Long Breadcrumb Poems
Long Breadcrumb Poems. Below are the most popular long Breadcrumb by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Breadcrumb poems by poem length and keyword.
There’s a storm that swirls within my chest,
A jigsaw puzzle never blessed.
I’ve tried to fit the pieces right,
But they just scatter in the night.
I’ve got a drawer full of maps,
Plans for futures, perfect gaps.
But the ink’s run dry, and the edges tear,
As if my thoughts don’t even care.
I carry joy like paper cranes,
Tattered, fragile, stained with pain.
I wear my hope like untied shoes—
I trip on dreams I didn’t choose.
Love’s a theory I can’t quite test,
Too many variables to digest.
I give, I take, I lose, I find,
Then leave myself a note behind:
Dear Chaos, please don’t go away,
You’re not a guest; you’re here to stay.
I’ve got a theory that the mind
Is just a broken breadcrumb kind—
A puzzle with no pieces clear,
Yet still we try to engineer.
There’s laughter hidden in the cracks,
And truths that slip through empty tracks.
I try to build a tidy heart,
But chaos whispers, “Where’s the art?”
So here I am with wires crossed,
Losing pieces, feeling lost.
But in the wreckage, I believe,
Somewhere inside, I still conceive.
Through all the mess, the ache, the weight,
Something tells me to create.
For in the chaos, something stirs—
A spark, a dream that still occurs.
I’m learning I’ll never know
Which seeds to plant or where they’ll grow.
But the garden’s mine to cultivate,
And I’ll take my chances with fate.
So here’s my heart, untamed, unplanned,
A blueprint drawn by unseen hand.
In every fold, in every part,
I find the chaos in my heart.
She wore a dress in the color sin
and walked with thunder's grace,
a shadow lit from deep within,
with fire upon her face.
She left the party close to one,
her heels in hand, alone,
they say she whispered to the moon—
“Tonight, I’m heading home.”
But morning came, and she did not.
The chapel bells were grim.
A crimson streak, a silver spot,
the trail grew cold and dim.
They found a heel beside the drain,
an earring near the stairs,
a smear of blood the size of rain,
and whispers in the prayers.
The papers roared: “A girl in red!
A poet may be linked!”
His verses read like hearts gone dead,
his alibis all blinked.
He wrote of girls who vanished fast,
of lips and death and sky,
and Rosalie was not the last
to haunt his lullaby.
Detective Maren took the lead,
a woman sharp and slow.
She followed every crimson thread
the town was scared to know.
She found the Poet’s secret book,
with names in ink and dread,
and there—the line he never took:
"…and then she bled and bled.”
He never made it to the court,
he jumped before the trial.
They found his boots, a final thought—
a carving on the tile:
"Remember me, I told the tale
the world refused to see.
But stories shift like autumn gales—
the killer isn’t me."
Six months from then, a letter came,
no name, no scent, no fold.
Just blood-red ink and ghostly claim,
a secret left untold:
“You followed every thread I wove,
each clue I laid with care.
But who first whispered from above?
And why was I found there?"
Maren sat still, her coffee cold,
her hands began to shake.
The story cracked. The pieces told
a truth she did not fake—
The heel? She found it in the drain.
The earring? She alone.
Each breadcrumb laid with quiet pain
by hands as cold as stone.
For Maren was the girl in red,
reborn with borrowed face.
She’d killed her past and called it dead—
then stalked it like a case.
The Poet wasn’t pure nor clean,
but guilt was not the thread.
She needed someone to be seen,
so she became the dead.
The missing girls? Her mirrored pasts,
the selves she left behind.
And Maren walked the line she cast,
rewriting in her mind.
So if you pass Saint Cecilia’s hand
when fog begins to climb,
don’t trust the badge, don’t trust the land—
some ghosts commit no crime.
The Quintessential Catering Company serves only quality foods beginning with a Q
To some this seems quirky and to others quite quaint
Q foods quickly quell hunger and queasiness
Quick oats and quinoa with quick bread and quince jam are a favorite breakfast pick
Quark and Queijo quiche qualify as a quality lunch offering
Quaglia marinated in Quebec beef spice is a popular dinner choice
Quimbombo and pit roasted Quamash sides accompany this course
Queen of Puddings and some Quesitos are offered for dessert
Forget the queue quickly query Quintessential for your next Q food event
Definition of some Q food listed in poem
Quark-German farm cheese
Queijo- Portuguese cheese
Quaglia- Italian quail,
Quebec Beef Spice-a meat seasoning
Quimbombo-Spanish okra stew
Quamash- bulb of Camas lily with a taste similar to a sweet potato, but sweeter
Quesitos- Cream cheese turnovers
Queen of Puddings- a traditional British dessert, consisting of a baked, breadcrumb-thickened mixture, spread with jam and topped with meringue.
