Long Food Poems
Long Food Poems. Below are the most popular long Food by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Food poems by poem length and keyword.
The woman next door yells Help me!
She swears like a sailor
Is she insane or that's her game ?
She’s a bloody wailer
Inside my room,”pipe down” I yell
In hall I say, “quiet”
In her room, she yells “Go to Hell”
This hap’s a bloody riot
She screams follies, I get no peace
Full of gall what a whore.
I wish her scornful ways would cease
Her style cruel that’s for sure.
She complains about the food here
The food here I can’t stand
She gripes about service yah hear
Two points she gets ok.
If she does want better treatment
Please do not use trash talk
The staff will so take care of you
Folks who pass her won’t gawk.
This is Mr. Squeaky, mouse reporter,
squeaking to you from the Swiss cheese quarter,
where the crime bosses will decide the price
you'll have to pay for a provolone slice.
My modest size lets me to infiltrate
the safe house where they will decide the fate
of decent queso lovers like you and I -
oh no - they want to restrict the supply!
Don "Blockhead" Cheddarino, barks and glares
at an aging figure, caught unawares,
Gouda Bidini, aged not to perfection,
"Our common goal, deplete the deli section."
What will they do with the power they seize?
Good people, they will take away our cheese!
They'll attack all of us midnight snackers.
They'll take away the brie for our crackers!
This, friends and viewers, is no baloney -
no more cheddar for our macaroni!
We'll take a bite, and we'll sit and stare
when our grilled-cheese sandwich is filled with air.
They're going to agree to a treaty:
no more mozzarella for baked ziti.
We need something stretchy on pizza pie -
a serious case for the FBI.
Better bring in J Cheddar Hoover fast.
My appetite's going nuts - I won't last.
This has been your intrepid mouse reporter,
and aspiring exquisite cheese importer.
Good night and good luck. You think this is so dumb?
Wait 'til you see me in my next po-em.
I asked ChatGPT if bad guys create horror scenarios for fun
It replied they did, but details there were none.
It told me that for safety reasons it couldn't give specifics
But this is what it told me, its quite horrific.
Perps have confined victims in prepared rooms
Surrounding them with disturbing objects in the gloom
Recordings are played to instill fear
Must be lots of fun to prepare such atmosphere.
Some bad guys make victims believe they are hunted
What a sense of humor! but their empathy is blunted.
Some cults create alternate reality around a poor soul.
What the victim sees and hears is modified, controlled.
Perps have even pretended to be supernatural beings
Like a stage director, arranging what you're seeing
Convincing the victim the impossible was real
More fun than a reality show, those perps must feel.
The reason I looked this up is that it happened to me
The truth was just too big to convince others to see
Bad guys didn't gaslight me, but they got into my house,
Hit me with drugs through the air, I was like a trapped mouse.
People have told me the motives don't make sense
Bad guys just want money, my story was too intense
But if you're open minded, try Google, not ChatGPT.
You can see motives beside money, evil mimics insanity.
Though in my case, I say the bad guys have a breakthrough
Drugs through the air, is remarkable if true.
But you can google "Devil's Breath", Columbian tourists caught.
Drugs blown at victims, might give you food for thought.
Boat un the sea
I talked to the devil
I talked to a saint
I asked for peace
for some of my days
I know what she sees
when she looks at my face
is the same part of me
I'd like to erase.
I'm not really here
I'm not really there
he thought his jilting
would make me unwell
recess was over
when he rang the bell
it was time for me
to go back to hell.
He was just a boy
did you have to be so harsh?
he just wanted to play
he just wanted to run
he was a boat in the sea
he was my moon and my sun
he pointed his hand at me
and shot his gun.
The other one out there
didn't even count
then he closed his eyes
then he shut his mouth
why he didn't come?
yet he was so loud?
please let me sleep
I don't need him now.
One day the almighty
was walking my street
he said: hey girl,
would you like to come with me?
"no thank you sir,
she already did
and look at the mess
she is now in"
Sometimes I trust
sometimes I loose faith
and I course the world
and I course my fate
and I don't feel loved
and all seem fake
and I start to drown
in a shallow lake
My girl brough life
to where there was not
she sings and dance
I sing along
the kitchen smells
like the food on the stove
what do you want to eat?
the same as before.
I know how to love
I don't need to forgive
I'm trying to mend
what they broke in me
what is done is done
but I find relief
knowing what I know
giving what I give...
I'm trying to break
the walls around me
I'm using my head
I'm using a fists
and little by little
I'm starting to see
a soft and dim light
trying to get in.
I carry a cane
cuz I'm half blind
some of us are born
while some of us die
my feelings & thoughts
I don't need to hide
I own nothing at all
except, maybe, my life.
Jessica
They wear no crown, yet kings they reign,
Invisible hands in shadowed domain.
Their thrones are silence, veiled from sight—
Yet nations move by whispered might.
You vote, you cheer, you wave your flag,
But strings are pulled beneath that rag.
The leaders bow, the crowds applaud—
But who commands? Not whom you laud.
Money—their gospel, gold—their law,
They script your fate with subtle claw.
From towers high to beggar’s street,
The world is ruled by the unseen elite.
Foreign policy, war, and peace,
Are carved in rooms where masks don’t cease.
Decisions inked in midnight air—
You’ll fight their wars, yet unaware.
Trump or Biden, EU’s face,
Are actors cast to play their place.
The stage is dressed, the lights are on,
But behind the scenes, the truth is gone.
