Long Fermentation Poems
Long Fermentation Poems. Below are the most popular long Fermentation by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Fermentation poems by poem length and keyword.
Something caught between the eyes of fellowship and the riddle of thought makes any setting unforeseeable. Yet, within the mannerisms of those declawed by the very societies they themselves conceived armed only with a utility belt of miraculous misconceptions springs forth exponential, autonomous growth, promised by the ancestors of preconceived notions.
Most often, the spirits of ideas formed upon the fragile spine of inadequate frequencies press us all into a reliable destination, one mastered only through performances of unseen archetypes, driving this windowless vehicle we insist on calling time.
My augmented delusions, I admit, disassociate from the fermentation of your reasoning, and so taint our deductive search for the emotions we struggle to preserve. The tropes of an enigma’s fragrance intoxicate the cerebral moments of free thought, undermining even the simplest reproductive solutions for advancing communication.
And so, as I tear this parchment, I summon an opportunity. Yet what a cumbersome opportunity it is.
Dear daughter,I know you tired,
Yeah,you think I got you fired,
You worried why I havent brought you,
To planet earth and grow you,
It isnt my fault please,
Am looking for the best mum with ease,
Who will cherish and give you care,
And cover you with warmth when bare.
I want a mom full of sense,
A father figure in my absence,
A role model as you grow,
One with love blood flow,
A mother with visions,
Not one with complete fictions,
She will smoke only fish,
And drink milk when fresh,
Your mum will never be a slay queen,
She will always care for you with keen,
She will be a down-to-earth,
Hers will be a fresh breath,
Rather than the slayed one of fermentation,
And milk full of contamination,
As long as I am in control worry less,
Your dad is trying regardless.
Your mum’s milk gourds will be intact,
Admirable and full infact,
I need not flappy ones,
Hanging like bladder earphones,
The gourds opening should be pointed,
Untatooed,unsupported,and unpainted,
This is the extra mile am taking,
To see you safe and healthy growing.
Just a matter of time,
Am bringing her anytime,
I found one of a kind,
She is so natural like a rubindi,
Hers is natural elegance,
Soon she will carry you with fragrance,
And nine months later,
You will see your dad better,
Daughter please,bear up with me.
Poet Igweee
The best sins come in original
Or is it something else worth less?
Seeing is in the eye of the beholder
Or is it beauty or something worse?
No one is alike when they are different
Never the same when they are changed
There are two kinds of people in the world
Both of them named Gingerbread
According to newspaper sources
If you have thoughts original
Please keep them to yourself
In a jar far from the mainland
On a shelf for fermentation
One idea can change the world
Come in circular or oval, smooth as opal
Grown in mushrooms dark
Pop with energy when exposed to light
All things being equal must mean something
Antiques for instance keep their shapes
History makes mistakes by aging them
Placing values on the rust
Makes everything the same, mundane
A surreal vision
dreamlike and bizarre.
I felt as if I were in the throes
of a turbulent blazing blizzard,
a throbbing pulsating migraine
almost static in fermentation.
It gnawed intensively at my innards,
atrocious labor pains.
She put a small wet warm towel
Right on my forehead.
Then relief.
A calming of the spirit,
ethereal, soft, relaxing.
A vision of vastness
dotted by languid lakes,
rippling rivulets,
autumn-colored trees,
eternal waterfalls,
and myriads of emigrating geese.
I slept, feeling you besides me,
warm, homely, and satisfying.
Precisely why I loved you.
22 April 2021
Placed 1
Writing Prompt - Ache - Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Constance La France
full of emotion
pulsating
brooding
heaving
parsed
by desire
with
feelings
of the heart
a
voyage
of discovery
poignant
aglow
audacious
&
breathless
an intuitive
tableaux
with
gestures
explicit
&
visible
flooding
the moment
overflowing
frantic
!onging to
give
floating
in uncharted
seas
to a love
afire
...
to
savour
sensuous
burning
with fiery
passion
a consuming
flame
driven to despair
all
peace of mind
no more
wounded
deeply tortured
without
the semblance
of reality
mediocrity
a silent shadow
on
circumstance
suddenly
hope
in a sense of beauty
unforced earnestness
conceived
a state
of fermentation
vivacious
&
exciting
what bliss
what delight
free
unconcealed
to know love
&
stand amazed
The Dill, of course, are here now, but I fear
the Sour will be coming in about an hour.
They’ll arrive with relatives – those Half Sour.
Pickles straight from India have come. One’s Lime.
The other – Mango – likes a real good time.
The Polish too are here, resembling Kosher.
The difference is the Polish just seem gaucher.
Like wall flowers they sit. They need attention!
I know the perfect ones to ease the tension -
The ones to welcome everyone - the Sweet.
See them mingle with the Polish that they meet!
Pickled Pepper’s here using his old line
of “picked a peck.” I think too long in brine
that one’s been sitting. Kosher thinks that’s great,
though we wish his garlic breath would abate!
The odd one here’s Cinnamon. It’s not Christmas yet!
Well, the more the merrier. But whoever let
*the Kool Aids in? This party’s not for kids.
Jarred Pickles, seeing this, have flipped their lids!
I hope the Sours don’t ruin our celebration
coming from their salty fermentation.
This party will be anything but hellish
for Gherkin’s here along with one Sweet Relish!
