Long Biscuit Poems
Long Biscuit Poems. Below are the most popular long Biscuit by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Biscuit poems by poem length and keyword.
Glass shattered Saturday afternoon tea for S I L E N C E
holding steady raven momentum for its own r i p p i n g
fire from heartbeat slashes its void to tumble wounds of
wisdom weeping slow dirty tears of biting burns inserting
into wordless flesh of waiting before window panes were
smashed with stone docile ornaments, rampant afternoon
unvoiced holding a blank white canvas for dripping
bookshelves tumbled, poems torn to sheds, laundry strewn
with glass splinters as lead, aphonics slithering into dried out
stewpot waiting for maniacal tsunami to cremate emotions
tweezer them from dna soiled in possessive prisons ridiculed
Divinity spoke in all pervasive silence on testing timeline taut
holding breath to His nostrils imbibing a billion frequencies
I chose to brave open His serene lips for unutterable L O V E
lashes He crafted brushed breathy implicits with assent
for missions of courage traversed embracing solitude
observed in stillness whilst across eerie forest moss
carpets I deciphered “They Don’t Care about Us”
hush self wears a daisy cloak from heavenly dew fields
luminosity unzips not as lies hop chaotic across
spiderwebs it can chameleon transmute into gentle
streams to soothe that which hides for right timing
~ first bud of white rose birthing delicacy or benign
waters over pebble backdrop quietude
biscuit baker feeds jealousy, deceit, shame, guilt, indecision
escapism ~ swampy keys of stagnant quagmires will too utter
her heart’s eclipsed light breaking egoic invisibility as
softly I breathe her shadowed taciturn s t e a l t h
quiet petaling garment breaks open blackout mission
regurgitating quantum memories incubated in beckoning cell
fertility for decades perhaps centuries, marching crusades of
soul conquering ancient lands, majestic mountains, raucous
seas, ports, yellow spices, when women with babes gagged
anguished longing for men to taste their honey in serenity
hot crusted bread speaking truths of labouring backs bent
cows chewing cherrywood cuds ~ what could be a more
knowing t r a n q u i l i t y ?
now wafered soundlessness is lamb yet diamond piercing
raw, a lark offers sotto tones as harmony cupped in two
musing wings to ascend where it can quintessentially
quiver, hover in expectant repose for another silent mission
I came back from a cold windy walk
Off with my mittens and hat
And coat and boots
On with the tea kettle
I opened the box
“Lipton - 100% Real Tea Leaves
Serve Hot or Iced”
Oooo not ‘iced’
I don’t even want to think about that!
“72 Tea Bags
Decaffeinated with Pure Spring Water and Effervescence”
Effervescence? What is that? Fizz?
I do not want fizzy hot tea
Just plain hot tea, if you please
“Net Wt 4.7 oz (133 g).. “ OK
I opened the lid to put the individually
Bagged teas…
To put the bags in the glass jar
On the shelf
I opened the box and smelled the gentle green
And happily removed the cardboard separators
-the bags are placed in rows
With two little ‘walls’ between
Which I use for book marks
Fresh green-smelling book marks
And I noticed more writing on the underside of the lid:’
“Why is there a frog on my tea box?”
Beside a picture of a frog
I closed the lid
Sure enough, there is the same picture;
Only smaller; so I didn’t notice it
The little green frog is framed by the words
“Rainforest Alliance…Certified”
Nice to know the frog is a certified frog
The lid goes on to explain that the Lipton
Tea has been grown on “Rainforest Alliance Certified ™
Tea farms…to Protect the Environment, Improve Quality of Life; and Improve Worker Welfare…for more information…please visit liptonforthefuture.com or reainforest-alliance.org”
Wow! What an answer!
The first things that came to my mind
With the question
(In case you forgot, “Why is there a frog on my tea box?”)
Were:
1. An elephant wouldn’t fit
2. The gecko is taken (see Geico car insurance ads)
3. Cats don’t drink tea – although they occasionally sniff mine
4. Fish are too wet… well, come to think of it, frogs live at least part-time in water… scratch that… except that I don’t care for fish, and I’d probably return tea with fish on the box
5. Why not?
It is a charming question
It is a cute frog
And the tea is good; especially when drunk to accompany
A hot buttered biscuit with cinnamon on top
I sit back in my grandfather’s old chair
With a book and a cat on my lap
And drift off to sleep
“Why is there a frog on my tea box?”
I think that’s silly
The more important question would be
“Why is there a frog in my Christmas tree?”
