Long Baker Poems
Long Baker Poems. Below are the most popular long Baker by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Baker poems by poem length and keyword.
Down The Street, As I Was Drifting With The City's Human Tide
Down the street, as I was drifting with the city's human tide,
No uplifting, inspiration, naught to sway what's deep inside,
Unchecked be I, street-smart am I, though a drifter sort of guy,
Open to change, howbeit strange, live life high sipping mai tai,
Then the next day, I went astray, drunken mess and high on drugs,
In alleyways, some days all nights, hooker's life hitting the clubs,
Clinical checkups, plastered in makeups, living on the street,
Butcher, baker, and candlestick-maker, clients that we meet,
Once in a while, comes one in style, are mesmerize and beguile,
Be careful, and gentle, wild they are, wear an innocent smile,
Certain occasions all sobered-up, I catch a walk outside,
Wide-eyed seeing faces, humans currently drift with the tide.
2020 March 06
I've never been much of a baker
But I know how dough rises
Slow beneath the cloth
Flirting with the heat
Warmth living in a quiet bowl
Starting out raw
I know you have to twist the life out of it
Before you let it sit
The weight of my palms
Meeting the resistance of the grain
Sometimes it ends up a masterpiece
Sometimes just a wrangled mess
I know how the kitchen air grows thick
With a slight sweetness
that shakes awake the senses
I know the crackling of the cool bread
and how it soothes a room
I know how it can make a house feel like home
and just sometimes
you have to trust the process
O God of the universes of Creation as a whole
I raise my hands; and open my heart and soul.'
Prostrate I call upon your power, to bless my
Friends in these long dark hours' these days
Long abhorred stand now at their doors, I ask
You gird their spirits with strength; enlighten their
Minds that they drive hence' each evil time that
They may face, pray turn them into typhoons
That will remove each trace; those of fear, of doubt
and all false pride, beside them; I ask your power
Resides, of your angel throng assign to them
More than they ever need, these women and men.'
Andrea Deitrich Michael Tor Heidi sands Connie
Marcum Wong Judy Ball Bill Baker Robert Ligouri
Joseph May Harry Horseman Brother Jacob
Sally Eslinger Sara Kendrick Sam Kaufman Joe
Dimino Len Gasun Pangiota Romios James
Marshall Goff Billy the Kidster Vince Suzdail
Jnr Kim Rodriuges Beta Augustin Rob Carmac
Robert Lindley Brandy Nichole Laura Leiser
And last, but not least B J Legros Kelly '
Much Love to all.'
May they each put to flight any 5000 that come
Up against them in any honourable venture they
Embark upon, be that written spoken or intimated
May you be with them each one dear Lord in Jesus
Name with the Holy Spirit as witness.'
i am a pastry chef
the constant baker my lot in life
i have shelves filled with life's spices
grains from many different fields
my ovens are in constant heat
doors begging to be opened
that feed the outer shop
where the world may peruse, purchase
if it so cares
but on that end, i hardly bother
i am not interested in what life
saunters away with
more so the ghosts that come in
this kitchen for an illuminating chat
after the recipe has been prepared
and the tray safely behind the oven door
we sit and line by line remember the limns
that now rest in ages gone by
delighted i am with each new word
that passes the lips from fields long harvested
or explore a bit of myth, perfect metaphor
how can one ever be alone
when so many pastry chefs
come thru the door, accompanied by pages
that has served them well
and tho they never lift a tray
they are in every recipe
and every pastry you taste
OKC 6/27
I owned a funeral parlor and I earned a lot of bread.
I got paid a whole lot of money to cremate the dead.
Each cadaver that I got rid of earned me five hundred grand.
I cremated murder victims and for years I was in high demand.
OJ wanted to hire me.
But he didn't like the million dollar fee.
I always got repeat business from the Mob.
I fried those corpses when I turned the knob.
You'd better believe that when I cremated a body, it was much hotter than a sauna.
I'm extremely surprised that nobody ever wound up hiring me to cremate Madonna.
When I got through burning a corpse, there was never even a trace of evidence.
But the Police broke down my door as I was frying somebody and it was intense.
After being sentenced to fifty years in prison, people nicknamed me 'The Baker'.
If you need to get rid of a corpse, you'll have to call another crooked undertaker.
(This is a fictional poem)
Joseph Pujol, Flatulist
1/6/1857 - 8/8/1945
He started working as a baker
And ended up being the same
But for nearly thirty years he
Enjoyed international fame.
Using his natural talent
For quite a long while
He entertained the elite
In his own unique style.
He could break wind at will
With superb sound control
Wore a special pair of breeches
With an appropriately placed hole
And, with a series of tubes
Could play tunes on a flute
Blow out a distant candle
Imitate a duck or coot.
He gave delight to millions
With his travelling show
Cheered and feted wherever
He was invited to go
He couldn’t compete with
The noise of the first Great War
So he retired back to his shop
To become a baker once more.
So, All hail le Petomane
The man who made of it an art,
And added respectability to,
The discreetly dropped fart.
Before crowned heads of Europe
At the height of his glory
Sadly the modern world has
Almost forgotten his story.
