Long Beans Poems
Long Beans Poems. Below are the most popular long Beans by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Beans poems by poem length and keyword.
I sometimes have cruel nightmares
about losses unbearable.
It's like my subconscious
just sits back planning
what could really get to me, given that
ordinary monster nightmares are fun
and fail to make me wake up feeling horrible.
Elsetimes my subconscious
seems merely to be writing comedy skits.
Rhonda and I were in some public auditorium
and I couldn't stop farting. Loudly.
A notice came over the intercom
announcing that someone had stolen
the extremely valuable gold beans.
"Our golden beans have gone missing,"
said the loudspeaker,
as a long noisy fart eases out of me.
I look around and say, "What?
I didn't take your gawdamn golden beans!"
FLFLFLFL!!!
What exactly is home and where is it? And why is it vital that we know about 'Home'?
And how will I really know when I have arrived home? Some say that home is the place where one was born.
Others say that it's the place where one's story begins. Is it just a geographical place of origin or something more?
If something more or something less, what's the more or the less?
The main road and railroad tracks were there long before I arrived late summer of 1949. That huge rustic tower overlooking everything and the big seed and fertilizer building where we threw rocks against the coca cola sign are gone forever, and so is the big store in the center of town where we bought ice cream bars and sodas for a dime. Those geographical images of my place of origin are mostly still intact, and the agricultural crops of corn and beans are still being produced, but most of the people are gone.
My childhood friends and relatives, most of whom I have not seen in more than 50 years have all moved North, South, East, and West. And I guess my move west and the scattering of all the rest was best for most because I have never once heard any sounds of protest. I do suppose that the lighting bugs we often saw and the crickets we heard late at night chose to remain.
In my case, I guess when you sum it all up, I'd have to say that home is where your heart is, and I took it with me everywhere I went. I can often hear the ending of a song I heard many years ago. "And I like where I am today and this is where I'll stay". For me, the first part of that line is true, and would to God the second part was too but unfortunately, it holds no promises for me.
06172019PoSoup
They said the cowboy way of living
has withered away and is long gone
Least that's what I seen in the movies
and heard in all them old country songs
They tell me bout how them olden days
and the way cowboy's life used to be
Is now just faded pages in books
of folklore and revered history
So I headed out to Montana
so that maybe I might understand
Just how them old cowboys could make it
livin their life out there on the land
Well lo and behold I could hardly
believe the things these eyes of mine saw
To my surprise you see, all them old
cowboy ways weren't gone after all
They are still out cowpokin' just like
time for them has never had to change
Still a ropin’, ridin’ and brandin’
and pushing them cows across the range
Still searching for a few straying cows
from rugged canyons, mountains and streams
A rounding them all together for
dehorning and branding so it seems
Still bustin’ all them ‘onry ole broncs
that's as wild as the hot prairie wind
Out riding alone along miles of
them fences looking for breaks to mend
Still singing all those old cowboy songs
while gathered around the campfire light
A telling their tall tales of glory
underneath a bright rustler’s moon light
Still feeling the scorching summer's sun
that burns the grass and dries out the sage
Giving everything they can muster
for a few beans and almost no wage
Still working hard and loving harder
the way that cowboys have always done
I know I will ride alongside them
because a cowboy I have become
The great life of the western cowboy
that everyone thought was dead and gone
May have had its place in history
but I say the best is yet to come
There’s a squirrel in the vending machine,
I’ll bet that he thinks he is very keen.
He’s eating up all of the jelly beans!
He’s the worst irritant that I have seen.
He’s devoured all the animal crackers,
pretzels and banana chips, that slacker;
a thieving fur ball of a nut cracker,
who has become a snack machine hacker.
Such a formidable machine invader,
an uninvited and loathsome raider.
I wish I had baby alligator,
to fix him good for stealing my ‘taters!
But as I gaze upon his chomping snoot,
my heart melts because he is very cute.
I suppose my anger is really moot;
perhaps he’d like a bite of Kiwi fruit.
It was out in Venezuela when I ran into this sailor
He was sitting at the bar, right next to me
He was rugged he was mean and he wasn’t very clean
But I listened when he spoke about the sea
There were stories there were tales, of the hunt for killer whales
When his leg was bitten off below the knee
How en route to Senegal they were shipwrecked in squall
He survived for sixteen weeks, tied to a tree
Came the time in Kathmandu, him the captain and the crew
Were becalmed for seven days, and in a stew
So they hauled him up the mast, where they tied him good and fast
Then they fed him with baked beans, until he blew
After that there came the beast and the native king and priest
It was really getting far too much to bear
As the yarns grew more far fetched, with my patience sorely stretched
I decided that I really didn’t care
So I bought him one more rum and I said, “the time has come”
That I needed to go out, to use the loo
So he said “young man be fast, for you haven’t heard the last,
Like, when I first met your mother, in Peru
Craziest Time at the Time of Spilled Soup
I spilled a bowl of vegetable soup –
Slipped on the shiny waxed floor;
The scene I saw made my muse utter expletives –
Fainting in horror at the kitchen door.
