Long Coarsely Poems
Long Coarsely Poems. Below are the most popular long Coarsely by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Coarsely poems by poem length and keyword.
COOKING WITH JIM
actually, with him in spirit, in the kitchen
of his quaint brownstone on West 12th Street
in Manhattan, decades after his death.
And quite at home with him, I chop and slice;
bake, twice-baked potatoes — their skins crisping
to perfection; roast, the prime tenderloin of beef
he’d earlier instructed me to hand-rub with
coarsely ground black pepper and kosher salt.
(I used sea salt and that was ok with him.)
Right now, he’s reminding me to stir my roux,
then I should add the crisp bacon bits, made earlier,
to the finely chopped spinach I just finished sautéing.
He says I should wait till the last minute
to toss the mélange of local field greens with
the lemongrette he had me make in lieu of
vinaigrette, because, it seems that vinegar
often spoils the taste of wine. As for the wines
with dinner: for the salad, I’m chilling
a 2011 Seyval Blanc from New York State;
with the beef dish, a 10-year-old California
Zinfandel; this followed by a 2010 Pinot Noir
from Oregon, paired with artisanal cheeses
from Vermont and Connecticut, plus
crisp sourdough rolls and flatbread;
and, in the frig, chilling, a late-harvest, Long Island
Riesling to complement the secret confection hidden
away on a silver tray till dessert-time.
According to Jim, red wine should be served at
room temperature, and since older reds have a layer
of sediment in the bottle, he said the Zin will need
to be decanted, and that, right before serving;
he wants the Pinot to breathe 15 minutes, or so,
in the glass before being drunk.
(The aeration of younger reds will rid those wines of
their chalky tasting tannins.) All this for my guests
who’ll soon be sitting round my dining table akin to
Jim’s 60 inch round green marble slab of a tabletop,
where, before the first bite of the Jim-inspired,
5-star meal, I’ll raise my glass to the big bald guy —
James Beard, “The Father of American Cuisine.”
Written: September 24, 2023
_____________________________________________________________
In the dawn-like haze—a shriek was heard,
An echo so shrewd, yet birdless, oddly slurred
It was ordained by—a stratum unseen,
A throbbing coerce, a numen so keen.
A canticle flower—a bellow coarsely flung,
Through bosky drifts, those shadows clung.
The broken clavicle, brittle skull,
Doused in lacquer—a tale to annul.
Cried creative bone, from annals of time,
In a secluded hut—where lamina chime.
With guttural utterance—the gowk did sing,
Fluted notes on brinks of obsidian string.
Cloaked in the dimly lit mist, a canon of clamor,
Shaping the world with a mystic glamour.
In the glum of worship, a rite did splay,
As voices uttered—in a solemn display.
A corpse lay still, in the midst of the scene,
Dazzled by the entombing, a nebulous flesh serene.
Funerary hums—in syllabic verse,
Resonated through time, as a solemn curse.
In an urn—fugally adorned
With fugal melodies, the ashes were borne,
A symphony of sorrow, a requiem grand,
For the soul departed, to a distant land.
The misty air whispered—in mournful tones,
As the funerary procession made its way,
A solemn journey, through the mist, embrace.
To the final resting place, where shadows trace.
And so, the hum continued, a haunting refrain,
As the earth embraced the remains.
Silent and still—in eternal rest,
In the hallowed ground, the corpse was blessed.
Gone was the body, but the spirit remained,
A specter in the mist, forever ingrained.
A memory of life—a tale to be told,
In the echoes of time, where stories unfold.
In the depths of the mist, a legacy grew,
Of a life once lived, and the love that it knew.
The funerary hum—a reminder of grace,
As it carried the spirit to a heavenly place.
So we’re going on a picnic with the pygmy, Pixie Poggly, being the quirky queenly
quaintly quickly person she is and her friend a raunchy rascal reverently named
Andy Bailey. As you remember he was in the Aussie army association, barely
battling the banshee that were bawdy blackly bloody in the boggy boundary briefly
in the outback, and lets not forget pixie’s perky prominent pal that is a bossy,
bluntly, brainy, bookie, breathing brashly, balmy, bits of boogie bookie chatter to
all the cheery, choicely, chunky crowd around his choosey, cheesy, cheaply
choice of chummy spots, and in his coarsely cocky way, he coyly clamors crafty
creepy words that really don’t say what they needs to say, but confuses even the
gentle, ghostly, gaudy, gawky, gabby, gypsy genie down in the gaily, gabby,
ghastly valley town called Gatsby. I hear even Fatty Fannie the fancy, fleecy,
flimsy, flowery, and foxy maiden that has her doggie, “Dotty” watching her dreamy,
dressy, downy, dowry. And to make things easier Pixie’s dumpy daffy deafly, dinky
donkey named Dixie is going to carry all the supplies, and we are going to the
daffy damply dainty little dairy where the daisies grow daily in the deeply densely
droopy grasses next to the hay, and it sounds like it will be a giddy, giggly, goodly,
goofy, goosey, grabby good grammar in all its Grammy award wining grandeur
day.
