Long Cheddar cheese Poems
Long Cheddar cheese Poems. Below are the most popular long Cheddar cheese by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Cheddar cheese poems by poem length and keyword.
Acapella, Abbot’s gold, cheese made so big and bright and bold.
Pepper-jack, limburger, cheese on your pie. Why, oh, why, cook, why?
Mozzarella, Elberton Blue, cheese so tasty for me and you.
Cheddar Cheese logs, cheese dogs, cheese eggs, cheese fried on a paper state fair stick.
Serve me some Jalapenos with tasty blue cheese, and please make it quick!
Abertam, abundance, Juliana, cottage cheese, and Jindi Brie.
Almost all cheeses are expensive except home-made, which is free.
Pepper-jack, muenster, cheese on your grandma’s sweet apple pie.
Too busy drinking potato cheese soup, to ask your grandpa why,
Raw milk Feta, Red Buddy too, here is a grilled cheese sandwich for me and you.
Cheesecakes, cheese bakes, and cheese in garden- fresh celery smashed down deep.
I dream of her nightly, as my mind wanders into sleep.
Written 11-15-2018 Contest: Write a Poem about Cheese Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Barry Stebbings
A is an ape who wishes he were a man - why?
B is a butterfly who dreamed he was a man - why not?
C is the cat who wants to sit in my chair, when he knows I want to sit there.
D is the dignified duck who disdains Donald and Daffy.
E is the egret, elegant and snowy white, and loves her reflection in the water.
F is the frog, who to be a frog does not regret, until he's eaten by an egret.
H is the hummingbird, happy to be who she is - who else can steal attention from a flower, as she feeds from it?
I is the iguana who looks more and more like me.
J is the jellyfish, who is soft and pretty but who stings. Give me peanut butter and jelly, not jellyfish.
K is the kookaburra that brings happiness, as he laughs when he sings.
L is the lion who once was king, before the ape got his wish.
M is the mouse who, like me, enjoys cheddar cheese.
N is the nightingale who sings to a rose.
O is the owl wise enough not to disclose the song of the nightingale to his rose.
P is the platypus with a rubbery duckbill. I never saw a cooler animal, and I probably never will.
Q is for quail. Why oh why does he run instead of fly?
R is the rabbit with eyes on either side of his head. I've never seen one wearing glasses.
S is a spider, but you can't afford her. She needs lots of shoes, and she's always late trying to decide which to put on first.
T is for a tarantula, who does the 8-step to the tune of a tarantella.
U is the poor urchin who once lived by the sea.
V is the vulture who's now waiting for me.
W is the wolf, happy to sadly howl at the moon.
X is the xeru, who always remembers to wipe his feet.
Y is the yak, who is enlightened, and prefers not to speak.
Z is the zebra, who asks, "why would I want to change my stripes?"
I should eat healthy, I really should! But life is too short for that. Food, food, food,
it chases away the blues, it brings comfort to the soul. So here is a list of the foods
that I L.O.V.E. and that make me happy. You will note a theme of cheese and
dripping butter (and chocolate) . . .
a chocolate bar, anytime
bananas, green, not ripe
crackers and cheese, as a snack
drenched in blue cheese, salads and homemade croutons
even, tortilla chips and chunky salsa
French fries from a chip wagon (on my way home from the gym)
grandma's recipe for beef stew with loads of vegetables and a rich gravy
hamburgers and hotdogs off the barbeque with all the fixings
ice-cream, chocolate of course
just out of the oven, french bread
keep the donuts and coffee coming
loads of meatballs, made from mom's recipe (in a sweet tangy sauce)
macaroni made with three kinds of cheese
nothing better, than spaghetti with meat sauce and parmesan cheese
onion soup, french canadian style, dripping with cheese
pizza, deluxe (peanut butter on toast before bed)
quick take out of chicken wings with hot sauce
really, really old cheddar cheese
steaming cobs of corn, dripping with butter and salt
tomato, bacon, and lettuce sandwich
until I say stop, chocolate
vegetables fresh for a farmers market
what is wrong with me, this is all so unhealthy
x-tra, of everything, please
yogurt with strawberries on the bottom
zesty dill pickles, aged one year
______________________________
June 24, 2016
Poetry/List/The Joy Of Food
Copyright Protected, ID 16-804-040-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
I sit with him; in the night we hear
eerie boardwalk creaks near the white sand beach.
