Long Eater Poems
Long Eater Poems. Below are the most popular long Eater by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Eater poems by poem length and keyword.
The wood pigeon awoke on her roosting perch,
fluttered with a nervous jerk;
warilysearching for sustenance,
above the peregrine made a fateful entrance.
The winter harsh and icy cold,
driven far from its familiar fold,
seeking food further afield
to an urban garden that might increase its yield.
Under a biting wintry sky
the short tailed falcon hovered high,
an efficient killer from above,more than a
match for pigeon or dove.
Taking its chosen meal in flight,swooping sudden from
a great height,
the momentum imprinting our window pane,
her throat slashed she soon was slain.
Talons sunk deep into the pigeons chest
this finicky eater pecked at head and breast.
The lawn strewn leavings of a ravenous raptor,
as nature's journal leafs another chapter.
Words: Use the following words in a poem. Pretzels, shout, threshold, pine, now, sulfur, ladybug, percolate, cap and lamp
Let’s give a shout out
to the one who eats hot
salty soft pretzels.
Who holds a pine scented
lamp that sputters and flares
in the darkest night.
While they watch gooey
black tar percolate from
the bowls of the earth.
A cautious ladybug creeps
across the felt cap of
of the pretzel eater.
Now is the time to swat
the nefarious ladybug
as she steels across their cap.
Smack! The ladybug is
no more as a sudden soft scent
of sulfur permeates the air.
My current days are trails paved abhorrent
for I wail money twisted and time blistered
within knot plots I cannot get untwistered.
I live as a searcher of dollar measure flexers
and as an oh what should I do now perplexer.
Even toilet paper is a difficult gainer
when basic nutrition is not an obtainer.
Being a face washer, teeth flosser, hair brusher
and body cleaner upper are now strainers.
All intentions proper flare up money impaired
when one’s pennies add up to not even any.
How to be a life liver as a faith believer
when your scenes scream just be a quitter,
a truly properly decent sanity splitter?
When losing my job hard spun me money shun,
my question grinder also lost its answer finder.
Tonight, I’ll be a bread crumb eater and soup sipper
but tomorrow I may be a slipper wearing mess
roamer, a senseless out loud streaming press
and a restaurant trash can nonchalant searcher
who forgot her thoughts once held nothing worser.
... CayCay
August 22, 2019
Old Rumple Stein sat in the
rocking chair, his eyes
gleaming like hot coals. The
children huddled beneath
their blankets as his raspy
voice filled the dark bedroom.
"Listen close, little ones,"
Rumple Stein whispered,
leaning forward with a
crooked smile. "Do you hear
that strange, hollow scraping
sound downstairs?
It is the Rug-Crawler, a flat,
bony thing with long, spindly
fingers.
It slides silently across the
floor, looking for children who
refuse to eat their vegetables.
Its skin is cold like winter
mud, and it breathes with a
sickening, wet wheeze.
Right now, it is creeping up
the creaking wooden stairs,
inch by terrible inch.
It stretches its rubbery neck,
sniffing the air for the scent of
wide- awake children who
hadn't ate their veggies for
dinner.
If it finds you staring into the
dark, it will slide under your
bed.
Then, a chilly, numbing wind
will blow through the cracks
in your floorboards.
You will feel a sudden, icy tug
at the edge of your heavy
blankets.
Its yellow teeth will flash in
the moonlight as it opens its
wide, mouth of vegetables.
It does not want your toys,
and it does not want your
tasty snacks.
The Rug- Crawler only wants
to steal the bright, warm
sunlight right out of you
for refusing to eat your
vegetables.
Once it takes your cheer, you
will stay trapped in a slimy
cloy gloomy vegetable stick
for all twilight forever.
Your eyes will turn to green
stone, and you will never see
the morning sun again.
So pull the covers tightly over
your chin and block out the
terrible noise.
Do not look at the door, and
do not dare to peek through
your fingers.
Close your eyes tightly this
very second, or the Rug-Crawler
will know you hadn't eat your
vegetables for dinner."
A bunny feasts on a clover patch
The Keurig moans
Almost as badly as me
Breakfast
Been eatin’ the same cereal
Since 1952 (slow eater)
The debate rages
Should I put on pants
Watch the news
Let the friggin’ cat in
I slurp the milk from the cereal bowl
Been doin’ it since
You know 1952
The banana is bruised
Looks like it fell down the stairs
Easy chew
The Keurig is calling for water
Cat’s meowing for food
Firefighters just rescued a squirrel
From a drainpipe
Some guy in Pennsylvania
Wants to buy my house
“a quick cash deal’
Big decisions comin’ up
Shave shower do laundry
Watch Gunsmoke
Where’s that remote
LIES.. It's very Tricky
A deceitful
crafty craft
Too Sucky
ingratiating and obsequious.
