Long Chocolate Poems
Long Chocolate Poems. Below are the most popular long Chocolate by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Chocolate poems by poem length and keyword.
We wanted to make a heavenly cake
But needed angelic ingredients
That were as far out of reach as can be
So we thought of other expedients
Like the famed store of unusual foods
Though it wasn’t around the corner
But then a melancholy light hit me
That we should seek a recent mourner
Who is akin to a newly deceased
Thus privy to a loved one in heaven
So I gently approached my grandfather
Hoping to make a mindful impression
I asked if he thought he could contact
The soul of my loving grandmother
To impart a glimpse of what they cook there
But he said that I should ask another
Making a heavenly cake like we planned
Was more trying than it first appeared
We needed to find some other way
Some way that may be more or less weird
I bravely entered a graveyard one night
With a shuddery moon full and blue
Hoping a spirit would come to my aid
With some heavenly food to pick through
But the creaking only got creepier
As each hour of that night crept by
And though frightened I got sleepier
With no ingredients to descry
Next day I dove deep in the library
About divine dishes present and passed
But couldn’t find one book apropos
So I went to the front desk and asked
The curator ventured to the attic
Where she recalled a very rare book
Aptly titled Eatin’ in Eden
With recipes for a heavenly cook
And on page one hundred fifty two
A recipe for heavenly cake
That purported the impossible
A trip to heaven to undertake
Yet most ways seemed too obnoxious
Even simply holding one’s breath
Which no matter how long it’s tried for
Is never enough for courting death
And if one died and went to heaven
How could they ever make the return
Back to earth to bake a divine cake
There was still much to this cake to learn
We flipped through every page of that book
To decipher somehow or some way
When we wondrously divined that the why
Was not where, but was plain as the day
The cake base is like a rich chocolate
Vastly deep as a moonless night sky
And while fudgy is light and airy
Certainly heavenly certified
Plus shrouded with fluffy cloud frosting
Of downy whiteness from pleasant dreams
That is also sweet as the sunshine
And piped with fresh rainbow hued creams
The cosmos cooks up celestial things
From the blue sky to heavenly cake
So after all that worry and work
It was in essence a breeze to make
I don’t think I shall quite forget the name Camilla Martin.
She’s the teacher of me grandson at the local kindergarten.
No question she’s a lovely lady; dedicated through and through,
but the lesson that she learnt this day is one that I learnt too.
It just happened on the day I drove young ‘Gaz’ to kindergarten,
there’s a special birthday happening - it’s his teacher Mrs. Martin.
I wondered why young Gazza had this present all wrapped up,
so after telling me the reason, he whispered “It’s a cup.”
It was a special morning for all the Mums and Dads were there.
I was the only Grandpa but young Gazza didn’t seem to care.
There’s a birthday cake with candles, lollies, hats and lemonade,
and the kids all brought a present … and I’m glad I overstayed …
To see the look upon the faces of the kids who held their gift,
as Mrs. Martin stood up at the front to give these kids a lift,
by waiting to receive each offer as presented one by one,
and she really liked the cup handed to her by me grandson.
And the other little children were quite interesting as well,
as they stepped up to the podium with a similar tale to tell,
when Mrs. Martin made predications to what the wrapping held,
for she knew the parents business thinking that their gift has gelled.
She’s spot on with Jenny Damon whose family own a florist store.
Mrs. Martin beamed out “Flowers,” and Jenny smiled, “For sure.”
When the local milk bar’s Billy Cann stepped up beaming bright,
Mrs. Martin said “This must be chocolate,” and Billy nods “That’s right.”
Mrs. Martin waited patiently for ‘Ginger’ Roberts from the hotel,
who stepped forward with his gift that she thought that she could tell,
because it appeared somewhat a shoebox that did have an ominous sign;
it appeared a bottle’s leaking and she gathered it was wine.
Mrs. Martin put her finger in the liquid but the taste to her is strange,
and for a joke she said to ‘Ginge’, “Is this not Penfolds Grange?”
‘Ginge’ answered “No” so Mrs. Martin tried to guess again,
with one more taste upon her lips, she asked, “Is this champagne?”
