Long Crumbly Poems
Long Crumbly Poems. Below are the most popular long Crumbly by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Crumbly poems by poem length and keyword.
Written: April 14, 2025 for contest sponsored by Brian Strand
******************
The subject matter of this poem explores themes of transience, intersection of life and death, and the fragile coexistence of human and natural worlds.
a loaf of discounted bread
stale & crumbly
resides in a brown paper bag
teetering
on a park bench
a finger of cool breath
_____nudges
____________the
________________bag
___________________towards
ground
pile of used cigarettes
gathered by
a trash
can
&
an
array
of greasy
fast food, styrofoam cups
a souring banana milkshake
punctured through
---a rotting apple
core
&
an
assemblage
of stale and wizened
McDonald's medium fries
family of pigeons
peck at brown paper
bag--
it topples over &
spills its guts
across
grass
a swan watches from a pond
--eyes peer--
from its snowy face
water cushions every ounce
of its body
caresses every single
feather
sky is a petri-dish
c r a m m e d
with scarlet c l o u d s
a young girl falls
as her size four sneaker
is caught
on a hidden tree root
swan chuckles
to itself
a college student bites
into a decorated
hot dog
condiments slip
his button-down
shirt &
a swan extends its wings
a platform for sun
as droplets of
crystalline water
sparkle off surface
of each
feather
Copyright 2014 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
POETIC LYRICS BY THOMAS L.H. ANDRESS
Dedicated to EVERY AND ALL MELISSAS, ELIAS' & MATILDA'S!
(BANGING IT TO THE MAX!)
(HILLARY AND BARRY...2016...PEANUTS & BRITTLE!)
NIGHTS...OUT...My-Time-is-OUT!
My-Light...is-OUT...He-was-a-lousy-LOUT!
In-my-lousy-NIGHT-OUT...My-Poster's-STROBING!
LIGHTS-OUT...AND-STROBING!
FLASHING-AND-DASHING...He-was-a-lousy-LOUT!
If-crystal-smiles...CRACK...He-was-a-lousy-LOUT!
If-teeth-don't-SQUEEZE-RIGHT...HE-WAS-A-CROOK
AND-CROOKED!
If-crystal-smiles...CRACK...He-was-a-lousy-LOUT!
You-wonder-AND-DOUBT...Are-you-SMART-or-DUMB
AND-A-LOUT?
I'M-SMART...AND-YET-YOU-DOUBT!
He-said-WONG-ing-And-WRONGING-BRING-DOUBT
SO-PEN-RIGHT...AND-DON'T-DOUBT!
He-was-a-lousy-LOUT!
A-CROOK-TO-THE-MAX...AND-A-LOUT!
CONNING...to-the-MAX!
LIKE...A-MAD-MAX...SO-DON'T-DOUBT!
If-TOOTHY-GRINS...SPIN-YOU-RIGHT-TO-WRONG!
DON'T-DOUBT...He-was-only-a-lousy-LOUT!
In-the-howling-BLUE-STARLIT-CRACK-OF-LIGHT!
BURSTING-and-SPINNING-TO-THE-RIGHT-TO-LEFT!
BLUE-LIGHT!
And-when-I-awoke...toothy-grins...and-smily-faces
MY-SISTERS...TOOTHY-GRINS!
MY-SISTERS...IN-TOOTHY-GRINS...AND-PINKY-TOES!
Dancing-in-the-BLUE-LIGHT!
POSTERS-BLAZING...AND-DAZING!
SMILING-FACES...AND-TOOTHY-GRINS...ALL!
OUR-WALLS!
AND-BLUE-LIGHTS...AND-STROBES!
ORBS-OF-OUR-HOPES-AND-DREAMS!
If-you-wonder-and-DOUBT...Our-Boxes...OF-TOYS-BRING...GRINS!
TOOTHY-and-TOOTHLESS!
THE-BEASTS-IN-THE-HOWLING-AND-WINDLESS...SWIRLING
'NADOES...IN-THE-PUREST...HOPES-AND-DREAMS!
OUR-BOXES...OF-OUR-HEARTS...DREAMING-AND-SCHEMING!
HOPES-AND-DREAMS...STORED-RIGHT!
RIGHT-TO-LEFT...AND...LEFT-TO-RIGHT...SPUN-RIGHT!
