Long Fritter Poems
Long Fritter Poems. Below are the most popular long Fritter by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Fritter poems by poem length and keyword.
connie meets dough boy at dawn
so connie went to the bakery at dawn
bright eyed and bushy
out of a story book pops her dough boy
so plump, especially in the rump
so hairy, especially in the brow
so cute, especially in the eyes
connie's in love
this time it's for real
bells in her cache are ringing
dolphins are singing in her well
swans are dancing in her strawberry patch
connie's beside herself
soon dough boy, too
come on god let this be the one
come on angles start rooting for me for once
dough boy comes on over to her, great
now keep in mind there about the same age, perfect
even though he has gomer in him...
ma'am would you like a sample
connie blushes five shades of red
so much for the poker face
dough boy ringing her bell, blowing her whistle
connie can see dough boy in her oven ... making some lov'en
samplin his buffet spread, too
then the balloon pops
see another tease .. another baker icing her heart
dough boy turns her pages back, i knew it
ma'am I have apple fritter squares that you can sample
connie rolls her eyes
connie chokes on his words
connie ready to have a cow
connie leaves broken hearted
gees, mightest well put the whips and clips back on ice
...forever, connie will never find her man
why couldn't it have been (insert heart, cupid arrow, two love birds)
His smiles glisten like a river of waves
Beckoning her to ride the rapids with him
Together they rode the white sheet of trim
riding it's banks to a whitewash of splash
no. no.no
of course not
thank you my angels
ma'am you want an apple fritter
great
connie pachecho
1/14/17
The Last Donut Temptation
David J Walker
A thousand donut shops
Greet me on the street
I see them on the way
To anyone I meet
I smell their frier frying
I can tell their bakers bake
I see their cream puffs creaming
I see the cinnamon shake
I know their glazers glaze
Their long johns twist and swirl
My eyes glass in a daze
As I watch their cruller curl
I can taste the fine white powder
Shaken on the top
Of every sprinkled donut
Every chocolate drop
It makes me twitch and twitter
If I am in the store
And a fresh hot apple fritter
Tells me I need just one more
I plead for divine intervention
A pray sincere and quiet
Save me from temptation
And this stupid cursed diet
I cannot help but enjoy my old age,
every day I know laughter is the rage.
I laugh at myself almost all the time,
I need a penny and dig for a dime.
Open the closet and reach for the milk,
knowing I'm allergic I still buy silk.
Some say memory is on the decrease,
I don't agree and I've made my peace.
My memory is as sharp as ever,
but intent and action seem to sever.
I go to the store to buy cookie dough,
pay for toilet paper and off I go.
It all happens in the blink of an eye,
open the car door and I wonder why.
Look for books in the refrigerator,
that's when age knows no negotiator.
Old age creeps in slowly on a good day,
so I laugh myself silly while I may.
I refuse to just sit, fret and fritter,
No 'Oh poor me,' no becoming bitter.
6/10/2019
For "A Contest on Aging Poetry Contest"
Sponsor: Emile Pinet
This Bumptious Poet ©
Once again dear reader,
aye strive to regale ye
with in apropos prate,
(nee inane) vain
null gibberish in order to suss stain
mine infamous reputation
with the singular word pain
in thee...online
literary milieu, where this main
stream (babbling virtual
brook call lean)
tin hatted man,
qua zee moat tow "FAKE" King
po' whit laureate selective keen
a boot (sally ling forth)
hemming and hawing,
while feigning bing
a suave hill Billy blue jean
wearing brand Levi Strauss,
(a posthumous plug)
for a savvy German
businessman hood deed glean
prospective market for
denim made easy to clean
material donned by lumpen
proletariat aye assert
would be my status
if born circa
late eighteen hundreds by
a moo their and father,
both named (Elisha) Eli
for short slaving away to feed,
and clothe this then little guy,
who whiz fain to appreciate my
(dirt poor station in life well nigh
larded with love,
and non verbal re: ply
thee above fictitious
i.e. "FAKE" parents rye
zing far and above
penury and did try
their level best
to hammer out
round the clock rockin
round the clock
nsync with the paradigm
of Abraham Maslow,
albeit modified ad hoc
accepting with humility,
poverty how to jock
key providing basic brood
of offspring and subtly mock
king bourgeoisie, re: (unpretentiously
unflattering discrete actions), while rock
king to thee western civilization
trappings of schlock,
ah and oh...no doubt
precious time, aye
did fritter and flout
away distracting sorely tendered,
kindled, and cherished attention
thus metaphorically affecting thee
with equivalent, where
yar entire body riddled with gout.
I fritter my time away as I sat on a bench.
In front of me was a large pond with an alcove
Where three upside dolphins spout water
To keep the pond full of green filtered liquid.
The water trickle reminds me of the sound of silence.
But silence all around there was none; for hear
Red Bunting, plovers and others fly here and there.
Whilst in the shallow part of the pond, ducks waddle along.
Fascinated I admire the lotus plants in the water
As yellow and red flowers adorn the flat green leaves.
Food is abundant since flies, dragonflies and insects
Provide the animal kingdom with plenty to eat.
It was a warm evening and soon all went to rest
I soon felt drowsy as the trickle of water was so melodious.
But light sleep was not for me it seems as if a shadow fell on me.
I woke as her lips brushed softly on my own. I was full of glee.
This is the saga of Veronica Vole
Who committed the perfect crime.
She murdered three lovers,
But not all at once,
She did 'em in one at a time.
