Long Grocery Poems
Long Grocery Poems. Below are the most popular long Grocery by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Grocery poems by poem length and keyword.
New York is not the skyline.
It is the man on 116th
watering the sidewalk
like concrete can get thirsty too.
It is the cracked yellow fingernail
of the lady at the deli
who knows your sandwich
before your mouth opens.
It is the little girl asleep on two train seats
in a princess coat
while her mother, still in scrubs,
leans against the window
with tired in her bones
and tomorrow already waiting.
It is not Times Square.
It is the faded mural
half covered by scaffolding,
the one everybody passes
but somebody paid for in grief.
It is the fruit man
stacking bruised bananas in a pyramid
like even the almost-gone things
deserve to look beautiful.
It is pigeons bullying a bagel.
A church hat on a windy corner.
A laugh too loud for the block
and nobody mad at it.
It is the barber
turning a boy toward the mirror
so slowly
you’d think he was revealing
the future.
It is the woman on the bus
holding a birthday cake flat in both hands
like trust is still possible.
It is how summer smells
when the hydrant is open,
when children turn screaming
into a kind of music,
when even the heat
seems to come up from the people
instead of the sun.
It is old men playing dominoes
with the force of history.
Teenagers walking in packs,
all bravado and baby faces.
Sneakers tied to wires.
A plastic bag dancing
like it has somewhere urgent to be.
New York is a city
forever fixing its wig in a broken mirror.
A city with chipped teeth
and gold in the smile.
A city that curses you out,
holds the door,
and keeps walking
like kindness was an accident
nobody needs to talk about.
It is not made of landmarks.
It is made of almosts.
Almost home.
Almost rich.
Almost gone.
Almost summer.
Almost caught the train.
Almost made it.
And still
every morning
it ties its boots,
opens its gates,
lifts its shutters,
sells its coffee,
sweeps its stoops,
and begins again
like beginning again
is the most ordinary miracle
in the world.
This is New York,
not the version printed on T-shirts,
but the one with grocery carts,
school uniforms,
side-eye, steam, sirens, saints,
and one good hoop earring
left on the sidewalk
like evidence
somebody magnificent
was here.
What if I never learned to put words to paper
or if my mind never taught itself to unwrap a fantasy
What if math was the only textbook on earth
and calligraphy never existed, nor rhyming words
What if I could only write out of a sense of duty
things like grocery lists, memory notes, bills?
What if manuscripts were the only things aloud
and if teachers only taught us, how to count
What if we were severely punished for dreaming
and our creative muse was thwarted and lost
Would I be able to live in a world of fable
without poetic truth, how could anyone survive ?
What if my English teacher hadn't been so svelte
when she found my crumpled note "Litte Mermaid Me"
What if poetry writing was illegal , maybe pens too
I think we'd all be duller then a white blank page
If I was told I couldn't write poetry for all eternity,
I think that would be the greatest sin of audacity
that ever existed on the face of this sorry earth.
Jan. 19, 2020
When we were just young kids hanging around
the one grocery store there was in town
drinking Yoo-Hoo and chewing Bazooka Joe
While we were joking, cussing and spitting
playing baseball, swimming or just sitting
Our innocence was dying and we didn’t know
A surprising change started taking place
our youthful thoughts and games had been replaced
by images of girls any place we’d look
All of a sudden they were everywhere
there was nothing to do but stop and stare
they had our brains beginning to boil and cook
Although they had always been there before
they were just whiny brats and nothing more
put upon this earth to only cause us pain
I can’t be sure how it happened or why
and honestly I didn’t even try
all we knew was they were driving us insane
There’s one good thing about hot summer days
was that there were only a couple ways
to stay cool there in the armpit of the state
The hotter the sun the less clothes we wore
girls in halter tops made the list for sure
and for a 14 year old boy that was great
Boff, boink, doing it, diddle, dip your wick,
the nasty, getting dirty, ball and stick
getting laid, got lucky, going all the way,
Rounding all the bases, home run, touchdown,
hide the sausage, squeaky and getting down
round and round, up and down or a nice payday
Though none of us had ever played the games
we sure became experts on all the names
but hey I guess we all had to have our dream
That’s what happens to imagination
when in a town with a population
that’s smaller than the average football team
Now don’t get me wrong, I don’t mean to say
that girls were all we thought about all day
because there were times we had to eat and sleep
Now I smile when I think about back then
sometimes I wish those days were here again
but at least I have great memories to keep
My first car was a twelve year old Pontiac and this was in 1971.
I bought it from a boy I worked with at the grocery store.
His name was Joe, and he sold it to me for a meager $75.
I was making $1.58 an hour, so that was a huge price.
It was the ugliest color of green, but I loved it.
Because it was mine, and it went fast.
I drove it to college and back with a vengeance.
We tore up and down the road at eighty to a hundred miles an hour.
This was in the day when the cops were not out much
Except at the end of the month, and we all knew what day.
I named her Sammy, and I adored her until her engine blew.
Ka—put. She simply quit working. Bam!
I went to Joe’s house. His mother answered the door.
I told her I needed to talk to him; she knew I was serious.
I demanded and got my seventy-five dollars back.
I had only had that car for eight months.
I ended up marrying him, and we still laugh about it.