‘Ginge’ shook his head when saying “No”, so Mrs. Martin gave a sigh,
“Well I give up,” she smiled at ‘Ginge’ “No, I’ll give it one more try.”
So on her lips goes one last taste to resolve this gift of grog
as Ginger interrupted - “Mrs. Martin … it’s a little puppy dog.”
My soul has gone through constant torment as many have come into my life for the mere enjoyment of giving me deceit. It was a long night when I saw the rain falling from the clouds outside. As it hit the ground, I heard a voice in the dark. It was the voice of a small child. I saw her crying in the rain, tears streaming down her pale face. She was shivering and soaking wet from the pouring rain. I could not let her, a small child, suffer through the night or even for another second. I opened the door and ran to bring her into the house. I was alone that night as my family was at an event I decided not to attend. The child had long black hair with highlights of red. Her eyes were red from her crying. Her clothes were soaking wet from the rain. Immediately, I went to grab a throw for her to be warm. After that, I made her some tea as I had no hot chocolate. Kneeling before her, I gave her the mug, and she took it with a weak smile while she drank. I asked her, “Are you ok, angel.” She looked up with a smile and nodded. As I turned away to get her some food, she asked me, “Are you ok?” I could only say that I was. She replied, “You don’t look well.” “A wise girl,” I thought. I told her that I was trying to adjust to being a single man with no children and the prospect of it being always. She asks why I feel this way. I tell her about how I have seen many women deny any relationship with me as they feared I would leave them once I achieved my dreams and how I had been rejected by others who saw no value in me, for they only wanted someone to fulfill their dreams. This little girl looks up at me with tears and states, “Allah has seen your struggle and has sent you a message through me. It is not to worry, as the little girl looking at you is an angel in disguise. I am your guardian angel in disguise as your youngest daughter in the future, her name is Hope. How can it be that you are here in the past then, and how can it be that my youngest would have the named the name that I would want for my first daughter? The angel replies, “Your first daughter is named Bella Maria, your second daughter is named Faith Gianna, your third daughter is named Mindi Rose, and your two sons are named Liam and Logan.
Your dreams will come true; you only have to wait a little longer. Your enemies will be at the table that has been prepared.
In an instant, the angel was gone.
I am a basset hound and I love to play
I can run and jump all day
I really love magic and tricks
I also love chocolate bics
Yummy! They are so good
I would eat a packet a day if I could
My name is Lady and here is a story all about me
I'm a funny looking dog you see:
Lady was home alone
All she had was her green plastic bone
Her owners had gone out for the day
And Lady really wanted to play
Miserable, she lay on the ground with her long floppy ears
With watery eyes, it seemed as though she was about to burst into tears
Suddenly she perked up when she heard a squeaking sound coming from the house
Lady became excited, she hoped it was a mouse
She barked out loud and ran towards the sound
Lady was such a clever basset hound
With her long nose, she sniffed out the little mouse in his hiding place
The whole morning turned into a playful ‘dog and mouse’ chase!
The mouse was too fast for her and escaped through a small crack in the wall
He was terrified of this funny looking dog who stood two feet tall
Exhausted, Lady flopped down in her basket to rest
She had tried her very, very best
She closed her eyes and had a long nap
And dreamt that she managed to squeeze through the scary dog flap
When Lady woke up, her throat felt dry
She needed a gallon of water to drink and she alone knew why!
The sun was shining and it was hot
She found her bowl and gulped down the lot
Lady looked at the new dog flap
She lifted up one of her paws and gave it a sharp tap
She took a chance and pushed herself through the gap
Relief flooded through her, she had made it out of the flap
Out in the sun
It was time for more fun
Lady headed to the beach
It wasn’t far, within her reach
Calm blue sea with the tiniest of waves
Grottos and amazing caves
Lady’s paw marks were all over the sand
She loved to play by the sea and on land
Cool air blew around her as she splashed around in the sea
What a great feeling it was to be free!
The aroma of food was all around
She was always hungry, this hilarious hound
An ice-cream van was parked nearby
Lady drooled and just stood by
A young couple spotted the little dog sitting down on her own
Her sad brown eyes caught their attention, they each bought her a cone
Lady wished that she could shout
She clenched both cones in her mouth
She licked off the chocolate ice-cream and wolfed down the rest
There seems to be silence within the serene night,
yet those indoors have eternal cries of unspoken fright.
