Long Breakfasts Poems
Long Breakfasts Poems. Below are the most popular long Breakfasts by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Breakfasts poems by poem length and keyword.
I was born and raised in my house, which isn’t home.
At heart, I am from the orange brick house in Westridge Farms
Where I never even lived
There, the pawprints I stamped on the driveway may have long since washed away
But I still left my mark
Even if it was just in the eyes of the horses that watched me walk the gray, cracked road.
I am from the frozen breakfasts we thought were homemade
And still loved all the same
I am from pancakes mangled by the state-of-Nebraska, star, and heart cookie cutters
And the orange juice I drank from a sippy cup long after it was appropriate
Because where I’m from, there was no getting old
There were only butterfly-shaped cookies and Sesame Street volumes.
There was only spending hours outside making pottery out of mud.
There was only picking aronia berries and pursing my lips at the bitter taste before feeding them all to the birds.
My love of cats sparked from the strays I would name and call my own.
I was sculpted by the way the sun shined through the shades in the living room, making it impossible to see the cartoons that always played in the morning.
I am from the uncomfortable metal chairs resting on scorched concrete
Where we sat watching colors explode over the Nebraska sky every fourth of July.
I am from the old picket fence i would climb over
To watch the sun set over the cornfield.
I am from the pine trees that raised me.
The one in Gretna that hid me,
The one in Waverly that sheltered me,
And the one here in my hometown
That put me on top of the world.
I am from two weeks of school
And dancing around the living room
Followed by months of patio visits six feet apart
And spontaneous “I love you” cards in the mail,
Shipped to the orange brick house in Westridge Farms.
I am from 24 and the blacklist
After family dinners every night.
And the only people who made my own house feel like home.
I am from playing flashlight tag and hide and seek
While running around barefoot because I refused to put on shoes.
I am from the family that I found without needing to look,
And the days we spent taking risks, riding bikes, and climbing trees until the sun went down.
(Written in response to the poem “Black and White.”)
Over age 40? Here’s some truth from the new generation.
Don’t get me wrong,
I love those old shows.
Classics for long
All that and more.
But if I may speak a while.
Sir, sit down and please don’t be sore,
And don’t view me as a child.
The shows of old are lovely and dear.
So simple and sweet
Parents needn’t be ware
Of the bad things and screams
They never harmed any babes, those old TVs.
But something’s not right
The black and the white lied you see.
The loving families of “Father Knows Best”
The eyes of “Lassie,” brilliant and true
They are no different from the mess
On our high definition color surround
The only difference, the only thing
Is that you never got to see
What went on behind the scenes.
Violence and hate survived in black.
Lies and deceit thrived in white.
Let me tell you why you really want the old shows back.
The simplicity and the friendly smiles
Were all painted on with a poor painter’s brush.
The breakfasts, the perfection, the people’s damn reactions!
All you want back to feel safe when you have the truth crushed.
The world is no different now from then.
The only difference is
Now we can zoom in.
Into the faces to see the lines
The living color reveals
The lies all of the “great actors’” eyes.
The fake and the phony
Is what you truly love, you asses.
You’ve known all along that the world never changed
Only plucked from your nose those rose-colored-glasses.
Let me tell you something, if I may.
The black and the white that you love so
Is the reason the under 40s are screwed up today.
The God they trusted as they slept in their separate beds
Is the one so many of us defy when your lies about Him were seen in color.
But now we know there are bad guys who DO win fights
And so we’ve learned to hold one another
At night when we know promises CAN be broken
The wind will CUSS from somewhere cold
And some NEVER will NEED vows
For the one they hold to know they love them.
Even though we NEVER fully knew wrong from right.
At least now we’re not hiding beneath the Black
And that White.
When tons of doom filled nights fall upon your head,
embers glow fierce and fires burn unabated.
Recalling her last breath and wish you were dead
in poem's last line, you've been beat and castrated.
From the heavens, a voice thunders out dire threats
about loses and late breakfasts without eggs.
Fumbling about, looking to hedge your foolish bets,
you drink your cold coffee, down to bitter, burnt dregs.
On waking you find dawns hammer truly fell.
Last nights burns are reminders of your tortured life.
You stumble and look up from pits of dark raging hell,
recounting now the true reasons you lost your wife.
Your alarm clock chimes out vulgar curses at you
and your dark house bids you leave by peals at noon.
You think of the ancient, sad wicked dreams, too,
as night falls with it's huge wretched lucent moon.
Dreaming of hungry tigers eating your new boots.
your house perched atop two tall adjoining trees.
A hunter fires; it is not a tiger that he shoots.