Parts of this poem were copied from another poem that I cannot display here, but
that I did write, it is called “The Picnic” and I thought this would be some fun
reading for all here.
ONE NIGHT AT AN OYSTER BAR
"Do they have steak?", he said
to his friends, while passing time,
anxiously trying to veil his dread
of dining on sea slippery slime.
"The line's too long, we'll have to leave,
let's find another place!".
And for a moment he seemed relieved,
thinking logic had favored his case!
But then the line began to move,
and horror sculpted his face.
"I'm approaching", said he, "the awful truth
of a stomach retching disgrace!".
"The price is too high, I don't feel well,
I have to call my Mom!".
His panic pealed like a fire alarm bell,
and exploded like a bomb!
Then a grating screech direct from Hell
sent shock waves through his head.
A slime smeared waiter coarsely yelled,
"Seats for eight!", he almost fled!
"I'm lost", he moaned, marching in file
to his seat like a prisoner in jail.
"Whad'll it be?", asked a waiter named Lyle,
"Oysters!", they cried, "Five or six pails!".
Exclaiming "I'm sick!", he stared at his plate,
a quivering mountain of gray.
Teeth clenched tight, he saw his fork shake
as he willed it toward his tray.
With watery resolve he pierced the mess,
as if trying to spear a ghost.
His mind rebelled in revolting distress,
as he slid one down his throat!
His senses, like wood deeply petrified,
wondered if he were dead.
With a start he stood, eyes staring wide,
"Damn! These are good!", he said.
(Thy lovely lasses unwittingly
unstintingly unexpectedly
taught me selflessness)
Every Holiday time each year,
a rocketing increase asper
doling out Uriah Heap ping
largesse imposed upon each
citizen banker (coerced, forced,
induced to buy baubles,
bibelot, curios, et cetera striving
to outspend a competing
shopper, which faux grand
handedness, and crass exhibition
generating mega sales (as Tale
of Two Cities, or more)
earns management stripes viz
embracing the Christmas spirit
(via blithely deftly, frenziedly,
et cetera) per avidly boasting,
coarsely displaying, eagerly
flaunting, et cetera prices paid
for the latest curiosity, doodad,
gewgaws (whereby un
avoidable advertisements), flood
mass communication airways,
causeways, driveways, et cetera
to plug reduced priceline sans
gaud dee, knickknacks, gimcracks,
encompass companies blitzkrieg
for those, who disparage being
labeled Scrooge plunk down
every red cent, and empty
their pockets, purses, wallets
to snag the title of topnotch spender
no matter no need exists to snatch
every last kickshaw, novelty ornamental
tchotchkes, (which modus operandi,
(visited upon the populace, a tidal wave
vis a vis figurative manifestation,
laceration, inundation, whereby tenet,
maxim, credo, et cetera broadcast
to general public amply expending
fistfuls of dollars fulfilling
Great Expectations
(for family, friends, relatives)
buy giving liberally,
Gold or gladiolus or golden sapphire fine;
Delighted, even if I divine light define;
If, like an orange, the details I do not peel,
Will my rhyme-lyric like an angelus-bell, peal?
Like a disciplined mother rearing her infant,
Timely sleeping, rising, nourishing comprehend;
Shaping each brick of my creation if I build,
Will my greatest works as unskilled ever get grilled?
Is my concept clear as a transparent crystal?
Does my thought target, shoot as sure as a pistol?
Do my ideas, views flow like fluent rivers?
Are my imageries as reflected as mirrors?
If I write 'pudding' when I need to write 'wedding'
When it necessitates making the amending;
If my ego, like a wall, stands strong on the way,
I'm not a poet perfect; I should get away.
As the wave-sound of the sea both feeble and rough,
As the chirping of birds are coarsely sweet enough;
As wild animals have roars, gibber, brays, and hums,
My words should vary from simple to complex-sums.
Is a writer full in him that he should not read?
Do the shores of the seas ever a limit need?
