Long Breaded Poems
Long Breaded Poems. Below are the most popular long Breaded by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Breaded poems by poem length and keyword.
Some deal with principalities
To leave them alone
Others fight principalities
In the war of tongues and fangs
Others
And I am one of those
Chose to be
Principalities to the principality,
when the devil sees them he shouts..
"blood of Jesus! the stronghold attacks again
Just like our mountains
Some look at it and withdraw
Others just walk around it for years
Some pray for strength to climb to the top
Others
Who am not part of
Speak to their mountains and they despair
But
Those of my faith
When the mountains see us
They flee and we walk on flat ground
Just like soccer
Its not about your smart boots
Nor your breaded hair
Its much about what is hidden in you
The God that reigns in me
Is too much for the loser
In the world
What you have leads you to what you want
But what is in you gives you what you need
Hear ye the testimony of my worth as a Dandelion:
Since I belong to a family of flowering plants
I’m a marvelous creation* of the Supreme Designer
With a blessed role not only to beautify nature
But also to glorify my Creator with my beneficial wonders.
Though recognized as the quintessential garden and lawn weed
I can boast of my high nutritional value, attested by research facts…
Greatly edible, tasty am I both raw and cooked
From the roots to the blossoms: as steamed, breaded, and fried;
I’m even used to make wine or as a coffee substitute.
Being a multipurpose herb, all my parts are useful…
I’m revered for my traditional medicinal properties
For centuries, I treated a myriad of physical ailments
With my diuretic and laxative strength of potassium content
Including being a liver tonic and an effective wart remover.
Beholding me midst my yellow color, you can feel heat’s radiance
Since I symbolize the sun and its power
Representing happy unions, resilience and re-birth…
With my name’s meaning as “the official remedy for disorders”
I, Dandelion, yield to God for me to praise Him in doing His will.
*Psalm 98:1 O sing unto the LORD a new song; for he hath done marvellous things: his right hand, and his holy arm, hath gotten him the victory.
April 6, 2019
3rd place, "DANDELIONS" Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Line Gauthier; judged on 4/17/2019.
Edited on September 1, 2025
3rd place, "Let The Flowers Grow Again" Poetry Writing Premiere Contest
Sponsored by Mystic Rose Rose; judged on 9/2/2025
There are time capsules in the rural Mid-West,
not retro constructs, but temporal dislocations
that remain as was,
for lack of a reason to be other.
Small town restaurants are steeped
in a comfortable inertia;
diners serve
all broasted, broiled and breaded everything.
Amish noodles nestle in thick white bowls.
There are still drive-in movies
where movies once missed
can be missed again.
We have bars where the jukebox is not a junk box
but a wood and chrome depository
for long archived selections.
Beer here is brewed as brawny
as rolled-up forearms.
We’re futuristic in a plaid and dilatory way.
We are post-modern Jetson reruns,
we dwell just West of the middle of tomorrow.
Of all the things I could mean
The little dreams we come to be
Beneath the porch lights dim
My mind begins to wander slightly grim
And if you can’t help me seem
A little less worried now
I touched your lips this morning
And walked out on life
Broken beneath a crush
I sat out all night
And if you can help me sing
A little less worried now
Up and against the dawn
If you could help me settle in
A single gasp to bring me to my feet
No reasoning beyond this measurement
And if you can’t help me seem
A little less worried now
Dianna, sweetheart
They let me know of your fatherless damn
Your savior, your breaded Jesus
That’s not who I am
And if you can help me sing
A little less worried now
"Articles from a revolver"
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.
I went out sailing on Sandwich Sea
With my motley crew of make beliefs
In a boat of pumpernickel with masts of cheese
Mustarding our courage in a spreadable breeze
We watched peanut butter jelly fish swimming by
Along with a school of tuna fish on rye
But it was the salmon egg salad that caught my eye
When a storm of salt and pepper rained from the sky
Waves of mayonnaise tossed us to and fro
Thinking we might sink in our breaded boat
Saved by a 12 inch sub that surfaced on that note
Helping the boys and me to stay afloat
As they lettuce out of danger and set us free
No one spreading joy was happier than me
With my motley crew of misfit make beliefs
Sailing the high cheese out on Sandwich Sea
Creativity,
When our Lord Jesus created the heavens and the earth,
The light day and the darkness the night.
He gave us all a creative mind.
