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.
Me and life
Am lucky am still alive
What more can I ask for
After life has beaten me
Blue and black
I can't be darker than i am
Made to be
Cos if life is fair
Their won't be never a dark night
In the midst of the day
So once again am thankful
In show of my appreciation
My pen bleeds again
Lighting up darkness to light
Every time I appear to the world
Me and life
Has been wrestling
Some times it knock
Me out
Some times it far from me
Some time it hit me so hard
Punches me from every angle
Yet it never kills me
Nor let me alone
It funny all that fight me comes
From life itself
Me and life
Is meant to be like
The bee and honey
We meant to be mixed
Like a bread and butter
Swallowed by the big mouth
Of love down to the belly of peace
I can never ask for more enough
Am thankful to
God
It stood magnificently in front of our Churchyard,
Like the sacred fig tree before any temple-yard;
My going to church, as a boy, had no other reason,
Than picking all bird-dropped fruits, as a mission;
Collecting as many as possible hastily,
Pushing them into my knickers-pocket quietly;
Thinking of them all through the Holy Mass,
Waiting for the priest to say the final grace;
Hurrying to a corner where no humans see,
Place, as lonely as the very loneliness could be;
Savouring the sour-sweet taste spread over it,
Then breaking it with stones to get the nuts in it;
Quantity of it equaled as little as a butter drip,
Or as much as ten mustard seeds put as a strip;
Relishing it as though nectar of ancient sages,
Coming down to mine tongue from all the ages;
In youth tastes changed and matters mattered,
And this almond became very old fashioned;
Burgers, Pizzas, hotdogs and all tasted well,
Though, consuming them, I often was unwell;
I saw boys and girls picking almonds as I did,
And hurrying to corners and I understood;
The ‘grown-up’ in me prohibited me from doing so,
It’s hence I hid my child within, as a rainbow;
Abroad, I almost forgot the Indian almond tree,
As within me, I was bored and never really free;
I had my worries of marriage and children,
Who’d care for a tree with no monetary gain?
It’s when I went to my home town casually,
It’s under that tree I found my future lily;
We married and got children who grew,
Both with tastes so modern and new;
Yet, it’s when once we visited the churchyard,
My younger lingered over that fruit so thrilled;
We offered him sweet almonds from stores,
And supermarkets that made him to uproar;
He collected for long as much as he could,
And each little one he collected for him he hid;
He too, later, had his dreams and worries,
Sophistications seismically so seduce, seize;
Church now demolished and grounds cleared,
For newer one to construct all well renewed;
I found this almond tree got fully uprooted,
And thrown into a corner like an old harp muted;
I cried and cried till I could cover the tears,
As though I’d hidden my feelings for many years…
30 July 2021
Finding Your Muse Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Regina McIntosh
Preheat quite low, wee pinch for color flow
A little bit of molasses dripped slow,
with a bit of lemon and watch skin glow.
Sprinkle cayenne pepper for warmth and blow.
Strike lite blows, cream all the way to the, "Ow,"
repeat stroke a little harder, "sweet Joe."
Cream the butter and brown sugar and throw
evenly round the bottom and below
to taste till hot stiff peaks, "loving you so."
Excellent with your hot coco, you know.
12/30/2019
Poetry Contest: First Time Here - Any Monorhyme
Sponsored by: William Kekaula
10 lines / 10 syllables per line
I see you standing there acting as if you don’t care, you have been listening to a lot of argument about the city and the gate, the time has come when you have to make a choice so let your conscious tell you what to do and guilt will walk away from you.
You have been listening to a lot of argument about who is normal and who is insane this is all a part of the game, it’s time to saddle your horse and walk through the lane, the argument is done and water is flowing from the barrel of the gun. So get up and go to the polling station before the day is done, it is all about you and not the oversized shoe when you stand in the little booth by yourselves you have to vote your conscience. What kind of society do you want? One that is loaded with rats and mice, you the people will decide where you want to live for the rest of your lives.
Water is spilling out of the fountain and the travelers are moving
towards the mountain, they are loaded with supplies and they are on a mission before the universe dies, get in line and sing the old western song, their sacks are filled with cash and they have billion strapped to their backs, there is something for everybody so relax and do your thing and meet her at the top of the hill.
It’s a little too late to eat cheese and pies, peanut butter and marmalade, that mission is already over and it is time to put your house in order, you will knock on every door and take three people each with you to the voting floor, do what your heart tells you to do and your long awaited dream will come true.
The river has burst its bank and washed away all that you have got and
there is no money to put it back, nobody can help you, you have got to do what you have to do, the price is too high and you have to stop living the lie, you have to put your hands to the wheel and she will make it real and the universe will seal the deal.
Go out in droves, and vote with your mind body and soul and joy will meet you at the door and your story will be told.
The cat didn't give a diddly squat,
she played her fiddle non-stop,
accompanied by her kitten's song
they yowled from dusk till dawn
and the townsfolk never slept!
