Long Butter Poems
Long Butter Poems. Below are the most popular long Butter by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Butter poems by poem length and keyword.
She said that this man, my grandfather,
held her head under the black pool water,
while up above, a German man leaned
out of his window, against the moss and brick
to scream violently: "Don't hurt that woman!
She is the most beautiful woman in the world!"
The tone of the man's voice, authoritative, cold
broke my grandfather's concentration and he
let her bob up to the surface, coughing, sputtering
in an almost drowned manner, while still maintaining a beauty uncommon to humans, as she stole a quick glance
to the heavens of heavens to acknowledge the saving
power of a stranger.
This is her story today, as she sits on three moth-eaten,
velvet pillows to make her tall enough to reach the kitchen table.
She has shrunk in her old age and is no longer "the most beautiful woman
in the world".
She sips her black coffee out of Russian demitasse cups with diamond emblems
until she reaches the grinds which have slept in warmth on the bottom,
to fool her, she thinks.
She nibbles her white toast with butter and honey and shivers in the air conditioning as royalty should.
When she has filled the remaining ten percent of her stomach (the other ninety percent was removed from the worry
of ulcers when technology was in it's infant stage), she continues her story.
It lasts all afternoon and twists and winds around the basic sub-plot that, somehow, her beauty and dignity was
acknowledged in the worst circumstances, and, with her infinite wisdom, the world was made a better place.
Her voice soaks into the wooden cabinets, and will remind me forever of strong, fresh-brewed coffee, and I think,
right at that moment as I look at my hands (which I know will resemble hers one day), that I miss my grandfather.
The most gentle man in the world, whose thoughts never amounted to more than wanting to garden well, or shape
the perfect pizza in his pizza shop.
This man, who set chairs on tables to clear the floor before he danced in pure Zorba the Greek manner, with a glint in
his innocent eyes.
This man, who looked at this woman, this fabricating, self-absorbed, once beautiful woman, with an adoration never
deserved.
I clean up the dishes, while still listening, and kiss her good bye on her forehead.
Jittery from stories caffeinated and old, I chose to walk the long way home, lightening my mood and shedding her
words along the way.
Bone-drained, there is no respite, no split second of peace. The “sundowner”, a hyper-active toddler in a man’s vehicle, never sleeps nor sits.
When I succumb to that one precious moment of rest; I am awakened to a furnace running full blast in a freezing cold house and on a nineteen degree night. A butter knife has removed a window; the culprit and dementia-mind panics; he’s terrified of being trapped in a fire. There’s no arguing with dementia-mind; it’s best to play along with the his ideas.
Another day of madness and I awake to a frantically screeching doorbell; it’s his nurse. I've revived in the floor. A migraine faint pulled me down; I’ve had no sleep for eight nights, you see. Sweet respite…she says she’ll, “sit with him”, so I can lie down a bit; a pleasant miracle; such happenstance is a rarity.
Dementia-mind has no solutions, only hallucinations, delusions; absence of mind and aggression for the “sundowners”. I watch at breakfast, as he pours his milk upon the floor; he has no clue of what he is doing or why;
he stares, mindless. When the eyes go blank it’s obvious; he’s not in there. A robot gone haywire, used to be my Father. The last thing to go, were his mathematical skills. Dementia-mind has forgotten so many people; how to swallow, but recalls numbers…
“Who is that man?” he demands, pointing at himself in the mirror. My exhausted mind briefly forgets and I mistakenly reply, “You dad.” The firestorm is initiated; he calls me a, “liar”. Self recognition has failed him now; the flame of his mind is burning low; soon to extinguish.
He’s fed and dressed, but I’ve no time to eat; if he should sleep an hour today; I must cook for the week. It’s the only opportunity I have…when and if he sleeps. I must not go to the bathroom; he’ll break something or fall. I must hold myself until my sister arrives.