Second angry wife cuts your legs off at the knees
Metaphor amputations are so savagely sever.
Your spirit cries out I must flee, tiger is near.
The tiger roars with laughter, I own all your pain.
Second lioness purrs with abject contempt and disdain
Your old slaughtered heart bleating faint cries out.
Memories tainted and dreams coercing a shout.
In abyss of regret the famished tiger dines.
You struggle to cope, tree sways breaking it's vines.
What of taunting lioness who's false words defame?
Half muted stutters quivering lips murmur blame.
Muttered niceties in deep with disgust feigned.
Tiger haunting your dreams, as King it truly reigns.
Will you take a stand your courage regained?
Can you bare the cost, can you bear the pain?
Be strong take back what your past gains.
Clean the slate wipe away the shameful stains.
Climb up from the depth of hells dark pits.
Replace dawns hammer with soft cotton mitts.
Let satisfied lioness purr, hunt the raging tiger.
Be happy, be proud of regaining your swagger.
WRITTEN WITH ONE OF THE BEST POETS I KNOW.
ROBERT LINDLEY FOR THE CHALLENGE ON HIS BLOG.
THANK YOU ROBERT FOR CHOOSING TO WORK WITH ME.
It was the Eve before Christmas, every tree covered in snow,
Bonnie was walking Plato her poodle, conscious to keep to the road,
As she nonchalantly walked, she thought of Derrick her Danish beau,
He was the one that she wished to be by her side as they grew old.
.
Imagine if he proposed tonight, she thought as she strolled,
He is the moon and the stars if she should become
Lost in the dark, and her warmth if she shivered when she was cold,
Her compass in life. Although she wore gloves her hands felt numb.
Bonnie quickened her pace back, her dad said in a low tone, a guest has arrived,
Her adrenaline pumped and her palpitations went into over-drive.
She rushed upstairs, straight into the arms of her love, Derrick she cried,
He sat her down on the bed, suddenly she was full of life.
Derrick presented Bonnie with an open box, her adrenaline went crazy again,
Will you marry me he asked, yes yes, you are the love of my life Derrick,
Bonnie rushed downstairs to tell her parents, and tried to somehow regain
Her composure. Congratulations were said and accepted; Bonnie’s joy was magnetic.
They went to a popular pub in the village, Bonnie flashing her ring,
She walked over to the juke box sensually, with poise, which accentuated
Her sensuous figure, and a tantalizing cleavage, her raven black shimmering
Hair, she swept off her face and seductively Derrick she beckoned.
The engaged to be married couple swayed to the music as if they were one,
Derrick looked at his watch. It’s late , so they left the pub somewhat tipsy,
Feather like snow fell on their faces sobering them up, tonight was fun,
They agreed and exhausted, fell into each other’s arms so delightfully.
Their heightened passionate and undulating love continued till dawn arrived
And so they awoke to a fairy-tale Christmas Morn, within soaked satin sheets,
Breakfasts aromas wafted upstairs, bacon, coffee, freshly baked bread, they grabbed
Their carefully selected gifts, and donned their gowns, there were even chocolate treats.
Wow exclaimed Derrick, Happy Christmas everyone
When tons of doom filled nights fall on your head,
hot embers glow and fires burn unabated,
you recall her last breath and wish you were dead.
In a poem's sad lines you've been castrated.
From the heavens a voice thunders dire threats
about losses and breakfasts consumed without eggs.
Fumbling about, looking to hedge your bets,
you drink your cold coffee, down to burnt dregs.
On waking you find dawn's hard hammer fell
last night's burns are reminders of strife.
You stumble and look up from the pits of Hell,
recounting the reasons why you lost your wife.
Your clock chimes out vulgar curses at you
and your house bids you leave by peals at noon.
You think of the ancient, wicked dreams, too,
as night falls with its wretched lucent moon.
You dream of hungry tigers eating your boots.
Your house is perched atop two adjoining trees.
A hunter fires; but it's not a tiger he shoots.
Your second wife cuts off your legs at the knees.
With life's blood flowing from your severed veins
your heart bemoans that you married once more.
By morning you were free from nightmare's pains
but horrid memories linger behind closed doors.
What vast burdens you bear in fear of sleep
and hollows in your mind fill quickly with dread.
When your clock strikes twelve, I hear you weep,
" Odious anguish! I wish I were dead."
Shadows dance on your walls in candle light.
Dark images of her body pressed close to you,
waltzing in your arms on a moonlit night
but she vanishes when dawn's rays break through.
Which sort of dream scars your mind with more grief?
The ones in which you're butchered; burned by fire,
or when daylight steals her away like a furtive thief?