One man drowns in chocolate, shamefully eying his hips,
as the woman next door kisses the hundredth man’s lips.
Two floors below, one screams out in pain,
as fatal anger has won the game.
The killer, shadowed, makes no remark,
but watches the blood flow, immersed in his soul of eternal dark.
Three doors across, an elderly man sits, rejected and broke,
hiding his face with tendrils of smoke.
His trusty cigarettes always at the ready,
when his finances where never steady.
Another flight down, a woman drowns in her agony sip by sip,
her life seems to slip by like a commercial blip.
Yet all she can think
is that her marriage is on the brink.
Before she fades into the night of another day,
all she remembers is throwing her wedding ring away.
Traveling down to the ground floor,
the troubles seem to equal more.
A woman tosses about in her anxious bed,
while her worries do pirouettes in her head.
Try to let the past and present go,
but the future looms like a horror show.
Outside, in the darkness, a piercing light shines
as a moth flutters by, on the still air it climbs.
It seems this beacon, as bright as the sun,
new hope has just begun.
The moth bangs itself against the glass,
trying to reach glory at last.
Yet no matter how much its antennae bend,
or wings grow fragile and not able to mend,
it seems like the only thing to do
to deal with its feelings, old and new.
Until it steps back and looks at the light
realizing that harming itself won’t set anything right.
With the last of its strength, ending its plight,
the moth flies off into the night.
At this moment, the man decides to rid his house of fat-packed glory,
as the woman on the ground floor takes a deep breath, changing her story.
The killer at large turns himself in,
the end to his years of sin.
The woman pours the bottles of wine down the drain,
finally she can remember her name.
The elderly man exhales his last puff of smoke,
the grueling memories no longer prod and poke.
And the woman kissing her hundredth man
lets him go, heart no longer sinking in deadly quicksand.
The light of dawn finally breaks,
and the darkness of the mind no longer takes
away from the people’s lives
as the light of hope is now by their sides.
“And you call yourself a bloody cook”, this mongrel shearer said.
“I oughta ram this rubbish down yer’ throat, it’ll kill a bloke stone dead.”
He’s talking ‘bout the stew I burnt, which I hoped he couldn’t focus.
That he’d gulp it down with ‘red-eye’ wine, and he would fail to notice.
But no, my luck was out, he flew raging from his seat
“You’ve put a taste into my ‘gob’, now I need something sweet,
What’s in the fridge;” he yanked the door, took out a plate and bowl,
On one was chunky custard, and one a mouldy sausage roll.
“Look at this!” The shearer screamed, so all the mob could see.
First they eyed the sausage roll, and then looked back at their tea.
“Hang on” I said, “You ‘mangy’ lot, what you’re seeing here,
Is something I can’t be blamed for, they’re from the cook last year.”
“Git’ the boss!” I heard yelled out, and one went for the door.
I need this job and need it bad … to them I vowed and swore.
I’ll clean out the fridge and lift my act; then promised I would bake,
A treat for them on Wednesday ... my special chocolate cake.
My memory’s a little blank, for the ingredients I need,
I’ve got most in the cupboard, with no recipe to read,
Butters scarce but lard will do, and the milks a little sour.
None of them are ‘gunna’ notice, the weevils in the flour.
There’s salt and caster sugar, I need cocoa but there’s none,
There is a tin of milo though; its use by date is March of sixty-one,
That’s everything to make the cake; all I need’s an egg to bind,
Oh yes! There are two in the fridge; last years cook had left behind.
I got down the mixing bowl, and took some water from the tank,
Spooned out a couple of wrigglers … the dead ones to the bottom sank.
I’m not sure about the ounces or the tablespoons and such.
Cups of this with drops of that, but does that really matter much.
The only time I wasn’t sure, and felt maybe should I renege,
When I cracked the shell and found, a half grown chicken in the egg.
But they’re shearers here, big and strong, who’d never get to eat,
Let alone a chocolate cake, but one that’s made with meat.
The oven’s hot, the textures great, I greased the baking dish.
The cake was cooked and it smelt great … every shearers wish.
But a chicken’s foot stuck out the top; I cut out and ate that bit.