The first was a lemur,
A two-timing schemer,
Who seduced all thirteen of her nieces.
Every female enticed him,
So she sliced him and diced him,
Then stir-fried and ate all the pieces.
The second, a lobster,
Was also a mobster
Who threatened her once with a putter.
So she got him alone,
Then boiled him well done,
And had him for lunch with drawn butter.
The third was a vulture,
Devoid of all culture,
Whose name, she remembers, was Vince.
He was planning to eat her
After he bet her,
So she tased him in self-defense.
In a big pot she tucked him,
Then scalded and plucked him
And served him "en casserole"
To her fourth beau, a critter,
Who'll make a good fritter,
She thinks as she spoons out his food.
'cause though she doesn't tend
To have good taste in men,
She does tend to like men who taste good.
Ms. Vole is not a siren or a femme fatale,
The kind of dame who'd tell a guy to take a hike.
At heart she is simply a sweet-natured gal
Who never met a man she didn't like.
recognition that cause of agitation is stagnation
fear of freedom keeps us in ego fetters bound
resonation with love offers instant liberation
desires birth thoughts as cause and effect
manifesting our here and now earth life reality
why blame destiny if quality of desires be suspect
conditioned to believe we are merely mind body
we fritter away our life in pursuits self-serving
animal urges fuelling thought forms shoddy
in our dying moments we feel deep remorse
realising that love alone real which we stifled
contemplating thus we yet shift not our course
knowing that joy eternal not in domain ephemeral
we yet strangely still choose to indulge therein
instead of reclaiming our divinity eternal
head and heart misaligned we suffer
melded with throb of love we are aglow
why then oh hermit do we choose stupor
silence and stillness unveils bliss magnetism
whilst thought spirals contract our being
illusionary are ego spawned chasms
awareness immediate and intimate
flowing with each heartbeat and breath
if we but vaporise lower mind in stillness sedate
16-April-2021
What Inchoate Flux (if Any) Preceded Timelessness?
Temporarily engrossed
with some routine
activity with aplomb
(such as dismantling
an atomic bomb)
every now, and
again these myopic
(brown) eyes regularly glanced
at the clock calm
lee aware of traversing,
thru space/time continuum,
for no apparent
reason, (or rhyme)
I suddenly felt damn
founded, and struck
with quirky query,
asper, whence upon
whatever revelation
did the passage of seconds,
minutes, or hours did ham
handedly become codified,
delineated, and etched
allowing, enabling,
providing humans
to fritter away life
in a traffic jam
hence, ewe may
cock head sideways,
or bleat me like a lamb
moost likely breaking out
[with the verse a ram...sam...sam
Guli guli guli guli guli ram sam sam
A ram sam sam, a ram sam sam
Guli guli guli guli guli ram sam sam
A rafiq, a rafiq
Guli guli guli guli guli ram sam sam
A rafiq, a rafiq
Guli guli guli guli guli ram sam sam]
perhaps, now even
more so befuddled than before
by my challenge
to communicate,
vizier, i.e., whether ye har
sir man or ma'am
how the vista of
the past present or future
(oh...way before 'Nam!)
basically what conditions -
also oh yea,
way before Ram
mud Dan coalesced
to beget getting the
shed jewel for the tram
so as NOT tug git supervisor
to hit you with a WHAM!
Methinks the here
to fore purposeful inclusion
of key word "babysitter"
a slight oversight describing
residents at Highland Manor
(a particularly nagging omission
in previous epistle to detail,
how flat screen televisions
constant blaring subdue
said majority of tenants),
whereat this emphatic
writer, (a penny pinching hitter)
susceptible to miss
out oomph pa, I
(a poetic critter)
will now intend to convey
without recourse to:
instagram, snap
chat, or twitter
thus, this quasi
appended verse
attempts to avoid
communicating disappointment,
asper unfulfilled
childhood, adolescent, or
young adult jitter
ring circumstances found
me tubby a quitter,
now as an aging bummer
with decreasing glitter,
I aver feeling litter
ally somewhat bitter
sweet asper those
figuratively untasted,
untested, and
untoasted fritter
(comfort zone
expanding challenges,
now bugging me
psyche) with jitter
re: ness, cuz yours
truly denied, deprived,
and disallowed himself
tubby a more vibrant
Matthew Scott Harris
to get distilled
from je nais se quois
crucible of life,
hence omitting,
sidestepping (like do si do),
and skipping tummy
loo, viz fuel
joie de vivre injecting
more verve
into what thyself
subsequently evolved into
a staid staind and dire
strait tinned existence,
but no pitter
patter pity please toward,
this present day
pearl jam knitter
of (senseless, listless,
and aimless)
verse as this human
specimen racks up years
as an aging orbiter
round mister sun.
I had the strangest dream the other night.
Thinking I could help my city's plight.
I wanted to donate something they could use,
So I offered them a deal they couldn't refuse!
I dreamed I inherited an enormous amount of cash,
And rather than fritter it away on useless trash,
I wanted to give pleasure to our dear citizens,
And provide them with numerous and colorful denizens!
Approaching the city council with my idea,
I thought my plan would be a great panacea.
But strangely my proposal fell on deaf ears,
As one by one they relayed to me their fears!
All I proposed to do for my fair village,
Was to donate flocks of pigeons with fair plumage.
A unanimous council gave me a thumbs down,
And I was unceremoniously escorted out of town!
They told me what I could do with my scheme,
And that was the end of my inane dream!
Next time I'll be more selective with my bucks.
Maybe I'll consider donating dozens of ducks!