
while downing flasks of vintage tang
crafty entrepreneur William A. Mitchell in 1957
phallic drinking vessels
resembling Chewbacca's oversize wang.
---------------------------------------------------
*Lyrics
Sing a Song of Sixpence
BY MOTHER GOOSE
Sing a song of sixpence,
A pocket full of rye,
Four and twenty blackbirds
Baked in a pie.
When the pie was opened
The birds began to sing—
Wasn't that a dainty dish
To set before the king?
The king was in the counting-house
Counting out his money,
The queen was in the parlor
Eating bread and honey,
The maid was in the garden
Hanging out the clothes.
Along came a blackbird
And snipped off her nose.
BOTTLE DANCE
Across my land, abysses gnaw at automobiles,
From the foot of the mountain,
To the shores of the oil fountain.
Certificated youths drinking piss to mellow their brains,
Clutching at wheels, dodging bumps into fog lights.
“Stupid, ing dog” curse survivors of amputation “you bastard”
“Who cares, you swine” retorts I the offender
just before crashing into the next one.
In my shack, counting my yields and sighing,
evading the burning eyes of hungry breeds.
How did I ever get here?
In the ring stood I, surrounded by Foncha, Endeley, Jua and Ntumazah
Um Nyobe sang the UPC song and they danced.
They danced the bottle dance.
Sandwiching in the center, on the slaughter slab, my motherland.
Nigeria to the left, La Republique to the right,
Trampling upon outright independence.
Foncha danced and Endeley danced and Nyobe sang and Britain watched.
The tune was clear, the rhythm was jazzed but the lyrics were blur;
Whence had a nation’s independence,
Been conditioned upon attachment to already independent states?
So how did we ever get here?
A loaf of bread baked in the flames of WWI
And served into the plates of Imperial barons of foreign insanity
Too blind to the tongues of oneness.
Drawing a line far far away in the halls of mirror
That tore grandmother’s breasts apart.
The story of the Ewes of Togoland
Was being whispered in her land while she slept.
A line dragged across the highlands of the Adamawa and drained into the Atlantic,
Sullied the virginity and orthography of kamerun.
Grooming a set of dysfunctional twins through years of alien doctrines,
Only to be reunited in an unholy matrimony called Cameroon or Cameroun.
Testaments of tongues foreign like those on a devil’s Pentecost,
That sowed seeds of immortal division.
So this is how really I got here!
A son deprived of the warmth of a Mother
Drained of her milk,
Tapped and shipped offshore.
Scorned and oppressed by a brother,
His name slowing fading away from the sands of time.
And now, the land of bottle dancers clamour for a new dance:
For I know how we got here and I too want to dance;
Federation to the left, secession to the right,
Trampling upon the pseudo 1972 re-unification.
The blood of the brave pipe the tunes
And rhythms of gunshots meet hallelujah,
Sang in a coffin.
You pop my heart so heavily to the rhythm of
“like a prayer”from Madonna.
You flare the stars at night
gleaming towards darkside.
You flame the solar sphere; before you,
I became ichor.
You wade your way into heaven;
you're a goddess.
Night with your scarlet lips,
is untamed.
A fluid from your cup is juicy
for it sends me
to cloud nine
dreaming of us in a canvass of artwork
made by rosy poetry
in a setting of dramatic show:
I, Suleiman
You, Ada
playing in Atlantics.
I come with a song,
make from it a dulcet medley
reciting how I found mathematics
at the doorstep to your heart;
my discovery of indices
sorting pleasures beneath your apartment
In a dark red light,
flaky as a clinker.
Woman, you must have thought the instruments
to twang at night
into something that crawls to the paw of the gale
knifing my ears.
call it an act of love
because at your feet
music ends and kick off.
My discovery of you is a quicklime
melding sacred love with holy kisses
over burnt and baked lies
without a draft of smoke
forming cloudburst of rue.
Allow me from your city stare
at roses crashing beneath your waist
affection that goest before your thighs
hallowed by thy bosom
into the gates of confession.
Allow me to snog thee gently
feeding on thy hipped blonde
to your gratification
lounging my spearhead along your riverside
to stir, montarily, moaning
like the touch of flowers.
Tonight woman,
I bring you a song.
Like the sun, crawling to buzz the horizon
I reveal to you the lips of a man
wearing the colour of red for the
eyes.
Do not go up
swinging between the stars
for I without you is tradegies of baked pictures.
Excel Chinagorom Michael
You have been golfing your time away when
When your authority is dying and babies are crying
You have been golfing your time away when there is
no coffee in the pantries, and no food on the kitchen table
You have been golfing your time away when the
baby’s milk is spoiling in the kitchen sink and the
pigeons are dying. The roosters are crowing aloud
and the lions and tigers are gallivanting about with
a headless crown .Christmas and Thanksgiving is
a time for family gathering but millions had nothing
to share because many people were not there. Some
have been torn apart, others are left in the dark while
others are still six feet below the ground and their spirits
are prowling around . You are golfing your time away
When the postal service man and the courier service van
did not get an extra dollar to add salad to their
evening supper. The nights are cold, the rooms are dark
and the rich is singing and shouting amen hallelujah over a lavishing dinner. Listen carefully to what I have to say and don’t let your pride get
in the way. You must pay attention to what is transpiring around and read the messages that nature is sending you.
The big and bold the bright, smart and beautiful is the
the cardboard laptop woman who have been feedings you
I need your help with enhanced technology and resources to feed my belly
They have sworn to cut off my head and replaced it with a chicken head
but the chicken head fell to the ground before you could get to my
throne .Keep your eyes on the ground and look carefully at the hole
It is difficult to roll the ball in and you cannot throw the dice in
The ground is baked with rum punch and fruit cake
You have missed the shot because the covering around the hole and the hot grass on the lawn was too shallow .The heat is chiming in and you have to pay for your sins. You have been golfing your time away and don’t have time to pray. You tweet bad news in the middle of the night and your ego have made many sighed. Look up at sun and tell me what you see? the sun is shining with intensity in the sixth degree, and the galaxy is moving ferociously around you .It is time bury the guns and close the chapter behind you. The golf hole is closed and at midnight the lights will go out and darkness will descend upon the golf courts.