Long Countertop Poems
Long Countertop Poems. Below are the most popular long Countertop by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Countertop poems by poem length and keyword.
Hidden beneath the leaves of trees is a blue shop -
Gleefully I smile; half - construed but true shop.
No soul in sight, parking heedlessly, now I plight -
Wearing chapals, I go in - flight to this new shop.
Entering, I see a man’s mouthy visage -
Working he spits in a silver bowl in this rue shop.
Perusing the countertop full of Betal leaves-
This is a paan shop! Certainly not a shoe shop!
Excitingly prostrating with true devotion -
Utmost with the most glee he presents a true shop!
A hulk colored green leaf held by the shopkeeper-
Viewing the selection of paan like a pew shop.
Salivating; hunger dissipating like a bear-
Tearing the leaves with no remorse in this zoo shop!
Tasty array of toppings makes me feel at bay.
Addictive, strong tobacco at this brew shop!
Gazing at the cathedral ceilings, I chew!
Gratefully chomping on this leaf in this chew shop!
How can one say that this Paan shop does not make my day?
We are under the feathered wing of this lew shop!
News of this paan shop is under my cap; I leave.
Shopkeepers are clapping away in this cue shop.
Reeling with joy with smiles that are ever so clear -
This, ladies and gentlemen is a true new shop!
A hidden paan shop; amidst leaves and beneath sky!
For paan lovers, this is no ploy, but a true shop!
A venetian red yearling’s head
Pops up
From behind a fallen log
Licks rouge from its lips
And the syrup sipped from dark maple bark
Ears tweaking
To the snow-crunch creak
Of my dog and me approaching
From down the trail
Forest
Tamed by these trampled snow-winding paths
The deer doesn’t flinch
Up ahead
Top of the trash receptacle
Is aflutter with cardinals and sparrows
Though observed
The object has not coalesced to solid reality
Remains a quiver of particles
Withering with infinite probabilities
This should not be
Ah
I see
What it is
Slices of strawberry apple orange watermelon banana cherry
Have been perfectly aligned spaced and placed
By somebody
As juicy trails of treats for the starving
Collection of fruit on a countertop log
Tapped across a fencepost
Table-topped to a stump
Necklaced across a trailhead sign
Little delectable rainbows scattered by a hand
All over the park
Flamingos may come
Hearing these rumors
I imagine
The feminine work behind these succulent lifesavers
The work of a woman
A mother
An older lady
Who was determined that morning
Packing plastic baggies the night before
With morsels carefully counted out
To be fair
With a lovely variety of fruit
Pinched and selected from grocery store shelves
Sliced precisely by her parry knife
Sorry if that presumption is not acceptable
In this modern age
But we all know it’s true
And is beautiful
Call her a wayward witch
An angel
Messalina
Daughter of Cleopatra
Mistress to Van Gogh
Wife of Jesus
A goddess of which we’d be so much better
If she were
To rule over
The velvet corners of the Earth
From a garden throne
Men like me
Bowed to her knee
Like these animals and birds that she’s fed
Today
Beholden to the world of majik
Yes
We’d be so much better
If we were fed from the broken-braceleted hand
Of a woman
Who
From her kitchen window
And snake-led dreams at the flight of her feet
Is unafraid to say
I do not fear you
I will bring forgiveness to the creatures of winter
Startle the men who pass by
I will feed them all
The fruit of my Knowledge.
It takes a while for corn flakes to turn mushy,
I brew more coffee
watch the sun opening the plastic blind
just by the power of its muscular light.
I’m jotting down a prayer.
The words are milky with no
sharp edges to scratch my gums.
Jesus, who often takes possession of my black lab,
sticks a wet nose into my crotch.
Thin pajama’s cannot withstand
a dogs wet nose for long.
Now it’s trying to sniff my backside
through the wicker seat of my chair
tail wagging.
‘Say something about the love
that passeth all understanding’
I hear a strangely canine voice intone
In the third person singular.
The dog sits now, looks at me intently
with deep round eyes.
The corn flakes are soggy already,
I dip a sugar coated spoon.
Sunlight rests upon a countertop
flexing and stretching
like the morning smile
of a sleepy weight-lifter
or maybe a good-hearted hooker.
They're everywhere now...
When lights dim in the corners of society
They swarm like cock roaches on a filthy countertop...
Strutting about the stage in their crystal, ego bubbles.
Telling us what to eat- what to wear- how to think.
Even though they're sloppy, unhappy, and quite obese.
They tell us how to pursue peace
(when peace is already here) ...
They even tell us how to walk and breathe.
Guaranteeing great wealth and a healthy mind
if you follow their step by deceptive steps...
If you'd just take a sip from their magic potion of B.S.
The truth is that the only way they've "made it"
was from the blood of our lack of confidence.
From the flesh of our insecurities.
The truth of the matter is most of them think
they've sprouted wings and can hover above the sea.
They think they can upstage and outshine Jesus...
I could care less if I ever hear from them again.
I'm much better off without them.
The sponge was smiling back, to me, with all those arithmatics, done dishes
(a predestined setting)
Cordial, versatile with a blatant truth, to shy from a trochaic, rythmic sounds
The killers are a synnonym for strumming fingers, almost an ensuing song
Although, an earnest rush felt reckless for a neckless tie, almost all day long!