I ask if he recalls our neighbors when
they told me of the psycho cat’s demise.
“What psycho cat?” he asks. I am in shock
he seems to have no memory of when
our neighbor’s tabby used to howl all night
and how that cat in their back yard showed up -
a carcass with a rope around its neck.
Meanwhile, we’re eating cheese. Before he has
the chance to ask what brand of cheese it is,
the label I hide on the wine bottle.
I'd realized too late he does not like
the certain brand of cheese I’d packed for this -
our midnight picnic, so while he moans on
about the virus and then tells me his
sabbatical dreams after quarantine,
I have nervously torn the label off
the cheese. I mean, why would he ever think
to be looking for it on the bottle?
He’s grown drunk on the wine, and suddenly
he’s getting crazy and examining
the cheese package. He yells, “Where’s the label?
Did you just feed crap cheddar cheese to me?”
He looks all around, on the ground . . . and then
he spies the empty bottle. Oh, my gosh!
He sees the cheese label I put on it.
“Blast it, woman; you know I hate that brand!”
Cabin fever we have been enduring
throughout this dreadful year 2020 -
I feel his big strong hands around my throat.
His eyes bulge as he tries to strangle me.
Before I lose consciousness, I’m thinking . . .
so now I know who killed our neighbor's cat!
Sept. 20, 2020
For Kim Rodrigues' Collaborate with Me Poetry Contest
Cast a glance to the comet up high
with a name sounding awkward and dry
(in the stellar marquee
it's marked 'six-seven-P')
and a motion that's hard to descry.
As the comet continues to fly,
caught in gravity none can defy
(yes, it traces ellipses
through solar eclipses),
we ask 'does dark matter comply'.
So, we sent the Rosetta to pry
and I can't help but wondering why
(once in orbit) we spun it
so close to the sun, it
is likely to sizzle and fry…
But before, we may soon verify
that the comet's a custard cream pie
made of green cheddar cheese,
like the moon, if you please
(though that's gospel the savants deny).
When receivers no longer reply
(at the end of their solar supply),
we won't seek to debug 'em,
instead we'll we unplug 'em
and turn off our spy in the sky.
If it's certain Rosetta will die
then, oh lordy, I surely will cry
if we land it like Philae
behind the sun, shyly,
before I can whisper goodbye.
Wilma was a pretty little thing.
Ed decided she would like American cheese.
So that is what he gave her as a pre-date present.
Wilma was astounded; this was the only cheese she did not eat.
Her dog loved all cheeses, so he was the recipient of this feast.
His next date was with Peggy, a girl from an Irish clan.
For some reason he pegged her as a connoisseur of cottage cheese.
Without asking her, he surprised her with a carton on their first date.
This was their last date.
Peggy would have rather had candy or flowers.
Third time is a charm, his mother told him.
She was the instigator of the cheese presents.
She hoped to keep him home the rest of his life.
He was a baby, only twenty-three. Her baby.
He had a date with a Marla, a woman from New Zealand.
She has blonde hair; blondes love cheddar cheese, his mother told him.
This time she was right, and he ran off with Marla.
Our happy-go-lucky friend once invited us
at his place to what he called pickle party.
We all were intrigued and excited,
for he mentioned the unique recipe,
which would be delicious cheese sandwich,
each one with filling of different types of pickle,
such as dill, lime, gooseberry, brewed in vinegar,
carrot, mango, and red chili, soaked in brine.
He had carefully laid out the table for us
with an array of six casseroles,
each one containing similar looking sandwich
of cheddar cheese with filling of specific pickle,
indicated by its transparent bottle placed
strategically in front of each casserole.
After we took a few sips of chilled beer
we were asked to taste the sandwich.
We chose all the different types,
except for the red chili one,
for none of us wanted to blaze the tongue.
As we took one bite we jumped up,
for the red chili set our mouths on fire.