Lovers have each other so they,
will never have to be alone.
A king has his tall stone castle,
where he can sit upon his throne.
Musicians have their instruments,
and a singer will have a song.
Religions will have holy books,
to teach them about right and wrong.
The poets have their words to give,
the baker has a cherry pie.
The dreamers have their dreams to dream,
pilots fly their planes through the sky.
The artists have their paint brushes,
and sculptors have their marbled rocks.
Teachers have their eager students,
tinkers have their toasters and clocks.
People come in many colors,
and in every shape and size.
But I can’t help but wonder when,
we’ll ever come to realize.
It’s time we stop seeing the world,
in black, white, yellow, brown or red.
Each one has a different way,
of how their book of life gets read.
What makes us think that we are right,
while others will always be wrong.
Or that we will know the best way,
to tell people where they belong.
What makes me think that I can tell,
anyone how it should be done.
When I have so many battles,
with myself that I have not won.
We must learn to love and let love,
before we’ll ever really live.
We must stop taking a bit more,
than we’re ever willing to give.
Every person should be free,
to just let their lives go around.
But all I can see are people,
just putting other people down.
MY POETRY SOUP RECIPE
Connie girl makes her poetry soup in the bedroom
accompanying her cat purring in full bloom.
Bone that little duck, add a little muck,
bone that little duck, add a little muck.
Bring it to a boil, get a taste of that chuck,
bring it to a boil, get a taste of that chuck.
That's Connie in echo.
In soliloquy,
in deep dark thought,
in intrigue,
in her own little dark world.
She lays in repose on her bed,
in the buff,
drawing inspiration as she pets her cat.
Her written words take many shapes
and forms.
Word play and innuendo is her goose to her duck.
Sexual explicit, whips and clips,
the burning candle wax are her muck to chuck.
She laughs as she writes.
A clown behind the mask,
a playful seal bobbing a beach ball,
she adds a pinch of sugar now and then,
like the daughter's joy of a bunny hop,
and the kids skiing on the bunny trail.
She even cries, too,
adding onions of her past,
tears directed at a baker that baked her goose.
You see.
I hope you do.
To complete her soup she adds an aphrodisiac,
for good cheer.
This ingredient laughter.
To get it up.
Now you see what I mean, that's Connie.
connie pachecho
1/17/17
A SADDENED EARTH
How many plagues will the earth survive, taking innocent souls to their death beds.
As their families grieve, daughters crying over fathers, children mourning their mothers.
Life is delicate like a lady bug caught in a spider web, as she tries to escape her fate.
A snowflake slowly melting in the sun.
A stray cat seeking food.
Another plague killing millions, pre-biblical diseases.
Twentieth century diseases, and cures but look at what we have become.
A destructive race that kills one another through fumbled science experiments.
What happens when the Wuhan Institute explodes will the air fill with more disease?
What about the millions and millions of people that had a life?
A Wedding Singer, perhaps the car mechanic with new born twins, an elderly baker, a pilot?
Plagues killing, as history repeats itself through a world wind of massive death, sadness, departure.
Blackened hearts who have no compassion for victims of plague, or genocide.
As many touch sister death, we pray for their peace in a higher place where they are no longer victimized by a world so cruel.
A world in which a delicate soul is here one minute and gone the next.
A world in which the lady bug barely escapes her captive.
A world in which we are more cautious with our scientific experiments.
A world where we keep our water clean so our very source of life is not tarnished by a pollutant so strong that we die.
When the world ends, and god looks down at the total destruction we have no one to blame but ourselves…. in a world so cruel.
A Flock of Seagulls, singing, wishing ( If I Had A Photograph Of You )
Blondie, reply with "Union City Blue"
City Boy, ringing 5.7.0.5.
Deep Purple, rocking with "Smoke On The Water Live"
Eagles, living " Life In The Fast Lane"
Foreigner, playing the instrumental "Tramontane"
Gerry Rafferty, walking down "Baker Street"
Heart, are just "Crazy On You" rocking sweet
Inxs, with their "Afterglow"
Journey's, " Don't Stop Believin'" under the Bay Bridge flows
Kansas, singing "Carry On Wayward Son"
Lynyrd Skynyrd's, "Red White And Blue" the patriotic one
Meat Loafs, iconic "Bat Out Of Hell"
Nazareth, toured on their "My White Bicycle"
OMD, with "Enola Gay"
Porcupine Tree, with "Trains" let your air guitar say
Queen, with my favourite "From Father To Son"
Rush, and the "Manhattan Project" that blanked out the sun
Styx's, "Blue Collar Man" one of the best that I have heard
Thin Lizzy, top it with "Don't Believe A Word"
UFO rock with "Doctor Doctor" please
Van Halen's "Eruption" Eddie plays with passionate ease
Wishbone Ash, with their "Blowing Free"
XTC, playing Nigel's XTC
Yes, campaigning "Don't Kill The Whale"
ZZ Top, and "Legs" those legs I'd love to scale
Most of my poetry is written to Music, these are some sounds i listened too, to write this ABC
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/music-2.php