The “passives” are painful to watch, as they deteriorate, but the “sundowners” are constant exhaustion. I was in the ER, almost as much as, he. You see, there’s no one to care for the caregiver, but themselves and when they can’t, exhaustion and malnutrition escalate. Dementia-mind is round-the-clock work and two doing the work of six people, takes its’ toll. The disease never discriminates; it destroys everyone.
(My Father died with dementia, a form of Alzheimer's in 2003, after a 15 year battle.)
Everyone hates my poetry
Because it doesn’t wear makeup.
Because it stares too long,
or not long enough.
Because it mentions the body
like a room that remembers
every man who left his name in dust.
Because it’s too sad,
too loud,
too holy,
too raw—
because it does not ask permission
to bleed
where others would politely weep.
They say I should whisper.
I scream in stanzas instead.
Line breaks like broken bones —
each one healed wrong on purpose.
I rhyme “fxxk” with “forgiveness”
and call it a sacrament.
I flirt with ghosts.
I give grief a seat at the table.
I write what I can’t confess.
And then I press send.
And wait.
And wait.
And wait.
?
Go your own way, they say.
But I was never theirs to lose.
I won’t be your throat,
your mouth,
your Sunday-quiet muse.
Dance in the avalanche —
I’ll be drinking full-blooded wine.
You butter your toast,
I’ll bleed ink and call it divine.
I’m Dracula,
you’re limpets —
clinging to shores of should.
Sinister mercy monsters
with teeth made of wood.
You won’t take mine.
I’ve bartered them
for metaphor.
For myth.
For the kind of flame
that never asks to be understood.
I sit on a throne
shaped like an electric chair,
burning truth until
only the bones of beauty remain.
You?
You live in living rooms.
You collect pretty things.
I braid your betrayal
into a lei of lunacy —
my madness in bloom.
Say I’m too old.
Too female.
Too much.
There’s something in the water.
Damn right.
I am the water.
I merge with ocean light.
The moon kisses me goodnight.
Why do I need your approval to feel seen?
Must just be a throwback trauma dream.
Your eyes — not galaxies,
but black holes,
sucking the light from my becoming.
I offered constellations,
you brought collapse.
But still—
I orbit my own flame.
Still, I rise in ruin’s dress,
sequined with scars.
I chew the fat
with better men than you,
men who don’t flinch
when a woman burns through.
Men who sip my fury like wine,
and still
ask for another glass.
You?
You watered me down,
then called me “too much”
for the mess you made.
?
And still I write.
Rubber lover, Zipperella,
is not a brother or a fella.
He has false **** and kitten heels,
not a chest and ankles made of steel
His spiky rubber bag is old,
cleverly patched with a Marigold.
It’s been so long since he wore cotton,
and only zips, never a button
Zippy is a Tube commuter,
six foot tall in his Transmuters.
Lots of people stop and stare,
even more when he had pink hair.
Being a girl was such hard work,
every day another jerk!
Better to dye it back to brown,
play his fetish lifestyle down.
A little less attention is better,
when all he wants is bread n butter
Down to his local corner shop,
in skin tight leggings and a belly top.
He could blend if he wore a sweater,
or maybe brown corduroys would be better.
That’s what a woman would ask,
it had happened in ZIppy's past.
He’d had a wife who he'd loved dearly,
but she couldn't understand him...clearly.
Take off that dress, put on some trousers!
What about mother, think of the neighbors!
It went on like that for years,
lots of heartache, floods of tears.
Even though she was his lover,
he felt like they didn't know each other.
Then on a bight and sunny morning,
came the last, the ultimate warning,
‘Zippy, I want you as a man;
you’re turning me into a lesbian!’
He was forced to wisely choose,
the rubber-wear would surly loose.
He had made his vowels for life,
how could he just leave his (darling) wife?
The only decent thing to do,
was to be loyal, to be true.
But then depression set right in,
when all his beloved rubber was thrown in the bin!
Time stood still for a couple of years,
lots more heart ache, stress and fears.