I think he would have given me double my money back.
He thought I was cute,
and I was.
She is 15 months old…this beautiful little squirt
she likes nothing more than walking barefoot everywhere
and playing in the dirt.
In fact she loves dirt so much…(her parents tell us with a moan)
they believe she thinks dirt is a food group all its own.
I love to watch her play…in her world both simple and complex
because you never know exactly where her feet will take her next.
While watching the purity and innocence in one so young and new
I’m reminded of the things I did as a child…that I can no longer do.
How I walked barefoot everywhere when I was just a little squirt
How, while playing outside, I also ate my share of dirt.
How I could laugh at noises…or something silly my parents said
How I could start singing and dancing
listening only the music in my head.
How I loved to run and run and run…loved finger paints and art
How in the store I liked nothing better than riding in the grocery cart.
How I would point and grunt and gesture before I had the power of speech
and I don’t remember but my parents have pictures…
of me running naked on the beach.
Of course I’m too old and I’d get arrested if today I ran naked on the beach
and I no longer need to point and grunt and gesture since I developed speech.
With bad knees I can’t run anymore…finger painting for me is a lost art
and I’m much too big for Deborah to push me in the grocery cart.
My parents are no longer alive so I can’t laugh at the silly things they say
HOWEVER… I can still dance and sing to the music in my head a little every day.
And I’m please to say now in my 70’s
some days I still feel like that little squirt…
and even though I’ve lost my taste for it…
I still love playing in the dirt.
It could be a friendly wave from a stranger; Or
A "How are you doing?" from across the parking lot.
At other times, just the simple words of, "Follow me".
Northern Mississippi is where I was born and raised.
It's where I was well taught about how to behave.
After 17 years, having finished high school, I migrated North
From the delta cotton fields of Mississippi to the asphalt jungle
of Chicago and onward North to the dairy land of Wisconsin.
I was trained to be a pastor in Chicago and appointed to be head
master of a small Christian school in Southern Wisconsin,
but I was taught "HOSPITALITY" in the magnolia state.
In a grocery store parking lot, I heard a voice saying, "How are
you doing?" The voice was too far away for me to think that it was
directed at me. But as I looked across the way, I discovered indeed,
the gentleman was speaking to me.
In search of a popular grocery store in Greenwood, I asked
for directions from a local motorist. She simply said, "Follow me".
On another occasion, in search of the DMV in Greenwood, I
sought directions and he also said, "Follow me". In Yazoo City,
I sought directions to the power company, and the motorist
like his fellow Mississippians also said, "Follow me".
The prior 50 plus years I spent in Illinois, Wisconsin, and California
taught me a myriad of treasured lessons, but I learned about real
down home HOSPITALITY in Mississippi.
Some folks, for fun, collect stamps or cook.
Others may seek lofty mountains to climb.
Erudite people might well pen a book,
But I'm happiest when I make a rhyme.
My hope is to write meaningful and true,
But, at times, I might get carried away,
And rhyme any 'ol thing and before I'm through,
I go overboard to my friends' dismay.
A speeding cop asks for registration.
I say, "this ain't cause for celebration".
The grocery cashier says, "have a nice day".
I say, "how, with the prices I must pay?"
I think I would be the most delighted,
If things like the presidential debate,
Or congressional proceedings were recited
Completely in rhyme - yep, that would be great!
When I'm asked "do you take her for your wife?",
I'll say, "sure 'nuff mister, you bet your life!"
I was always hopeful.
There were things and people back then.
I was also kind, and happy.
Words crossed out on my grocery list.
Depression is as forgetful as me.
Forgetting the grocery list.
Remember everything.
Scribbling all over my hand.
Depression is as patient as a blank wall.
Writing words as if I am hopeful.
Sometimes, we write.
I don’t know much about words or people.
I became more mindful.
So did my depression.
I became more hopeful.
He pretended to as well.
I was always depressed.
Even when I choose my favorite sweatshirt on a chilly day.
I didn’t get over it.
The chill again.
I was always kind.
I believed it.
When you’re always kind.
They believe it too.
I had friends back then.
It wasn’t much, but we went to the park one time.
I don’t have much now.
Just depression.
Carnivore#4
Walking around the grassland there is a cow standing. The cow has gained weight over the past few weeks. At the market, the owner makes a profit when he sells the cow. At the slaughterhouse, the animal is killed. The owner of the food processing plant buys the meat. The meat is sold to a grocery store. The customer buys the meat. At their house the meat is cooked. Inside the oil, salt, pepper, and other spices the meat is cooking. You see the blood being cooked out into the meat. You can see the life being dissolved into the air. Now the animal is truly dead in this life. There is no red, well, the meat was once a alive. You are still a carnivore.
The old woman walks past
our house
pulling her grocery trolley,
once more,
head down,
leaning forward,
like she does
in heat or chill,
bright or gloom-
She looks over at me
and smiles
for the first time.
I had wondered,
not seeing her for a while,
if she had passed.
Or, like our neighbor
to the left,
if her smile was a sign,
not even mysterious-
The joy of the street
filled with kids on bikes
and the slight pause
when the body is taken away.
He too had smiled,
toothless, wild with life, unafraid
and then his mattress
was on the curb.
Crows sat on it for days
daring him to return.