But that’s another story
Oh wow. Oh great. Look over there. Quickly now. Come on. It is the mitigating migrating mammoth mansions. Brick by brick and bone by bone. In a line. Travelling. Traversing the plains, fields and mountains but not on roads for roads are neither natural nor normal so always wear a tea cosy hat when pouring tea at a tea party. It is to show not to shine that has the sun in a pondering and philosophical mood. The auric rays are neither a moon sitting in a tree nor are they a kayaking planetary alignment. High seas then create high teas. Whirling in circling dresses of spotted green. But never in a greenhouse does one find a tomato in a tantrum. For tomatoes are very very mild mannered especially when given a drink. And this is good for compost can be crafty and doesn't like moods. A wafer thin biscuit is a flat chested mermaid moving around at the dusk. By the marina. Catching a glimmer is easy for the eyes of the octopus in an office with high rimmed glasses. Circle then dash. Tick tick tick. Form done. Signed. Signatures separate stagnant stale stupors. And the fat wading brat bird yawns on a front bench in a large ornately decorated room. How common. And yet rather uncommon is the master of the seaweed sermon whose speakers are never wise upon answering questions and questions are rarely answered so why play noughts and crosses with a jute duty bug? Inheritance is not to be placed in a kissing box for boxes are to be reserved for tiny biscuits who march around chaotically chairing and chanting at quite important times. Thus causing a lot of little flowers to sigh and droop their heads in an apathetical style. In a scrapbook posy position. The layout is not the layer and the label is a laugh. Numeration of a numerator is a numerical nautical nonchalant nerd. And the beast of the best bank is not to be trusted with a styrofoam cup. No never gi e it that cup. Always give it a baby bottle. For it is ignorant and infantile. Beware of the two foot clam in that drawer then when you are putting socks away. Hahaha a mist is coming to play cards and monopoly with a tree top, a hill, a perfume factory, and a zoo. Hahaha dolphin and duet with a dancing seahorse at a grand opera. Xxxxx desensitization Z now eat a nice scone and sing la la la to a doorframe. Z peacocks.
Form:
For several years when our kids were little, every Thanksgiving Day, we all loaded up and headed for Aunt Fanny’s house. New faces and lots of food were big attractions. There was much for which to be thankful.
Just like myself, I suspect that everyone thought that Aunt Fanny's sweet potatoes were the best that we had ever tasted. I suppose that everyone had no doubt that her mustard greens were the best in all America. Who could imagine anybody’s ribs, roast, or chicken being any better than hers? Yes, we were certain that we could not see wings on her biscuit roles; but because they were so soft and fluffy, we also knew that if one did not consume them rather readily, they would fly away.
Doubtless, everybody knew Aunt Fanny the cook. But the real question is whether or not we got to know Aunt Fanny the person. If for any reason, and I can name a few myself, anyone thought that the Thanksgiving gatherings were about the food, they, as did I at times, completely missed what Aunt Fanny was all about. In time, that is, after her great and tasty food was clearly digested, I realized that she was all about people.
Our dear aunt was indeed gourmet, but she was not about making us happy about her culinary abilities. She was about making us believe that we could do anything God designed us to do; and to be all that He purposed us to be. Aunt Fanny was demonstrating to us that she learned to prepare many great dishes from scratch the same way she rose up from a very humble beginning and achieved prosperity in both material and spiritual ways. She nearly started out in life from scratch. So making much from little was second nature with her.
Those ‘massive never out of food gatherings’ were not about the turkeys, or the hams, or the chickens, and not even about the ribs. I tell you, it was not about the food. It was all about the family, the friendships, and the loving. Yes! Aunt Fanny was about the fellowship and the caring. If we had thought that food was the centerpiece, we truly missed the real Fanny.
01242013 cj PS Contest, Thanksgiving Day, Nayda Ivette Negron
I tied ole paint at the old cowboy’s shack. He’d been in the crib mucking stalls, haying a little and shucking corn.
I observed him at his chores from the porch as the day kept limping on He asks, if I’d stay for dinner sense the morning was pert near gone. “Sure,” I said, “I’d be obliged to set and eat, enjoy some country fare removed my boots, leaned back and took the load off my feet.
He sat the table with a steaming stew, pert near out of heaven’s recipe book but Luke, his old hound dog, seemed to hold a grievance with his eye staring, devious look. The old man seized a piping hot biscuit and buttered it good and rich. He dipped a bowl of stew for himself and cleaned the dipper pert near with a lick.
He took a glass from the table, removed his dentures to lay them free, flung the water out the window and handed the glass to me.
He dipped me a bowl of his brew and it smelled so good and all, So, I just run my tongue over the rim, pert near lapped it like a dog.
And though thirst tucked my throat, and the devil’s pleating temped me
and I pert near had a taste for it but I just couldn’t rope that tea.
Old Luke lay at my feet and sniffed his twitching nose
His eyes glued me with that stare, checking me out, I suppose.
So, I slid my hand to his head for a pat or maybe, a scratch
but his gums rolled up and there was a growl and a snap before I could jerk my fingers back.