For he missed rubber in his (now) sad life,
more than he would miss his nagging (dear) wife.
This could not go on forever,
he needed a friend not a jealous lover.
Maybe she didn't’t like his feminine side,
but Zippy loved dear Zipperella with pride.
So one sad day they said goodbye,
with no questioning or reasoning why.
It was how it was meant to be,
she was free, and so was SHE!
Alone again but not as much,
much more honest, much more in trust.
For Zipperella loves all things feminine,
now the woman he holds dearest lives within…him.
(Author Notes
fella: man
Marigold: washing up gloves
Tube: london underground
Transmuters: a brand of boots with frankenstein style heels with big studs)
There once was a couple who lived a peaceful unit until one day they designed to have a mystery party. Little did they know it will turn out to be the real deal.
It all started when the guest arrived with bong.. A gunshot they heard. The couple looked at one other and asked "Did you hear that? Did you change the plot." They both said no and went ago with it. Little did they know there was cold blood on the floor. Harsh killing, shooter on the loose and no one knew where he lurked.
Could be Wade the butter, could be Billy, the chef that always carries a knife in his suit? Could be Sue the maid, Sugar sunny the exotic dancer, or could be the happy couple? Thunder lurks booming sounds like if its was coming from the inside. The lights turn off and everyone shouts now no knows where they will end up. Feelings of fear and smell of blood in the air the lights turn and the suspects and killer all in the same room.
Flames were rising blames flying claims thumping but one one screams. Stop! Stop! Stop! Lets figure out what happened. Clues to the sense she had a gun in her hand was pointing at her but the gunshot was right through the heart. There was no letter to say it was a suicide. Meaning only thing there was murderer on lose but everyone was a suspect at this point.
Everyone started asking questions Could be you? Could be me? Who killed Sue the maid?
Everyone gather together just one person was out the group. He feeling guilty and guilty he was. The lights flickered like if they were winking at the him. Nervous- very very dreadfully nervous had been and is. He breaks down into tears. "Okay, okay!" It was me, said Wade." But she asked me to. She was my life. She was my wife. What could I have done? Sue was diagnosed with lung cancer. She had one day one day to live. She took out a gun. A gun out of her bag. She took it in her hand and she took mine as well. She said goodbye my love and pull trigger I know I didn't pull the she did, But the guilt was growing knowing I saw it all and I didn't call for help knowing she would be suffering through the night.
"I am weaken in mind but not by spirit, I hope she forgives me. I am calling the cops I have proof of what I am saying its true. Now its time to let her go. Moral of the story is it wasn't a murder but a mystery in a way a person that knew it was her time to say goodbye.
In the narrow corridors of lost time,
where light seeks its shadows in dusty corners,
words sit like butterflies with heavy wings,
suffering under the weight of unspoken silences.
In the silent cells of a forgotten world,
my books traverse walls, like birds searching
for the sky in a windowless world,
trying to free thoughts trapped in chains of paper.
I wrote for those who bear invisible burdens,
for those who find solace in lines,
but literature, a mystery to the ordinary mind,
weaves into the soul like a forgotten melody,
a song even the rarest of us
cannot understand without feeling its pain.
Poetry, a labyrinth of emotions,
sheds complicated meanings,
leaving behind clear, human words,
like an honest gaze in a world of masks.
Williams called for clarity,
and I followed, seeking to open paths
for those who have forgotten how to see.
But writing is one thing, life another,
we improve the words, but our lives
remain stuck in the same patterns,
like birds repeatedly striking
the glass of painful transparency.
Perhaps, by writing better, living more beautifully,
we will make life ashamed of itself.
Maybe artists were never strong enough,
maybe those who rule the world were too strong,
and we, pale and precious,
let words flow like a river
never finding its sea.