Will your penance release you from the leeching mire...
the terror you encounter each night as you lie abed?
Foolishly, you once thought love claimed your heart.
Therein lies the angst of what you most dread...
the vexing memories in dreams that tear you apart.
Co-Written with Robert Lindley based on the original
verses he offered in the open challenge on his blog.
So Much To Say
”Here’s your oatmeal and blueberries for breakfast,” I said
putting on a smile.
She said, “Could you adjust my pillows?
“Of course honey, “ I said,
wondering how many more breakfasts
I would bring to her
before she died.
She said “Will you make sure
they feed the cats
After I’m gone?
They forget sometimes…”
She shrugged.
I said, “Of course. honey.”
She said “My arm is lost somewhere
beneath the blankets
I can’t feel it.”
“I know, honey,” I said
retrieving her arm
from obscurity.
“And my leg feels as if it’s caught
Like a fish in a net…
Quivering” she said.
“I know honey,’ I said,
“Would you like me
To move it over?”
“Gently” she said
“Very gently” I said,
Moving her leg
Across the quilted blanket
Across the jagged edges
Of my grief.
I got there early
there was so much to say—
I said: “Have you been watching the birds
at the feeder?”
She said “I have…I love them…”
Her voice drifting away;
she didn’t say more
She didn’t say
“I will come back to you
As a bluebird…
and you’ll know it’s me.”
We have so much to say…
“Look how the sunlight
Is lighting up your hair!”
I said. “So pretty…”
“I love you too,” she said
Smiling, while her one hand drifted up
To the place where clumps
Of hair had fallen out.
“Can I brush your hair?” I asked
She nodded.
I took up the brush
And stroked her hair…
Grace descending on us
As if with invisible wings …
“You know we will always talk
honey, we will always talk.” I said,
“I would go with you” I didn’t say.
She nodded, closing her eyes,
Surrendering...
To the moment.
There was so much to say,
and there was nothing
to say.
I was yearning for words
“The blueberries are so good,” she finally said
And I nodded, my heart broken open
As a thousand birds
Flew out of the nest of my heart
Into the sky above….
Without another word…
Elizabeth Spring. July 31, 2023
. So Much to Say
”Here’s your oatmeal and blueberries
for breakfast,” I said. putting on a smile.
She said, “Could you adjust my pillows?
“Of course honey, “ I said,
wondering how many more breakfasts
I would bring to her
before she died.
She said “Will you make sure
they feed the cats
After I’m gone?
They forget sometimes…”
She shrugged.
I said, “Of course. honey.”
She said “My arm is lost somewhere
beneath the blankets
I can’t feel it.”
“I know, honey,” I said
retrieving her arm
from obscurity.
“And my leg feels as if it’s caught
Like a fish in a net…
Quivering” she said.
“I know honey,’ I said,
“Would you like me
To move it over?”
“Gently” she said
“Very gently” I said,
Moving her leg
Across the quilted blanket
Across the jagged edges
Of my grief.
I got there early
there was so much to say—
I said: “Have you been watching the birds
at the feeder?”
She said “I have…I love them…”
Her voice drifting away;
she didn’t say more
She didn’t say
“I will come back to you
As a bluebird…
and you’ll know it’s me.”
We have so much to say…
“Look how the sunlight
Is lighting up your hair!”
I said. “So pretty…”
“I love you too,” she said
Smiling, while her one hand drifted up
To the place where clumps
Of hair had fallen out.
“Can I brush your hair?” I asked
She nodded.
I took up the brush
And stroked her hair…
Grace descending on us
As if with invisible wings …
“You know we will always talk
honey, we will always talk.” I said,
“I would go with you” I didn’t say.
She nodded, closing her eyes,
Surrendering...
To the moment.
There was so much to say,
and there was nothing
to say.
I was yearning for words
“The blueberries are so good,” she finally said
And I nodded, my heart broken open
As a thousand birds
Flew out of the nest of my heart
Into the sky above….
