Long Herbs Poems
Long Herbs Poems. Below are the most popular long Herbs by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Herbs poems by poem length and keyword.
Pick me the single garden weed
Who wants to be a lovely flower
If allowed to grow and be empowered
By loves sweet lavender fragrance
Inhale and be under its spell
Pick me like the last little yellow hope
For a miracle in a medical emergency
The herbs and spices dicing denim dilemma
Calming your blood pressure naturally
Easing your pain giving you reprieve
Pick me like the holiest of white words
Sautés soothing serenade silver saints
Dissolving sin stirring soulful rainbows
Making mightier Mahogany men
Waking women divine feminine womb
Pick me to be or not to be
Like the God in you chooses
To walk beyond what is known
And surpass all understanding
Of teal time energy and space
I am depending on your ability to choose
Love over hate realness over fake
Compassion discarding contempt
I am you and also her and him and humanity
Pick me and love me fiercely
Papa Babineaux is a licensed chemist with a storefront on St. Ann Street, near the French Market. After breakfast each day he kisses his wife on the cheek, pats his children’s heads affectionately, lights his pipe and walks off to find his way to work. Papa Babineaux is a diligent chemist who works hard at his job and is the model of reasoned sobriety. Every other Friday afternoon, before returning home, he goes to the French Market to purchase dried herbs and essential oils, ingredients he uses in concocting his potions and palliatives.
On these occasions, after he’s done business in the French Market, Papa Babineaux will stop to rest in Jackson Square before returning home. He takes a seat on the wrought iron bench by the sycamore tree that stands a hop, three jumps and a giant step from the great equestrian statue of General Andrew Jackson daring the British to bring it on. Papa sits there, resting his chin in his hand and his elbow on his knee, puffing away on his pipe while reflecting on his own happiness and contentment. He is, in fact, so happy and content that he loses all track of time.
Papa Babineaux would always be late for dinner every other Friday if not for Bumblebee. Ever since Bumblebee had been old enough to find her way to Jackson Square alone, it had been her job, every other Friday afternoon before dinner time, to walk the several blocks to Jackson Square and fetch her father. Bumblebee proudly calls this her 'every other Friday afternoon errand.'
Ladies and gentlemen, and all the rest
We do entertain you to the fullest
As pickle members of well-being zest
Showing functional roles for healthy quest
Making us thank God*, we’re uniquely blest!
Ready are we to show our savory best
Sizzling loudly, exuding flavor’s jest
Behold our spices strong in challenging taste test
Mustard seed, chili powder belt song-fest
While turmeric yodels from choir loft nest!
Onstage are fresh herbs lilting with delight
Ginger, onion, garlic, dill … sway to flight
Along salt and vinegar’s graceful might
Ecstatic midst olive oil’s waltzing sprite
Satiating awesomely everyone’s appetite!
Molasses, alum rise to freedom height
Swirling around cucumbers’ soaring sight
As crispy carrots with shrimps glide aright
Bottled on display for dieters’ plight---
In our party, you’re welcome --- since we palatably invite!
*In every thing give thanks: for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus concerning you.
September 7, 2022
6th place, "It's A Pickle Party" Poetry Writing Premier Contest
Sponsored by Mystic Rose Rose; judged on 9/10/2022.
It happen one Christmas
Oh yes, it is true
That Santa was sick
In his bed with the flu
He had a bad cough
And his nose ran all day
He tried ever capsule,
Every syrup and spray
He even sipped herbs
That were made into tea
And took all the vitamins
From A down to Z
He thought that this Christmas
He'd sure have to bail
It wasn't 'til then
He started reading his mail
He started with one
Then opened another
There were letters from
Parents and sisters and brothers
They wrote, that they counted
On him every year
To know he was coming
Would dry every tear
And make them start thinking
Of others instead
And all of the kindness
And caring He'd spread
It took him a while
But he read every letter
And the more that he read
He started feeling better
He knew in his heart
What his heart had to do
Was to get out of bed
And shake off the flu
Then his feet hit the floor
Once again he stood tall
And found that their love
The best medicine of all
Written By: D. Collins 12/6/23
Get up under your woman like she's under attack.
Get under her breasts like a hydraulic jack.
Raise them up to the highest peak they've ever seen.
Then, enjoy her expression as she suddenly creams.
Allow her to catch her breath, then do it again.
After that, slightly, slowly kind of stick it in.
It's like making Gumbo very hot when served.
Yet, filled with a perfect blend of spice and herbs.
Then, get real Creole and start making it burn.
Put cayenne in it to make it throb and yearn.
Inflame that woman and bring her to her hottest.
Get up under her as subjects do for a Goddess.
The
old house
from my memories
opens to a wide porch
adorned by mom with her
loving touch.Herbs,flowers
swayed to caressing breeze
Lilies in pink, roses in blue
and bougainvilleas that
blushed in lilac hues.