They own the banks, the food, the schools,
They set the price, they write the rules.
A web so vast, precise, and spun,
No sovereign man escapes its run.
Think twice before you claim you're free,
When all your thoughts are fed by feed.
The screens, the news, the books you read—
All gardens grown from poisoned seed.
You feel in charge—your vote, your voice—
But all is shaped, you have no choice.
They crafted dreams in which you live,
And gave you just enough to give.
They walk unseen, they toast with wine,
As empires fall by grand design.
And yet you sleep, and still believe,
That freedom lives beneath your sleeve.
Oh mourn, oh rise, or stay asleep,
While wolves still herd the faithful sheep.
The power you seek, the truth you crave—
Is buried in the minds they’ve made.
Mix the packet contents with fresh cream and milk
Boil and stir the mixture until it’s a smooth as silk
Pour into ramekin dishes and leave it to set
Don’t reach for the spoon – it’s not quite ready yet
Sprinkle on sugar and put under the grill
When the topping is bubbling just leave it to chill
Reach for the spoon and break through the crispy topping
Crème Brulee I love you – my spoon wont be stopping
Jan Allison
9th April 2014
Written after I made a packet mix crème brulee dessert on Saturday.
I need to get my sister to buy me supplies as I purchased it in the UK.
We don’t have this particular shop on the Island - I should really have a go making it from scratch
Be Thankful Each Day
Written: by Miracle Man
11-28-2019
Lord, I oft take for granted,
many little things.
Because some of these objects,
don’t produce pings.
They often tend to slip,
through my life unseen.
While you’ve blessed me with plenty,
Other parts of the world glean.
Little things like clean water,
which without thought we waste.
While others live in squalor,
without clean water to taste.
Void of shoes, and walking,
where ever they might go.
The good life goes untasted,
this is all they’ll ever know.
So today while I have choice,
of Thanksgiving treat.
Some parts of the world ponder,
if they will just eat.
So this day from our bounty,
we will willingly share.
Not with them, but with someone,
because we’re thankful and care.
HOLIDAY SEASON
Grand goes Christmas celebration:
Creation cum recreation.
Christmas tree on decoration.
Merriment ! Just not to mention.
Bethlehem star shines, that’s the cause.
Reindeer pulls sledge for Santa Claus.
Jingle bells ring rhythmic with pause.
Santa giving gifts ! Great applause.
All work to bake cake at random.
Charm of party to miss seldom.
Gorgeous days ! No place of boredom.
Chilled breeze and snow fall ! Maximum.
Enjoy skating ! Fantastic fun.
Silvery snow shines under Sun.b
Kids throw snow balls to play and run.
After jogging, Jack Frost ate bun.
Holiday season in festive mood.
Visit to Grandma through pinewood,
On red dress goes Red Riding Hood
to taste delicious sumptuous food.
The Drive-Thru Oracle
Kevin Davis, 2024
At sixteen, I turned into the glow
of a fast-food drive-thru—
stomach echoing, thoughts unfastened.
The menu board flickered,
numbers rearranging themselves,
prices breathing in and out.
I rolled to the speaker.
It watched me.
Static. Then:
“What do you want?”
“Uh… a chicken sandwich and fries.”
The night held its breath.
Grease-sweet air pressed through the window.
Then the speaker again, slower now,
as if tasting each word:
“What do you really want?”
I glanced up.
The pictures had changed—
burgers replaced by ladders,
a compass,
a pair of open hands.
“A… chicken sandwich?”
“No.”
The word vibrated in the metal pole.
“What do you want to do with your life?”
My hands tightened on the wheel.
It felt warm. Almost alive.
“When I was little, I wanted to be a fireman.
Maybe a cop. Now…”
The parking lot stretched longer than it should have.
“I don’t know.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m sixteen,” I said.
My voice sounded borrowed.
“I haven’t lived enough.”
The speaker crackled
like something burning far away.
“That is not an answer.
What will you be?”
The answers fell out of me like coins:
“A soldier. A psychologist.
A husband. A father.
A minister. A friend.”
“Good.”
The word rang
like a bell dropped down a well.
“How will you arrive there?”
“I… don’t know.”
“Then that is your work,” it said.
“To not know.
To move.
To fail.
To gather days.
Do not begin
before you have begun.”
Above the speaker, the clown leaned closer,
its paint cracked into maps.
I smelled smoke.
Or salt.
Or time.
I opened my mouth—
—and the world snapped.
“Hi there! Can I take your order?”
Fluorescent light.
Asphalt.
A plastic clown, sun-bleached and grinning.
The menu: burgers, fries, shakes.
Nothing else.
I sat very still.
“I’m not ready to decide right now,” I said.
No one answered.
I drove forward when the car behind me honked—
past the empty pickup window,
past the blank-faced clown,
back into a night
that felt slightly unfinished.
My stomach was empty.
My life, suddenly, was not.
In Tito's days
When Yugoslavia was whole
and Tito had made
made his peace with the mighty USA
nascent was the tourist boom
that was ok, we had been children
of a greater war
we had been cured of gluttony
the breakfast had a whiff of army
mountains of bread
tea was served in solid mugs
the forest reaches to the edge of
the sea, the beach was small
had few swimmers
wild boars begged for food
We were not here
to bear witness to a new industry
but to explore each other's
sexuality
away from prying eyes, except
for Tito, whose print hung
on the opposite wall
and had a knowing smile.