Long Beetroot Poems
Long Beetroot Poems. Below are the most popular long Beetroot by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Beetroot poems by poem length and keyword.
Dark grey first autumn breath a bone chill hint,
summer’s sun- rash boom absconds on trailing glint,
luscious terrain brazen in hue’d rose cheek,
hazy mountain slope a sombre damp peak,
tint and tapestry awakened brisk fall gasp,
dapper drift net shades spawned to grasp,
pigment in meadow mould a gold rim beige,
tone shift bold red, earth brown, copper rage,
sweet gum tree orange, purplish fervent die,
to sniff katsura pink tree, charred candy sigh,
hail harvest bountiful, heart rippling feast,
red fire ablaze, hungry tongue wild yeast
beetroot, turnip, parsnip, root crops galore,
“Falls” raw lungs whiff hearty soup of yore,
yet honey-tinged morn, fleet of foot pause,
fades as cold plummet primes its icy claws,
green copse shrunk, drab moon weepy tune,
woodsy wren hoarding food in mournful croon.
mud squelch booth on path, smog purged lair,
wet moss splurge rinses pollen, season gulps air,
spry children, spruce grown ups, senior agers eschew,
the callous jolt of swift month baton swop anew,
later inklings mired in blizzards, frost bite, black ice,
has the fall as sly baptist with its soft blest vice,
warm July sand castle bounce, blue sea wave swim,
consigned to wistful hark back, stark ninth month grim,
latent edgy blue mood, strayed focus, dull phase,
strict shift to rationed bright spells, murky welkin haze,
decay in dwindling twilight irks sept.stuffed nose,
yet Fall cleans its passageway with breezy prose
On a high steep cliff, by the deep, deep sea,
Where the birds can't rest or swing in a tree,
Far from other towns, in the unknown wild,
That is where I lived when I was a child.
Greenland, the island of the polar bears,
Greenland, with so complex foreign affairs,
Greenland, that replaced the cars with wild dogs,
The only country that doesn't have frogs.
We caught seals and then ate their warm raw lungs,
And we let them melt on our hungry tongues,
We have never eaten a single fruit,
Or a cucumber, or a red beetroot.
Greenland, where we wash our hair with warm pee,
Greenland, mirror of the infinite sea,
Greenland, where the wind blows really fast,
Where the days are planned based on the forecast.
It was completely dark half of the year,
People switched their therapist with the beer,
I often felt I was misunderstood,
I had a long and barbaric childhood.
She'd seen the house for sale and came
to have a look around,
walked up the path as freezing mist
curled, snake-like on the ground.
Two stone Griffins, like sentinels
gazed from beside the door,
she knocked, it opened,spilling
greenish light across the floor.
A wizened man with sunken eyes
asked ' yes,can I help you?'
she stammered 'er, this house for sale,
I've come to have a view'.
'Then step right in' the old man wheezed,
she cautiously walked past,
into the hall, where from the wall
there came an icy blast.
'Some draughts' he said, 'the doors are old,
just simple wear and tear,
which also makes that wailing noise
you're hearing from upstairs'.
The kitchen was spattered with red,
and sticky, like fresh tar,
'I had an accident' he said
'with beetroot, from a jar'.
A knife stuck in the kitchen door,
just inches from the lock,
'I keep it there, convenient,
as I don't own a block'.
The coffin in the living room
gave the young girl the creeps,
' I bought it in advance for me,
while it was really cheap',
the man explained, while when she turned
he forced back down the lid,
she swore she saw that something moved-
(well, actually, it did).
The staircase groaned with every step
as if it was alive,
she looked in all the bedrooms except
bedroom number five,
locked up, he said 'I don't use it,
and I have lost the key',
she swore she heard a plaintive voice
as she walked on, say 'flee!'
'I've seen enough', the girl declared,
'I'll bid you a good day',
'Oh no you won't' he grinned, she turned-
the Griffins blocked her way.