But art, in its intimacy,
bears the same burden:
women, governments, God,
love, hate, poverty, slavery,
insomnias and roads without destination,
times and spouses, and all the rest…
A man in a cell dislikes how commas dance,
how words stray from their path
to capture the exact essence,
without knowing the intention is to relax, to humanize,
to make words like butter or avocado,
something you can grasp and taste,
like a simple and nourishing meal for the soul.
Art may wander, but it keeps the essential form,
like Dostoevsky or Bach,
who taught us to layer melodies
one over the other, creating a symphony
of hidden meanings.
I do not defend my work, but the right to create it
in a way that makes me feel alive.
A writer's boredom is the reader's boredom,
and perfection is just a myth,
an illusion keeping us away from the truth.
You, in the neighboring cell,
receive this letter as a gift,
as a whisper of hope and freedom,
for art needs only the freedom
to be itself, imperfect and real,
in a world that forgets to listen.
Amethyst shades dazzle her mysteriousness
hiding black secrets in vulnerable mellows
though recognized in the forgotten marshes
she's said to possess dark onyx powers.
She smiles at lost passersby in the red valley
aware of the myths bubbling beneath wet soil
and they disappear in unexplored forests
seemingly safer than her uncharted evil mind
every full moon augments her fragrance they say
her Carmen blooms to entrap innocent souls.
A thousand false alarms wrapped in assumptions
for they'd never know she's a trampled magnolia
tattered spirits in frayed rags was all she had
dried oceans of scarlet tears in enclaves of fears
humanity died on a full moon night under heavy breaths
her weakened screams muted with lustful arms
blurred visions of a forced conviction in blood
her faint shrieks died in this swamp of tragedies
till her blood froze beneath slumbering snow.
Her burning spirit simmered mauve mists
slimy seeds sprouted the dirty green marshes
spring bloomed her courage to recollect storms
crushed to sprinkle colors on heavenly topanga
diamonds in her mind shimmer as she laughs
sending ripples of valor in perturbed oceans
embracing her flaws she sings a folk melody
trances of whispers blended in mellow symphony
legends of crimson valley float with her flute
a goddess calming oppressed souls to breathe
they've heard stories of sapphires burning
splashing colors of freedom and kindness
but all they see on drooping moonless nights
her pious caricature coming alive in dark
magenta petals blooming in layered fog of storms
turning mauve then scarlet glittering ruby
spreading wings from green marshes perfumed flowers
on elevators of courage to save scarred souls
infant butterflies arise in lilac hues of whispering hopes.
July 4, 2020
A Contest About a Goddess or God - Not THE God Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Caren Krutsinger
~Winner: 1st Place
butter flies and marshes mellow Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Kai Michael Neumann
~Premiere Contest Winner: 2nd Place
There was something spectacular
about a winter, long and hard,
on the Miles River.
Some days will never be the same.
Greying skies, heavy hung
with crystal burdens
of the wind, and air. Twenty above,
after sunset, zero.
And the snow was the problem
of every man of driving age
with responsibility. His children
were busy getting ready.
And getting ready! The flurry
of wool, and the long john-ed cotton.
A long and hearty walk ahead, river bound,
passing ponds along the way...
A pair of skates, tied together,
a knitted cap and a smile
crossed the frosted fields, the puddled
slush and slurry, hurried
to gather like the feathered geese
who gathered
on the ice inside a frozen cove,
a forgotten day one January.
And the town of Saint Michaels:
a sidewalk of salt and shovels
digging out the shops...
the smell of warmth, of oak,
drifting thick from brick and mortar,
soups and running noses tucked away
inside the bars and churches,
snowfall on stones in cemeteries
of the Methodist, St. Luke's,
and of the Catholic.
There's birds at the feeder
of a residential tucked nearby.
A sigh, a whisper of air
between the shops
from the docks, chilly regards
from river and bay.
And a waterman, on his way
to the mouth: leather skin, covered
and coated in khaki and denim,
with permanent painted on flannel.
The oysters busheled up are icing over
in a harbor of seafood trucks
and white liars, old men who carry business
no longer, young boys with no blood to offer.
