Long Egg white Poems
Long Egg white Poems. Below are the most popular long Egg white by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Egg white poems by poem length and keyword.
The phone rang but there was no-one there,
Her imagination flew like a balloon into the air.
“Who was that?”, she asked herself.” Who was that woman?”, she wondered.
As the sun sank behind a cloud she gathered her ingredients.
“I’ll make his favourite: Lemon Meringue Pie”, she announced.
Now for the pastry I’ll need flour, butter, icing sugar and egg yolk.
I’ll save the egg white for the meringue.
Now some cold water and all into the processor to mix it all up.
“I remember the first time he kissed me.
It was my 19th birthday and he promised me the moon and the stars.”
Now I’ll put a baking sheet in the oven and heat to 200 degrees.
While the pastry bakes I’ll prepare the filling.
Let me see...oh this is such fun...mix cornflour, sugar and lemon zest.
“ It was after a few years I noticed he would stay late at work.
He would come home smelling slightly of perfume. “
Now I must organise that secret ingredient: Ricin made from castor oil beans.
When eaten it affects the body’s immune system.
“I remember our holidays in the Greek Isles.
We loved Thasos and Ikaria the best.”
Soon there was a knock at the door. It was Richard her husband.
“Hello darling look what I have made. Your favourite lemon Meringue Pie”.
This chair has chipped paint.
Its shadow gangly
in the light spilling through
the window. A deep
buttercup bisque steeps.
Through this stream, ember
motility of curdled
cream seeps into pores.
The seat embraces. Blood
colors sugar soft.
Fragments of dust waver
around the chair. Like
the suspended stars, or
the pixel points on
an LCD screen. Crumbs.
Feathers stick to the cheeks,
to be brushed off,
puff into the heavens.
Egg -white tinctured coat
wilts within the humid
air. Like the jaundiced
skin you wished to shed
when you first sundered
the sheets this morning.
This chair rocked my great
grandmother and her
children, and mother. Creaks
like an anchored boat.
Exposed grey brown wood
perishes, stabs the skin.
Like the chilled sea tinted
eyes: an ingress tears
the hushed air- a summons:
her son. Long ago
an apollyon. Starless.
The chair will be kindle
in September, sand-
peach colors imbued,
flushed like the candied
burn of Fall. Her flames.
Relive the fire
in the sky; salt waters
plum green, oily.
tauten red orange arms.
War in the distance-
better. The rose portrait,
diabolus shades stain
a cimmeran- tinted
loss, wound. Chalk inhaled.
And the blaze of two black
holes colliding. Wraiths.
The winter of her life,
within which a lurid
spirit-thin webbed cross
bleeds ash. Freezes; clots.
This chair has chipped paint.
Its shadow gangly
in the light spilling through
the window. A deep
buttercup bisque steeps.
Through this stream, ember
motility of curdled
cream seeps into pores.
The seat embraces. Blood
colors sugar soft.
Fragments of dust waver
around the chair. Like
the suspended stars, or
the pixel points on
an LCD screen. Crumbs.
Feathers stick to the cheeks,
to be brushed off,
puff into the heavens.
Egg -white tinctured coat
wilts within the humid
air. Like the jaundiced
skin you wished to shed
when you first sundered
the sheets this morning.
This chair rocked my great
grandmother and her
children, and mother. Creaks
like an anchored boat.
Exposed grey brown wood
perishes, stabs the skin.
Like the chilled sea tinted
eyes: an ingress tears
the hushed air- a summons:
her son. Long ago
an apollyon. Starless.
The chair will be kindle
in September, sand-
peach colors imbued,
flushed like the candied
burn of Fall. Her flames.
Relive the fire
in the sky; salt waters
plum green, oily.
tauten red orange arms.
War in the distance-
better. The rose portrait,
diabolus shades stain
a cimmeran- tinted
loss, wound. Chalk inhaled.
And the blaze of two black
holes colliding. Wraiths.
The winter of her life,
within which a lurid
spirit-thin webbed cross
bleeds ash. Freezes; clots.
Have we dreamt the crystal morn, this day of beauteous bones,
tinkling icicles which ping, as they melt, this sun warmed day.
Lilac boughs appear egg white dipped, now over-glazed, amazed,
in the mirror-like majesty of a frosty ice draped morn.
Tinkling icicles, which ping, as they melt, this sun warmed day
licked by children as they play, sliding on a virgin crust of white
in the mirror-like majesty of a frosty ice draped morn.
All that's innocent is clothed, encased, adorned in sturdier forms,
licked by children as they play, sliding on a virgin crust of white,
the ice embraces every sunlit surface with auric glow.
All that's innocent is clothed, encased, adorned in sturdier forms
too soon the skeleton of night will melt within the heat day
The ice embraces every sunlit surface with auric glow.
Lilac boughs appear egg white dipped, now over-glazed, amazed.
Too soon, the skeleton of night will melt within the heat day.
Have we dreamt the crystal morn, this day of beauteous bones?
First Published in Mused: The BellaOnline Literary Review January 2014
Long have me feet walked..bare upon de earth of mother Afreeca.
Days, passing in a flow’r chain round de brow of de morn.
De sacred drum calls wid de heart beattin of de Hougan’s soul
Afreeca’s soul ...
Long, long, de walkin from village mounta’n citie
to the hounfour ... de temple of de people.
We walk joy’us, and penit’nt and pleadin‘.
Mama carries de food gift fer Ogou Balanjo on her head,
corn meal she ‘as ground fine. "Ah, de poor sick child"
De glass beads aroun‘ Mama’s neck shine
like her tears in de sun an de sweat on her skin.