We became the invited victim
of the culinary prank of our friend
who had fun seeing us in pickle at pickle party.
________________
August 19, 2022
Contest : It's A Pickle Party
Sponsored by : Mystic Rose Rose
On a Michigan farmer Saturday
in August,
anticipating tomorrow's evangelical Sabbath,
When late summer vacations
invoke house cleaning chores
unusually light,
Heading outside after lunch
into this spectacularly breezy
billowing cumulus clouds
in-between radiant sky blue
infinite wonder
Into this awesomely long leisurely afternoon
becoming one of those farm kids
sent out to rediscover solitary play
while Mom clears HER kitchen
to fill grateful mouths and noses
with impossible fragrance
of Sunday dinner rhubarb pie
or fresh strawberry shortcake,
whipping vanilla or banana cream
while boiling sweet yellow corn,
baking mac and ancient cheddar cheese
for this evening's pre-dusk compline dinner.
On this first summer celebrating Saturday
of low humidity
and temperatures predicting September seventies
Out past our red barn
past its barnyard lily pond
into golden stubbled hay fields
sheared sexy contoured place
of my temporarily uncloseted gay imaginings
hoping for God's grace face
smiling sabbath of sensually healthy return
Continuing on
to private green cool woodland
to nakedly climb a favorite tree
skin to naked bark,
full-bodied embrace
of this fabulous shared EarthLife
transparent
open
strong
yet breezy free flexibility
with inclusive messianic hope.
Out to play,
and pray
this day
and final month
of vacation re-creation
will never end
Or end,
if time must continue,
in moonlit radiant peace,
night dreams
restoring righteousness
into perfect summer Sabbath.
pear salad
dancing with color....
funeral today
Second death in our church from COVID.
Here in rural Georgia neighbors, friends, family, church members have always brought in food and helped when there was a death. Now times have changed and the family no longer meet at home, etc. Our church as do other churches in our area prepare a meal for the family on the day of the funeral and most of the time the family eats at the church's social hall. I am still weak and exhausted but I fixed pear salad so my husband could take it over to the church to add to the meal. I shred lettuce for the bottom then arrange the pears, placing a teaspoon of mayonnaise in each hollow(where the core was) then add a red cherry on top of the mayonnaise topping it all off with shredded sharp cheddar cheese. One can put whipped cream, cottage cheese, cream cheese or some other item in the center if mayonnaise is not right for you.
The six plump chicken were
locked in a cage, while Witch
Hazel stirred up her favorite
sage.
She sharpened her carving
knife, licking her lips,
dreaming of deep- fried
toddler chips.
But Burf sneezed a
colossal explosion, causing a
massive, catastrophic commotion.
His flying mucus hit Hazel smack
in the eye, making the wicked old
hag scream and cry.
While she blinded and cursing
her luck, Leo pulled out a squeaking
toy duck.
He squeaked it so loudly, she tripped
on her broom, crashing face- first into
a pile of perfume.
The smelly mist made the old witch
sneeze, dropping the cage key right
by their knees.
Pip grabbed the keys with his
chubby left toes, while Hazel
was violently blowing her nose.
They unlocked the door and tiptoed
right out, but the floorboards creaked
loudly, sparking a shout.
"I'll eat you for breakfast!"
the furious witch roared,
charging ahead as her anger
soared.
But clever young Chloe had
anticipated the chase, and
squirted a bottle of cheese
in her face.
The bright yellow cheddar
blocked Hazel's sight,
making her stumble left
instead of right.
She slipped on a stray,
greasy sausage link,
tumbling backward right into
the sink.
Her pointy black hat got
stuck in the drain, while the
children laughed hard at her
bubbly pain.
They didn't just run; they
decided to play, and threw
all her magical potions away.
They poured sticky maple
syrup over the floor, making
it a trap from the couch to
the door.
When Hazel escaped the
soapy sink basin, heavy
boots started to slide and
glisten.
She did a wild split and spun
like a top, crashing headfirst
into a bucket and mop.
The six joyful kids did a
victory dance, waving a pair
of the witch's spare pants.
They skipped out the door
with a triumphant cheer,
leaving the sticky witch
crying in fear.