Long Kitchen Poems
Long Kitchen Poems. Below are the most popular long Kitchen by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Kitchen poems by poem length and keyword.
A shadow of a family
Sits, lumping on our couch
Watching TV with mindless eyes
Occasionally letting a few words out
The lines that bind together
Lie about on the ground like jump ropes
They’re always in the way
Tripping up dreams and shorting out hopes
Every emotion results in a trip
The kitchen holds our sleeping pills
We are cannibals who ravage our own souls
Unaware of what we’ve just killed
When shadow touches skin
An unholy shiver acknowledges the split
Broken bits lie behind beauty
Our reality is a switchboard with connectors that never fit.
Written by Trudy Schrader on July 4th 2007
Note: This was a poem I wrote 3 days before I left my husband of 14 years (16 at divorce).
Rain slips down the window quietly,
Morning unfurls in pale silver light.
Shadows stretch across the cool kitchen floor,
Coffee steams and memory stirs awake.
Birdsong drifts through the unopened blinds,
Dreams linger on the edge of thought.
Time tiptoes softly into the room,
Hope grows where silence breathes in peace.
A textbook opens, a blank page awaits,
The world outside begins its slow spin.
Warm ceramic rests between steady hands,
Guiding the focus to what lies ahead.
The rain slows down to a gentle mist,
As the day claims its quiet purpose.
Each hour unfolds like a promise kept,
A fresh beginning, ready to start.
'Twas a cold wintry day
the road was frozen white and gleamin'
a pale sun stood over the clouds
watching them float lazily by
in the corner of a street
on a flat stone, so to speak
sat an old man, bearded and bare
he is the sailor with the one-eyed look
Sat as straight as a ramrod, did he,
back to the blizzard, now astride
with fingers so numb, eyes dim to see
getting a ha'penny from a passer-by
tramps and urchins flocked at he,
told them stories of the seas, he did
with arms a'waving like sails, you see
a gleam of joy in his eyes show'd
For he'd been to the wars
sailing on the ships of Her Majesty
seen it all, he's did, and lived,
came back home to muffins and tea
t'was on the seas he lost an eye
plucked out in an enemy fight
wounded and left behind to die
but didn't, and now home and dry
Retired from Her Majesty's service, he'd
now homeless, helpless, this once proud sailor
left with neither coin, nor a roof over his head
forced to the slums, living out of the gutter
t'was a piteous sight to behold, fie it!
would'a loved to chomp on choicy bit
displayed in the streets like in mama's kitchen
but not for his palate, just to be seen
Then it came, one bright sunny day
oh, what a bliss from snow and hail
tramps and children, out to play
free from the fear of icy pain
but alas! no sign of the sailor
save a snowy effigy, and on it his comb
for while snow lasted, the snow tailor'd
a snowy covering on him; it was his tomb!
I still roll over in bed at night expecting to hear her snoring.
I still awake before sunrise and to no one whisper, “Good morning”.
I still get dressed in the dark, so the light will not disturb her,
And tiptoe out of the room stealing a glance over my shoulder.
I still set two breakfast plates and pull out her kitchen chair
And still fix eggs for her before remembering she’s not there.
I still leave the Funnies page, when I take the paper
And still expect the Crosswords done when I return much later.
I still call out, “Honey, I’m home”, when walking in the door,
But I don’t hear, “I'm back here”, returned to me any more.
I still pour two cups of wine in our favorite glasses,
But both of them I end up drinking before the night time passes.
It hardly seems like ten years ago that I lost my darling wife,
She shared and was a part of me for thirty years of my life,
But it still seems as if she’s here in my empty home,
Although in every one of my rooms I find that I’m alone.
Some day she will come back to me,
Or I will go be with her,
And continue what was meant to be,
For always and ever.
In Classical Antiquity, “Cornucopia” means plenty,
A symbol of abundance, nourishment overflowing;
That was my Mother, a Cornucopia for many,
In her lifetime of service to others, without crowing.
Evelyn was many things, but "Master Chef" by definition,
The magical commissioner of a welcoming kitchen;
Where small talk ensued, as heat was applied,
Every recipe and dish, using taste as her guide.
