Long Kiosk Poems
Long Kiosk Poems. Below are the most popular long Kiosk by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Kiosk poems by poem length and keyword.
Fruit vendor John was polishing his pomegranates
The green piece of clean poplin was kissing warmly
He once rubbed the pinkish crust with the soft cloth
Would then look at it with a mild pomegranate-care
Is he looking himself into a mirror, I was wondering
Dissatisfied he would now collect a piece of muslin
That too as I saw got into a purple stimulant dance
Now pleased the vendor put it with its other siblings
He was treating every fruit almost in the same way
A floating bridge of friendship in the scented breeze
Above photo, I took yesterday early in the morning
At around five in the evening, I revisited his stall
Found him sitting with his chin held with his palms
Blank eyes face down focused at the flat pavement
What might have happened meanwhile, I wondered
Lips tight he moved his eyes to the empty grey kiosk
All the fruits have left me, Sir, leaving me all alone
No angel in the air, a hollow world in the bouquet
John lived just two houses away from my apartment
Around twelve in the night a sobbing sound alerted me
I stole a look through a window at the revolting scene
He was beating a pretty woman seemingly his wife
This morning I heard a mendicant passing by the road
Singing a folk song of Bengal current through ages
You have no idea my heart you have no knowledge
How many persons live inside you, you have no hunch
August 23, 2019
Wow Me Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Nina Parmenter
THE HOLY WEEK
I reminisce, I miss……
This week is Holy Week and I cannot help;
but to reminisce how we observed the
Holy Week, when I was growing up, that I miss.
Today is Good Friday and I remember
commemorating this day by being in church
at three in the afternoon, when Jesus
died, to recite The Stations of the Cross.
I reminisce; I miss the Holy Week then,
my father decorating the long doubled
strips palms for us to carry to church,
to be blessed in the Palm Sunday mass.
We gathered outside the church at night
on Holy Wednesday for procession around
our little town ending inside the church
to observe the Holy Wednesday mass.
The next night, we went to church
in observance of Holy Thursday and
we commemorated the crucifixion
and death of Jesus on Good Friday.
We continued on to memorialize
with another procession around
the town in the evening, followed
by the lengthy Good Friday mass.
Saturday was observed in silence,
while waiting to exhale and rejoice
the Resurrection on Easter Sunday
with all our town festivities.
Our resurrection procession started
outside the church very early in the
morning, ending at the plaza kiosk
with singers welcoming the procession.
We proceeded to church for the Easter
Sunday mass to celebrate the Resurrection.
We continued on celebrating by going
to the beach having fun and lunch.
How I miss observing the Holy Week then.
I reminisce, I miss….
4/2/21 I Reminisce I Miss Poetry
James Edward Lee Sr.
I’ve been working since I was twelve years old,
But my first on-the-books job
Was as a sailor in the US Navy,
Gunners Mate.
Six years and three Westpac deployments.
Fifty months of sea duty
Changed me for good and bad.
Over the years since,
I’ve had many terms of employment,
Both full and part-time.
My part-time jobs have included
Hanging wallpaper and painting houses.
Building stockade style fences.
Landscaping and more landscaping.
Cleaning commercial kitchen exhaust hoods.
I’ve been a receptionist at yoga studios,
A registered yoga instructor,
A certified personal trainer,
A high school cross country,
Wrestling, and track & field coach.
I’ve been a substitute teacher
At every grade level, K-12.
I’ve also been a supervisor of
Student teachers earning their
Master’s degrees in education.
Most recently, I work as a museum docent.
My full-time jobs have included
Bartender in a low-life country dive.
(Yes, I drank on the job.)
Laborer in a garment factory,
(Yes, I drank on the job.)
A refrigerated trailer factory,
(Yes, I drank on the job.)
And a lamp factory.
(It was too hot to drink anything but water on the job.)
I’ve engraved gift items in a mall kiosk.
Yes, I drank on the job.
I’ve worked at a day camp for disabled adults
And was a resident advisor in a facility
For profoundly disabled adults.
I’ve been a public-school custodian,
And a teacher of high school history and sociology,
My longest tenure at any job, by far.
My final full-time job
Was as a maintenance superintendent
In a seventy-building garden apartment complex.
I’ve also been a writer of fiction
Who draws from experience
Attempting to fashion a plausible tale.
When first I peered deep into her eyes,
My heart was completely besieged,
By her colour, her trance, her all in between,
Her book I would happily read,
So I steadied my ship, parked on a seat,
And looked at all that I liked,
And gazed at each little feeling of free,
Yet her book stayed closed through the night,
And when I awoke all I could see was her glow,
Her book cover was all I required,
Her beautiful free, emotive kiosk,
While her page would not open wide,
This ravishingly gorgeous beautiful girl,
She displayed a beautiful show,
But I never opened and read in her book,
Who she is I never will know.
How can a Superhero
Fight against crime and sin
When daily there are fewer
Phone boxes to change in.
The crims would all laugh
At the luducrous sight
Of him in a lounge suit
Arriving for the fight.
Clark Kent has gone missing
From the Smallville scene
It’s almost as if he’d really
Never ever been
Nobody seemed to realise
He chose the same time to go
As Superman his Internationally
Known and famous Alter Ego.
Just when he was really needed
Superman has finally gone
Packed up all his kit
And quickly moved on.
He’s out there beyond the stars
In interstellar space
Trying to find himself
A more suitable planetary base.
The transformation to Super Hero
Had taken an infinitesimal time
But had been necessary
In his fight against crime.
