Long Carne Poems
Long Carne Poems. Below are the most popular long Carne by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Carne poems by poem length and keyword.
Moved out to the country, isolated and without a car, I don’t know what I would have done without my new friends Mrs. Juhas and Mrs. Gatien. They forced me to call them by their first names, it only became easier once the friendship deepened. Ida took me into town for grocery shopping every week. We’d do the rounds based on the sales flyers from A&P, IGA and Dominion. Vi only had two children compared to my six and Ida’s seven. Every week we had a cookday alternating with Vi and Ida, one week at our place the next at theirs. Hostesses buying the food and deciding on the meals to make: chili con carne, cabbage rolls, spaghetti sauce… The priority was obvious, it was more important to buy a freezer than a washing machine.
hungry bellies fed
families on a budget
smooth production line
AP: Honorable Mention 2025
Realidade e o Sonho
Diz o poeta pessimista,
somos um sonho divino
que não se condensou,
por completo.
Digo eu otimista
existe, em nós,
um espaço interior;
que dá o poder de sonhar
de planejar
comunicar e realizar.
Digo eu otimista
a vida é uma luta
entre a realidade
e o sonho,
a Carne e o Verbo.
Digo eu otimista
precisamos queimar
num incêndio
de esperança,
para que se crie
uma lembrança.
Digo eu otimista
tudo o que existe
e vai existir
é o sonho
da a carne e o verbo
que se transforma em realidade.
************************************************************
Reality and the Dream
Says the pessimist poet,
we are a divine dream
which did not condense,
complete.
I say optimistic
there is, in us,
an interior space;
that gives the power to dream
to plan
communicate and perform.
I say optimistic
life is a struggle
between reality
and the dream,
the Flesh and the Word.
I say optimistic
we need to burn
in a fire
of hope,
to create
a memory.
I say optimistic
everything that exists
and there will be
it's the dream
gives the flesh and the verb
which becomes reality.
************************************************************
Realidad y el Sueño
Dice el poeta pesimista,
somos un sueño divino
que no se condensó,
por completo.
Digo optimista
En este sentido,
un espacio interior;
que da el poder de soñar
de planificar
comunicar y realizar.
Digo optimista
la vida es una lucha
entre la realidad
y el sueño,
la carne y el verbo.
Digo optimista
necesitamos quemar
en un incendio
de esperanza,
para que se cree
un recuerdo.
Digo optimista
todo lo que existe
y existirá
es el sueño
de la carne y el verbo
que se transforma en realidad.
At times we seem together as one
Yet divided, by a separate peace
A fresh piece of carne at a leopards feast
You love your mother, yet you hate your niece
The difference of what we do in life
The suspense your neighbors summon
As you sometimes brutally yet gently massage your wife
This is for my audience, my caretaker
This loneliness that satisfies your heartbreaker
The finale of one journey
Now finer mystery’s path a previous existing path
My weakest subject
Life could never be intensive as math
Once upon a time
We abused these utensils used to pass a laugh
As I lie across this highway
Crossed by an evil smirk, should I die this day
But this is for my audience, my caretaker
This loneliness that satisfies your heartbreaker
One more season to premiere
Unspoken chores
My reason to consider sympathy my dear
My lungs and finger tips
Instruments, hung, and yet linger over infant cribs
Beneath my nails, peeling scabs from my flesh
Seiged in hell, revealing punctured abs
Some old, some fresh
A lasting resting place
Man is passing, time so fragile
Yet it seems to be forever testing this vase
Smith’s Octopuses Party On Pontoons
Rumor Has It My Dear
Rumor has it my dear something spectacular is near
Bring your batik hats to our grand lavish scene
Wear flowing Kebeya robes
Let them flow in the air
We’re having our party upon the ocean
On pontoons made of bamboo notions
Flown in from Indonesia with crews
Planks will connect all the segments
Chris Christie will help with construction
Bridging rafts with bamboo shoots & roots
(We understand he understands bridges)
Yachts will punctuate the festivities
Covered in purple red flowers with care
Tied to the floating swaying affair
McCartney and Sting will be there
Octopuses Garden is the theme
And Paul will bring Ringo to sing
The Clinton's and Bushes are on the list
Paparazzi will see if they kiss or do tricks
And who can resist our guests of honor
Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt
The main menu is set like this;
Foie gras loco moco carne
Matusaka beef
Pheasant/Mallard breast roast
Beluga Sevruga, Osetra caviar
Goût de Diamants, Taste of Diamonds champagne
Haute chocolate ice cream
This all seems like a dream
We pray that the weather holds up
The only waves we wish to see is from us
In the form of greetings and pleasantries
The party has been planned for ages
If storms should gather
It won’t really matter
We’re thankful
The Royals, Mr.& Mrs. Smith are here
To weigh down pontoons and rafts
With billions in sacks of gold trinkets
Door prizes for sure, (sorry no doors), for those who attend
500 guests will arrive at the gala
A date with Mick Jagger and two jaguars
Assured for each person as gifts guaranteed
Compliments of King & Queen Smith
Whose parties should never be missed
A mystery guest, no surprise
A legend in his own mind
Mr. Trump and his hair might arrive
Since the pope is preoccupied
We’ll sway to the music with fine company
All are welcome to our heavenly scene
At the octopuses party on the sea
7/11/14 Rumor Has It contest
The squirrel’s hell is, for the hound, heaven.