For contest 'The Haunted house', sponsor Dear heart a.k.a Broken Wings
26th August 2018
This pile of pills keeps me afloat,
Washed down with beetroot juice each day
To keep the aches and pains at bay
And ailments more substantial. Who knows
Just where or who I'd be without them
Or what indeed each one bestows
To aid and optimise performance ?
The red ones and the blue ones,
Each of some importance,
Mingle with the squarish pink and multi-coloured
Striped ones. Some dissolve in water
And are ready for the fray,
Ready for the battles , hidden from our sight,
Each has a role to play.
But are they players in a team,
With a clear united mission,
Or is each within our bloodstream
Jostling for position ?
We follow doctor's orders,
Blind faith is what's required.
These cures for our disorders
We've swallowed as prescribed.
Sometimes they'll solve the problem,
Sometimes they surely don't.
We hope they may prolong our life
But fear they maybe won't.
We can't predict our future
Or measure years we've gained or lost,
So keep on with the tablets -
And keep your fingers crossed !
Urban jungle roosters,
born-again scarecrow,
to untutored city eyes,
tawny pipit stonewall nester,
jet black Inca dove bereft,
of dovetail on a croque monsieur,
idle bone grub crawl,
mother hen to sandy brown,
and velvet bill gazer,
from an nearby creak,
recent rural migrant now,
a tree house side kick,
chickadee a late date sitter,
on this air flock beaky natter,
or tweet between the ice float,
edgy grey day species wield,
their sprightly ruffled feathers,
as an orthopaedic surgeon,
and their spatula when scraping,
rancid bark off windmill elm trees,
gastric bugle trenchermen ahoy,
while ogling a fellow common redpoll,
oh these tummy rumble diners,
will zoom in on every gourmet,
tangled wire mesh feeder station.
round and round they’ll fly,
on zesty mission beetroot,
a cock-eyed scavenger‘s delight,
are they siblings of a noble order?
white tale mountain bluebirds swopping,
habitat for granite boundary habit,
off key off discordant choirboys,
six sided snow bird chorus,
ear splitter for tardy wakening,
they cheep religiously as if,
their only valid creed was,
window squinting prayer meets
Kelso has a boat
smeared to the gunnels,
with cawk and greasy weeds.
Kelso is old enough
to be free of care,
his dog don't care neither.
At the prow of dawn
he hauls dripping lobsters
in their pots
up the scummy steps
of the silty stone harbor,
pushing a barrow
into the dickering markets
cobbled narrows.
Kelso barters claws and tails
to barkeeps, crab-mongers,
to fish wives and their
saucy daughters.
Gummy smiles he shares
with the crones;
their thin cranky bones
thrill to his beard-wagging ways.
At close of day he seesaws,
half-cut and tottering
to the bight, the bitty harbor,
to eat a kippered mackerel
from a spray-seasoned skillet.
Tomorrow he will do the same
if the lobsters appear
in his pulled-up smeary pots,
if not
he will sup upon a dark brew
and make a meatless stew
of beetroot and hot
fried
pickles.
Kelso lays back
with his reeky brown dog
(as he always does),
to smoke a care-free plug
into a fumy fog.
He listens to the dimming sky
piddle over the wallowing town,
hears the night rolling in
over the seas lap and swell
tucked up and swaddled is he
in his oily cot, and swaying low;
he most pleased to be,
yours consistently -
just old Kelso.
All the Pickled produce gathered
At Branston Manor - if you please!
They entered via a staircase
Made of Jacob's Crackers and Cheese.
The Gherkin Girls and Chutney twins,
Who's names are Tom and Mango
Compete against the Beetroot Troupe
To make the taste buds Tango!
The Beetroot Troupe are not alone.
They have a wise old friend
Zingy Mr. Vinegar.
Always ready to defend.
The Silverskins call upon
The Shallots acapella choir
To pack a punchy added flavour
In a pitch that can't go higher.
The sour Grapes sulk in the corner.
They apparently should not have come.
Only Pickles were invited.