It had had to be done quickly
And quietly and on his own,
But you didn’t need a little kiosk
To use a Mobile phone.
He watched in disbelief as
They spread inexorably on
Until the ubiquitous call box
Had almost finally gone.
Buildings once had lobbies
But not anymore
You needed a passcode of ID
To get through an electronic door.
And then all of a sudden
Things had got incredibly bad
Putin, Trump and Johnson as
Half the planet went mad.
When he decided to leave
He’d thought he might cry
But he departed with just
A slightly moist eye.
Just when he was needed
Superman was gone,
Packed all his bags
And quickly moved on.
He’s gone beyond the stars
To go and try his luck.
As for the Human Race,
He just couldn’t give a damn.
Except for the odd little thought
Of Earth and its simpler ways
Before the advent of theTwenty
Four Hour connected days
When when he was needed he
Could jump into any phone kiosk
And he could change very rapidly
Rght up from his undies and socks.
Off the market I dashed
In search of ingredients
To soup my poetry.
To all kiosk and stall I went
Yet I find none of it.
Fagged out on my fro home
Lost in thought of how
To soup my poetry.
There I stumbled on it
Ingredients of my soup.
On my way I paused
For the first stanza
My thinking personified
With a poetic licence.
I smiled with an imagery of simile
All over me was a pun of metaphor.
Only in consonance with an
Hyperbole of alliteration.
Paradox became my ordeal
With an echo of onomatopoeia
Still in an irony of oxymoron
Dancing with a metonym.
I got home with more
Ingredients from my mind
Then and there, I began to
Soup my poetry in poetrysoup.
Alayande Stephen.T
12.45pm
17th August 2006
On my way to Apagbon in Lagos on the behest of
IPC Chairman,Lanre Arogundade.
Specially packaged for www.poetrysoup.com, as a wonderful family.
Prince Oldenburg Seaside Park, Old Gagra, Abkhazia
Palm trees, cypresses, flower beds with roses
Surround the alleys covered with red gravel.
The sculpture of Medea in the pond is covered with green mould
And Cupid shot his stone arrow two hundred years ago
Wavy parrots fly from one tree to another.
Silence, the sound of waves can be heard. Not a soul around.
Now is the time of ceasefire.
You have to walk carefully here -
The alleys are littered with spent casings
It’s easy to stumble upon them if you don’t take a notice
The heat is unbearable, I could do with a beer.
After walking some distance, I hear the sounds of pop music.
The path leads me to a clearing.
There is a kiosk - two local lads selling drinks and snacks.
I buy a bottle of cold beer, they smile at me.
I ask them if they have any cassettes with local music.
Can you play me your local musicians, do you have some of their music? –
Yes, they do, the guys nod.
They change the cassette, and Samba Pa Ti of Santana plays on.
Thanks, I really appreciate this, have a good day..
I go out onto the pier — no one is there. Boats rock on the waves.
Maybe this is what a ceasefire should look like in this place.
The fighters have run out of ammunition, and it's time to go home,
Turn on the football and fall asleep in the armchair
At the most exciting moment of the game,
When the ball flies into the goal
From a free kick in the extra time.
Come take my hand the weather is fine
Walking together in the summer sunshine
All of a sudden it starts to get dark
So hurry to shelter in the local park
We huddle together in the kiosk door
Cuddled up with the man I adore
Then suddenly you grab my hand
We dance in the rain by the old bandstand
Our clothes and hair get soaking wet
We are so in love we do not fret
Back to your house we do retire
To snuggle in front of a roaring fire
It is there in the glow that you take my hand
Kneel and propose – now I understand
You are the one I’ve looked for all my life
I’m honoured to say ‘Yes, I’ll be your wife’
Jan Allison
9th August 2014
Are Flowers for Picking?
I question myself,
silently standing beside
the quaint wooden kiosk
in the centre of the square.
My eyes scan the freshly
picked assortment of roses,
carnations, lilies, and orchids.
The array of colours tempts,
softening niggling doubts
arising from tender pity.
I enter the hospice, briskly
making my way to her room.
Her haggard face lights up,
slightly masking her fragility.
A wan withering rose…
I swiftly hide my pain
behind a loving smile and
the fresh flowers in my hand.
-------------------------------
Placed 1st in Brian Strand's
Pick 1 Contest (April 2020)
My infancy was the time for imagining your unique beauty
As the saprophyte danced in the magical fountain of ambiguity
You ingenuously stole my pulverized heart with your duality
Your ironware, I mean those muscles, were more than fruitful
Just like inner potency to inspire my spirit; they were my infinity
Because the dancing spirits obliquely touched me as I sat there in a tree
Dacoity imbued their roaming minds until they were ultimately free
And once I became as diametrical as the tides, I traveled across the sea
Let's take a kiosk to the dutiful trees that enchant me
Otherwise, the spirit within us will conically
Travel to an extraterritorial place which has yet to be freed
Like the uncombed hair of an angelic weeping willow tree
With its wild gamekeeper who keeps score of my latent thoughts
Such quandry thoughts will never cease to amaze me, verily
It's better not to be complacent about the future that humans will face
An annuitant flower bud will grow and expand our shared, ancient garden
Such flowers will invoke the threader in our imaginative minds
Your skin silkily makes everything resolve itself for me so that I finally smile
And you make peace with the challenges that prevail all the while
Because you're the one I love, the one whom I'd not beguile.
Your name evokes perfection
All the while, my beloved connection