Long Flavor Poems
Long Flavor Poems. Below are the most popular long Flavor by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Flavor poems by poem length and keyword.
Small Servants
Eight legs or six…you are all bugs to me.
I love you, I hate, I love to hate you.
You scare me, you ware me…
Yet, I seek you out.
You can climb, and fly.
You can swim and look like a small limb.
A cane for a blind man,
barely six inches tall, at all.
Your colors, they are rare, fascinating,
and five steps beyond belief.
Rainbows cross our heavens, “their” only rival.
You sting, you bite, you give us things we like.
Silk robes in China, ground flavor in a cup.
We eat them, they eat us.
Ants, workers to learn from, busy like bees.
Together, they bring down the rubble and trees.
Time is their friend, it is “He” they serve.
A task a reason, one and all,
good , bad, indifferent…
It changes by his call.
Chocolate Chip
Written By: D. Collins 4/7/17
That gewyness where your palate won’t separate from your tongue.
And once it does, all you want is another one.
It is more addictive than crack doused in ice.
The best you’ve had through your entire life.
There is nothing like it, even with all the drama.
She’s the closest you’ll get to being like Mama.
Shut your mouth, be happy, and enjoy what you get.
Savor the sweet flavor of a chocolate chip.
How lucky are we to live in a world with love as its foundation…
A love that’s universal…but with infinite variations.
For instance…there’s the love we have for our family, our friends…
love between two men, two women…between a woman and a man…
There’s love for food…for sunsets, rainbows, and of course…love of a flying pan.
Yes, today it’s a cast iron skillet I happen to be thinking of…
because every time Deborah cooks in it…it makes me think of love.
When it comes to choosing a pan to cook in….that skillet is the one she prefers…
It was her grandmothers then her mothers before being passed down to her.
Every time she uses it…the moment she removes it from the drawer…
she thinks of all the people who have cooked in it before.
She thinks of all the meals cooked in it…and as more and more memories arise…
it’s not always chopping onions that brings tears to Deborah’s eyes.
It’s easy to see how, over the years I, too, have become a fan…
because everything tastes better…cooked in that old frying pan.
Every meal cooked in it…has…from love…been grown.
Could it be that memories stored in an old frying pan have a flavor all their own?
Deborah’s love for that cast iron skillet…is so very plain to see…
When she picks it up she often looks at…the way she sometimes looks at me.
ii thought she was looking at me ‘that way’ once and into her love I felt totally immersed
Until she said, “If we ever have a fire in this house…I think I’d save my skillet first.”
And I am perfectly okay with that…I think we can all agree….
After all…she’s known that cast-iron skillet…longer than she’s known me.
It’ really very simple…that pan will last forever..
If its nurtured and taken care of….
And is that not the very foundation
the very essence
the very meaning and definition of love?
Heated by sun and rock
a mottled snake licks the morning air.
Last night, stones were its eyes,
a blood-chill had frozen the flavor
and flicker
of tongue and taste.
The daylight is already sun-crushed,
heavily it crumbles,
dry churning a scant green
to withered acres,
grinding all beneath its hermetic heel.
A rabbit runs a racetrack behind its eyes,
long whiskers sightlessly search
reaching far from their hidden hollow,
its brown pelt dreamily brushes over
a rounding horizon.
Snake uncoils, breaking boulders of blood
between warming bones.
A cage of hoops unlocks a hunger.
A blushed mouth is snugged around
translucent fangs,
bodkins that smell out
all small-pawed scrabbling’s.
Rabit ears twitch as eyes leap awake,
it hears the serpents lithe unhinging,
senses its scaled unclasping.
An immediate pulse quickens,
vibrant tendons of awareness
animate joy and fear.
On the quiet breath,
visions of life or death arise
as speculative ghosts.
Now the sky must record
while the earth forgets.
Have you heard of the wedding ceremony
On the third day the temple will rise
The bridegroom has welcomed all
To come and meet His father
But He will have to lead you to Him
For those which like to drink wine
And those who have never had wine
At least come have a taste ,
This bridegroom is not like
any other you have met,
For at this ceremony the wine
Is not like the ones you have tasted before
All the others have been from this land
But the fruit of this wine has been gathered
From the living vine that none has seen,
Smelled, touched , tasted or heard of.
Then pressed and mixed with living water
This wine gives and everlasting joy
Not to leave one in distress of that next sip
Each will be given a cup
Please be sure to check that,
The inside is clean we don't want to waste this
That you might find filth within and spit it out
All the left over He has to place in new wine skins
For the old wine skins would bust
And it would not keep it's flavor and be rejected
There will also be bread available my friends
Enough to feed any amount you would like to bring
Jesus Has laid down His life ,
Has given up His flesh and poured out His blood
That we might be given a way to receive life
No longer baptized with water as before Him
But now through the spirit and fire
Which only through this baptism will it be revealed
We need to be wiped clean of all this world instills
To become a desolate new start
That He might come and be able to
Dwell and reign within our earthen vessel
A Friend Shares Pear Bounty.
We have a long time friend
Who has a great pear tree.