It was not open to everyone.
The Eggs got pickled with too much drink.
They thought it would be fun
To gatecrash the party
Just to confuse everyone!
It was an event to be remembered.
But alas, though sad to say
The party ended abruptly.
For they were consumed that very day!
Written 18th August 2022
For the, "It's A Pickle Party Contest"
Sponsor: Mystic Rose Rose
Amelia she loves to chat and tells an amusing story
But dear readers BEWARE – this one’s a little gory
She worked long hours at night as a barmaid
It was a job she loved and good wages she got paid
She’d had a busy day and her pits were a little whiffy
So she had a little bath – it would only take a jiffy
So into the bath Amelia got, she sank into the bubbles
But this was only the beginning of Amelia’s troubles
Amelia did a little fart but unfortunately followed through
And in the bath was floating a little bit of poo
Amelia got out quickly and left the bath to drain
But unbeknown to her the turd it did remain
She got dressed and ready to go - she had to get her lift
To the pub she loved to work in she always enjoyed her shift
With the customers Amelia was always a big hit
She didn’t let on her secret that in the bath she’d done a little poop*
But it was a Wednesday night and a quiz was on this day
Amelia she loved this challenge and she would always play
The final question stumped many people but they wanted to be the winner
Which barmaid crapped in the bath tonight and could they name the sinner?
The one in the white t-shirt some of the customers did shout
Amelia went as red as a beetroot- she couldn’t wait to get out
But the customers they did shout and cheer
And poor Amelia had to pour them another beer
Now Amelia no longer works in the bar
She works as a receptionist – she’s really come far
She loves her new job and always likes to talk
But to stop her following through now she always wears a cork.
· I had to change this from the S*** word as I know swearing is not allowed – but the expletive does make the poem flow better.
Jan Allison
19th March 2014
~submitted for contest Take 2 Free poetry contest sponsored by Nette Onclaud ~
- Unplaced in contest 'tickle my funny bone' sponsored by Francine Roberts ~
~ Please see notes about this poem ~
looking back to when I was a lad
They said times were hard, They said things were bad.
Picking up tatties, the pulling of peas
Coming back home with scratched grimy knees.
Screwing the Beetroot, yes that is right
Removing the tops from morning till night.
You couldn't cut the tops off, that made them bleed
Keeping your eye out for the sharp stinging weed.
Finger nails were always full of mud
Scrubbing hands would do no good.
Summer break were still lots of fun
When working the fields were almost done.
We didn't have computers, four channels of TV
Top of the pops were the highlights for me.
Kicking the football out on the street
A clip around the ear from the bobby on the beat.
Looking back it wasn't that bad
Lots of fond memories when I was a lad.
Holidays were over it was back to the grind
Wondering what lessons the teachers had in mind.
I didn't mind maths and history was great
The adventures we made up me and my best mate.
Now that I'm older looking back realise
My whole life's been an adventure through this pair of eyes.
Artificial intelligence the latest buzzwords,
commonly known as 'AI'
is the latest new thing that
technology brings
with every year that goes by.
It may make our future incredibly bright
but I don't understand all the fuss,
since for ages I've seen AI's already been
all around, as I now shall discuss.
Beetroot- it knows when you're wearing a white shirt,
drop a screw, it knows just where to go,
that shrewd little teaser rolls under your freezer
to meet all the pals that it knows.
The keys your are seeking
are quietly peeking
out from the last place that you'll look,
any cables you've got
tie themselves into knots
no matter how much care you took.
Wallpaper- don't get me started,
the times that it's parted from walls
when my back has been turned,
the victory it's tasting regardless of pasting
it treats like a pleasure it's earned.
Each spring I have bother with my mower that hovers
as over the garden it flits,
despite my navigation, there's always frustration
when I see after, I've missed a bit.
AI ? Scientists love it, but for me, they can shove it,
It's nothing to me but a curse,
Computers may become masters as they get much faster,
but Beetroot and wallpaper's worse.