The fat old cow could not jump
even if she tried (which, of course, she didn't),
she gave no milk, nor cream for butter
so down the road she was sent
to Old Moon's Butchery and Deli.
The little dog is not the laughing sort~
with no sleep and no warm milk
it's no wonder his mood is foul,
he bit the hand that tried to feed him
dried up bits of moldy bread.
The spoon then decided it was all to much,
what with the noise and loss of proper table-setting~
with rules of etiquette in a shambles,
she took her matching dish
and ran away to Once Upon A Time.
The moral of the story is never give a cat a fiddle!
I never have enough apples.
Apple pie, which I will only eat
alamode.
Apples, to keep the dentist at bay;
apples, to keep a nagging teacher away.
Apples, cored and filled with peanut butter
and raisins,
finds balance somewhere between a raindrop
and the symmetry of snowflakes,
where balance cannot be found.
Like old age and youth
the man in the mirror always wins.
No matter how long it takes
to see him, he's always there.
Old ladies lose muscular tone
and daily search to balance sag and arrest,
another dirty smudge where balance
cannot be found.
I take pride in the old woman's knobby fingers,
I 've earned every lump you see.
It brings me joy to look at them...
I have my grandmother's hands..
and that balances everything.
When I eat salt it awakens the boys
They talk to the tongue, making all kinds of noise.
One bit of sugar leads to sixteen bits of another.
I learned this the hard way, warned by my mother.
Sugar and salt, the two things I love the very most.
I eat them with chocolate, on peanut butter toast.
I cannot get enough of salt or sweet things.
They are going to kill me. So ding ding a ling?
We have to die of something? It might as well be salt.
I love potato chips and French fries, and a big chocolate malt.
I cannot get enough of cake, pudding, ice cream and pie.
If I cannot have them, frankly, I’m ready to die.
When it's soup season on Poetry Soup
Ingredients are in large selection
Creamy chicken soup is yummy
for both body and soul
it is simple to fix
Step one:
Joseph and John catch the chicken
it runs wild in the back garden
Step Two:
Robert and Richard pluck the feathers
and takes out the entrails
no one else would do this work so well
Step Three:
Wash your hands (I bet they smell)
Step Four:
Tania and Evelyn
fry the chicken in butter
together they sing a cheerful song
Step Five:
Ilene and Jan
is responsible for
leek, bell peppers
and carrot in the pot
their tools are humor
not razor sharp knifes
Step Six:
Hiya who is "chicken" in the group
adds boiling broth stock
Linda tells her to be cautious
kitchen window has been misted by steam
Step Seven:
Let the soup boil for ten to fifteen minutes
Sara says to her husband Bill who stirs the pot
Step Eight: Crème Fraîche
Paula and Heidi adds an extra dash
and taste a little with a wooden spoon
Step Nine:
Victor chops some fresh parsley
he feels refreshed and hungry today
Step ten: Pick your place around the table
Welcome to Soup - Enjoy
As I rummage through the cabbage patch of general affairs,
I’m made aware of certain signs of cultural decline.
I see it written in the talon marks of chem-trails overhead,
Confirming all my pet conspiracy theories.
It’s rooted in the topsoil of a flat earth conviction.
It’s every suburban legend’s low hanging fruit.
It’s the latest mass shooting as a Tik-Tok challenge
Teasing gut brain muscle memories with algorithms of outrage.
It’s all flash, but no drive, just broad-spectrum rhetoric
Inducing Karenoia and cultivating satanic panic,
All in the name of the Good Lord and Savior.
It’s the dog whistle only heard by those whose ears
Cannot think outside the Fox, where waxy yellow build-up
Is impacted, unyielding to the voice of Reason.
It’s, “OK groomer,” “Don’t say gay,” and "Let's go Brandon."
It’s the Battle Hymn of the Replacement.
It’s the influencers trending on social media.
It’s the meme that captures the lapsing of just a still moment,
Like a fly frozen in the amber of time everlasting.
It’s the universal selfie unapologetically posted on the Cloud.
You may be cool, but you’ll never be Korean cool.
And yet you try ever so hard to be.
When I slice with Occam’s butter knife
The loaf becomes a senseless pile of crumbs.
And so it goes.
So Marmites great leader has spoken
He finally came out of his jar
His soldiers which are yet to be named
Are travelling to our Aussie land afar
Sir Tom states Vegemite is the poor mans Marmite
That is not quite true
It’s actually the other way around
As Marmite is what you wipe of your shoe!
Our bright yellow lids are off and we are ready
For our Vegemite we will forever protect and defend
The Vegemite Vixens will show no mercy
We will battle these inferior Marmite soldiers til the end!!
If any of our Marmite enemies are captured
They will be stripped naked and disciplined
By covering their own body with marmite
Then left naked in the hot Aussie desert
To let nature do it’s thing!!
We await your arrival our butter knives in hand
With toast, butter and confident anticipation
Ready to wipe that disgusting marmite of your face
And spread Vegemite throughout all nations!