She can’t begin to eat them all
So shares excess pears with me.
Pears long been my favorite fruit
Oh I like peaches all the same.
But when I can get good pears
That’s the winner of the game.
We laugh when we discuss them
A few may have a “wind-fall” spot
Some might want to toss them
But with me, they’ll never rot.
You see, I have a plan in place
To use them, one by one.
As I trim aside that “rough” spot
I always feel like I have won.
Often a blemish is skin deep
Like many you find in folks.
When you get down to the heart
That outer blemish is oft a joke.
It you find there’s part’s & pieces
You just can’t really use
Merely set those parts aside
Remember it’s just a bruise.
I often remind myself
As I’m cutting away the core
If even half the pear is lost.
I’ve more pear than I had before.
I have a personal recipe
I use amidst “pear” season
I scrub them up real good
Cause peeling is out of reason.
I quarter up the ripened pear
Don’t eat it raw ahead of time.
I trim away those darker parts
Slicing up the rest real fine.
I place them in a sauce dish
Made to stand the micro wave
That handy oven I like to use
Many hours of wait can save.
I sprinkle generously with sugar
A bit of cinnamon now on top
Will help these tasty pear bites
Have a flavor that just won’t stop.
99 seconds on the timer
Will nuke them up, well done.
Then add a bit of milk or cream
Will be pouring on more fun.
So my hat is off to our friend.
It makes me smile now when we meet
The sight of her oft brings to mind
Those tasty pears that can’t be beat.
Written by oldbuck, Nov. 25, 2017 as he had just finished a warm bowl of sliced pears topped with whipping cream left over from Thanksgiving.
Circa Holy Roman Empire
between ninth
and thirteenth century
after common era
(approximately 800 AD and 1200 AD)
benchmark year 780 bracketed
Benedictine monks
Of Corbie Abbey
devised cheeky guttural lingual rapartee
vis a vis European
calligraphic standard script inked lined
writ via extant Irish and English monastic
members nsync
strong influence of Irish literati
eased communication
popular Latin cognoscenti
common lingua franca
spawned Carolingian Renaissance
Codices, pagan and Christian text
plus educational material
written viz Carolingian minuscule
Emperor Charlemagne issued prescription
(hence named Carolingian)
boosted unified modus operandi
he advocated learning,
though somewhat illiterate
recognized value of education
predicated on singular
codified regional alphabet,
the then webbed wide world
linkedin, sans uniform symbolic shapes
uncontested salient advantage
offered up ease to master
clear distinct explicit letter formation
simple logic boosted
rapidly transmitted standardization,
especially with exceptional legible
readable characteristic
adequate spaces between words
Merovingian "chancery hand"
reserved to draft traditional charters
Gothic and Anglo Saxon
favored traditional local script
as opposed to Latin
learning latter involved less tricked out
embellished flourishes
or interconnected strokes
drawn by a scribe
allowing, enabling, and providing
greater popularity to teach masses,
latent etymological nuances apparent
centuries following implementation
quasi initial Carolingian letters
steadfast, where Carolingian
influence moats strong
adopted local stylistic signature flavor
divergence woke since proliferation
stoking diffuse prospects
decreeing entrenched footing,
where auspices boded prescient
until groundswell didst surcease
sub limb mated into modern patois.
wreathed verse
deep well of truth revives a son this eve
an eve which sees the dusk come to his sands
sand fills his mouth and eyes, yet this same grit
becomes the grit resolving his poor lot
great lot of skill he'll spend repairing loss
payday, loss of his lassitude has dawned
light dawns upon the shore at this day's end
ending his walk lamenting past success
successor to a firm in which he'd failed
a failure, from dust to dust, cast by dad
for dad had preached how sons will oft rebel
rebellion which his tribe had known so well
written August 3, 2012
a wreath entered in Shadow's contest on Dust
Sucking Stones- gods Without Names
gods without names make for perfect sucking stones
Licking the dirt around them on the ground in gray
No faces, sounds or animation
Imagination is astounding
Stones never move alone
Stand there with no fan fare solid as a rock
Waiting for care and prayers
Love your stones but never name them
Line them up in rows of seven
Rain will come if it comes to purify
Sucking stones are free and come from nature
No flavor to speak of but minerals shine in abundance
Let them rest on Tuesdays
Never ever chew your gods
If they dissolve in the mouth so what
The end is near
Stones don't grow on trees, can't be replaced
gods without names have no leaves or diseases
End up on beaches in Brazil under palm trees
The yarrow is a show stealer,
a charming wildflower and garden plant
that blooms perennially
around June to August.
Beautifying nurseries, greenhouses and waysides;
it comes in many hybrid of colors;
white,
red,
pale-pink,
and especially yellow.
Captivatingly striking in yellow;
it's golden parasol glows like the sun.
A flower of remarkable versatility!
It can be used for seasonal decorations
and has large flowerheads
that are also used
to flavor a variety of culinary dishes
It can be cut, dried
and arranged in a vase
without losing it's gorgeous color.
It is a sun's best friend!
Flower Or Flowers In Imagism Form - Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Constance La France
Date written: 03/11/2021