“Old Luke is pert near touchy,” I declared, “If the truth be all told.”
The cowboy mused with a winking eye “that mutt hates to share his bowl.”
A template swap is a switch over to a swimming sword. Swordfish are very pleased at this and dunk their noses into goblets in a godlike fashion. Such etiquette in a swim. Formational framework finds format. And even a small pinnacle of cake icing could dance down the highways. So ignoring the wraths and word of woe it is wise to take out a pretty smiling biscuit. Place it carefully on a plate. Then climb up the hill and over the rope bridge. Very high altitude causes biscuits to be afraid so they must be calmed with soothing words and beats of breath. When the other side of the mountain is reached the biscuit must be harnessed securely using over twenty ropes. Then and only then can the abseiling begin. Wow aren't they travelling with speed, courage and optimism but optimism is neither an original orifice nor an octagonal oversized overspill objective. It is really then the sway of a ninety thousand foot toothbrush that can announce the time with no need of amplification via a microphone or a tannoy system. Wow. How intriguing is the belligerent hard yard of a semi dressed riddled jester? And how time consuming is the ongoing rashers of tinned and sliced ham? How delegated are the powers that are worn around and around and adjudicate the environment? Thus thwarting life in its structural natural weave. And a giant beehive hairdo must be re worn as a signal to a hive. Hide then. Hideous hags having heaping heads. And legs like little tables spin and rotate via remote control. Similar to a plate of writhing meal worms and a workshop of controlled chapel chaos. Big birthday balloons bring balls banging. Circumference of circulating capital charms. And a diameter of a diagram is a dare in the deeds. Castle that then fortify but do not attempt to fry for to fry is to form fiendish frolics. And to frolic is just not a fashionable way of wearing a peel is it? Hahaha the sausages are listening to their cousins today. Hahaha I want a cup of tea and a toast too said the little bluey green lamp. Xxxxxx parasympathetic parody xxxx xxxx etymologies z z z z z at twenty one full meals of porridge in a bread pan to twenty sequences of serving cereals to a six inch bowl. Z.
Form:
In a high rise block in Toxteth lived a Jazz clarinettist called Joe.
His fans in the Jazz club worshipped him and flocked to every show.
And night after night in that smoke filled club, his fingers weaved a spell,
While the audience cheered to the echo, unaware of his private hell
For, every night, in his tenth-floor flat, before he could play again,
He injected himself with Dutch courage to deaden the inner pain
It began with soothing cannabis, which the law doesn’t class as abuse
Just so long as that stash in the biscuit tin is purely for personal use
It can’t do any harm, they said, to smoke the occasional spliff;
Then the drummer introduced him to a line of white powder to sniff
It was just an occasional habit he wasn’t dependent upon
But he found that his music lost its edge when the buzz of the powder had gone
His dealer had something better at an introductory price
He wouldn’t become addicted if he tried it once or twice.
His music got better and better and the audience howled for more
But now he was hooked on heroin and stealing in order to score
One Sunday he didn’t turn up at the club so the band was reduced to three
Who thanked him as they pocketed a larger slice of the fee
When they tried to ‘phone on Monday, his mobile wasn’t on.
The neighbours hadn’t seen him and thought he might have gone
They found him three days later in his squalid tenth-floor flat
When they forced the front door open past the junk mail on the mat.
“Death by misadventure”, said the Coroner’s report.
“A tragic waste of talent,” he told the crowded court.
The church was overflowing on the chill November day
As they gathered to remember him and send him on his way.
A host of jazz musicians and a multitude of fans
Joined in celebrating the life of a gifted man.
His own band followed the coffin as they took him from the nave
Out to the wintry churchyard to lower him into his grave.
They have a new clarinettist now but, although he’s very good,
He doesn’t have Joe’s magic; well nobody ever could.
He lacks that extra something that no-one can define.
But the drummer’s offered a helping hand – in the form of a thin white line
I read in the news the other day,
Believe this if you can.
We should have a gingerbread person,
And not a gingerbread man.
Yes, things should now be genderless,
In order to avoid the flack,
Should anyone be offended,
When buying a gingery snack.
When it snows, don’t build a snowman,
Avoid the ladybird,
No, if you’re vexed by the gender of biscuits
I don’t think you should be heard.
If upset by a Portuguese Man of War,
Then I hope it’s because you’ve been stung.
Not because it shouldn’t be male.
Please just watch your tongue.
So sheep must be feminine,
According to your rule.
Or maybe they’re just sheep after all,
And you’re really just a fool?
Do you avoid mannequins?
Their manly name make you sad?
Or do you try not to be happy,
For a male is contained in ‘glad’?
Manchester must surely be added,
To your list of masculine foes.
But it also contains ‘chest’,
And we all have one of those.
In this scary world of ours,
With so many keen to divide.
