Long Earliness Poems
Long Earliness Poems. Below are the most popular long Earliness by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Earliness poems by poem length and keyword.
She has gone shopping for chicken stock.
I miss the vichyssoise of this potpourri season.
The unexpected earliness of most happenings
are so easy to miss.
My friend will soon return with a carton of broth,
plus, a Saran wrapped pre-prepared roaster.
I miss the plucking and the slimy fingered
dressing of a fresh plump bird,
the cleaning and chopping, the spatchcock,
the ‘mise en place’.
Today I will cook only with missing ingredients.
Everything is in order,
all is a hunger surrounded
by the soft anticipation of open lips.
I do miss the mélange and medley,
the consommé of fat times.
I will miss cracking chicken bones,
scraping out their boiled gelatinous marrow,
miss the suety brewing of bouillon,
the simmering potage.
My friend returns from the store.
She miles at the look
of childish relief on my face.
If I am left alone too long, I tend to make lists,
I become a Saran wrapped emptiness -
I disappear for a while.
My friend has gone shopping for chicken stock.
I miss her so much.
The drapes are drawn
I have to see, cannot be closed in
I miss my outer side so much.
Outside, last winter’s trees are clutching a few leaves,
I miss their bare bodies so very much,
I miss the broth of green, its absolute greenness,
where did that color go?
The turtles of May are here early,
I have missed their wet-eyed sleepiness,
missed them, for they arrived early.
The unexpected earliness of most happenings
is so easy to miss.
The May blossoms arrived in secret,
were daubed quickly by wood elves,
soon they will run out of pink and white paint.
My friend will come back with the chicken stock
and a Saran wrapped pre-prepared roaster.
I miss thanking and dispatching a live chicken,
miss the plucking and the slimy fingered
dressing of the plump bird,
the cleaning and chopping, the spatchcock
the mise en place of coq au vin
miss the taste of past meals.
Today I will cook some missing ingredients.
Dandruff clouds on the rim of my spectacles,
I miss the clarity,
miss the glossy curls of middle-aged poetry.
It’s almost unbearable to have missing teeth;
the stars have full gleaming sets
they are surrounded by mouths
everything is in order,
everything is hungry and surrounded by mouths
the perfection is unbearable.
I miss the farm-wise cat,
the sheepish dog and his waggish ways,
the strange speech of men looking for women.
the mélange and medley of fat times.
Nobody settles for consommé anymore.
I will miss cracking chicken bones today
scraping out their boiled gelatinous marrow,
miss the suety brewing of bouillon,
the simmering potage.
My friend rushes back from the shops
just so she will not miss seeing me.
If I am left alone too long I tend to make lists,
get too empty
and disappear for a while.
Before light’s encroaching
Beams, across wavelengths
Of glints, in between yawning
Protocols of waking,
The cocks strike a redundant
Note.
Choked by their own sensitive
Yodelling spree, muted by
Spittle of outstretched, moaning
Clouds, frayed and piqued by
The lusts of flying machines,
Hours stretch on rubber’s speed.
The rain is a common spiv, holding
On the crests of soaking waves
Upon night’s purloined
Sleep.
On the roof, the rain pelts
With energy, hunting the
Fire-caked degree of heat,
Insufferable to the dictates
Of yelling protests.
Faint mirrors of earliness hang
Loose on frescoes of heaven, peeking
Through serrated drapes above
Window panes. And these, like neighing,
Spavined horses, wake
Memories of puking slumber...
And the hours of dimmed contours
Stretched. And the lilt from the
Pluvial melody humbles the
Insomnia monody, drummed
Into the silence of fastened hedonism.
No sunrise within the grey
Patterns of veiled clouds...
Cocks’ crows, subsumed within
This muffled protocols, become
Distant trumpets of varieties,
Preening themselves of the usage
Of establishing culture.
Allah, Allah, Allah! ! !
The presence became fixed!
At the very hour of the cocks’ choir,
When piddling gathers the froth of
First waking with the grogginess
Of drunken dreams, the muezzin
Reads out the laws....
From the jungle chambers, elated
Spirits from pricked ears and
Rising furs soothe the voice,
Arched, raised and powered
Even to the birth of essences and
Dehiscing of inscrutable
Energies of efflorescences.
Allah, Allah, Allah!