Picky is the teller
fussy, faddy and choosy
a picky eater
Pick the MOUTHS Up
The teller
Leaves the EAR Down
The told
And the BRAIN fooled
Living you
Vulnerable and vandalize
Living in absolute
Deceits and fear
LIES... Very bitter
When the TRUTHS
Prevails
Nothing can be
Hidden forever
LIES... It blocks your
Chakra
The consequences
Spiritual!!!
LIES... It brings you
Instant gratification.
be the victor
Physically!!
LIES... Some are illusion
For survival, Being
Told for GOOD reason
And others for
Manipulation just
to Destroy another.
I've started my stand-by diet: a few different fruits each day,
and having repeated it time and again, I feel qualified to say
apples, unless of a rare and crisp nature, are mushy and generally gross.
Halfway into the core of one, I'm still starving and feeling morose.
The diet's mainstay, pineapple, for its fat-burning enzymes revered,
when fresh, is somewhat palatable.
If it's green, though, ones mouth can be seared.
And that popular phallic banana, which when peeled, fast begins to rot:
That one I'll leave for the monkeys though it's garnish for sundaes or not!
Tomorrow I'm finally in for a treat. It's a watermelon to eat.
But for all my thumping to test for its ripeness,
it well could taste flat and not sweet.
Blueberries, too, and cherries are good.
I wish there were more fruits like these.
However, I long to see them all "berried"
‘neath Cool Whip atop cream cheese.
Plums or grapes, frozen or plain, "not bad" until they are dried.
By the time I'm consuming ghastly prunes,
I'll be famished for food that is fried!
Mangoes, too, are on my list of what I must partake.
But (gag me) their texture lends the sensation
I'm swallowing snails or a snake.
I've noticed of late with this regimen, its slimming magic is slowing
as with each precious year's dissolution, my metabolism's lowering.
Next week (so I say) I'll banish forever this obsolete, once-potent "cure".
It long since has extracted from me any craving for food that is pure.
With a dull kitchen knife I took my papaya today and reverently sawed it.
With its flavor lingering there on my tongue,
it struck me it hinted of vomit.
*I'm not a big fruit eater as this shows!! This is a diet I will no longer pursue!
Next I should do a poem on how sickening it gets eating salads day after day.
Jan. 27, 2017 for Jamie Pan's "It's time for hilarious poetries"
I’ve spent all my life getting into trouble,
When there’s one it’s always me,
I’m the kid ADHD,
As for punishment, I’m not really bothered,
I’ve been stuck in that moment forever,
And every attempt to change me,
always ends in failure.
I’ve been in trouble all my life,
they're always trying to put me right,
they can discipline,
but it won’t change a flipping thing,
cus when I’m being rude to you,
I’ll continue,
but discipline,
oh it won’t change a flipping thing.
Recently I found my poem had been stolen,
it was on a poor-no site,
I wondered who goes there for reading,
and so I filmed my write,
to share with you on Facebook,
cus I knew you’d want to have a look,
thought it was funny as luck,
but Facebook, oh Facebook banned me.
They're banning me for three long days,
trying to change how I behave,
oh discipline,
it wont change a flipping thing,
a poem about a man called Peter,
he was a peanust eater,
but for discipline,
Oh it won’t change a flipping thing.
*Aerosmith I dont want to miss a thing parody
to feel another’s Pain is not enough.
you must combine your sympAthy
wIth your empathy,
until they are oNe in the samE.
you must tAke it,
devour IT,
until it becomEs your own.
now…
you can count it your loss, but foR their gain
A life in tree-lined poetry
Once I was a cook on the high seas and worked long days
seven days a week; Eater and Christmas meant more work
baking cakes and baking bread.
It was not only tiring but boring to seafarers like solid
food that they are used to from home, which makes
cooking into a job of blindfolded ennui.
No wonder cooks turn to drink, the combination
of long hours, infinitely making meat cakes and mash
can send anyone into the abyss of insanity
For my next job, I learned to cook books and found
I had my latent talent how to make stories, to make
the numbers tally; I could sit in a soft chair doing this.
For a reason, lost in the fog of the past, I ended up
a counsellor, a strange occupation, telling the unlucky
not to drink, when at night enjoying a whisky or two.
I was found out and sacked; how shocked they were
the justly seniors took my license and nameplate on
the door, hounded me out of town.
There was one escape, back to sea and cooking stuff
long were the hours when not reading self-help books
until some said: “aren’t you the one who got fired?