Long Blueberry Poems
Long Blueberry Poems. Below are the most popular long Blueberry by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Blueberry poems by poem length and keyword.
Blueberry colored quilt has its charm
Snuggling under it trying to be warm
I hear an airplane buzzing boisterously
Up above do they feel the fall breeze
Carolina blue sky soon to host stars
Wondering if life is present on Mars
Thoughts of space fill the violet void
Not watching tv today like an android
Feeling my peace in the queen bed
Beginning to breathe feeling red
Warmth from the covers such a treat
Maybe a lover will come warm me
October starts at Septembers end
The seasons flow like crisp white wind
I’ll take notice of the weather change
Looking forward to light fall rain
LIVING IN MUNICH GERMANY THOMAS MANN TOWN THE TOWN OF POETRY MARIENPLATZ TOY TOWN CHRISTMAS TOWN THE PLACE WHERE HUMMELS COME ALIVE WOODEN CLOG SOUNDS IN A DISTANCE UPON THE COBBLE STONE BRATS AND LARGE PRETZEL HANG BEER STEINS ARE SLID ACROSS LONG TABLES INSIDE ROWS OF TENTS OCKTOBER IS NEAR THE OKTOBER FEST APPROACHES THE CLOCK MAKERS GATHERED CARRYING NUTS BOLTS GOLD SPRINGS FOR THE COO COO CLOCKS THE WOOD CUTTERS SAWING TINY MILK MAIDS DANCES MATRYOSHKA DOLLS STACKED NEATLY WIENERWALD SNITZEL AND POMFRITTS GERMAN BLUEBERRY SKONES BECKON MY THOUGHTS CRAVING NAUGHT CALMLY I SLIP INTO MY LEADER HOSEN SIPPING A CRISP REISLING READING JOHN KEATS COMFORTED BY TIME THAT GOES BY
“Music is the healer” — Glenn Hughes
My one goal is to write more poems
inspired by Glenn Hughes songs
It could be new songs or ones I know
to touch more heart where they belong
A poem a day would be a nice goal
so soupers can enjoy the words spoke so loud
I write next to my blueberry bowl
and send the words out to the GH crowd
You can share this goal with me if you like
because everyone loves Glenn so much
if not just go take a hike
as we don’t need your crybaby fuss
So perhaps tonight I’ll begin my goal
just look at my poems and you’ll surely know
that I love Glenn like some people love gold
and I don’t think I’m being too bold
In a session of shower
I send two lines in whatsapp
And wait for some flowers
To bring me a bird seated on a second
If not on hours
Why no bee yet
Is the other window now
Tired of alphabet
Or after another bait?
I feel uneasy
Are my words far from sea
Lacking the flavour of a glee
Whatever it may be
I miss the dense tree
Of blueberry
In the swing of fancy
Far away
From all property
Of land building or sea
At sunup, I
Wait for the cup
The crimson link-up
Tactile memories of touch
In today's embroidered crutch
But no cup yet
Seconds and minutes militate
I wait
For the playmate
To palliate
And sedate
Late autumn here in Bengal
Unlike in the West
Is still a boy and girl of nineteen
Walking hand in hand
Brand 'Hemanta’
The name for the season
As wind blows up sands
As riverbanks chat with woodland
Pink yellow and green
Leaves and flowers umpteen
Can be seen
Writing lyrics
Pink drumsticks
Winter is yet to set foot
Frost yet to collect at the root
To erase monotony
I come to hug the shadow of mahogany
From nowhere
Clouds gather in the small golden plates near the trunk
The chipmunks run away
Light and shade in your plait
I have to wait
I look up to the sky
Where clouds fly
Storm unfurls
Their headful of grey curls
Laugh and say
Why do you shake your leg so much in dismay
Haven't you seen the evening
Waiting for hours in its swing
To hug the jasmine blooming
Starlight guiding them
Just look how the sunshine
Kisses the clouds
A twilight flower drops into
A white sea
Expanse for trance
No need for your eyelashes to dance
Instead of getting tempted
By the red and yellow petals
Of being impulsive
Wait and enjoy
The cloud and sun hug
November 16, 2017
She stands there in front of the desserts
Like a porcelain doll that’s healthier than a stick
Her dark brown hair straighter than fir with a tiny smile
And a little voice in addition to Barley eyes looking nice in a Chocolate blouse
And blueberry pants
Though I cannot seem to place my proverbial finger on who she reminds me of
And can only guess her actual name which might not have any fame
I can imagine the little lady in a lemon top and cherry skirt dancing during a duet
Resting with a cold glass of pop between songs
It’s curious what the imagination shows us at any one time
Most of the time it’s something good but on rare occasion it isn’t
Even though it may seem like it is-such water that’s not really there
Or tourists on an Island who appear to be buccaneers
I’m not your puzzle.
