Long Kettles Poems
Long Kettles Poems. Below are the most popular long Kettles by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Kettles poems by poem length and keyword.
Fort Clatsop is up and true,
50 feet square, with a smokehouse, pallisades, barracks and two gateways
furnished from the aromatic and reliable wood of the great Fir trees,
we keep busy by scraping elk hides for clothes, making moccasins, hunting
and boiling sea water in kettles to manufacture a nutritious salt,
the Clatsop Indians are not the onery thieves that the Chinook are,
in fact, they are merry hustlers with fine things to trade,
the Clatsop chief, Coboway was in fort today, smoking and learning how we leather stitch
when I began negotiating for his sea otter robe,
a fur of extraordinary waterproof warmth and deep colored beauty
several layers ringed, overlapping one another like roof tiles
with a thin elk hide underneath
the length of a knee cloak with the incandescence of morning mountains
snowy whites, granite greys and cool browns,
I believe that is why Clark and I are contending for it,
that rare robe reminds us of the Rockies, the rugged majesty,
Coboway isn't being simple though, actually he's being a prick about it,
refusing all sorts of neat and valuable things
and then Sacagawea comes into the room shakin her meaty hips around
and the chief comes to life and says he'll trade for her beaded belt,
Clark looks at me like hey, not fair
because he knows I can get Janey, Sacagawea's American name,
to give it up for my blue velvet coat that she just purrs for,
J.A.B.
A time of many lights to see,
Of tinsel, garland and wreath's so fair.
Of hundreds of bulbs upon a tree,
With twinkling lights and angel hair.
A festive time with thoughts of Santa Clause,
Of jingle bells, and distant sounds of sleighs.
From the daily rush we're in, we pause,
Remembering once more our childhood days.
The time for eggnog and a cozy fire,
Have the Christmas story and often games.
Of candy canes, children never seem to tire,
While watching a Yule log's flickering flame.
A time for the hanging of mistletoe,
The singing of carols and children at play.
A time of merriment and places to go.
To many, these are this holiday.
For early mall arrival and long lines,
To retrieve that last gift before we rest.
Parking lot disagreements, fights and fines,
We're seeing free enterprise at its best.
Of bells and kettles in the mall,
With scent's of baked goods and pines.
While searching for gifts for one and all,
We encounter rudeness and sold out signs.
Christmas can be like this, it's true,
But lest we forget this time of year.
Let's look at things from a different view,
As the birthdate of the Christ child dear.
In a twinkling stars five points I see,
Two arms, two legs, a head.
I see the cross in a Christmas tree,
Where a Savior hung and bled.
In the manger scene I'm taken back,
To the place the Christ child lay.
I view the gifts in Santa's sack,
As those the wise men brought that day.
In a simple wreath of vines I see,
A crown of thorns that Jesus wore.
Of a scourging he once took for me,
And of man's sin that at Calvary he bore.
Within each candle seen glowing bright,
One thought comes to my mind.
That in my world He's still my light,
God's precious gift to all mankind.
In a candy cane of white and red,
I see His body without sin.
The crimson, being where he bled,
So that man might be born again.
Then looking into a yule log set aflame,
Unable to imagine the torment one will feel.
If living life as though Jesus never came,
Only to discover at death, that Hell is real.
While captains sail for foreign shores,
For thunder, reefs, adventure and gales;
I dream of sock drawers besides warm clocks,
While kettles sing their steamy saucy tales.
While my passport sleeps stone-cold under the bed,
I never count the days that I've lost,
While toasting thick-cut slices of bread—
I'm a homemade salad, chopped and tossed.
I love my domestics—they're all such homely bliss;
Why go out when that's so inane and insane?
My old routine—It's no hit or miss—It's no abyss,
Just sweet pure sameness, so pleasantly mundane.
Home is where the soul loves its slippers,
Wearing a weathered coat and weary pride;
Where old regrets are served as kippers,
With poached eggs, sunny soft yellow inside.
The old grandfather clock in the hall
Chimes seven bells: "Are all hands aboard?"
Not to call the watch or some tavern brawl,
But to signal a buffet meal served sideboard.
I fold the clothes to patter-pats on window panes.
Sweep the floors dancing to ye old rock and roll,
Wash the dirty dishes over and over again,
Cranking up the karaoke to fire up my soul.
The garden knows my cold bare feet,
Better than cobbled stone roads beyond;
I pick herbs and fresh green leaves so sweet,
Then I turn the soil, and clean the pond.
So raise your mugs, I'm home tonight—
Heave away, haul away, let me stay,
At home in paradise of bliss and delight
Belayed and stayed beneath the archway.
So haul away, I'm homeward bound,
Where kettles sing of choppy seas;
Where my same old routine is crowned—
With a gravy boat, and baked mac-and-cheese.
Put a little cardamom in it.
Spice it up!
Cloves are great for health.
Add that in too!
A pinch of cinnamon.
Wow, what a robust flavor!
Don’t forget Ginger!
Peel and feel the texture.
Drop it in!
Pitch black tea leaves.
It leaves you with a strong, but bitter sensation.
