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.
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.
My verse under Yeats’ carved door
he merrily chuckled at white
envelope, sketched butterfly
said he preferred to receive
verses this way rather
than reading them across
post-modern websites
a languid phantom
He invited me to an idyllic tea
we savoured small
cheese squares, crumbly
scones watching a squirrel
chomp a cheerful chestnut
LOST AND FOUND
What word can describe
fleeting images, dreams of poets graduated, yet living on ?
V A C A N T
….a vacancy that awaits a letter
wandering ethereal
a word manifesting ____on old desk
a Lover expecting his
Beloved with cherries and hat
a shadow across
poetic spaces
Yeats, gone
ye t, HERE
~~~
She saw it to be an
excessive thought
tasting the clams
in her crumpets
a tad bite sweet
and crumbly
a spent of lunch
or supper
More accurate than
the original
Savored with a rich
Citrus drink
One would think
It's accuracy is
excellent
to dancing or
a nightclub
a night of
extraordinary
flavor
Soothing suttle
bit excites
Ones behavior
I went to a cheese and wine party on Saturday,
where huge platters of cheese were on display.
There was Gorgonzola and creamy white Brie,
I devoured huge chunks with a glass of Chablis.
Danish Blue, Mozzarella and Swiss Emmental,
of course I had to try a sample of them all!
I declined Edam and Gouda, I find them too waxy -
and the last time I ate them I was sick in the taxi!
Soft creamy Camembert and blue Roquefort,
went down a treat with a glass of vintage port.
Crumbly Cheshire and Cheddar were so divine,
and tasted heavenly with red Beaujolais wine.
I’d chomped through all of the Stinking Bishop,
our hostess had to restock the whole dish up!
Then I munched little cubes of Monterey Jack -
if my doctor saw me he’d have a heart attack!
When our host carried in a blue Stilton in a truckle,
I loosened a notch on my now straining belt buckle!
I admit blue cheese can smell like men's sweaty socks
but ripe Stilton and crackers, this cheese simply rocks!
Write a poem about Cheese Contest
Sponsored by Barry Stebbings
FICTION POEM FOR CONTEST
11/12/18
That neighbour has just banged his door.
Again yet again and yet again.
I, a one of superior quality, wish to beat
his barking bonce against the wall of his rathole.
But there’d be no grey matter
to dribble down the concrete.
An ugly slimy mush would not be excreted
from that crumbly, crinkly, brainless brainpan.
No brainbox there to squirt the grey stuff!
Oh, what do I experience?
A swirly-whirly precognition of a pleasurable
banging of that brain that isn’t there?
Do I not wish to tear it into shreds?
Funny how feral thoughts burst into one’s mind.
Again yet again and yet again, this superior
wants to beat and bounce that barking bonce.
(17 Sep 2024)
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.
She saw it to be an
excessive thought
tasting the clams
in her crumpets
a tad bite sweet
and crumbly
a spent of lunch
or supper
More accurate than
the original
Savored with a rich
Citrus drink
One would think
It's accuracy is
excellent
to dancing or
a nightclub
a night of
extraordinary
flavor
Soothing suttle
bit excites
Ones behavior
She saw it to be an
excessive thought
tasting the clams
in her crumpets
a tad bite sweet
and crumbly
a spent of lunch
or supper
More accurate than
the original
Savored with a rich
Citrus drink
One would think
It's accuracy is
excellent
to dancing or
a nightclub
a night of
extraordinary
flavor
Soothing suttle
bit excites
Ones behavior
Whitestone Hoodoos
Near where I live,
just up the hill above the airport,
is a place of mystery and wonder,
a place wizards might once have dwelled,
or young warriors wandered in search of vision.
It’s a thicket of chalky hoodoos, sitting now
like a forest of plump petrified dwarfs made of meringue
sculpted by uncountable drops of rain
and whatever it is you might call a single unit of wind.
It’s enchanting for sure,
but largely ignored by the sensible folk.
It’s a place of unclimbable slippery slabs and
crumbly sliding slopes, of snakes with rattles
and succulents with thorns.
I’m sure to some eyes it’s just a barren hill,
and to others an inspiring view that’s always just out the window,
to some a marvelous result of random tectonic drifts
and to a few at least, a glimpse into the past
when wizards and warriors met
under the shadow of watchful dwarves
and ate the bitter root.
(from my third book, SUN MADE FLESH AND FIBER, 2019)
Flirt with my demons, hold them to your heart
In spite of my clustered mind, I'll hold up my part
Hold my hand close to the beats in your chest
A promise of foreverness, though we'll never be "the best"
What the songs get correct, but the media thinks is dead
Two intertwined lovers, our image is stuck in my head
Mockery and pungent words won't end our rumba
They'll be laughing when the skies are painted red, ha!
Pathetic lies try to separate us, but they sound like sharp notes
In a music book, where the songs are pleasing and don't sound faux
They ask me, "Dear Bonnie, where has your Clyde gone?"
O darling lover, but we both have heard this song
Shallow and crumbly, their arguments go for too long
Their voices belt across galaxies, yet they know their wrongs
But one thing that I know is your rhetoric is divine
When I glance up on the horizon, Nature says it's a sign
So, we starve their remarks, like fires with no oxygen
Because little do they know, we'll never bow down to them