Choruses of carrots crushed on the curtains
Prose of Potatoes pelted the windowpanes
Lyrics of limas littered the linoleum
Odes of onions overturned on the oven
Turnips of Thesaurus tumbling free
Sonnets of seasoning scorched on the stove top
Epics of eggplant - emjambment escaping
Ballads of beets beat feet to the back porch
Meters of mushrooms marching on marble
Verses of “vege’s” with visible vertigo
Prosody of pumpkin all over the place
Rhymes of rutabagas running-a-muck
Blues of black beans bashed in the butler’s pantry
Couplets of croutons covered the ceiling
Free verse of fiddleheads floats by the “frig”
Sestinas of spinach stuck to the sink.
Oh, what a sight of poetic distress –
Letters and phrases all over the space
Carefully sorted all the rhythms and rhymes
Put everything back in its proper place.
Craziest time at the time of spilled soup!
8/5/20
166 words
Choice #1
Like soup . . . poems also need a good foundation,
a flavourful base to build upon;
I have no set time limit for my creation,
though, sometimes my alphabets are woebegone !
Carrots, peas, celery and corn are like bright gems,
potatoes, green beans, beef broth and tomatoes are the substance;
that any soup or poem needs to fall from spoons and pens,
and of course alphabet pasta words must swirl in great abundance !
Stirring often my poemy soothing delicious comfort,
I am not afraid of adding a little zest;
in the end my alphabet creation will be triumphant,
and Zen feelings will stir and my soupy poem will be blessed !
_______________________
May 04, 2022
Poetry/Rhyme/Vegetable Alphabet Poems Simmering
Copyright Protected, ID 05-1453-594-04
All Rights Reserved, 2022, Constance La France
Written for the Standard contest, A Merger With Food
sponsor, Natasha L Scragg, Judged 07/02/2022
Second Place
.
He fertilized the garden and the pears A__Zeugma
A gardening husband who plants seeds and love B__Zeugma
Carrots, potatoes, and beans grow with care a
He fertilized the garden and the pears A__Zeugma
A gentleman who is now a find so rare a
Tenderly he watches the Mourning Dove b
He fertilized the garden and the pears A__Zeugma
A gardening husband who plants seeds and love B__Zeugma
This is not the greatest example but I know you will do better..
Pentameter_English Version 5 meterical feet..I don't do meter very well
It can be done in 8 syllables per line as well which is the most common way
but it might be hard to do the Zeugma
Apocalypse Beans
Sometimes it seems
your chest is about to cave in.
You try to catch a breath but
your heart flutters like a dry leaf;
Just more suburban undulations;
Dressed down for a slow blues song.
Apocalypse Beans sizzle on the fire.
Life has such trying interludes,
when it seems you can’t go further.
You are so tired and scared,
you can hardly urinate at dawn.
Your mind begins to see
air movies of the dead ascending;
Crawling out of cracked tombs
dressed sedately for the soirée.
A million funerals go by with
skeleton girls sucking on pixy stix.
Madness angels in garters pass over
sleeping streets searching for blood trees.
Stallion-dressed men-dogs chase down
old octogenarians for bones and wisdom teeth.
Fear worms from hell come slinking,
Oozing out of a million eye sockets,
Sucking blood and brains sifting
through transparent wires attached
to rubber-hosed machines in musty rooms.
A million funerals moan inside the old graveyard
adjacent the First Methodist confines.
Gum-chewing embalmers gather
to sing a torch song to the driveling and the dying.
Sometimes it seems
I can hear the female choirs singing,
their high-pitched Latin refrains again.
They stand erect in the choir loft fingering missals.
The young girls up there,
wear choir togs and slithering plaid beanies.
They read the notes and eye the glowing boys below.
Jesus and the stained glass ghosts look up from earth.
Apocalypse Beans sizzle on the fire.
Their cackle reamed with burning forget-me-nots.
Light vanishes upon his leaving
with the final grip of dusk--
the perfume of asters wisping softly
and I am by myself again...
alone into the restless clang
from winds booming ;
a melody which makes noises
louder than my roars--
and within luster of stars,
I long for lusty music
those whispers of craving hummed
where smoke flares of red summer days--
my man slowly slithering
lifting from brewed flames.
his sun over a raging river
propelling layers of dusky groans
and peaking drips of sweet sweat :
alienated, the cloud spills a thousand
secrets of co- owned trespasses.
How morning spills tantric samba notes --
aromatic robusta beans stinging
my damp eyelids ...my fingers
love- drunk on desire this mouth
sipping coffee dark, stark black
that not a tincture eases this heart.