Forsaken a tradition, over a dollar.
And so the middle aged...age. With bad knees,
busted knuckles, and a thermos of lukewarm
coffee, black and heavy.
Cigarette smoke and rubber boots,
bibs and denim jeans drying inside
beside a stove of wood, the cord
stacked long outside.
And babies buried deep in coats
and blankets, mothers careful
in the parking lots of
Grauls and Acme.
Stews for dinner, Oyster based
and beef, warm tomato
with Saltines for crumbling
and butter for spreading.
Just the way of things.
On Spencer Creek, someone took down
a Christmas tree: a tomato cage
on a dock. Distant echoes of a motor
lapped the shoreline.
Some men dreamed of spring time,
when the cold would stop biting
and the creeks would clear
away the winter with the rain.
Some days will never be the same.
* * * * * * * *
* *
The Winter * * The Winter
is coming to a close * * is drawing its curtain
as Spring arrives I wiggle * * down, and you won't ever
my toes. The fresh air greets * * see me frown. The days of so
me as I stroll, but I know things ** many long dark nights are over
no one knows. See there's this ** it's time to wish on St. Patty's
tiny Monarch that's caught my ** lucky clover. There's so much
eye, but I never do see her ** nectar for good nourishing
fly. She's there when I ** as all the butterflies are
awake in the morn & ** hopeful and flourishing.
saves me when my ** So much beauty seen
heart is so torn. ** and so very serene.
~~~~~~~~ ** ~~~~~~~~
Can I ever see ** Sincerity and love
any more lovely ** are two gentle gifts
beauty? I do think ** from up above. When
not, we are now free. ** darkness hovers and it
Our nature was gifted ** seems we fall, remember
from God's great creation,** the butterflies can save us
bringing us holy salvation.** all. Green, pink, yellow &
So as I go about my day ** blue, there's nothing a
a simple thing I always ** butterfly can't get us
pray. For life to be as ** through. For when
beautiful as a tiny ** we want to cry
butterfly, tears ** we'll be saved
fall from my ** by butter
eyes. ** flies.
**
**
**
*
Something Concrete Contest
April 9, 2018
People of the blue hill arrowhead new inroads settled the plum-rock if they would have known the thirteen crystal skulls would sing of disease prayer towns taken for granite People's Republic Taxachusett old colony pilgrim bay Make It Yours; The Spirit of America By the sword we seek peace, but peace only under liberty Large waters people of the three fires living in peace the Cadillac’s bristling hairs of fur trade stir the fox seven years of war and more expanding breaking treatise Out of many, one I will defend everyone wants the land great lake wolverine mitten Winter Water Wonderland World's Motor Capital America's High Five Great Lakes, Great Times; More To See If you seek a pleasant peninsula, look about you Land of rolling cloudy water dropping milk into water friends of the free people forced into smaller lands where crop failure a winters starvation red tape no credit for food If they're hungry, let them eat grass friends at war over three hundred warriors No attorneys or witness were allowed as a defense for the accused, and many were convicted in less than five minutes but Sheridan's, Custer’s and Baker’s plan was a dawn attack on a village in heavy snow, when most of the Indians would be sleeping or huddling inside to keep warm. It was a strategy he had employed before Explore Land of 10,000 Lakes Bread and Butter north Vikings north star Sky-Blue Waters * These called rebels heathen from underground before they had a flag forced to walk the trail of tears to be the red men from a land the government never paid then there is the slaves when cotton was king the Free people of color children of European men and enslaved women but half the population were slaves until KKK’s burning cross waving the guerrilla war flag calling it "the White Man’s Flag" as well as stating:“ As a people we are fighting to maintain the Heaven-ordained supremacy of the white man over the inferior or colored race; a white flag would thus be emblematical of our cause. ” Birthplace of America's Music magnolia bull bay the hospitality Feels Like Coming Home; The South's Warmest Welcome