Long Boil over Poems
Long Boil over Poems. Below are the most popular long Boil over by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Boil over poems by poem length and keyword.
Across Realms
Across vast realms
Where clouds collide
Like scarred chariots
In rush hour traffic
Storms boil over
Fed by fiery wombs of dawn’s inferno
With flames of sunrise fire,
As thrashing rain
Plants rainbow seeds
In metaphoric soils
To harvest far flung sunbows
From cerulean fields.
Sun and storm wedded
Hopefulness
Whispers
A haunting covenant
Drenched by hues of hope
Shielded by the sun.
Binding misty edges
Of edgeless domains
Revelations
In beatific splendor soar
Kaleidoscopic pergolas
Highlight sky bound wings
Tinted by ethereal arches
When shimmering puddles
Unfold across Heaven’s doorstep
Across realms
Bathed in mystic grandeur.
5-2-23
Contest: This or That
Sponsor: Edward Ibeh
Theme Chosen: Across Realms
Mom's do lose control;
When we would rather believe ,
that being a mom is easy rather than hard.
Thinking it's just making breakfast,lunch and dinner.
Too doing the household chores, and kissing boos to make them all better.
But it's so much more than that , being a mom can be mentally, physically and emotionally exhausted.
That is why so many of us single moms fail.
When it’s too many clothes to fold,
and our emotions boil over into frustration,
that now has turned into anger.
As some mom will reach for the bottle and have a drink.
They would rather be drunk on their emotions and their behavior.
For it makes them feel less guilty of the outcome.
But for those who don't drink or use drugs to hide all the feelings of frustration and exhaustion.
They just had to let it out with the yelling and screaming at these children that they do love.
And because it wasn't too much and no single mom counseling.
We are now labeled as abusive moms .
The monster that has hurt her kids.
And now CPS already called in , as a single mom you failed,
it was too much of a mental, physical and emotional load.
This is what happens when a single mom loses control.
She told me that she never had real spaghetti before.
Of course she's had spaghetti before but not in the sense that made it worthwhile.
When I asked why she replied that it didn't feel real.
That in a sense it was pasta.
She always broke the noodles when she made it.
She developed a fear that everything would boil over and catch fire.
That part of the noodles would be too crunchy.
All of it would never fit in the pot.
Her mother always broke the noodles so it just became habit.
In the same breath.
She told me at least once,
That she'd like to twirl the noodles around the fork.
The complete taste and feel of what makes it spaghetti.
The cheese blending into the sauce.
The big ball of noodles just wrapping around the fork waiting to be bit.
When I asked about the meatballs she laughed,
She was vegetarian
The pedestrian kettle steams on to the Capitol pyre
With a weight watcher tonic; more lean legislators to sire
The Grand Old Party a taste of the aromatic brew doth require
Medicinal tonic blended to alleviate bloating gout of every Democratic squire
Preferring their watered-down, generic brand, constipated digestive tracts go haywire
The savy financiers sit on the sidelines in their cozy markets ignoring the taste test flier
The partisan grit clogs the filter producing a quagmire
The vitriolic ingredients boil over causing a rancid fire
The billowing smoke rises and streams to the patrician choir
The generic master brewer in his white house stews in the demagogic mire
Commercial winds sweep in fanning the flames causing the heat to reach dome's spire
The regurgitated grounds spewed forth to every intoxicated shire
Democratic gainsayers scare the elderly that the side effects are so dire
The rest of the squeamish plebians in their depleted hovels continue to sip their Common Roast with ire
Don't stop the CHOP
dash the glorious bits of foam and froth
let the leeward side fill
let the fertile delta pray
for mercy from Poseidon
All hail the storm God...
Angry, black-and-blue, bruise
the coast, claim the futile calm...
meditate on the black hole of the abyss
Can’t STOP the chop…
Brash and brazen tentacle of DOOM
destruction stirs the devil’s cauldron
Watch the witches brew boil over the
capes of man
removing the zen garden
prissiness of the pandering fools
Batten DOWN the hatches boys
There BE a BLOW on ‘er…
ships flail like paper boats
RALE against the dieing, FIGHT
Ride the crest on boards LIVE the fright!
