Long Entrees Poems
Long Entrees Poems. Below are the most popular long Entrees by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Entrees poems by poem length and keyword.
The blog,
I sweep away poets
As if I were a blackened abyss amongst the fog
Do not summon my presence
For I am the your blog
I am here for your life
I am worse than smog
I am your neighbors blog
Days go by
I log in, I post, I log out
I sit in a blissful fog
These blog entrees have taken you all captive
Have you worked your days only to awaken active
Children play games
Adults know no difference
Yet they become stranded to this nuisance
Salvage what you may
For the home crowd brews an everlasting chant
Easy, breath deeply, do not pant
A single gasp, twin winds, blown past your sin
I forgive you, for there is nothing left to amend
You’re going to love me when it ends
What more could I do with this pen
Look for me today and you shall find me no more
The eagerness that’s lain behind what you have become to adore
I will allow you to make peace with it
Now I will take you from ease, do you miss it
Go ahead pull up your sleeves
Rest next to your beloved eve
Forgive me, for I have made comfort with what you believe
But no worries It is now my time to leave
I am here for your life
I am worse than smog
I am your neighbor’s blog
Days go by
I log in, I post, I log out
I sit in a blissful fog
Form:
Chosen to be a perfectionist
all things in order
not out of order
the pantry is orderly
the shelves are amazing
the dishes are placed
neatly arranged with a homemade cake
perfectly amongst the race
clean clean clean away
no time wasted, non-worried faces
this is right, that is wrong
a perfect home
If it means being alone
straighten out items, neatness all around
when leaving, must come back to the cleanness
orderly you see, nothing is thrown around
If it is, you have to get down
seemed perfect in all that was done
the atmosphere is right
each day and night
shoes come off at the door
sinks are wiped down after repeated usage
no time for disorderly, nor items misplaced
a day to relax, some days are amazing
the perfectionist, having some patience
what a view being seen
overall, it's clean clean clean
neatness in appearance
nothing out of line
even the clock on the wall
cannot be the wrong time
a picture that is crooked
has to be straighten
don't keep them waiting
Some things are not outdated
not a lent on the floor
that cannot definitely be ignored
a life with the perfectionist
as time definitely goes by
sometimes asking, why? why? why?
the dinner invite, extended settings
just a piece of the delicious apple pie
the hand slightly was hit twice
barely hurt, a smile with love
no, not now, that is the dessert
just wait for the appetizers, the entrees
fancy elegant dinner plates are placed
gold silverware, decors, red flowers, and more
the table is so extraordinary
the view is so nice
the room is full of peace, love, and joy
If you're messy, you might not be invited anymore
oh well, the day has gone
all family, friends, and others went home
until the holidays come again
invitations are amongst limited
maybe next time the host will be the guest
and all, figuring out the rest.
The perfectionist.
Note:
Sometimes a perfectionist will change some guidelines.
Faith, Prayers. Jesus. Grace.
Can this be me? You?
orderly, clean, & neat.
Some people have said that cleaning can be mind relaxing. Also, a form of exercise because you're always moving. After the results, you can see the finishing.
An atmosphere that is suitable to live in.
Three dogs at the groomers, three hours till there done
go out to eat lunch, have Italian tasty and fun
Entrees served, cell phone rings
Kublai's eye bleeding, doggie bags they bring
Get Kublai to the vet, has pulps on his eyelid
surgery to remove them, clean teeth as he's out on meds
Back to the groomers Ghenghis barking up a storm
Sassy nervous growls as trimming her nails performed
Ghenghis happy to see me looks like a puppy all prim
Sassy frighten harder to get her in kennel second time
Home with those two back to the vet
Kublai ready to go home in my lap he sit
His eyelid fixed and had two teeth pulled
Kublai wearing a cone feeling like a fool
He got stuck under a end table wouldn't back up
the cone came off Kublai as Ghenghis sniffed his butt
Kublai in a deep sleep Sassy licks his eye
Ghenghis begging as I eat my Italian wanting a bite to try.
I think we are all drummers –
of course, drum musicians know
that drumming is not just pounding
on the skins (well, vinyl these days) –
there is also, soulful brushwork, and
finessing of symbols...not everyone a crash;
drums breathe -- all parts -- from outer
shells to inner resonance; influenced
also by surface temperature, humidity
of the room, and the echos of their
wall enclosure or freedom – not so
different from the maker: our hearts
are echo-chambers...especially our
minds, the garbage in the garbage out –
we echo love or the discourse of the
environment – we are beat spirited
rhythms, shuffles and stomps of feet –
tasteful entrees and all that a desire
can eat – seeming devils at times,
that only our surrender to God can
defeat – Yes! God is a drummer: no
moving instrument of being without
its core sound – a universe of timpani,
some quite square, but really, all is
round – the universe a lively Topsy,
a swing and a shout – we leap and
twirl in time – knowing time, not
gravity, keeps us down, shuts us
in, or keep us up and highly
out. Even at my age, more apt
to honestly, sweat-fully gig, than play
under any, pretentious, perfumed
wig.
Some folks like food that’s smooth to touch their lips;
which does not come in chunks or crunchy sticks.
They take their tea in leisurely small sips
or eat ice cream with lots of tiny licks.
I rarely ask for smoothies or for yogurt,
for puddings or for bland and jiggling jello.
I much prefer the entrees to dessert
and something hearty over something mellow.
To salty, crunchy foods I gravitate:
popcorn and potato chips and nachos,
and on my plate some food to masticate:
pasta, pizza, burgers, fries or tacos.