Without another word…
Elizabeth Spring
We don’t talk no more
Were not friends
And you don’t want me
Not in this life or the next
Say I’m to butch for you
I don’t see how
When I do all the things you like
You use to call me to your bead
A usage I could take
But now you don’t even beckon me to eat
Breakfasts lunch and dinner
And I don’t know how to approach you in this state
When I know you don’t even want to see my face no more
I’m a bad person
A ***** that lies too much
And yell to loud all filled up with anger then and now
Because I only told you once that I wanted you
And you told me you did not want a relationship
So why bet a dead hours
It won’t get up to let you ride
Dead is dead
And life is breath
Yet I can’t breathe when I’m around you or away
I guess this is how Zombies feel
I’m living in the cracks of to day and tomorrow
I’m a bad friend
A ***** that lies and yells to much
I’m always angry
And it radiates off on to you
A heater in summer days you can never turn off
And you can’t deal with this heat
Just two people trying to be whole
And two puzzle pieces that don’t match
Can’t be smashed together
I’m to proud to beg you back
Yet if I did
Got on my knees and kissed your feet
I don’t think it would get me any were
You have heard all but this one
The only one who has read them all
But you will never read these words
That are rushing out like vomit
And I don’t know how to handle
Seeing your face every day
I want to touch you
Hold your hand because I’m sad
I can’t seem to let things go
I ****ed up and I know
But the secrets that we shear
I do keep
A keeper of so many keys
Yet not one that will open the door to you
A Stone Butch Blue
I could never warm
I miss you now
And you miss how I use to be
Ask what I want from you
Dead is dead
And a Zombie friendship will never raise agene
So why do I let you flout in my mind
I want to beery this friendship
Like you beery the dead
Yet I can’t lift the shovel to start
The cryptic hole to beery your soul
Or maybe it’s my soul I wish to beery
But no one can lend a hand
When suicide
Had her legs splayed out wide
>This is a poem I wrote on my daughter’s Facebook page in November 2015. I had just been discharged from Ipswich Hospital after an operation on my back. Movement was nigh impossible, but manageable with the use of certain painkillers. Although I did manage the physiotherapists step test in hospital in readiness for my discharge, movement on leaving the hospital was painfully difficult to say the least.
I am going home today.
I’m going home today.
From daughter's house, where I did stay.
Once I slept all night and day.
Lazy person! Did someone say?
Guess I was that night and day.;
So thank you Nicole Harris for treating me like royalty.
Although I do remember me, making you, one, nice cup of tea.
Sadly, that did not make up for, all what you did for me.
Now all that read this here can see, me really truly thanking thee.
For looking after your dad me and for nice decaff coffee.
Breakfasts, dinners and lunches too, all these meals I got from you.
Now off home I do go, I’ll turn on my microwave and so.
As I remove my meal to eat, I'll no doubt drop it on my feet.
Kat I’m sure will help me out, and eat the whole lot up no doubt.
I Actually did write this, whilst lying in bed at my daughter’s house. And it is a factual poem. I seem to find my only active Brain Cell, demands I write what I feel, when I sense it. Otherwise that moment and hence the poetic vision is lost completely. I think it is Poetic Dragon. You just concentrate on writing, what I say, thank you. And now, you can go to sleep. Another copy and paste success.
May I take the remaining few characters to wish mothers everywhere:-
'A very Happy Mother's day.'
I wish I had a mother,
I really mean it too.
As I have now lost all four.
I hope they are all in heaven.
And if I live my life well.
I'll see them all in paradise,
As will not go down to hell.
But if I do I will not worry.
As all my friends no longer here.
Will be up there as well.
And on that note of friendless.
I now will say farewell. <
In the silence of the night, when the moon weaves its silver veil over the world,
the word "love" floats like an ancient perfume,
spilling from songs and painting itself on the enchanted canvas of dreams,
whispered like a prayer lost in the breeze of the quiet wind.
They tell us that love is the light that keeps hearts warm like hidden suns,
the invisible glue between souls, the reason we continue to dream,
the reason we leave, searching for other constellations in the dark.
But I... I grew up seeing love as a star that never rises,
I saw broken plates, not breakfasts brought with the smile of dawn,
raised voices, not hands reaching to wipe tears like summer rain,
I saw people living together but separated by unseen oceans.
What does love truly ask, under its cloak of mystery and desire?
I have learned that love wears changing masks like the seasons,
and sometimes... none of them are more real than a passing dream.
Is love a living flame or just the smoke of a lost memory?
A dream we chase as we fall from the heavens,
bleeding from our wings but hoping to touch the ground gently.
They tell us that love is rare, but when it's real, it's the entire universe,
but how to believe in "everything" when I grew up seeing "nothing"
dressed in wedding rings that shine like glass illusions?
And maybe love is like the rings of Saturn, shining in the distance,
but hollow when you come too close to their mysterious orbit,
maybe we always orbit around its mystery, never quite touching it.
Perhaps I want to touch love, to hold it, to breathe it, to trust in it—
but how to believe in something I have only seen in stories and fantasies?
And perhaps the magic of love lies not in touch, but in silent belief,
in finding truth in these legends woven by stars and time,
in transforming dreams into tangible realities, dreaming that somewhere,
there is an answer to the questions that not even the cosmos
can whisper in the eternal night full of whispers and desires.