We must choose our battles wisely,
And then fight them with pride.
We must support those who need us,
Targeted for who they are.
For their race, religion or who they love,
And we must re-set the bar.
Equality, yes! Ridiculousness, no!
There is a much larger war,
And everyone should have the same chances of life,
However they are born.
I think it’s clear to most of us,
That it’s really very drastic,
And we must act now to prevent the planet…
… from drowning in a sea of plastic.
I cannot fathom how so many treat
Our fauna and our flora,
In a world where so much is advancing,
Our planet is getting poorer.
The world is going weird on us,
And should it be deemed fussy,
When a woman has to ask…
… that she is not grabbed by her pussy?
And the UK is struggling too;
Do we leave or do we remain?
Just tell us of the final deal,
And let us vote again.
We’re letting down the NHS,
The sick, the lonely, the old.
And I think wealth is skewed beyond belief,
If I may be so bold.
So when choosing your battles in future,
I really wouldn’t risk it.
Nobody has time for someone,
Who’s offended by a biscuit.
My Composition of Poems
Had been eating a biscuit
And admit I could not quit
Was good with butter and brown
Did swallow until it went down
Found experience to be exquisite.
What I like about eating
Is my mouth with food is meeting
Always tasting so good
Ate more then I could
Stomach took quite a beating.
Must eat all of my meal
And much better will feel
Knowing I am nourished
Flowers outside flourished
Surrounded by their appeal.
Chewed up meal piece by piece
After my appetite did increase
Enjoyed meal until all gone
And then bed slept upon
Dreamed about flying geese.
Had stopped eating for a while
And now my face wore a smile
Best meal I would ever eat
With honey was so sweet
Would not kid you or beguile.
Finished eating and had dessert
On ice cream put a big spurt
Of chocolate I do love so dear
And with my wife close and near
Of growth our love had a spurt.
Had to clean up the table
To do was willing and able
Washed and put dishes away
Would swing and sway with Sammy Kay
He married a marble head named Mable.
Of all my poems this is a composite
Don't even have to make a deposit
They are completely for free
Thanks to me and my ability
Cautiously stored them in closet.
Jim Horn
My Composition of Poems
Had been eating a biscuit
And admit I could not quit
Was good with butter and brown
Did swallow until it went down
Found experience to be exquisite.
What I like about eating
Is my mouth with food is meeting
Always tasting so good
Ate more then I could
Stomach took quite a beating.
Must eat all of my meal
And much better will feel
Knowing I am nourished
Flowers outside flourished
Surrounded by their appeal.
Chewed up meal piece by piece
After my appetite did increase
Enjoyed meal until all gone
And then bed slept upon
Dreamed about flying geese.
Had stopped eating for a while
And now my face wore a smile
Best meal I would ever eat
With honey was so sweet
Would not kid you or beguile.
Finished eating and had dessert
On ice cream put a big spurt
Of chocolate I do love so dear
And with my wife close and near
Of growth our love had a spurt.
Big trucks rolling down the street
With a message that is very deep
Big trucks rolling down the street
Filled with mixed concrete
Big trucks rolling down the street
carrying tons of steels
Stone truck, cement truck, steel truck
And truck whose body can hardly match the street
Rumbling through the protest town with a terrible sound
Big trucks rambelling through the street
Stirring up the people's heart beat
Bread truck, peanut truck, chocolate truck
Biscuit truck, chicken truck, police truck
Waste management truck, whoes stench
Circulate the air with a smell that cause
The people to fear.
Big trucks criss crossing the town
Carrying goods that are scarce in town
Heavy duty trucks with drivers whose
Hearts are tough journey all night
Into broad daylight with their big
Tattoo arms grasping the steering wheel
with smile that is very mean
Big truck gathering on the bridges
Forming long ques on the free ways
moving slowly into the city oh what a pity
Their drivers knows the road and they
are used to carrying heavy load
They honk their horns and make
Fun of the women watering the lawn.
Big trucks honkering down in the town
watching the women changing their night gown
Bulldozar truck, wreckers truck and truck that can cause
A man made disaster, the street is messy and the
Gods are unhappy but the truckers are ready.
They are travelling from city to city and they are
taking over states and towns dropping
Off boxes of goods in rundown towns
Removal trucks, horse trucks, furniture trucks,
And trucks with bodies mounting up in the sky
They have to use a special road to get by
Buses and cars motor cycle and bicycle
All gather in the street to sound their heartbeat
They circle around the town making loud
and boisterous sounds chasing the visitors
Out of town.
Big trucks with double gear shouting
And pressing the gas that is filtering smoke in the air
Water truck are crawling by
Fire trucks, petrol trucks and dirt trucks are
all waiting in line to meet their deadline
Get ready to board the truck and hop
off that terrible bus , cross the ocean
and make landfall in the desert.