Voraciousness in keenness make my wisdom vast,
The wisest of wisdom should be my true breakfast.
11 August 2021
The Writer In Me, Wants You To Know Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Mystic Rose Rose
And blondes whistle (mightily)
Groove and rhythm supplied
By their accidental guardians
Feigning lock-down on these
Rancid, insipid rugged shores
It's what's expected
The triumphant stasis
The settling down of
Benign expectations
Mixed coarsely with the
Vinegar-garnished
Toxic waves disguised as hope
Fame and glamor
The settling in of those
Who (plead) their mere existence
Laconic persistence
To roam and dare
And acquiesce to forms
Much disparate from themselves
Where and who were they
Before the fall
Their (coerced) lament
Wrapped and pressed
By an indignant Creator
Lie your amble shamble
Down square
With the cracks which
Suckle the (greasy) heat
No scars to spare
Envelopes with deranged matriculation
Puncture the remaining pores
Now everyone, even them
Can wade (deep) into December
Without barometric shift
Gastronomic rift
Or the means to remind yourself
Where the days have hidden
Somewhere plain yet hard to find
Wake me once if your pleasure
Grinds the senses weakly
Wake me twice if all's redeemed
The pageant gone
And once again the blondes
Tune their vacant chords
Hustling into naked ensembles
Flush with gravitas
Conduct the many
Swollen from the vagaries
Of plucking
One too many strings.
(9/6/06)
There is a place where the asphalt flowers grow into the glittering light of glory
There is a place where black vultures lived with eyes of red and feathers are coarsely
There is a place where dreams are no longer dreams they are now success stories
There is a place where color is just a color and characteristics matter more
There is a place where more bodies are in education facilities and less in the morgue
There is a place where chains of past tribulations are broken into four
There is a place where our past faults we cannot ignore but make better in the future
There is a place where human beings think with their minds and not a computer
There is a place where money is the evil of the world and love is the ruler
There is a place where everyone can run to and feel safe with no higher power or authority
involved
There is a place where problems are resolved and words of wisdom are devolved
There is a place where the sun shines down on the helpless people and brings them joy
There is a place where failure is no option as long as you have Foy
There is a place where tears mean happiness and not great grief
There is a place where we are treated like we’re meant to be and not what we used to be
Form:
I walk through thin veils
of colored light and carefully
tread upon gleaming shards
of precious glass -
broken and neatly scattered
upon arctic bathroom tiles.
Each sliver reflects
a single piece of your
perfect anatomy.
An arm, a leg, an eyeball -
a swollen horizontal speck
perceiving a soloist’s surrender
outside a witch’s mirror.
I cried your name
in between
loathsome waves of solitude
this past weekend -
weightless letters floating
above my bleeding passion
like starved vultures
gleaning over carrion.
Did you know the affection
I’ve smothered you with
these past thirty years
is beginning to smell
like dirty nylon socks?
I use them now to
dampen my bloated eyes.
You're fitly ignorant
of my extended limbs
and repressed sorrows.
They covet apparel
not filamented with
fleece and falsities.
Your rehearsed kisses
are dressed in dull razors -
rendering my lips
gauged and coarsely
cracked.
I took a shotgun
to the nightlight last evening
and prayed as I reached for you
through strands of tattered muslin.
I was hoping to grasp
a parcel of your fading glint
and humbly touch
your jagged aura -
I foolishly cut my hands.
I grit my teeth and white my knuckles
as my newfound mentor chuckles.
He teaches me about disdain,
but no matter, I planned for pain.
My eyes both flutter as I shudder,
then I hear him coarsely utter:
"Good, looks like you still feel somethin'.
***** I swear, you ain't worth nothin'."
Lashes wet my back with crimson
in this self-prescribed sex prison.
I don't mind the body abuse,
but worry when he grabs the noose...
He likes to leave it on so long,
Last time, I thought I was gone.
But this time I see in his eyes
Something that brings fear to mine:
This is self pity and anger,
my hairs raise as I sense danger.
I test my cold metal chains
but can't break from my restraints.
He slips the noose around my neck,
then gives my cheek one final peck.
Fire rips through my perception,
Monsters I don't dare to mention..
Everything I love is ash,
all my glass memories crash.
Burning flesh, a pungent smell,
flares my nostrils in this hell.
I hear screaming, perhaps mine?
Then I'm returned to my time:
Surrounded by smoke and flame,
mumbling my dealer's name.
In this inferno, I bubble,
as his crackhouse burns to rubble.