Well swollen boobies on bullocks Boris is boss
our nations Prime Minister at J Hunt's loss
some say a buffoon and they say it sinister
like the mans brain is only miniature
think Corbyn the codfish would be better
Brexit, Labour and Lib Dem protestors
"it's another Prime Minister we haven't elected,
this isnt the person the people selected"
these thickheads argue their knowledge of politics......
you vote for the party not person you ricks
Boris played football tackled like rugby
once on top gear like the Crazy Froggy
we didn't no May was mad she's crazy
we can't do worse but some say maybe
Boris is mad we and him no that
can't put him down when he looks a prat
I will Corbyn cus he's a wat
As for Boris has he a wife?
you want to mock his private life
what are you doing with your life
pay attention to your own life
I think it needs filling like turkey
your innards and guts have been freed
shall we sprinkle breadcrumb or bird seed
look at his private life mate you're pervy
Stop making Downing street a frowned on street
with you in the seat it would be clowning street
rant repeat after your vote defeat
we want Brexit stopped please delete
Come on Boris bloody deliver
make Lib Dem babies shiver
they call themselves democrats
I say all of dem is crats
truth is dreams need to be shattered
the Lib Dems have never mattered
So Holy bullocks with boobies and tails
every politician always fails
Churchill the last one to do well
beating Europe let's repeat that tale
I must admit it's a tangled story
I'm loving Boris
hating the Tories
No Toilet Paper
My mind is boggled.
What is with the Coronavirus mania?
Why is everyone going freaking nuts over this?
From what this writer understands,
It is much like the regular flu,
Which is killing thousands as we speak, and
Hospitalizing even more. And this has been going on,
As long as I have been alive since 1952.
But this particular microbe is novel, and
Since little is known about it apparently,
People are afraid they will “get it.”
So off to Costco they all go, and
Buy as much toilet paper they are all permitted to buy,
Take it home, store or hide it with the other family treasures,
And then realize, inexplicably, that now
They are all magically immune to “getting it.”
Is that what these crazed souls are thinking?
I can think of a fate worse than “getting it.”
Worse than sports games being cancelled;
Worse than concerts and plays going on indefinite hiatus;
Worse than school classes and Sunday services finding the exit door, for now;
Worse than millions of vacations being cancelled, and
Entire industries being brought to their knees;
Worse than the world economy taking a complete nosedive
Into depression and financial paralysis;
Worse than millions of human beings dying
Horrible, agonizing deaths due to this little microbe.
No, I can think of something even worse.
Imagine going to Steak Corral - All You Can Eat,
One night soon, and you wanted your money’s worth.
So you load up your plate with:
Whiskey-laced, barbecued baked beans and garlic bread;
Two breadcrumb-laced quarter pound char-burgers,
Each smothered in a half dozen beer-breaded onion rings,
With ranch dressing dripping over them like lava.
Then you go get some more beans on french fries with
Big raw garlic chunks nestled in them, and then,
You wash it all down with three beers.
Imagine the next morning.
Imagine the horror, the horror,
Of voiding all that Steak Corral stuff, and then
Having the absolute worst possible thing
Happen to you in today’s crisis times.
No toilet paper.
The Phat Ladies of Malta or The Fat Ladies of Malta
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8 chicken thighs de-boned and flatened
16 slices of ham
16 slices of swiss cheese
roll ham and cheese in the chicken
to create a cigar shape
use tooth picks or skewers to secure in place
flour with seasoned flour
egg wash and breadcrumb mixture
sautee golden brown ( almost done)
remove from the pan set aside.
in a pan sautee 1 cup of onion
1/4 cup of red bell pepper
5 T of chopped celery
4 tablespoons of garlic in olive oil
carmilize. add 4 tablespoons of tomato puree
1 teaspoon of anchvie paste.
2 cups of marsala
squeeze one leom
1/4 of parlsey
1 teaspoon of sweet basil
1 cup of chicken stock
1 14 oz. can of artichoke hearts
1 teaspoon of cayeene pepper
1/2 cup of black olives
1/2 cup of sunflower
salt to taste or taste and salt. if to salty water it down.
simmer on lowish medium for 20 to 30 minutes.
serve with a salad and some garlic bread enjoy!