It's all about to come to fruition
to seath up and boil over in volume and commission
The intention of the off hand is to present the will of the common
driving down to the bottom with no cause to empty the plenty free you see.
I cast no spell to either side tho I hide behind honorable walls ready to peak around the side and utter my righteous mantra.
I might just have fun with the sincerity of others who are afraid of what they are told to be afraid of.
With love so right it's wrong to know when "no" means more to you than to them requiem this intent to stint the stench sent by the unrepentant to persistent intent.
I bask in the glory filled fortified facts that we stack high abroad to attack when everyone is watching.
Desencly watching with no way of knowing where you're going.
If they're told to hate do they know when to cease?
To release all bindings and so called findings of convenient facts
That stack on there mind so high they can't see over their own failure
To see that their freedom has been redefined for their confinement.
Being this stillness within a whirling brain,
detached, as thoughts boil over,
watching from a 10 mile high view.
All these years chasing ghosts;
they’re all living with me now,
because that's what ghosts do
when you kill them.
I was aghast of myself,
dark times loading bullets behind closed eyes,
believing I would be always buried alive.
Resurrection is for the catatonic,
me, I got hit between the eyes,
sucker punched.
Life and death came together
in a field of non-existence,
and yet only there
did consciousness bloom.
Could be I’m just a clearer sky,
one still rolling over graveyards
where all the spent volcanoes
simmer on -
nevertheless still rolling.
My love for all on Poetry Soup
like a tasty broth group.
Cook and stir
* 2 pounds lean Lebanon ground
in Dutch oven over medium-high heat,
breaking the Lebanon meat up as it cooks,
until all is no longer pink and has
started to brown, about 10 minutes.
Stir in the
* 2 Canada onions, chopped
* 3 United Kingdom garlic cloves, chopped
and cook for another 1o minutes
Stir in
* 3 cups Africa water
* 2 (15 ounce) United States cans tomato sauce
* 2 (14.5 ounce) cans India diced tomatoes
* 3 tablespoons Isle Of Man soy sauce
* 2 tablespoons dried Italian herb seasoning
* 3 Philippines bay leaves
* 1 tablespoon seasoned Bangladesh salt, or to taste
and bring to a boil over medium heat.
Stir
* 2 cups uncooked elbow Australia macaroni,
cover, and simmer over low heat until the pasta is tender,
about 25 minutes, stirring occasionally.
Poets with golden ink and pens
that make us move forward as friends
with inspiration, kindness, and honesty,
encouragement and compliments.
A small act of caring, which has the potential
to turn a life around.
I thank each and everyone of you far and near.
3/14/2022
She was a ticking time bomb.
Ready to explode at any moment.
Her temper was ready to boil over,
at any given time.
People could see her coming.
And then one day it was too late.
She exploded! The time bomb went off.
And we never heard the end of it.
She shouted at everybody.
She screamed at the top of her lungs.
She was a ticking time bomb.
And she exploded!
Boom! The bomb went off.
Finally! The police were called in,
and they dragged her off to jail.
Nobody knew her name, and nobody
knew where she came from.
But everybody knew!
She was a ticking time bomb.
Ready to explode at any moment..
Society Poetry By Kim Robin Edwards
Copyright 2003,2014..
ALL rights reserved..
Never underestimate this opponent,
While he's busy rolling up his sleeves.
Though he looks like he isn't focused,
Soon you'll be falling to your knees.
I've watched him from a vague distance,
He visualizes every single, lethal blow.
In his mind's eye he quietly meditates,
Carefully strategizing how this fight'll go.
Like a pot about to boil over,
The rage deep inside him slowly grows.
He witnessed so much through horrific scenes,
A well kept secret no outsider knows.
He constantly replays this life's traumatic moments,
Holding back the painfully silent tears.
He'll never open up, to publically display,
Haunting memories inflicted over the years.
Although his mind and views are tainted,
Because of the situations beyond his control.
The Boxer's indestructible spirit is mighty,
Protecting his heart and shielding his soul.