The Yellowstone and prayer bids, sung high, from windowpane, a golden, rich
The twilight icebreaker, a melting sun, o'er all those or these, yet to preach
Sudden depth of random droplet clouds, an earnest, already trying too, along
(journey back to home, alone)
with a rusty indifference, assuming shining countertop, sporadic, all day long!
A long gone cozy knit, with a brief, tightly fit
A tea set, already to reign
to wrap all these, altogether, to a duo, misfit
there, then, start again!
3-10-2024
I wake up a little groggy
the nights, especially, are difficult for me
I didnt get a whole lot of sleep
I wander my way wearily into the kitchen
and reach my beloved coffee pot
The countertop around me has small circular brown stains.. each one containing a memory
Reminding me how it used to be
I blink the heartache from my eyes and go about my morning ritual
The sunshine pours through the window
and the warmth sinks into my bones
I get lost in my thoughts Til’ the lush and irresistible aroma pulls me back to reality
I pour myself a steaming hot cup of temporary happiness
I quietly sip away at all of my broken memories
To hell with them! I never think of them
I forget they exist, until I spot them
Then I get mad!
Oh yes, I loathe them so, as much as I do roaches
I loathe them so much I feel like screaming
I wish I could urinate colonies of them off a log just for kicks
I never cared about their infinite diligence
They don't work for me anyway
And they sure don't work with me
I don't care that they carry off crumbs
That break off my bread. They continually invade
My home, overstaying their welcome.
They invade my pantry to suck honey and sugar
They snake across my countertop when they smell the aroma of spilt coffee
I always spray them dead, but they eventually come back two-fold!
I hate that they're too tiny to see from a distance
I take pleasure in crushing them under my thumb
Crawl far out of sight, you unsightly irritants!
And please, stop coming back for sweets!....
A Rant Poetry Contest/Winner(9th Place)
Sponsored by: Shadow Hamilton
Date written and posted: 08/30/2016
Once upon a distant dream, you were fit and lean.
Could eat almost anything.
Slam drinks until the vampire's sunrise
But still make the whistle on time.
Now your bloated mirror is the alpha enemy.
You need more naps than a preemie baby.
Even the flats seem like a steep climb uphill.
Your countertop is flanked like a mountain of pills.
Some for the mind phantom.
Some for the real ailments.
Piggybacking doctors who don't interact.
It's no longer a balancing act.
It's a swarm of bloodshot-eyed jackals.
Waiting for your collapse.
This didn't happen overnight.
It was a slow decline down a barbed-wire slide.
A concoction of snake oil charmers
Big pharma politicians.
Slippery salesmanship...lack of discipline.
Let us not forget about that sinister, sadistic, -
unforgiving time.
You will never know the language of
lilac and lavender
carved from discarded countertop
granite for you,
each symbolic crossing inching
forward a leaden trail
of footfalls grown heavy by distance
measured from their genesis,
their sum, in whole, a silence slabbed
like an obedient daughter
at a Sunday supper suppressed by
quarrelsome parents.
Yours only to last was my first ever
endeavored, the poem,
which by any modest measure,
measures my worst:
an orphaned sonnet left to incubate in
fields forgotten
by memory lacking the oil we used to
burn in worship of sun,
its dark riddled with murk-water
wells forged from cobblestone
and feigned acceptance of distant
realities’ deep end look.
But you will never know which colors
vanished
the day that saw me leveled by
imbalance swung by fire:
the braided flame that drew a hopeless
breath to shorten
distance between life and death, home
and without, me and you;
the empty sky where you once spotted
a beautiful white heron
as it floated above infinite ripples of
love and liquid, like
the smoke I inhaled to pick up this
tattered page, burnt on
the ground next to Ashbury, Oliver, &
Keates, where I stood still
while I could still stand, holding the poem
you promised never
to read - the poem I promised never to
finish - defeated in words.
Ah, the bloom was on the Rose
yet, the taint of alcohol and drugs
looms nightmare like behind her baby pink cheeks.
Porcelain skin tones, raspberry rogue
nails to scratch and lift bits of dirty lucre.
She was clawing her way up,
and hopefully out, he hits her, “****,” he screams at her.
a sometime replacement sat beside him.
His Chicano inner-city drawl hurt her ears
and the fake diamonds studding them.
The new girl beside him
giggles…
She’s due at work by nine,
grabbing a smooth wrap-top and a mock
grey skirt, she rushes from the room to the bank.
She can still see his long fingers playing in other girls cleavage.
Rose, well, Rose pays the rent. She strikes a teller’s pose
behind the formica countertop...
Long days, counting other peoples money
kindness, and sweetness sucked from her
like a ripe plum on a summers day.
She needs work, more work.
I asked her to help in the garden.
Long blonde, buxom, bending over weeds,
only six months to go to graduation
an associate degree…
Rose chuckles, “Look who I’ve been associatin’ with?”
I eye the twenty-five thou lottery ticket in my jean pocket.
“You want to move here Rose?”
“What would they do without me?”
I sigh, thinking of her alcoholic mother
off bingeing and her “boy fiend”.
The lottery windfall went for Rose’s college tuition.
The bloom is off the Rose now,
two hundred plus pounds later
strung out beside her Mom on a ratty couch,
she eyes the Diploma in it’s cheap black frame,
and rocks her baby girl
some things, never change….
*Names have been changed, and the amount given, but part
of the ending has truely come to pass already [sigh].
The rest is all true.