I’m not a picture of a cloud.
I could be a rain check.
For a later date.
But you better leave my peace behind.
And just leave me with “see you later.”
You’ll regret pulling me apart into chunks.
I’m not your puzzle.
I’m too jagged and I’m no peaceful garden picture.
Or a flat surface.
Though it may seem…
You’re foolish anyway.
Have you ever thought that…
I’m as solved as a blueberry pie.
Or a bale of hay.
Makes you sniff and sneeze.
Have you ever thought that…
I’m not your puzzle.
Maybe next time….
Spend a little money.
Because puzzles ain’t free.
How often I have watched the sun descending into dusk,
and dusk, absorbing sun, exudes bright flavors for the eye.
It's eye candy, often variegated, splendid in its hue.
Those hues, dessert at end of day, sweeten with succulent delight.
What delight in skies of mango, cantaloupe or marmalade,
a marmalade of tangerine with raspberry mixed in!
Sometimes in vanilla skies are Crème brûlée or honeyed gold;
golden dollops of meringue above a lemon ball of sun.
Other times, sun lies concealed by clouds in chocolate skies,
or chocolate with the purple-gray of poi in cotton candy wisps of pink -
pink or bright red cherry heavens, sometimes luscious plum -
that plum reflected in blueberry seas; what treat in watching dusk!
Plentitude of pies
My birthday and,
Celebrations with pies,
Blueberry and strawberry,
With crispy coats and
Sweet jellies inside,
Added taste to life!
But on the contrary,
An economic pie,
Having been served to,
Jobless and homeless,
Veiled all joys,
Rendered life useless!
Craving for lost love,
Is a pie in the sky,
Eyes that glance
Into constant zero,
Pricking deep into heart,
Is thorn of solicitude!
Sour, sweet or bitter,
It's a world of pies,
Sweet ones to relish,
Sour to let by,
Bitter to avoid as,
What can't be cured,
Has to be endured!
Written October 13th, 2014
For contest 'Plentitude of Pies' by Sheri Fresonke Harper
Awarded HM
My Santa sack was filled with poop
To many this news ain’t a scoop
I’ve perfected the art
How to write about fart
I've posted about them on soup
I’ll divulge about Aunty Mable
who eats sprouts whenever she’s able
she made some sprout soup -
a vile manky gloop
then farted at the dining table
She eats sprouts for breakfast and tea
Foul gas builds up copiously
Before she lets rip
She undoes her zip
Her flatulence is legendary
The stench of foul farts Uncle’s hating
Aunt Mable he’s daily berating
With the build-up of gas
that’s expelled from her a ss
their duvet’s always levitating
Inspired by a friend who is always bursting with blueberry goodness
01/08/22
Grandma McCormick’s table is even better than table of mother.
She lavishly decorates it with fruits, pies and meats like no other
Pineapples, strawberries, plums, apples, lemons and peaches too
She tries to find something everyone will like when she is through.
Ham, chicken, squash, roast beef, for my rather picky Uncle Jim.
She includes the vegan in the family also, inviting them in.
Kiwi and carrots, salad made with my favorite blue cheese.
Her cold dishes area iced, staying cool as a summer’s breeze.
The pies do not fit, so they have to have a table of their own.
Chocolate, cherry, custard, lemon, blueberry, is that a scone?
My mouth begins to salivate when I smell grandma’s kitchen.
For her brown sugar squash, my taste buds are simply itch’n.
I have eaten at some fine restaurants in my day, for sure.
But Grandma’s table is always the one that is delightful and pure.
She takes such pride in making everything tasty and fine.
There is no table better than the table of that grandma of mine.