A large hot soup can soothe my appetite
if served with lots of crackers I can BITE!
For the the Screwed XII Poetry Contest of Rob Carmack
from 10/6/2013
Change
I used to be the mother
who entertained.
I used to be the mother
who made spring rolls
and stuffed clams
and fancy entrees
for parties
Once I worked all day,
cared for my children and
baked fancies to sell for
a little extra money
I made South African frikkadels
and tangerine dessert for
my daughter’s International Day
at school and, another time,
a Colonial dress with a bustle,
needed tomorrow!
Attended my sons’ band concerts
and football games.
Nights found me at League of
Women Voters or other meetings.
Now I rarely go out at night.
Sometimes I bake a coffee cake
for church coffee hour,
plain, nothing fancy.
I sit while I mix and stir and
use a walker to get around.
Today my children tell me to stay put
while they get my coffee
or find my book.
Now I am the child and they
the busy parents who care for
and worry about me.
Blueberry Festival in Sioux Lookout
Travelling north (on an adventurous drive)
Off the Trans-Canada on King’s Highway 72,
In Northwestern Ontario,
I crossed the bridge at the Frog Rapids Narrows
Of the English River system
And entered the town of Sioux Lookout
On Pelican Lake, “Hub of the North”
And gateway to Lac Seul.
Legend has it, as told by the elders,
That in days past, a mountain lookout
Was established by the Ojibwe for them
To scan the horizon
For oncoming Sioux warriors
Who had unfriendly intentions
And intercept them
Before they could storm the camp.
While I was in Sioux Lookout
During the “Blueberry Festival”
Held in August
To celebrate the Creator’s abundance,
I wandered about the town,
Enjoying the sights and sounds,
And noticed the sadness
In the faces of the Anishinaabe people.
I stopped to admire a native mother
Attired in a skirt with jeans underneath,
And who dressed her pretty little girl the same,
Both of them wearing embroidered jackets,
And I thought how out of place they looked
In today’s world of modern technology—
The younger, with a sparkle of curiosity,
And the older, less spriteful, melancholy.
Gone are the traditions!
Gone is the culture!
Gone is the respect due one to another,
And it’s heartbreaking to know
That the Europeans are responsible
For these deviant behaviours,
And I cannot keep from thinking
About the residential schools.
The town begins the celebration
With a community blueberry bake-off
Followed by the weeklong list
Of sports activities and music festival.
The mornings begin with blueberry pancakes
Topped off with maple syrup and side entrees
Of bacon or sausages, followed by picnics of hot dogs,
Hamburgers, steaks, and blueberry desserts.
The air in the North is refreshing,
Void of that smell of congestion,
And the space is wide open;
Unlike the city, where people are confrontational
From the anxiety associated with daily living,
The traffic, and the pressure!
It was nice to escape city life and enjoy
Sioux Lookout’s Blueberry Festival.
Chaos reigns, oh, such a sight,
Kids are screaming, parents feuding fight.
Turkey is spoiled, oven's on strike,
Lightning struck, there's no light.
The Bliss is so forlorn
The Bliss is so forlorn
The dog pissed on the presents
One of many such awful events
The cat's stuck to the star
Its fur has begun to char
The night of hell is born
The night of hell is born
Tommy was chased, the table felled
All the food scattered expelled
The entrees landed in Granny's lap
Just when she was taking a nap.
Silent Night is torn to scorn!
Silent Night is torn to scorn!
Still the tree lights twinkle
A glitter of joy a sprinkle
Despite the wrinkle and crinkle,
I hear Kris Kringle's tinkle
Frantic Night, Chaotic Night!
Frantic Night, Chaotic Night!
while playboy hallucination at my male member does yank
key mud hood dill, where reality doth usually tank
with muss elf feeling prick
sans figurative or real shaft shank
quite the opposite with wife acidly rank
she frequently pulls my hair as childish prank
knowing full well that action turns my mood sour as a crank
I would escape, but no money in the piggy bank.
Other times, her karma roars into tempest with rage
lashing out like a half-crazed maniac loosed upon global stage
on account of silent battles we regularly wage.
I admit my own fair share of peculiar traits
which only to private confidences t'will now relate
keep on the q-t lest spouse doth berate.
Chief among these oddities comprise
lower gastrointestinal perturbations issuing from the ass
which prompt innumerable outbursts of gas
Ranging from quiet puff to a noisy, windy pass.
After usage of toilet with a bowel movement
large enough to sink a sub
wash rectal residue from my behind
with a hose attached to the tub.
This couple resembles Frankenstein
and his bride – argh what a pair
she taunts when i shower, clean the rest of my body including hair
dry follicles shaking head back & forth side-to-side through the air.
There you now know foibles and unusual personal ways
uttering that such antics how she plays
like netted in a one-man fraternity undergoing constant haze
pelting this poor soul with scraps of food, she flays
until these covered with thick pasty gloppy glaze as verboten entrees
Now laugh till you fall over and remain in stitches for days.
My wish would be to visit Italy,
where my grandparents were with family.
One came from Florence, one from Sicily,
before my Mom and I were born to be.
I'd love to find out how their lives began-
those years in Italy before their plan
to board the ship- a woman and a man-
embrace the USA, their future span.
From tales they told me, Italy was home
to lovely gardens, winding hills to roam,
and special wonders, such as that in Rome,
with the Basilica's expansive dome.
To feel the rhythm of the countryside
and taste delicious entrees, well supplied;
confirm the recipes I've used stateside-
and the traditions learned and passed with pride.
I have these visions that live in my mind.
Someday, I hope, the real scenes to find.