Long Bowls Poems
Long Bowls Poems. Below are the most popular long Bowls by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Bowls poems by poem length and keyword.
I inhabited a small house near the shore
where the fishes of men hauled their nets,
in dawn’s waters under boats
of wood sheltered by thinning masts.
Time was when they were like kin of god
Trying to feed the hunger of men;
with bodies burnt by a merciless sun
as hands, blowin' free,
allayed 2,000 souls or more.
Riding through for many hours, to catch food
They now pray for bounty when nights break,
While we strum guitars, " The king will come",
That would supply our children’s bowls.
Our trawlers arrive and throw the sword
Weary from roughened winds, leaf, and streams
Yet,I watch them smiling under a darkened cloud,
Looking like apostles of our tiny harbor.
Brian's Select A
And so it begins … my crew will over treat
themselves to ample chocolate for I have just stuffed our
pantry sweetly-full again:
No one will know why the stocked, offered sweets, meant to last
about a week were otherwise offed before two full days passed;
All will be equally mute and dumb about sweet crumbs in play
room, den, beds, and chocolate lint-hit debris inside pockets;
No one will claim a food mess made and left to be discovered,
no, they will all blame pals, fictitious gerbils and each other;
When a sweet ingredient vanishes that I bought for a recipe,
no family peep will be able to describe or imagine its demise;
and, despite my threat of live yard burial, they steal my favorite,
small chocolate morsels to top off their bowls of cereal.
I have a good-sized, hidden, box stocked full of the best stuff.
Looking thru cleaning products would be conduct void of any
profit so I am confident my stash, by child or spouse, will never
be found.
I often hide in my closet to suck or chew my way to chocolate
heaven. When eat-hiding, I fuss about my kids lack of desire
raring to thread a needle of ambition to sew up some
consideration.
All of my offspring take after their dad; they are myopic and
episodic. They overeat, overly zoned out on electronics like lab
rats on narcotics.
Christmas.
Believe the story, the prophet, the myth?
Is it all about festivity, excessive drinking and gifts? About family, relatives coming together that otherwise wouldn’t mix?
Do you see it as a meaning?
Peace on earth, will it ever seriously exist?
Opposing soldiers playing football before sending the bullets flying over the ditch?
Christmas.
A tree in the corner, mince pies, brandy butter, foods so excessively rich?
Is this your Christmas? From your earliest memory to this present itch? Itching to make all things lovely, snow falling, reindeers flying, mistletoe to get that kiss?
Or do you think about the others?
People who’ve never sat with family pulling crackers singing songs? People who live with no money scratching scrapings from used bowls? Should we see it as an opportunity to help the people with no families, the families with no homes?
Christmas.
All the best to you and yours.
Enjoy the festivities but please remember what JC would want you to remember - the forgotten discarded lives of the lost souls.
Goldfish appear to prefer the color orange
They have no arms to reach conclusions
Live out their lives in water bowls or tanks
Some college students swallow them as pranks
Bad people with no manners
Gold fish are not meant as snacks
Children spill them on the carpet in accidents
They are not guilty of killing their fishy friend
And when stepped on by their little feet
Well that was simply an experiment
Fish die all the time
Survival outside of water is not their style
Fish can't escape at times like this
Fins stop flapping. Fish comes to an end
Gold fish are not inclined to go to war
Or live on or off the floor
The military rejects them
They have deferments for their infirmities
Fish are lacking hands and feet
Goldfish don't walk on streets in evenings
They have no need and have fear of beatings
Preferring loitering in water to sidewalk journeys
They take no interest in dentists either
Goldfish have no teeth and don't eat sweets
Swimming around in its own feces
People are too lazy to change the bowl or feed it
Making for something sad and bleak to see
Inevitably flushed down the drain
No one gives a pittance
They all look exactly the same
Goldfish can easily be replaced
Just pick one up at the pet store
And give it the name of the deceased
Advertised as an Estate Sale
Which I took to mean
Not just yard sale discards.
Here are some
Of the things you could obtain:
Aluminum baking pans
Plastic punch bowl
Four segments of track from a train set
Discolored tea-towels with embroidered edges
Christmas themed throw pillow
Velvet painting of sailing ships
Flimsy dollar-store wall mirror
Cheaply framed picture of Jesus
A used tire with "free" sign taped to it
Tupperware, a bit stained
Tiny shelf for back of toilet
Chipped bowls and plates
Mismatched spoons
Wobbly lawn chair
Book club mystery with coffee cup circle
Bread basket, slightly crushed
Half a box of staples
Cookie tin, rusty inside
Fragile teacup with handle glued back on
Melamine resin plates
VHS tapes in sun-faded boxes.
The leavings of a life
Can certainly be sad.
(For the one who still watches from above)
She wore her faith like Sunday white--
quiet, clean, and always right,
not perfect, no--but kind and true,
and stitched her days with all she knew.