And the rain, thunder, which flatten leaven,
Quench also the thirst of blossom’d flowers.
Tears spring forth joyful, in equal power
With grief and lost hope.
Mourning by morning, laughing and crying
Roller coaster emotions’ living, dying.
The hurt exquisite, the joy so fleeting,
My soul stretched to infinities meeting.
I scream, then exhale.
My body's aches match (not coincident)
My emotional sickness, my heart, wrent.
Banshees know nothing of petulant need
Neither love, nor hate, apathy nor grief.
Booming, silent wails.
Solitude unwell, come crowded alone.
Ghosts of my childhood clatter cobblestoned.
No comfort at home, no respite abroad
Nor friends to be hugged, nor embrace from God.
Here Angels don't tread.
There is suff’ring, if that be your call.
Joy if you can find it, and pain for all.
Be well, Carnival, vale carne ist
(Maybe flesh diseased can loosen my fist)
There is naught to hit.
Overwhelmed, insane, yet reason sustain’d
I watch myself fall, stricken, weeping, chain’d,
Alacrit to my lost indifference.
Four parts breath, and two parts belligerence
Pyrrhic victories, celebrat’d alone.
So I am squirrel, and somewhere there's hound,
Their heaven my hell, and for me they bound,
Joyfully chasing this frail, timid beast
No trees up to climb to escape the feast.
The only way out…
Is through.
It’s been a day, brother, it’s been a day.
I’m ridiculous for lack of content,
All my plot holes are on display.
Am I doing OK? Am I having a day?
I can’t get a call back. I sat on a thumb tack.
It woke up my skinny white ass.
I’m mad in the morning. I’m angry afternoons.
I’m ornery as hell. I’m bloody pissed, as well,
And sick of the puddler’s stupid drama:
“We’re down by the bow and headed for the bottom.
There’s gonna be a ruckus, boys, so smoke ‘em if you got ‘em.”
Good lord, it’s just clinker and slag.
All the king’s horses are slovenly nags.
Nothing but losers and misfits
Posing as rakes and roues.
Like red beans in chili con carne
Causing gas bending over the blarney.
I re-organize the hectic and recognize the stone.
And yet, because my truss work was contrived
Of wrought iron, rather than steel,
It resisted corrosion while exposed to the storm.
Though I’ve been ghosted and gas-lit,
Led around like a halfwit,
I still miss Jenny Wren’s chrysanthemum smile,
And I'll always have a thing for Amber Rose.
So, I’m mailing my love to Azerbaijan.
Baka, Baku, it isn’t Shikoku,
But it sometimes makes me smile.
And I thank my clerestory windows,
They let in the light and vent out the heat,
Affording me the grace to do my job.
Even before the arrival of the first snows, so brilliantly candid,
we climbed mounts less dangerous than the Alps's;
and we proudly chalked it up to our experience.
Now the snowy cliffs with bouffant boulders,
have lost their captious and so beatific image,
and quite too often we got pinched by burdock,
distracted by the robins chattering on a coarse descent;
I champed on crisp strawberries, while he challenged his strength.
My buddy never castigated me for my bizarre behavior,
and I admired him for displaying humor without repulsion,
or retort, and with chisel and hammer we engraved faces of historic men
on the smoothest rocks which were replete with their handsomeness.
Those adventurous afternoons are repealed when we look up,
and recreate them through our Male Chauvinism, cheery not dumb;
we felt like cave men making rudimentary drawings of their hunted animals,
while their women picked wild chicory for an early dinner.
Chums we were, resembling cowboys with wide hats in a chiaroscuro,
drinking in a bar filled with fashionable ladies frolicking and saying hello;
and chili con carne we ate, and plenty of beers to wash it down.
After our money was all squandered, our pockets were empty and we felt alone,
dazed...wobbling with fear, afraid to face our witless wives at home;
we were two idiots wooing empathy and some undeserving love.
And didn't they seem two witches ready for vengeance in their frown,
trying to squeeze the truth out of our silent and pretentious mouths too fulsome?
Frost will bring winter soon, and the snowy cliffs with bouffant boulders will be covered,
our hair have turned almost white to match the bright color of the deep snows,
as this river is freezing up, to become a sheet of ice, where no boats or barges pass;
and we play chess, the intramural game of a confined life, without those clandestine affairs.
Our darlings approve with sweet intonation, intensifying their affection so amorous;
and we embrace them with that tenderness that they have long desired...
staring at the snowy cliffs with bouffant boulders that these two climbers made their own,
remembering the cold and the shivering...coming down to a valley of comfort and domain.
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci
I Love You
I love you as much as a digging dog loves finding its long buried T-bone.
I love you as much as I love carne asada tacos and beans on Saturday nights.
I love you as much as the blue sky loves a flowing white cumulus cloud.
I love you as much as a revving car engine loves its regular oil changes.
I love you as much as a marching ant loves my open gaping cookie jar.
I love you as much as a dead rotting corpse loves a green gated graveyard.
I love you as much as a crooked preacher loves collecting baskets full of money.
I love you as much as a common thief loves an unlocked door at midnight.
I love you as much as a cluss-filled toilet loves finally flushing it all down at dawn.
I love you as much as a mosquito loves the open bare skin on the back of my leg.
I love you as much as my stomach loves the flow of warm mashed potatoes in winter.
I love you as much as an open book loves human eyes peering upon its naked white pages.
I love you as much as a bed loves the springs in its mattress when the bouncing begins.