Long Formica Poems
Long Formica Poems. Below are the most popular long Formica by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Formica poems by poem length and keyword.
Endless possibilities expand my dendrites, kicking up hopes.
Lasagna boat floats, Play Dough Dragon, Speedy envelopes
Wherever I turn I see another idea, which might be grand.
A pink penguin army shying away from a Mariachi band.
Orange stuffed chair just got mad and stomped out in a huff.
Formica table was laughing so hard, she tripped, sure enough.
Mud puddle mama is making her tree’s lipstick shine.
Other ideas are parading around; and they are all mine.
A blue and green necklace escaped from my treasure box.
They landed down river across from the home of a fox.
A crow got to it first and fell in love with its glitz.
What is happening to the sky? Is this another eclipse?
Things are happening so fast, I can barely keep up.
Trixie my muse is straddling a huge silver loving cup.
I ask her to explain and she gives me a look so very sly.
I dare not ask her anything else, yet not knowing why.
Coffee cup is in love with the Sharpie, but she is totally prissy.
She will not hold his handle or give him a wink or a kissy.
There is a blue mask that found his way downstream on his own.
These are just a few hundred ideas for tomorrow’s silliest poem.
We approach the house, to trick-or-treat, but wonder if we dare
The porch is dark, no light or spark, to help us find the way
We peek inside, ........does the old man hide? We see no one is there
But, we rang the bell, and wait a spell, the door begins to sway
Through the crack, pursued, a room is bare with unclad shades of gray
Arthritic winds have tossed us in, with a wretched dismal hand
The trees bend low, against the house with solemn loathing dread
With branches, brisk, it rattles glass, against the window pane
We look around the cheerless room, a terrible scent of wrong
An angled light has slithered in, with shadows deep and long
and spotlights what's become of him, the man who isn't there...
with a room unkempt, some muffled steps, and as if a ghost might stare
Four vinyl seats, Formica clad, a room that needs repair
The table set, a plate of food, is rotting by the chair
A cup of cold, a cigarette, still smoking in the air
The room depicts, what might have been, but reeks with wrought despair
A parakeet within a cage has mocked us once again
The voice is shrill, it squawks with rage, 'Unlock me if you dare!'
The floor is strewn with littered seed, where mice have shared the spill
All time has stopped, in ash and dust, the hours couldn't care.......
We take a breath, too scared to move, for we are not alone
For company, a skeleton, sits beside the sofa's edge
against the wall, it smiles at us beneath the window ledge
No eyes to stare, yet seems surprised...as if a joke is played
Inaudible, just barely heard, the wind begins to howl
Or is it we, who scream to be back home in Mommy's arms
Outside the house, we hear an owl, and we begin to run
into the night, into the light, without a bit of fun!
No Snicker Bars, no Tootsie Pops, no candy corn or Mars
A trick on us, no treat it was......we've lost our appetite!!
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For Contest: Halloween Night
Sponsor: Nayda Ivette Negron
Vintage Retro Period
As for our periods of furniture–
not sure if Vintage Retro's one!
However, since I spanned so many years,
it seems to me this should be done!
My influence can still be seen in homes.
Some people often think it strange,
to cling to my old Vintage Retro look
and never want to make a change.
So pleased my unique period ruled well –
for thirty years I did endure!
My decades had a flavor of their own–
so powerful was my allure!
My special time was dominated by
the colors green, orange, and gold;
Formica, Lucite, vinyl, walnut, chrome –
outstanding – very sleek and bold.
My Vintage Retro period – well-loved
by most – did fade away, its true.
Still Retro-furnished homes are so enjoyed
by visitors who get a view.
My long-remembered items bring a crowd
at Vintage Retro store displays!
The prices paid are unbelievable –
so pleased I'm worth much more these days!
To prove my point, you might take time to see
the photo grouping up above!
My Vintage Retro gems still grace their home
forever more for them to love!
Sandra M. Haight
~First Place~
Contest: Punctuation Personified
Theme: Period Furniture
Sponsor: Debbie Guzzi
Judged: 10/06/2015
Note: Vintage Retro means actually made in '50s, '60s or '70s
The term Retro by itself can mean old but also newly made to look like old
Vintage Retro includes: Mid-Century, Mid-Century Modern, and Danish Modern styles
The kitchen table
was the centerpoint of childhood,
a place of gathering,
an easel for artworks, battleground
for homework and Eden
for the creation of lifeforms
moulded from plasticine.
It was the Formica altar
on which daily meals were celebrated,
a patch of the real, ground zero
for tears and laughter
and a bench for my mother
to cut fabric into shapes
from paper patterns to sew
together into minor miracles.