We ‘ear de rattlin‘ and de drummin.
Dust of de many feet rises.
'undreds and thousands of worshipers pack de square
in front of de temple and dance red, gold, orange swirl
honorin‘ our parents and der parents.
Long, long, we dance, we dance, and de Loa arrive ...
Mama falls possessed by Ogou Balanjo ...
De white robes of de pure at heart, and does wid de white faces
dance de prayers, de priests returns from de sacred grove
white rock, egg white of wealth and happiness
de year will be good ... de sick child will heal ...
Long, long, the world has spun in a daisy chain
Around de sun............
After the sun bleeds
colors into the sky white
stars are scattered like
diamonds thrown across
the violet black. The night seeps
into edge of morning
and a thread of light spills
like churned buttery cream.
Mottled pink is brushed
against linen clouds,
inking the faded shades of night.
Wires are strung above
their houses, their tops
frosted slate. The snow, burning,
is like the artic
methane on Pluto.
Ripples of opaque crystal
are created by solar winds.
On which glass white shines,
a tin hued surface like plastic
sewn on egg-white
costume dresses, gems
under strobelights on stage, dancing.
Wings, dust colored; soft
like the thick darkness
receding into the brewed,
aeged morning. Beating.
we are the egg they are the knife
the egg shell
like the body
the egg white albumen
like the spirit
the egg yolk like the soul
all others lies in between
so is the connection of humans
to the universe through spirituality
and beyond
is a pity now
we live in a world
where intelligent humans
punish the body
with there knives of
inflation depression panic
and brutality
it affects the weak
and destroy there
true spirit to confusion
the knives of our
officials cut out
our zeal of being
to a destruction
of a hard repair
when it hits
the soul
like to the
egg yolks
we realise
they are nothing
but empty liers
Darkness whisks the egg white strands
into the yellow yolk glob.
Time claws its way
wallowing through a quagmire
of booze, ooze and bog-breath delays.
"I'm Late, I'm Late!"
"Who Spake?"
"Who's seen better Ways?"
Feet spread strangely,
disengage and untangle.
Interlocking with toe taps
pin-pointed to barre-
laughing at those old elbows and knees.
The gasp of old shadows
lurking in clouds
dispels the carnival
confetti spaghetti charade,
to yell:
"Joie de Vivre!
"What the hell!"
"Is all this stuff about?"
Silence lies petrified
by a pillar of Babel-borne salt
outside of the window.
It can't get out of bed.
“I’m fine! OK!"
"I'm laying in"
"Playing dead!"
Each contradiction
spoke with impeccable diction.
Intonation interlaced;
with poise and puréed perfection,
personified.
It brought applause, clapped with one hand
behind the other,
a contra-counterpart.
A toot toot touche,
bowing to cheers
from both ways.
Blanched Bones
We’ve not dreamt the crystal morn,
the tinkling ping of sun warmed ice,
the egg white branch of lilac dipped,
the magic of the wintry day
which fills the heart with awe.
Such days of silver ice and blue white snow
the lancing spears of ‘cicle formed
awake are we to majesty, that all too soon is gone.
Gone in graceful austerity, a loveliness all its own,
the white of skeleton, these beauteous bones.
White Pages
Within the pages white as snow
and between the lines as black as coal,
to all the places You have sowed,
Oh Lord, let me abide within the line.
Within the turning page we see.
Alight, aflame in harmony.
And friends or foes do go in mystery.
Oh Lord, let me abide within the line.
Let me alight in peace with Thee and Poe,
with Kipling’s tales in Just So
with Moses staff and Joseph’s sign
Oh Lord, let me abide within the line.
White Sugar in the Morning
The Baker has glazes the brush today
twined vines, the grasses, the forest's trees.
He’s covers every hemlock with white,
downy protection from every breeze
The Baker’s glazes with soft snow of white
like meringue upon every birch twig,
His frosting covers the mountain's sides
no glacial boulder or spruce is to big.
He is top-dressing the architecture;
He's polishing the acres of asphalt.
Yes, the Baker’s glazing the world today
He’s an artisan given to much thought.
This chair has chipped paint.
Its shadow gangly
in the light spilling through
the window. A deep
buttercup bisque steeps.
Through this stream, ember
motility of curdled
cream seeps into pores.
The seat embraces. Blood
colors sugar soft.
Fragments of dust waver
around the chair. Like
the suspended stars, or
the pixel points on
an LCD screen. Crumbs.
Feathers stick to the cheeks,
to be brushed off,
puff into the heavens.
Egg -white tinctured coat
wilts within the humid
air. Like the spectral
skin you wished to shed
when you first sundered
the sheets this morning.
This chair rocked my great
grandmother and her
children, and mother. Creaks
like an anchored boat.
Exposed grey brown wood
perishes, stabs the skin.
Like the chilled sea tinted
eyes: an ingress tears
the hushed air- a summons:
her son. Long ago
an apollyon. Starless.
The chair will be kindle
in September, sand-
peach colors imbued,
flushed like the candied
burn of Fall. Her flames.
Relive the fire
in the sky; salt waters
plum green, oily.
tauten red orange arms.
War in the distance-
better. The rose portrait,
diabolus shades stain
a cimmeran- tinted
loss, wound. Chalk inhaled.
And the blaze of two black
holes colliding. Wraiths.
The winter of her life,
within which a lurid
spirit-thin webbed cross
bleeds ash. Freezes; clots.