Creativity dwells within
When singing, reading, dancing, and praising.
Creativity is in breaded in everything that we do ,
cooking, cleaning,
To the accounting, electrician and the plumber creativity is in you .
That artist beholds and even you who choose to volunteer .
And that construction worker building that structure.
That's Creativity,
Also the agriculturist, the healthcare workers, the many businesses and their phone workers.
See creativity,
the educators, law enforcement, environmentalists. The public and the national broadcasting stations and all the advertising.
Creativity,
is there although it's more obvious with celebrities , professional sport athletes and fashion designers.
Creativity !
Is even right there in parenting beside nurturing.
Creativity,
In marriages, bond in love, understanding with forgiveness.
Creativity,
In friendships that doesn't judges.
I see creativity when I'm writing.
How about you?
The channel islands off the coast
of California were my home
on weekends sailing with my dad
on glassy seas, on froth and foam.
On Fridays after work he’d head
to Catalina on the wind.
Sometimes, the trips were fast and rough;
sometimes, you thought they’d never end.
I’d go below when it got dark;
he’d often sail late in the night,
drop anchor in a quiet cove,
and hear the gulls at dawn’s first light.
My father would go snorkeling
and abalone were the game:
delectable when cooked just right,
breaded, sauted on a flame.
The prize, not easy, on the rocks
some twenty feet below or more.
A suit and weights to take him down
to pry them off the ocean floor.
I stayed up top and manned the oars
and kept the dinghy close at hand,
collect the catch and be right there
when things did not go quite as planned.
Though this was fifty years ago,
I picture it as clear as day.
My father found a hunting spot.
The waters, calm; the skies were gray.
He’d found an abalone bed
with numbers plenty to be found,
and so he’d bring them to the boat,
inhale, and take the next trip down.
But then, he came up rather quick
and backed up slowly with his fins.
His snorkel made the strangest moans,
and then he dived back down again.
Again, he came up fast and tossed
the catch into the boat and said
a large black manta ray down there
was quite protective of the beds.
’Twas near ten feet across in size,
and though they shouldn’t cause one harm,
when they are coming after you,
it sets off all the fire alarms.
On one last trip, he headed down,
and next I know, he’s like an otter.
The ray had come straight up at him;
he might as well have walked on water!
He managed to get in the boat
in one smooth motion, in a blink.
Normally, it was a struggle,
requiring help and lots of strength.
He laughed and said we’re done today;
whatever’s here, we’ll call it good.
No arguments from me, for sure;
I’d never been, and never would!
He stumbled up the rock slope
To find the breaded man.
A six gun waiting at the ready,
The bastard’s flesh to brand.
A rock came loose
His foe came round
A stray bullet
Struck in the group
He could not believe his good luck,
His vengeance was at hand.
The race was on around the ridge
He chased that rustler scum
Until atop a stony knoll
He aimed his heavy gun
The shot rang out
The foe went down
The echo washed
Over the town
He stood over the silent corpse
Tired, raw, and stunned
He trudged his way back to the town
Finding faces froze in shock
The though that he might win the day
Their minds had wholly blocked
He gave a shrug
And walked on by
To Red’ Saloon
And Lorelei
He cared not what her job might be
He’d ask her, ready or not
She saw him coming down the hall
And wept their at his feet
Then led him back into her room
For things I can’t repeat
The stable boy
His pa avenged
When none would
Step up to defend
And claimed a wife all on the day
Fellows, that’s no mean feat
Many ingredients bake writing inspiration.
This recipe combines a stirring sensation:
Heaps of desires never realized
as marinated in teary sore eyes;
Quantities of wide open spaces
caramelized by nature’s appeal;
Ageless genuine emotional traces
sifted thru heart rendered graces;
Equal parts family and romantic love
as roasted within, without and above;
Measured creamed ideals of peace
with blanched pain and battle grease;
Diced wishes braised with thrill
bearing aromas of tangy heat or chill;
Slices of awe from a glorious tree
breaded with traits strong and free;
I do not forget sour spices of greed
dusted with mankind’s violent seed;
A mix of fears dredged in anxiety
with stress jelled in complexity;
and, lastly, faith garnished spirit
grown in a soul conscious thicket.
If able, I mix love with ingredients above
before sampling my recipe once warmed up.
I enjoy serving it in a poetry cup.