Long Dishes Poems
Long Dishes Poems. Below are the most popular long Dishes by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Dishes poems by poem length and keyword.
Let me
lend a hand
I can’t sit
when you
have to stand
When you
can’t do it all
together we can
It’s not
a woman thing
It’s more than
just gender roles
boy girl lady or man
I can change diapers
and wash that pan
I’m a participant
not a fan
Bit by bit
we can get to it
It will go faster
if I don’t sit
Put this here
that there
when we work share
everything will easily fit
Finishing faster
we both benefit
In the end
on each other
we can depend
Together lifting life’s burdens
our backs bend
There are dishes to do
laundry and socks to mend
Then family functions to attend
Life to be lived
with you
my partner
lover and friend.
If tears don't run salty into the bowl of lentils of life, you don't know the seasoning of pain,
It's just a breeze, a transient wind over your infinite fields of indifference.
When you weep, tasting of all things, satiated with the world's profound murmur,
You conceal an unknown yearning in your sob, and the salt crystallizes in the chambers of your heart.
A fog settles on empty tables, laden with silences and sighs,
An autumn uncontained in dishes, woven into the silvery sleep of drawers.
Each bread crumb—a solstice between the full day and the night that comes,
In every crack of dawn and dusk lives the undigested, jumping love.
If you've never swallowed the moonlight mixed in the porcelain chalice of fate,
You have not felt how heavens descend, trickling through veins the eternal flow.
A scent of wax burning bloody in candles, once vivid now drained,
Is that flame under which your dreams fry and the healing aches like an eternal cut.
If you’ve never rocked hope in the quarter of the night, when hunger cuts your breath,
You'll never understand how every goal of deceit sways in throngs under the dome of eternity.
And you may see in the falling star, a shimmering silver platter flung across the sky,
Not a token of luck, but a scorched piece of the universe refusing to be swallowed without a fight.
If you've never eaten with tears in your eyes, you'll never know what life is...
The one that cuts and runs, and settles like a canvas of cold upon the ground of longing.
Poems are prepared for you in frost and heat, to sip stoically, with the natural taste of torment,
And you thirst, not for water, but for the essence that rises from the chasm of crying, wildly enchanted.
Song of the Harvest Home
Under contented twilight memories, my childhood harvest home abides in chrysanthemum hues
Two story home on a quiet street behind a fence decorated by my grandmother’s roses -
Dressed up in sleet, sometimes snow, maybe rain, even icy sunbeams
Midst the warmest benediction, blessings gathered from fields and orchards yield
Our wide door flung open like hovering wings to gather in extensions of abundant bounty -
Transforming the harvest round a table extended by oaken leaves Granddad at the head of table,
Generations take their seats to bow their heads in loud amens of celebration grace –
Scents of cinnamon and of sage, harmony and dysfunction, at their places
Setting ageless wisdom like silverware - dreams to sparkle like crystal glasses
An understanding unspoken – always a place for those alone on this holiday – now adopted -
New family welcomed by fathers, mothers, sisters, brothers, aunts and uncles - cousins
Loud debates swirling like cream in coffee over pie and Grammie’s applesauce cake,
Closely guarded stories of the cousins raiding relish trays, wearing olives on fingertips
A turkey taking flight across the kitchen floor – raspberry jelly retrieved from basement larder -
A box of chocolates anticipated - Jordan almonds in my pocket
Memories of the year when pot pies replaced the bird – not repeated – thank you Lord -
Giggles over washing dishes as playing cards appeared on blanket covered tables
Before a warming fire where my heavy eyes relished this genesis of jubilee, a “normal?” family
Our voices raised in the song of a harvest home around a slightly out of tune piano.
11/9/20
Contest: Thanksgiving
Sponsor: Regina McIntosh
What if there was a passage way down to the ocean
Tucked away within the wall an eroded cave
Cool breeze always in motion as azure, Turquoise Ocean swirls
Breathing in deep reflecting a show of rainbow mist as waves break the cliff face
A cave perfect for a dining room full of stunning unremarkable furnishings
White cotton linens, accent with fresh-cut blooms, and small center table lamps
Pale turquoise ribbon fastening place settings and napkins
Dinnerware and dishes embossed shells and starfish dusted in sandy bronze
Swim in a sea of pale turquoise
Providing guest with genuine friendly, welcoming staff
Chef de cuisine creating a gourmet menu of incredibly fresh ocean delicacies
I'd call it " A Touch of Ocean Breeze"
Prices that everyone can afford;
Fried or
clams, stuff with c
Fried shrimp r
a
@ b
m
e
Salmon, Clam a
chowder, Tuna, t
Lobster
Oysters
Varity of wines
So much more
Pleasant and accommodating
You won’t be disappointed
9/28/2016
My imaginary restaurant - Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Silent One
Why did you come to visit
why can`t you let me be
my hopes, dreams and aspirations
I now no longer see
My children lost their mother
My husband lost his spouse
dirty laundry, floors and dishes
you stole our tidy house
You came without a warning
just like a thief in the night
turning my life upside down
I had no chance to fight
Clouds, rain and thunder
everyday`s a storm
my thoughts have raged against me
I recognize no form
Everything has frozen over
I`m trapped beneath the ice
for someone to pull me out of here
I think??? it would be nice
Morning, noon and night
everythings a blur
it’s hard to form my words at times
you’ve left me with a slur
It’s hard to keep my head up
under the weight of defeat
I often measure the success of my day
by whether I brush my teeth
You come without a warning
you bring a nasty blow
nothing but destruction
for everything in tow
I know one day you will leave me
when there is nothing else to steal
the last thing that you want from me
is my ability to feel
One foot in front of the other
one breath in and out
I will again return to me
I pray without a doubt
I saw a turkey circling, high above Manhattan
his bronze and copper feathers ripped in the sun,
and it looked like it was having an awful lot of fun.