The kitchen table was an arena
for games where monopoly fortunes
were won and lost on its real estate -
a surface slapped senseless
in games of “snap”, the pride
soaked soil of the Colosseum
where my Dad and I played chess.
It was a resting place for the hands
and elbows of four generations,
a soak for human pain and hurt
and wore without protest
the hot candle wax and cream
from countless birthday cakes.
It listened patiently as lives
unfolded in language.
The kitchen table was a poem
written not in words, but in wear
and tear and in the morse
of scuffs, scratches and stains
inscribed upon its surface.
I do not know its fate.
Sadly, like the pages
of most poetry,
it has been lost to time.
It deserved better.
I step from my car and I see ahead
the shiny glint of smooth, polished chrome,
the place is shaped like an oversized rail car,
but never on the tracks has it roamed.
I walk on into the small entryway,
where fliers of all sorts are tacked up,
guitar lessons, baby-sitting, and a sheet
for a man selling newborn boxer pups.
Inside are booths spaced along the wall,
and a long counter with spinning stools,
I take a seat at the later of them,
the formica counter strangely cool.
I pick up a large, six-page menu,
laminated and bound in plastic rings,
breakfast alone takes up two pages,
they do a little bit of everything.
But I am looking for something specific,
to make sure this place is up to the regs,
because we all know you’re not a real diner,
unless your menu boasts of steak and eggs.
Wait, there it is, and they use t-bone too!
I order some from the waitress Charlene,
she calls me ‘hon’ every other word,
and says the cook does a great over-easy.
Reclining a bit, I take in the whole place,
starting with gray-haired veterans in the back,
boasting of ships, or wars that they fought,
with the proud images on their caps.
Nearby a boy, maybe just turned six,
builds a fort with packets of jam,
a tired-looking mother just rolls her eyes,
makes no move to stop her little man.
Some college kids, all freshly hungover,
have taken up residence to my left,
last night must’ve been one epic blow-out,
judging by the silence and lack of pep.
Just beyond them a young couple is
having breakfast with the wife’s grandpa,
he recounts the first time he ever came here,
on the arm of the wife’s late grandma.
But there’s the waitress, carrying my steak,
two eggs and home fries, brown and steaming,
hate to cut this short, but the stomach demands
that I end all this poetic scribbling…
Ah, the bloom was on the Rose
yet, the taint of alcohol and drugs
looms nightmare like behind her baby pink cheeks.
Porcelain skin tones, raspberry rogue
nails to scratch and lift bits of dirty lucre.
She was clawing her way up,
and hopefully out, he hits her, “****,” he screams at her.
a sometime replacement sat beside him.
His Chicano inner-city drawl hurt her ears
and the fake diamonds studding them.
The new girl beside him
giggles…
She’s due at work by nine,
grabbing a smooth wrap-top and a mock
grey skirt, she rushes from the room to the bank.
She can still see his long fingers playing in other girls cleavage.
Rose, well, Rose pays the rent. She strikes a teller’s pose
behind the formica countertop...
Long days, counting other peoples money
kindness, and sweetness sucked from her
like a ripe plum on a summers day.
She needs work, more work.
I asked her to help in the garden.
Long blonde, buxom, bending over weeds,
only six months to go to graduation
an associate degree…
Rose chuckles, “Look who I’ve been associatin’ with?”
I eye the twenty-five thou lottery ticket in my jean pocket.
“You want to move here Rose?”
“What would they do without me?”
I sigh, thinking of her alcoholic mother
off bingeing and her “boy fiend”.
The lottery windfall went for Rose’s college tuition.
The bloom is off the Rose now,
two hundred plus pounds later
strung out beside her Mom on a ratty couch,
she eyes the Diploma in it’s cheap black frame,
and rocks her baby girl
some things, never change….
*Names have been changed, and the amount given, but part
of the ending has truely come to pass already [sigh].
The rest is all true.
FROM BIKINI BOTTOM TIMES...