She fed us love in humble bowls,
prayers whispered over weary souls.
She mended things no needle could,
and did her best, and did it good.
When life was hard, she stood her ground,
her voice a soft, forgiving sound.
The world took more than she could spare,
but still, she gave--she always cared.
Now heaven holds her gentle hands,
and I am left to understand
how much of her still lives in me,
how deep her roots still seem to be.
So on this day, I light a flame,
and speak aloud her sacred name.
A Christian mother, tried and true--
the heart of home I always knew.
I miss her more than words allow,
but I feel her near me, even now.
A guiding light, though we’re apart--
her love still anchors down my heart.
Deaf can see symphony sounds with eager eyes
Imagining the noise as brown, flight of butterfly
Feeling the music from the car radio in time
Nodding with it in silver synch
To the rhythm deaf not blind
Walking on the beach as tan sand suckles feet
Toes making bowls of mud
while waves dance on repeat
And the cascading sun rays
All golden what is their sound
Perhaps they sound like a soft smile falling down
The drumming of an infants heart
As he jumps in arms and hands
Holding sweet child like holding a star
From a distant heaven or far land
The sound of tears of joy
Splashing in festive face
Happiness that fill a void
Gifts of God’s love and grace
Can you hear my satin soul
Rejoice on the deaf choir
Hands dance a ballet of gold
Sign language lifted higher
I am differently abled to hear
Sights hearing people may miss
Sounds of excitement I hold dear
As a deaf person I feel bliss
Gone are the blissfully quiet days
When I’d have the house to myself
When all was quiet and serene
With no one here to pester me
My only interactions being nudges
To fill my food and water bowls
Key in the door I was king of my castle
Now I have to share my space
With a human twenty-four hours daily
I’m going crazy totally insane
Music tv chatting on the phone
How I crave peace I once knew
Silence ~ am I really asking too much
Surely this can’t be the new normal
Published in my 24-page photo/anthology ~COVID 2020~ 2020
AP: 1st place 2026, 2nd place 2021, 2nd place 2021
Outside a quaint town in fair Vermont,
by my family’s vacation home,
is a small field with fences and sign,
in the warm month’s it’s a place to go.
They have a flea market on weekends,
rows of tents pitched under mountains green,
for most people it is just old junk,
but it is fascinating to me.
There’s a tent that’s selling goat-milk soap,
I did not know that that was a thing,
the man behind it smells of hippie,
but not too much, since he’s still selling.
Next to him are magazines that
were new back in my grandfather's time,
postcards from before the depression,
so many that it boggles my mind.
Across from that, old iron housewares
from a century that is long past,
rough-hewn evoke memories
of a wholesome time that couldn’t last.
Besides that place, hand-turned wooden bowls,
from a shop the next county over,
their pretty, yes, with natural lines,
but at that price, I will say, “No sir!”
Then there’s the tent with all the old books,
dangerous place for men like myself,
it’s foretold I’ll pick up old novels,
but which ones? I can never foretell.
A guy is selling old comics books,
another is hawking baseball cards,
gaudy women’s clothes are over there,
near cheap tools and pieces of old cars.
There’s the guy with army-navy stuff,
yellowed manuals from World War II,
and more knives than you could ever need,
yet I still walk away with a few.
Of course there is the hot dog vendor,
with cheap prices you don’t find these days,
then a tent with essential oils,
I just roll my eyes and stay away.
Buy cheap bandanas for the nephews,
little guys will think that they’re so neat,
the I meander back to my car,
let the wheels take the stress off my feet.
I can take one pumpkin-spiced cup with a pear –
With a pink lipstick visage, my heartrate resides with this gay pear.
Excellent exhalations process a plan that has gone…pear is not a bad shape!
Squareness sucks in each day’s pear.
Anglia Pear, I hope you are apeare that pear is a pearticular charm to in-your-face industrial archipearcture.
You may be pearpetrating the pearposless rule to not scran grey pear.
Until the moon is a golden peartal près
To an island of oak & hazel May pears,
Pearple always will. No-one is naturally scented with cinnamon, nutmeg, ginger & cloves.
What sort would be best to dress a pear?
Dull mugwort – a pearennial plant native to Europe’s air,
Asia’s & Africa’s as well!
It grows now in North Apearica, too.
The first of seeds to have earth
Are frizzled over par l’eau pear.
Oh pear, it seems like a second since – as we watched The ApPEARtice last Friday - you asked me to go prepear
A painting to be exhibited at The Art of Bowls.
My pearpose has been bathing with you know the pear –
Profound pearsions are pulled without a trigger.
Yet humankind pins them perpeartully to product tally charts.
Pearhaps now it’s enough simply to remember pear pear,
Rather than shoving Terry straight in some digger.
Whether clean or not, I would pearfer pumpkin spice to that
Chai!