He looked proud, in those clouds—majestic and delicious,
I could picture him sprawled out, on our Thanksgiving dishes.
Then I thought, chastisingly, “Wow, in a way, that’s kind of vicious.”
I opened the glass doors—we were sitting on the sky-high terrace.
I thought I’d better check—so I wouldn’t later be embarrassed.
I called Karen (Lisa’s Mom), “You already got a turkey to prepare us?”
She was hand making apple and cherry pies, lining crust in the pans
“You bet!” She called, “One's dressed-up—and a honey-baked ham!”
Closing the door, I yelled, through cupped hands, “Fly on Turkey—DO NOT LAND!”
.
.
A song for this:
It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year - Shrift remix by Andy Williams and Shrift
.
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Here's a Christmas playlist: daweb.us/xmas/Christmas_34.mp3
Texting at 7:00 pm.
Is almost too late.
People are washing dishes.
They are tired with wrinkly hands.
If I texted anyway,
Maybe the shadows would leave.
Texting at 9:00 pm.
It’s never ok, it’s always too late.
If I had texted at 7:00…
Maybe it wouldn’t have been so bad…
If I texted at 1:00 am.
They would hate me forever.
No one would ever text again, and I would die in a car accident alone, and no one would show up to the funeral.
So at 1:00 am, I write and scribble nonsense in a journal.
I cry into the journal.
Which is a little more satisfying than a crying emoji, anyway.
I keep the journal in a drawer.
That cannot be deleted.
Unlike most things in this digital world.
Abandoned back garden, the lawn grass is tall
Rose bushes has grown much too high
The line of the cracked slabs narrow and small
No one’s around to tell why
Front door is wide open, and the windows as well
The table is set for the meal
Dishes and cutlery silver look swell
But spider’s web doesn’t appeal
Wormwood and ivies of several layers
Almost conceal the brick walls
Nature triumphs over man’s work and prayers
Over his thoughts and recalls
Man is destined for changes, he builds and destroys
Once he rests, before evening’s treat
But there she comes on her pale Rolls-Royce
Pale horses she deems obsolete.
The elderly couple enjoyed a lovely meal with their dear friends.
The two old ladies get up to do the dishes when the meal ends.
The two men chat, one tells of a restaurant he could recommend.
They had a really nice meal last night, good food not much to spend.
“That sounds great” said one “What’ is this restaurant’s name?”
He thought a while, searching his memory trying hard, but in vain.
He said, “I can’t think, what is that flower the one that makes a chain?”
Oh, said his friend I’m not sure, Is it a daisy or should I think again?
You smile. I guess this means I’m on the right track, did I get it right?
That’s it!“Hey Daisy he called “what’s the name of the place we went last night?”
Same couple planned a dinner. Daisy went to buy sauce for stroganoff.
Asked an employee where it would be. He replied, “I’ll see” and walked off
He didn’t return so she asked another, and she replied, “I’ll see” and went to see.
Daisy was tired of waiting for them to return and found it herself in Isle C .
he asked her what he could do for her today
sought more than merely the dishes need doing
sort of reply rather something more deeply intense
by the way he had put the dishwasher on already
her answer did no surprise him but gathered momentum
just be yourself which of course meant you need to find out
on your own which is the best way to proceed
switching the washing machine on would trip the circuit
one step at a time and how he sometimes hated such saying as
it is the journey that counts on not the destination
patience and coping with uncertainty had not been his forte
but he had prayed and meditated on handing over already
the delusion of permanence had always held a firm grip
with insanity never far away from his soul and mind
he sought guidance by handing over with difficulty
inhale and exhale and do not suffocate any sentient being
life was a bubble and he did not wish to prick the balloon
build tensile strength instead and reach out for lustre
while darkness had often been a recurring companion
there is a crack in everything that’s where the light gets in
she was right of course and further advanced on a spiritual path
alignment could not and should not be enforced
it was a gift of faith action in trust of guidance which starts
with a simple question and yet so many answers