...Spongebob Squarepants...what...atoll...?
plunged into where,...no way...toilet bowl...
supposedly, when the ghostly hand ex-toll
ling praise from his late creator, and master
meow mind of popular Stephen Hillenburg
cast said main character in clean new role,
an unexpected greasy, grimy, grisly, grouchy,
grungy gruff peagreen pissed off potty troll
snatched the unsuspecting
cheerful happy go lucky
animated fellow, who lives
in a pineapple under sea
(at 124 Conch Street) quite
self absorbed with Gary
his pet snail (not answering
questions at this time), we
understand emotional devastation,...
and possibly got flushed....sniffling
and sobbing heard...discontinuation,
this could wreak something
offal to all those avid landlubber
fans (many grownups) cling
to cautious optimism, but accept
vigilant prayers believing
quirk of fate could turn tide
of events & cannot dismiss linking
Russian collusion with attendant
rogues gallery, nor abandoning
any in house political conspiracy,
where top Navy brass calling
attention to an uncommonly
unusual migrant barnacles casing
with doddering fogey "Watergate
Plumbers" in tow absconding
before they could be apprehended
(hmm... something seems fishy)
haint no logical explanation, why
anyone would seek squeeze zing
the porous life out of such a
lovable...how unsinkable... accosting
...argh das spic and span hubble...
such a congenial, gentle, likable...
made himself come to life, (and
make believe to fans) achieving
he really existed, when birthed
from figment of imagination aching
tub be accepted and loved (by other
than Mister Rogers) acquiring
water world renown purportedly
slated to receive Krusty Krab shape
formica plaque engraved with his
name inlaid with finest enameling,
meanwhile...stay tuned at amazing
undrying resiliency as saturated media
updates how beloved soaking
hero does wetter adversity!
They sit at the red Formica table, quietly buttering their morning toast,
while watching her through the window glass. It is as much a daily
routine, as brushing their teeth. How disappointed they would be, if she
did not arrive on time. They could even set their clocks by her comings and going
each day, quietly observing her through the kitchen window, as she
comes out from behind the tool shed. She will stop, look around, then carefully
lumber along beneath the hedge row. Her fine snout aimed in one direction,
her eyes squinted down against the rude, gray light, while her body seems
to announce...."possum, possum",....as she rocks across the backyard,
then slowly meandering over to the northwest corner of the fence, to
disappear again, into the weeds of the vacant lot, that lies on the other side.
Sipping their coffee, they have remained quietly pensive for a few
moments, then once again they will remind each other that they must take
care not to mend the gap in the old cedar-wood fence.
(MaGowen’s Pizzaland Monroe, CT 2008)
The caterwaul of the jukebox blends seamlessly with the screech of infants,
and the fumes of garlic hanging heavily in the air.
The true mama’s and papa’s are here, here where the dough flies
the glasses clink; and the Beatles belt out
Strawberry Fields Forever ....
The roar of unruly children,
bashing video buttons to Roll Over Beethoven
pounds into the diners temples, dulled with Pinot noir, Chianti
and pitchers of golden ale.
Trays, tall, saucer-shaped sit beside cherry red baskets
of pristine white bread, as the fire engine red corvettes pull up outside.
The jet-black and chrome model T’s vie for spaces on the asphalt lot
outside the restaurants doors.
Sweet-hearts wait for the cracked, green-vinyl booths
like penitents at a Sunday mornings mass.
Pizza pies fly by on stainless saucer- shaped plates
landing on cluttered Formica tables
dressed with vinegars and shake cheese
Racecars zoom around the game track;
as kids run pell-mell down the aisles.
And, only Mary Lou knows
“Who’s on first?”
They sit at the red Formica table, quietly buttering their morning toast,
while watching her through the window glass. It is as much a daily
routine, as brushing their teeth. How disappointed they would be, if she
did not arrive on time. They could even set their clocks by her comings and going
each day, quietly observing her through the kitchen window, as she
comes out from behind the tool shed. She will stop, look around, then carefully
lumber along beneath the hedge row. Her fine snout aimed in one direction,
her eyes squinted down against the rude, gray light, while her body seems
to announce...."possum, possum",....as she rocks across the backyard,
then slowly meandering over to the northwest corner of the fence, to
disappear again, into the weeds of the vacant lot, that lies on the other side.
Sipping their coffee, they have remained quietly pensive for a few
moments, then once again they will remind each other that they must take
care not to mend the gap in the old cedar-wood fence.
Hands reaching for the morning news
find once again, a world at war,
that's mingled in the kitchen air
with bacon grease, and coffee steam.
They fold the paper with a sigh.
Eyes wander to the morning sky,
where geese are seen in narrow streams,
and daylight fills their heads with dreams
A flash of grey upon the lawn.
And through the fence, across the yard,
their visitor, without excuse,
comes in view, and cheers the mood.
The window frames the early sun.
Morning coffee pours again.
They take a sip, ignore the news,
discard the worry, eat the food,
and find a smile, as well they should
___________________________________________________________
11/29/15 For Haibun-Free Style Contest sponsored by scott thirty-seven