Green tulsi shrubs
tended with care.
Ah! leaves that
flavored
our tea.
They
were
laced
by a
fence
with a
sweet aroma
from tendrils
curling bluebells
intertwined in mesh.
The fragrant jasmine,
she sang to them
and put one in
her wavy hair.
Spring bloomed them to full moon. Monsoons brought a divine petrichor
that made us breathe the heavenly aroma of her love. She taught me
to care for them under the Mahogany tree that enveloped them from
raging heat. She worshipped her nursery like her own kids. Every
evening, dad used to share his stories watching the rosy blush.
On moonlit nights, we stargazed lying on the grassy bed and
listened to old songs on radio. I had built a corner of three
bricks to keep my favorite books to bloom and read them
on lazy noon with cuckoo's songs breathing intermingled
scents. When we left that house, the garden lived for
someone else. My mom had wished they would care
for it like she did. I packed my old books to move on.
Now years later, far from mom, when I miss my garden
of bliss, I unpack those books that still release scents of
roses and jasmine drenched and dancing, releasing soothing
petrichor. For a love so deep shall bless me now in my kitchen
garden, confined to few flowers. That love still blooms with those
books as I inhale the fragrance of those foregone days. Like I carry
my mother's essence in everything I am, the divine garden of that heaven
from my memories and the eternal fragrance of mother gleaming, lives on.
~ To the garden where I wrote my first poem
It's a soup that's made to order never from a store
A little bouillon treat that's filled with herbs galore
Not the kind you get from packets, no not that kind !
with itty bitty chicken bits it has onions you can find.
I start with chicken base then add a clove of garlic,
turmeric and salt with a dash of home made magic.
I simmer for an hour while the veggies steam & swim,
singing in a playful voice, "a little blessed hymn".
I start with a clean counter then tuck my hair right in
wearing pinafore of white, with little ducks that swim
I stew it then I stir it, with a large wooden spoon
telling funny stories to a soup that cooks til' noon
Made with love and kindness, it really hits the spot,
I cook it just like mama did, when I was just a tot.
It's a soup that's made to order, never from a store,
this little bouillon treat is filled with herbs galore.
Enjoy !
It's nine years in a row of continuous crisis
lost in the wilderness of a dry Oasis
on all long bones is the constant emphasis
for a condition which began as Tuberculosis.
The pain and discomfort, too much to bear
she is too ready for the worst to worry and fear
the weather smells nice but will mock and share
neighbours always smile but absolutely don't care.
The body fights just to prove it's a weaker host
medications and herbs, wholly trusted to do the most
yet, her days are numbered, she now communes with a ghost
the traffic light turns red and Earth, no longer her post.
For a forty year old, this shouldn't be the end
I hold back the tears, I cannot pretend
my Aunt's life, God, please extend
all the Angels you have, oh Lord, gather and send.
Counting in weeks, she may not have two more
misfortune slowly acts on eventuality's rumour
a silent killer eats, evident by a weaker femur
a terrible relapse and this time, it's more than one tumour.
9th. August. 2021
This or That, Vol 5 Poetry Contest- Holding back Tears.
Sponsored by Edward Ibeh.
4th Position
*Image of Algonquian Papoose by Wikipedia.
Algonquian Papoose
A tribal warrior searching for want
The great abyss secures the tale
A hawk dives down to retrieve what is lost
Returns without, it was a fail.
Pursues the quest, perchance a dove may help
Its genteel spirit might awake
Like the hawk, the dove dives down the abyss
The time is longer, so he waits.
The dove returns, and what was sought, it brings
A man child that was fast asleep
The tribal warrior attempts to wake
Yet, like the abyss, sleep is deep.
He ponders a thought and calls the white doe
In a blink, it stood before him
It drops its head and nibbles the fresh herbs
Saunters and licks the child with vim.
Trails of herbs criss-cross its face as eyes pierce
A mouth yawns and body stretches
An Indian born enlarges the tribe
Tradition pact hereof sketches.
2019 June 21
A BRIAN STRAND 1095
~~Brian Strand
When I was a child witches were the demonic devils in faerie tales.
I was terrified of the old lady up the block who looked like Margaret Hamilton.
Witches, witchcraft and witchery were to be feared, and I was frightened.
Harvey Comics changed it up when they introduced us to Wendy Witch.
Wendy was kind and compassionate, she wanted to make friends.
She was a soft-hearted upstander who stood up for other people.
This was a new witch, a witch I wanted to know better.
She changed things up in my head, and I looked up witchcraft.
Witchcraft is not Satan’s workshop, it is gardening, it is herbs, it is awareness.
“To no one do harm” is the witch’s creed.
Who were these men who wanted us to fear witches?
Possibly jealous men who did not know how to garden.
I thank Harvey Comics for my mind shift regarding witches.
And Wendy Witch of course!