The majestic position of the lion
Our backyard
Whirlwind of summer firefly
Embers
Stirs up
From the long graves of grass
By the sprawling brooms of July 4th fireworks
Booming distant in the furled sky
Up high
The fire flies swirl to tree tops
Breadcrumb stars for swooping bats
Too many blinks to be gulped whole
Let it go
Paths split
Thunder fades to echoes
Consciousness is everywhere
So plentiful
Our heads tilt
Broken from their podiums
Like vandalized statues
Knees cracked ribs lanced
Still upright in the gallery of this summer
My wife and I
Hands freed from our marble robes
Hold together a single sparkler
Gaze to you
Private
Quiet
Uncertain future.
Weeks later
After I first strolled by in the February snow
Strings of fruit
Left out across the park
For birds and all sorts of wonderful creatures
And after I wrote a poem
And speculated
Who this mysterious park shepherd
Might be
In the unspoiled hunger of my mind and heart
Feminine Giver of Life
Was my hope
I see her far ahead
Yes
I knew it
A woman
Though it’s hard to tell with all our winter burdens
Wrapped around us from head to foot
She wobbles in a tattered squall of snow
Bent over a trail
With a breadcrumb bag of apples and oranges
Opened
To her mittened hand
Spreading stems and juice and sunflower seed
In the winter
With so few of us around
We own this park and make our own rules
Drawn
From we the few souls
Who have no need for words or direction
From above
Or below
But only share the lonely air and wind
Snowflakes
I note she now has a long stick
And way ahead
Appears to be writing a message on the trail snow
O SMILE
I do
Toward the end of our walks
I catch up to her since she stops
Often
Like me
Our existence is but nose chin and lips
Protruding under our wool hats sunglasses
Puffy coats
Boots
I like what you do I said
Thank you
“Just trying to get some people off their phones
Find nature”
She shrugs
“Some people call me the Horrocks Lady”
I hesitate then as usual
But with little filter
And desperate for the possible discovery of magic
I reply
I wrote a poem about you
It wondered who you are
“Thank you” she says and with that
Gives me her bent back
Reaches into her bag
And sweeps the palm of her hand
Atop the frozen ground
As another snow squall separates us
From our
Or really
My
Momentary hold on reality.
Another new beginning, another major change
My feet know the rhythm, though this road is undiscovered
My toes know the feeling of wet dew still clinging to the blades of grass
Not yet baked by a summer afternoon
They know the rough soft mountain dirt
And the bounce of a carpet of prickly pine needles
The numbing cold of winters long snow
Quickly followed by the sharp sting of feeling returned
As they are roasted by the fire
My loves feet are following the familiar rhythm
Down a much different unfamiliar path
Will our feet find their way back, unlike our stubbornness
That led our hearts away
The pieces of our soul we tore apart, have not fit right for years
Sloppily thrown back together
Not realizing the catastrophic damage our haste would create
Perhaps the pieces we are leaving behind will become a breadcrumb trail
The morsels to bitter for a crows meal
I had forgiven you so long ago
My love blinds me to your every misdeed
As I lie bleeding on the floor
But it matters not what anyone might say
Because though you can rip me to shreds with a look
Your lips heal my deepest wounds
And although tonight I lie above different soil
I console myself with the knowledge that it is still a part of this great earth
Of which we are all connected
I'll close my eyes and feel your warmth next to me
I will breathe your breath as you hover above me
And I will feel you inside me
As you run through my veins with every heartbeat
Come home to me my love
For I will never be home until I'm safe in the circle of your arms
Close enough to feel the beat of your heart
And the fire of our connected soul
Your Best 2020 Poem Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Chantelle Anne Cooke
A priceless road I find
dangerous game blasphemy,
Wing destiny. To my statue,
leaning forward and less
backward down helpless knees,
begging for A breadcrumb, asking
blood red wine. Quenching
thirst of the almighty to his
throne, for what we don't
know, we will learn to speak
tongue as we follow his
nameless lemon drop
in the lion's den feeding
all who starve... With thunder Nuff
Love!!!!!! God has handed
freely..... Striking, I dare not abuse
thy neighbor shooting anger
out thy hatred for the angels
scatter... A natures beast, Galour
Which has released mi from evil.... As we
come heaven's door,crawling
to meet his feet...... Tu wash dem
Clean.
Tribute tu di mi teacher, who has expanded mi mind to be A great writer; Richard Palmer..... Thanx mi friend and soul- mate for our strength will cury pon.