You know this chocolate cake of mine, tasted – more – like … ‘passionfruit’!
In the meeting
of LUKA members,
Yves Kamunobe
stood up and started reciting, "
As I was sleeping ,
I heard an old man screaming ,'
Wake up Wamasanzi,
Wavira , Wafipa , wagoma
Watabwa, Wabuyu , Wabemba ,
Waholoholo , wabwali."
I saw the group of people following him.
They were speaking similar languages.
The old man said ,' don't allow
your enemies to divide you."
As I was walking ,
I saw a group of beauful ladies,
Who were singing
some cultural
Bwali songs.
I was over the moon
As seeing my beautiful sisters
dancing in bwali rhythm.
I open my heart to you my brothers-in-law.
You who wish to find wise
and good hearted women.
The way to Masanzi land is opened
The way to Vira land is opened
The way to Bemba land is opened
The way to Tabwa land is opened
The way to Waoma Land is opened
There are beautiful flowers
on those lands.
Yes!
Natural dark , chocolate,
and brown flowers...
I mean so lovely in and out.
Remember,
it is not marketing
But the choices
are yours.
As I was speaking,
Some men heard me
and they will rush to pick up
flowers of their choices.
Nice fragrance will impress
all their visitors.
This message seems
to be much Poetic
than Historic
Symbolic
than Philosophic
Romantic
than Tribalistic
Lovely
than Lonely.
Yes!
Marying each other will strengthen our Unity
Bajhoba and Wayao.
I am with Wayao today
telling the truth
as one of the beautiful creatures
that living this planet Earth.
I don't wish to close my breath
In front of some beautiful
Yao women at lake Nyasa beaches.
I dont think my future
brothers in law hearing me.
Marying each other will strengthen our Unity
Bajhoba and Wayao.
I don't mind to climb Yao mountain
to find the soap of my heart on the pic.
I don't mind to fly to NyasaLand
to find the flower of my choice.
What about you?
Remember !
The way to Masanzi land is opened
The way to Vira land is opened
The way to Bemba land is opened
The way to Tabwa land is opened
The way to Waoma Land is opened
Marying each other will strengthen our Unity
Bajhoba and Wayao.
I share my Mind
As I am so Kind
Living on Royal Land.
I thank you."
The dress was going to be yellow—
sunflower yellow, the kind that hurts to look at
in full light, which we hadn’t had in months anyway,
just the gray sift of dust through shattered windows
and the orange pulse when the sky opened its mouth.
She would have been eight.
Eight candles we couldn’t buy, couldn’t light
even if we had them. The power died in March
and took with it the oven, the mixer, the bright hum
of anything working the way it should.
I had saved the flour. Hidden it
like contraband, like hope—
three cups in a plastic bag
behind the loose tile in the kitchen
that no longer had a kitchen attached.
The cake would have been chocolate.
She asked for chocolate every year,
and every year I made vanilla because it was cheaper,
promising next time, habibi, next time—
and she believed me because she was seven, then six, then five,
and children believe their mothers
until the moment they learn not to.
The game was going to be musical chairs.
Ridiculous. As if we had music. As if we had chairs.
As if eight children could gather in one place
without someone calculating the efficiency
of the target, the value of the payload,
the acceptable margin of small bones.
I found one candle yesterday.
White. Thin. Half-melted from the heat.
I don’t know why I picked it up,
why I put it in my pocket like a relic,
like something that still meant birthday
and not just another way to mark
what didn’t happen.
She would have blown it out.
Made a wish. The wish would have been
something possible in her world—
a new doll, a book, a day at the beach
before she learned that the beach was closed,
that the sea doesn’t want us anymore,
that wanting itself is a luxury
distributed unevenly.
I lit the candle last night.
Just to see. Just to remember what it meant
to have a small flame and a reason for it.
It burned for twenty minutes before the wind
took it, and I sat in the dark
singing happy birthday to the space
where eight years old should have been,
where the yellow dress should have twirled,
where chocolate should have smudged her smile,
where she should have cheated at musical chairs
and laughed when I pretended not to notice—
but the dark doesn’t answer,
and the candle is out,
and eight is just a number now,
a countable thing,
a cake that was never baked,
a girl who will never be nine.