SWIRLING-AND-TWIRLING...BURSTING-AND-BIRTHING!
When...MOM-AND-DAD...POPS!
It-was...CRYSTAL...and-POP!
'NANAS...AND-CRUMBLY...CAKE...AGAIN?!?!
SCHOOL'S...OUT!
LIGHTS-OUT!
YAY!
YAY!
NO-WAY! NO-WAY!
AND-WITH-OUT-PINKY-TOES-AND-PINKY...JUMPS-TA-START!
CRYSTAL-BLUE...STARLIGHT!
CRYSTAL-BLUE...STARLIGHT!
LIGHTS-ARE-OUT!
LIGHTS-ARE-OUT!
STROBING...AND-STROBING! CRYSTAL-BLUE-STARNIGHTS!
STROBING...AND-STROBING! CRYSTAL-BLUE-STARNIGHTS!
FINI--------------------------------------------------------FINI!!!
Crumbly candles are so stormy,
so ferocious, and so wounding.
The catastrophic , lilliputian fire
is fed with the silent raven.
A weary, yearning butterfly
is embellished with an unwavering,
undying forbearance.
And a ruined sunset bows
to impregnable ,serene
forests.
A glimmer of hope frequently
ignites a source of an unselfish
peony.
A symphony of whispers
cuts to pieces an enduring
hyacinth.
Shards of the sun may cause
unwelcome Erinyes.
Weaving the past failures into
a rapturous, flowery rill may
stare at a lasting bluebird.
Sometimes the shimmer of grace
waters an enthusiastic
mood.
And drops of tears like
bloody brooks
occasionally pour into
a pure, celestial bliss.
Ephemeral, harsh words
like feathery zephyrs
engulf a heterogeneous
daybreak.
Unflagging whispers from the depths
of a wounded sunshine
embrace the everlasting rose.
In the secret chambers of the heart
will bloom unyielding truth
like an endless Spring.
A broad vale next to Lake Champlain,
early morning, before the heat,
barbed wire fence next to a field
where John Arnold’s sheep are grazing.
Tall grass is hiding most of them,
white humps moseying about there,
their heads poke up as there chewing.
Arnold’s House is there on my right,
old Victorian, last century,
nice place, but a little faded,
John has put off fixing it up,
wool prices were not great last year.
I’m not sure I want him to paint,
kinda fits in better this way.
A foothill juts out the next stretch,
small cliffs rise up above the road,
soft, crumbly rock interrupted
by tenacious trees with clinging roots
casting shadows over the pavement.
Way up high is an overlook,
local trail, popular day hike,
been up there a half-dozen times,
looks west to the Adirondacks,
across the long, thin stretch of lake.
It’s too hot to hike it today,
better in leaf season anyhow.
Stock car race-track on my left,
they run Friday and Saturday,
big white trailers are pulling in,
tonight’s competitors arriving,
it’s too early for spectators.
Fun watching them spin rubber through dirt,
and the local children love it,
I guess the fathers do as well,
or maybe the hots dogs and beer.
The beer is cheap, run-of-the-mill,
but those hot gods are really good.
I wonder where they’re buying them?
Two-mile mark, a broad wetland,
marshy ground, cattails and beaver dams,
tall grasses poking form water,
a swarm of annoying insects,
attracts dozens of pleasant birds,
each marked with their own fine color.
People fish here in the summer,
like to hunt ducks in the autumn.
Easy to imagine nothing’s changed,
that it’s just like primeval days,
but a collapsed barn in the woods
tells the truth of its history,
That this was once a farmer’s field,
it only became a swamp when
the beavers were reintroduced,
probably fifty years back now.
Nature likes to remake itself.
Well, my legs are starting to hurt,
time to start heading back now.
Homey eyes of peasant stew
A cozy-colored mossy mew
Stony cottage, snowcheeks bleu
The forest fins for frosted fruits.
The warmest thought speaks crumbly bread
A partridge purr puffs through my head
That grants the grunkest grue a ‘Get!’
To packrat out the paquerettes.
Don’t see the speech I say with sneer
As something to be had with beer
Don’t bucker bricks of buttered bleers
And sift strunk talk through quandarous weirs.
The clothes and shelter of your mouth
Has cleaned my frame as cold as south
For queeks are quay, oh when you quoth
And yokel twirls are yaws of youth.