Hear those bubbles sing and dance while boiling,
Steam shoots up in the air out of the tea kettles’ spout,
like a rocket to the moon.
Yes, I can drink this to the moon and back.
A tasty concoction of flavor in this tiny little cup.
Simply just pleases your taste buds.
Stems from the country of India.
Spicy and yet so sweet.
Makes your day complete,
rather than incomplete.
Under the summer heat.
Or embracing the streaks of cold air,
while wrapped up and gulping,
then saying: “This beverage is just one of a kind”.
Men, lock arms and dig in
Hoist the colors and hoist the flags
Today, we march across the bridge
Across the gorge, along the ridge
These men are brave and their faces glow
One by one, the soldiers know
Beat the kettles and blow the horns
Our clothes are ripped and the flags are torn
Today, we march across the bridge
Across the gorge, along the ridge
To the other side, we fight to win
Rations low and six hundred men
The bridge is high, and you feel the wind
No laughter here, but lonely grins
The span of the bridge and you feel its height
The long steel beams displays its might
The soldiers know, these men are right
We cross the bridge all day, all night
You filled my heart's chalice with passion's pain
from poison kettles stirred in your mind
Your wormwood brew drips a bile that will stain
as it spills on the earthen floor of time
Slip away with your dung lit real of shade
seek a newer chalice, your lips can fill
barter their heart with your cold lover's trade
in worlds that lie beyond the farthest hill
where each love will be lost forevermore
to drift towards a darker, colder sun
leave me now, like the shadow I abhor
You used my heart's love, and pain has begun
For my heart will lie with its final breath
Befitting dear, you have seen my heart's death
Two genders
when we were toddlers, we played in the sandbox
and hide and seek, we didn't think about whose
gender we were
a few years later, the girls refused to play with
us boys, we were too active climbing walls
and they went back, playing with dolls, I presume
doing needleworks
A few years later, we realized they were girls
they strutted down the street arm-in-arm
haughty as one gets
Near them were silent, blushed like the girls
knew what we were thinking
When one of the boys confessed he had kissed
a girl we were impressed by his daring
But "small kettles have ears." I had overheard
the adults, talking about two seamstresses
living together, giggling about who was the man
I didn't know, at the time, what they were
talking about
People, nature had made different were called
funny people, no one cared that if they were
not men were called perverts, condemned
they had to move somewhere no one knew them
a difficult life
I'm glad to say we are more at ease with men
liking men
The thing is, there are only two genders, regardless
of tendencies, nature had made them
It is about biology; there are no third genders
when I hear children are given puberty bloggers also
surgery in some instances is performed, my blood boils with anger
you see, if an unfortunate boy has surgery, he is
biologically masculine, people who do this to
other people should be prosecuted and jailed
PS
I have deliberately avoided words like
and , as they didn't exist in my working class
childhood
Not So Precious Moments
They call
these nameless voices
introduced by
insipient rings
droning on
their piercing voices
shattering the moment.
They insist
on speaking breathlessly
running past the
comma’s
hurdling the
periods
racing toward
some distant goal.
Oblivious to
barking dogs
screaming children
whistling tea kettles
beeping smoke detectors
droningonandonandon
in mantric monotony.
Who imposes
such a penance,
demands such restitution?
What past life indiscretion
could bring about
such karmic contingency?
They call
yet I cannot offer
forgiveness.
Nor will I save the
endangered
kaigiwalligalopolous
by sharing
my credit card info.
Not even if they send me
a picture of
the kaigiwalligalopolous
my contribution saved.
They drone on
as I have set
the receiver down
and walked away.
The dog barks
the kids scream
the kettle whistles
the smoke detector beeps
the pan cakes are really done.
John G. Lawless
© 3/4/2017
I wish I was a believer
I wish I was a young boy
I wish I was still nieve enough to believe in joy
I wish simple pleasure's were enough
When I am feeling low and away far
Not measured in distance
But the clutching onto the blue
Wallowing and swallowing in pity
For pithy sakes
So I can reason unhappiness is
A state of grace
A holding hand or hug so deft will touch
Never to have lost and loved
Than to be alone
Is golden time
Magic tricks like Lego brick's
That build perfect partners
For love lost soul brothers and sister's
With battle scared heart's
From bitter past breaks
Watch like boiling kettles
Dreaming steam engineering
Plumes are angel signal's
The camera inside the picture
concertina's time-lines into exclamation points.
Antique tripods brace themselves,
their quaint brass fittings
help minds to adjust.
Some turn a grooved infinity sprocket.
Some cave paint on the arching
bones of elk heads.
If we are to discover what is out there
we must board a ghost train,
plot a milky way over a whiteboard -
orientate to relate.
Spirit, that invisible violin
in a trio of appearance,
is a lone lover.
The third lover arrives at night
walking across fingertips,
while a pale moonlight
moves hands around
a clock of want.
The other elements
of frequency modulation
are the sex machines
that transmits power to pressure,
they are small devices
that molest moments into prayer.
Lastly there is
the whistling tinker man.
The rattle of pots and kettles
behind his moving caravan
enchants all we children
of much lesser gods.