What happened yesterday
Can change today.
When a person understands
His" her" capacity
He "she" can not see borders
To enter some world competitions
Where racism and injustice
Are not principal choices.
Power of beauty and wealth,
Some daughters of some poor in the Competition with some daughters
Of some rich people.
Yesterday when I saw you in miss universe,
I said,"wow! Yeah, they are there
To show their beauties
As other races. "
Participating in such
Universal competition,
It is not an easy task.
From local competition to national,
From National competition
To universal competition.
To have a miss universe title.
Yesterday,
When I heard about black American women
Who won miss America and miss USA
Another black african woman who won
Miss South Africa and miss universe.
Their wins encouraged
More black women in the world
Who were discouraged
By injustice, tribalism,
Regionalism,
Corruption and
Racism in some countries.
Power of beauty and wealth,
A beautiful woman that a man saw yesterday
Can stick in his mind for some years.
Men know what they want,
It is hard to change their choices.
White man marry a beautiful black woman
" or white woman"
A black man marry a beautiful white woman
" or black woman."
Men like the beautiful flowers ...
It is their nature.
Beauty women are like beautiful
blue, black, red, rose, orange, yellow,
white, khaki, chocolate, green flowers
Every man has his favorite coulours.
Power of beauty and wealth,
The style of beautiful women of yesterday
Differ to the style of beautiful women of today
But their attractions don't change in the eyes of men.
Beauty of a woman is
A strongest magnate
Which attracts,
And captures
Millions of men
But
The wealth of a woman
Is a silent
Missile
Which terrify trillions
Of world men.
Majority men are arrogants and
They hate to be dominated
By any woman.
This piece of poetry portraying some truth,
Naked truth about small matters with
Some solutions.
Majority rich women of yesterday
Were so arrogants and
Those of these days
are still very arrogants.
Marriage of two arrogants...
Man and woman
Can not last,
Unless one of them bound.
May 5/2023
Writting for contest sponsored by
Constance la France
Theme: YESTERDAY
To Eat A Peach
Spring is here.
The delicate tree blossoms replace
the delicate white lights of Winter.
From the petals fruit will grow.
Pears, plums, apricots, cherries,
nectarines...
Peaches.
I set the unripe soft rose and yellow
orb on the windowsill.
Two days later I tenderly lift it
and gently squeeze its warmth before
I wash it.
Biting into it...
the sweet liquid is Ambrosia.
The juice runs down my chin onto
my tee.
I greedily suck the peach’s flesh dry.
I daydream as I munch.
Peach cobbler, peach pie with a lattice crust,
peach shortcake, peach muffins,
stewed peaches, peach tea bread,
slices on your cereal, slices in a bowl with cream.
OR...only for dessert?
How would a
chicken breast soaked in a peach marinade taste?
My taste buds begin chattering.
Summer’s here!
corn on the cob, okra, tomatoes:
small ones that pop in your mouth
and big beefy wedges that
garnish crisp celery slices, carrot medallions,
tender Bibb lettuce, sliced mushrooms, cucumbers,
asparagus, broccoli, Vidalia onions, cauliflower...
Watermelon, blueberries, cantaloupe,
strawberries, honeydews, raspberries...
Juicy hot dogs, spicy barbecue, thick charbroiled hamburgers,
hot German potato salad, 3-bean salad, macaroni salad,
potato chips and French onion soup dip,
soft pretzels dipped in brown mustard, popcorn...
chocolate chip cookies, Snickerdoodles,
strawberry shortcake,
chocolate cake with red, white and blue frosting for the 4th,
apple pie
— softball, Mom, doggies —
I awake with a start. There is drool
on my pillow.
Another day begins but it’s really
not another day.
It’s the same day I’ve been living
since 1 May 2017 ~
The day I let the dentist pull
out the last 5 teeth I had
in my lower jaw.
And as I come to consciousness
my tongue pushes
against and spills out over the
the soft toothless tissue that burns constantly
and is covered in a thick gooey saliva ~ place a
teaspoon of Elmer's
glue in your mouth ~ if
you care to have a taste
of my reality.
Summer’s here.
Clear your palate.
Clean your plate.
Barbara Dickenson
1 May 2018
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