Clearings clean, as cream is crisp
With cluffs of clementine in risp
The grout of your cuts, freed of lisps
Your watch turns wandering whelks to whisps.
Sweet as sneezes from a lamb
As cozy as a Christmas ham
To jaunt with you with bread and jam
Is all I am, is all I am…
A blanket for the rawest nerve
A babe beyond the laws of earth
A smile sways the swooping surf
And gifts sweet goods of grinning girths.
Your hair? An electric guitar!
With sprinkles of suburban stars
Might smell of smelting lemon bars
Each strand a sacred seminar.
That hark the realms of Everfar!
And halt the helms of Neverare!
That licks the lich that leavens scars!
Screams “Non septimo, sempris quar!”
I believe you’re Good, I mean you’re blessed
With holy elks that guard your breast
Whose rumps remain on royal chests
And watch for wendigos out West.
A soul of Greyhound bus views darkly
Hushed in cornfields crumps so starkly
With windmills waning wicks so barky
Olive Garden oligarchies.
Clearings clean, as cream is crisp
With cluffs of clementine in risp
The grout of your cuts, freed of lisps
Your watch turns wandering whelks to whisps.
Sweet as sneezes from a lamb
As cozy as a Christmas ham
To jaunt and jibe with you with bread and jam,
Is all I am, is all I am.
In the midst of the raging waves,
they watched her gulp the callous cunning darts.
Her crumbly heart cruelly impaled; the fate that enslaves.
So fondly she’d mask the marks.
Her soul would ache and bleed from life’s glaives.
She cried an ocean for redemption from a life perpetually stark.
In desperation, the rope ends it.
With stigma the chums looked in utter scorn,
and nattered her solitary life she so drowned in.
As a jest they’d laugh it off and know not the pain borne.
Options to content would be the faster poison to kick in.
The jeer and tough love, be strong. Would suicide suborn?
Yet blithely a random word alienates, even with the kin.
The loop finally tightens round the neck.
With croc tears the mates flock to condole.
“If this message would reach Mary in heaven;
life lost so young—” all will strive to console.
For what? She writhed in pain and longed for a haven,
but scornfully, her soul you shunned like a rotten pole.
Her tombstone, now a patch-spot for a raven.
World’s cold shoulders soaked in her silent tears.
Be chaste, fair-weather friend, lest you atone.
Religion and priests you’ve scorned,
while the vain fanes of pretense you adorn.
In exalted hallow worship, you plead with Him
to remold the hearts of clay to vessels of honor.
Yet in your hearts of tin you curse and vilify—
you thought it was an act and left her marooned.
For remaining Mary, my soul cries to you.
Blinded by constant flopped success.
For the media, it’d hurt not to leave a cue.
Live the sacred life, gifted as a princess.
And flout their nonsensical bleats of an ewe.
I’ll wait on the podium for a fess.
It’s never the end—you’ll ever chew the bitter pill.
I'd chosen you as my flunky -
Your hair - Neanderthal red,
You'd hurry towards my shrill calling,
De-cloth me and roll me to bed.
'Textured', you woo-ed, 'mild and creamy',
Said I'd never last long on the shelf,
I blushed, put out, yet warming within,
Soon began to value myself.
Brought you into my secrets - my tales -
My concerns for my daughter in New South Wales.
The fortunes she's had,
the good and the bad,
With losers and fellas playing the lad.
Alfred, all heirs and graces,
got her high - then let her heart fall,
Next was Burt, all joker - no aces -
A bad card - at least Alf had balls.
As I matured, you wielded my power,
Called me crumbly and vintage to boot,
Said I'd become too sharp and sour,
Couldn't even charm Burt's old cheroot.
Then one night, you crept through my cavern,
Up the back route - thought you wouldn't get caught,
Flew into my room like a raven,
There to club me, but this Olde Dame fought.
You'll not swindle my wares from my warren,
My henchmen will hang you to dry,
I'm as fertile as much as I'm barren,
It was futile for you even to try.
So they carried you swift from my sanctuary,
Beyond the gates and the forge,
Past the grave of Seamus Erectus,
Then threw you head first in the gorge.
You fast roped that ring on my finger,
As I wove your bear skin with my silk,
I'd unveil my paps as you'd linger,
To spill jokes over my sour milk.