Aug. 18, 2022
for It's A Pickle Party Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Mystic Rose Rose
*Note: Kool Aid Pickles combine the traditional pickle brine with Kool Aid and sugar. Also Cinnamon is a pickle I learned of while researching pickles, as well as the Lime and Mango from India!
All chocolate comes from the cacao trees
They grow best in tropical vicinities.
The tree first grew in Central America
although most of them now grow in Africa.
A portion of them also comes from Asia.
Equatorial climate proves most ideal,
so the tree has plenty of pods to reveal.
The pods on the trees contain many small beans.
These beans have to dry by the usual means.
They have to spend many hours in the sun
before any further processing is done.
Once dry, they are processed with fermentation.
They get chocolate liquor through extraction.
The beans have to be shipped to facilities
where they are scoured for all impurities.
The brown dried beans are then roasted for some time;
long enough to bring out flavor that’s sublime.
Further along in this commonplace process,
butter is extracted by hydraulic press.
They add alkali and emulsifier,
along with sugar and vanilla flavor,
to a thick consistency that would favor
pressing into molds that are briskly shaken.
Air bubbles escape; solid bars are taken
to another room for wrapping and packing.
Finished products are ready for marketing.
I dream fragments of poetry,
my pen balanced in my hand,
journal opened to that page
already darkened
with blots of frustration,
asterisks for seemingly important ideas,
collections of words and phrases
intended for collage and inspiration,
pleas for clarity.
My poems appear haltingly,
in bits and pieces
written in several colors of ink,
each suited to the nature
of the several ideas that flit
through my paper mind:
vermillion extracted from cinnabar,
thinned with vodka for my good days;
palest sky-blue from the seed of the avocado
bathed in water and lye,
for those times when I know I can fly;
ocean-blue ultramarine
ground from lapis lazuli,
used carefully when I feel a need for absence;
brown leached from oak galls
steeped in acidic water,
yielding ink such that when employed,
dissolves the paper
beneath the words I have written,
leaving a lacework of poetry;
yellow from crushed petals of the marigold,
soaked in tears for when I am confused,
noir-black dipped from the depths
of my melancholy.
The final poems,
the ones I can live with,
come into focus
only after passage through
the fermentation of language
essential for developing notes
of flowers, stones, and juniper.
Only then are they shared.
Greys, Part VI
Each day we wake a little changed,
But the Force that rests Unmoving
At the center of our turbulent souls
Remains, as ever, the sane,
In the end, love for one another,
For our kind
Must become the final, only Sacrament
We offer for salvation from ourselves
Love, such as we feel for our children
For its own sake, no other.
We must come to feel this,
Or be content to perish.
Meantime the world awaits the outcome
Of our slow deliberations.
Turns and turns
Biding time, progressing as ever
In its neverending fermentation of the dead,
Its transfiguration of form into non-form
Then back again
Biding time, awaiting the fruition of our thoughts.
To be alive is to have desires
To be aware is to be confused
As to the best way to obtain desire and confusion
Know that to be human is to embrace the uncertain,
To stare boldly into the fields of grey
And try to discern the shapes, the subtleties
The Substance and the Structure
That lay the foundations of our dreams.
So we look back into ourselves in reflective moments
To see all the parts of our souls
That lay nearest the naked Truth
Immersed in the mist of the Shade not hopeless,
But somber,
Floating part by disjointed part,
Drifting in fragmentary association
Suspended in the rainsky color
The color of doubt.
In the end, all will be well,
In the end we will all learn to listen
To voices in the rain and windy sighings,
To the language that the Earth speaks to its children,
The tones vague and soothing, that address the spirit,
The susurrus of life in decay and generation,
Balanced like daylight and nightdark
On the edges of space
When we listen like children to the song of their Mother:
All will be well, deep in the midst of the grey.
Too long, my soul,
Uninvited city noise
And fleeting seconds
Separates us
Then robs us of moments
To meet through blended rhapsodies
In pure hues of solitude
And soft shades of serenity
Yet, reassuring arms gather us into
A bright hallowed heaven sent sanctum,
Bidding rest with folded hands in sacred stillness
When I forget how dearly
You need holy calm in sacred space
On mountainsides of fluttering aspens
Wearing diadems of radiant gold -
Taking in infinite tranquility
From iridescent neon sunsets;
Turning from sizzling heat in summer’s breathing -
Searing innocence with masked skepticism –
From chaos to grace
By murmuring lakeshores
Resting – rippling – undulating –
Awaiting soft sung cradlesongs of consecrated renewal;
You turn your eyes
From the hallucinations dancing in the life of city lights
More enchanted by hypnotic snowstorms
Of falling leaves gathered at your feet
Sipping evening spice
As velvet twilight extends - swaddled into approaching darkness
A spreading smile of prayerful peacefulness –
Angelic invitation to become one again –
To hint of amber tinted moons
When zephyrs change their cloaks to cloudy vesper veils,
When mists ride on their whispers to leave a glittering sheen
On the abundance of the blameless open hand;
My soul let us renew our vows - venerated unity in solitude –
Let us cling! Let us toast!
Let us celebrate with the venerable wine
Of ripened, humble everlasting fermentation
Our long desired prophetic reunion
Innocent as the lotus in moonlight.