Though a Dame-sell, my daughter may well be,
You'll no more draw milk from me,
To the past with Back Passage Billy
Is now this Dame Mother's decree.
At the Metro
Shifting the needle
To an intangible void
Emerging from the depths
Caterpillars running on rails and tracks
As too , mouse and rat
Critters, mere apparitions , ruin beds and consume our heads
Stuffy, musty fumes up the nose
Urine and whatever else, upsets nonetheless
Beggars’ hands chopped off
Thieves armed with words and stuff
Passengers board
As every station comes to a halt
Legs crossed or spread
Bags held, secured or in contest
A Pardon ,shove or shrug
Figures , nameless , pinned or badged
Blocking the gates or standing in the paths
seats left toasted and smeared with sweat
Mid December
Past midnight
Just clocked out
Strange eyes ,
Wander about
Suspicion raises my alarm
His curiosity is pronounced
Two bulging eyes and a joker smile
Slim , staggering black male
Bulky and oversized khaki jacket
Pockets upon pockets
I push them down
Redirecting my attention to something else
Scans my frame , shadow and psyche
Me Glued, frozen to the pole
Raises up off his seat
Gallops up the steep
Waiting for me
Just one block away
Somebody’s making me uncomfortable
Fellow worker walks me to my door
Sunken, crumbly tissue , soaked
Bloody red ,
Mirroring eyes and nasal droplets
Aligned the smooth horizontal carpet
Thread of my crisp white handkerchief
eased , dissolved his fatigue and unrest
Thank you
He said
As he left
Marckincia Jean
Free verse
08/05/2024
she babbled over the gosip.
citing what she thought was fair.
She mentioned people she knew and some
she didn't know. And emsized who didn't care
if they cared they'd be here helping wiff the pies
or they'd be offering up some cake. these people
are lacking common courtesy and
common sense she spoke for goodness sakes!
AH_OOH-AH_OOH
is a shortbread cookie dough baked
and then filled with a sweet meriquene
It's twice baked until golden brown
and filled with strawberries and whipped cream
and a sweet strawberry wine sauce.
the other pie she mentioned was a myth: a myth due
to the fact that it's hard to get the
right balance of chocolate and bourbon.
a mixed graham cracker and sweet doughy crust
with a cream cheese sweet potatoes filling
topped with mixture of heath bars and pecans
and bourbon: and marshmallows, in a brownie crumbly topping.
Entree included and not limited too.
A dish of roasted pork sliced and served with
mushrooms,olives,panchette,onions,
roasted red bell pepper garlic in a crisped
Duchess potatoes served with a light
sherry and pork gravy.
Oven roasted asparagus
and a Four Lettuce chicken salad with
Yogurt and Goat cheese
dressings with garlic croutons
and a choose of salad dressing.
And the perfect Yeast rolls and biscuits!
Something to inspire a competitive Food Championship
series!
"I must center myself to be
as arrogant as you wish me to be.
I must be as Pompous and
selfish
as one must be
to be considered Best!"
Do they make duct tape for a mother's heart
That breaks each time her child's emotions crash
Like waves against a rocky cliff?
A heart pitted by the tears shed
When other kids fling arrows of venomous disdain.
Can you glue a heart split open by
Empathy for the offspring who has no date to prom,
Never gets flowers on Valentine's
and who, with all her heart, tries to make sure
Her friends don't suffer the same fate?
How much would it cost to replace a mother's heart
Each time it was broken from the cries of pain
On her children's lips, or the brave face they put on,
When their souls have been crushed
By another's rejection?
For her, is the hope of relationship restored enough
To shock a dying heart into beating hopefully
For one more day?
Can you regenerate a heart run dry
From lack of trust and affection?
Is it sensible that the resentful little creature
Created from our DNA should also hold our fragile,
Crumbly, feta cheese hearts
In their little boisterous and unforgiving hands?
And yet, given the choice, a mother says,
"Pass the glue. Sign me up for a transplant.
Because having children is what built my heart,
What gave it life, why it beats."
Do they make duct tape for a mother's heart?
It doesn't matter,
because holding the pieces together
When everything is falling apart
Is what mothers do best.
Until the last beat, the last breath,
The last thought of her children:
The only pieces of her soul
That are left behind when she is gone.