Location mattered not, twas her home or yours,
Or a campsite somewhere, Mother loved the outdoors;
And the tools of her trade, simply counted far less
Than the magic she used, to sooth and to bless.
Like Christ on that hillside multiplying fishes and loaves,
She defied earthly science, mouths fed by the droves;
In volumes that satisfied even neighbors, and friends,
Our pets also royalty, their palates too cleansed.
Between meals our long table, was always reset,
Place settings in waiting, cleansed and well prepped;
‘Cornucopia’ describes best, our dear precious Mother,
Prepping meals now in Glory, for our loving Heavenly Father.
Nothing arrives whole.
Everything comes folded~
creased at the edges,
tucked into itself
like a secret that forgot
how long it has been carried.
To be unpacked
is to let the day exhale,
to open the small, stubborn corners
where memory hides
like lint in a pocket.
I lift each moment
from its hiding place~
a peach warm in my palm,
a kitchen light trembling
on the rim of a glass,
a childhood street
still smelling faintly
of percolator coffee
and women laughing
in their housecoats.
Unpacked,
the world softens.
It stops pretending
to be tidy.
It spills~
slow, honest,
like a drawer finally opened
after years of silence.
And I stand there
my hands full of the past
realizing none of it
was ever lost.
It was only waiting
for me
to unfold it.
There was a girl called Stacey who was going to bring to her grandmother Lizzie a chocolate cake. She sent a message through Whatsapp that was near her home. Walking on the boardwalk, a man with a Dracula costume, made an offer to buy the cake. Stacey told him that she could not sell the cake, since it was for her grandma.
After fiveteen minutes, Stacey arrived to her grandmother's house. Nobody answered the door ring. A glass window was opened, so she decided to came in to the house. Stacey entered to her grandma's bedroom. There was nobody in the room. She decided to walk through the house to find her grandma. Stacey found in the living room the man with the Dracula she saw walking in the street.
It was Stacey grandmother who was making a joke to Stacey. They sat in the kitchen to share the chocolate cake.
For Once Upon A Time Poetry Contest
Little Riding Hood
Sponsored by Laura Loo
Third Place
2-4-2016
The wood is too seasoned, the grain hoary.
the moppet has grown insane,
its wood now riddled with timeless lies.
A cat in a dark corner will not look at it.
Mice cower under its grim shadow.
In a twilit kitchen an old man mumbles
as he gums a boiled egg
while deranged eyes peer through walls.
Pinocchio is old,
he has been set on a hook.
fibrous sinews dangle
from his notched frame.
knotted veins grind together
inside the oaken cage of his chest.
Made to imitate and deceive
he has become what we dare not look upon:
a hollowness within a dead core.
In the potbellied stove,
logs pray with crackling flames
hope to never become that thing
that hangs and glares,
a wood wormed ruination,
its painted adolescence flaking now
to a crackbrained fantoccini
gone feral.
The wind is blowing from all directions and the cloud is falling beneath the earth, the hills are standing tall and strong, and my heart is singing a merry song. I long for the days to come back again when we will be just like old friends, the shadows will dance with the moon and the stars will shine upon us.
I can feel the wind blowing in my back and an unfamiliar sensation moving up and down my new frock projecting a strange noise in the roof that brings joy and laughter in the atmosphere.
It is the howling sound that comes with the wind forcing mankind to pay double for his sin and nature rock you to and fro and catapults your mind all over the floor and when the moment has passed you sit still gasping for breath.
Th smell of roasted coffee beans seeps through the kitchen roof stirring my morning appetite and meddle with my midday delight. I struggle to bridge the gap between the coffee and the ice-tea and the early morning shoppers drain the energy out of me. They converge on the pavement next to the house and crowd the coffee shop in the corner. Discount coffee, strawberry doughnut galore, and cinnamon beagle pile up to the roof waiting on hungry buyers.
The crowd begins to swell and spills out in the street, and the dogs emerge out of hell pointing their long guns at the brawlers to control the swelling crowd.
Droopy eyes and hungry gut yawns before me, anxiously waiting for a cup of tea, the coffee shop finally opened, and the people form a line leading to their destiny. I have never seen such display of emotion before; it puts everyone on the dance floor.
My lips began to tremble, and heart begins to move and a song that has never been sang, a rhythm that has never been felt burst out my lips and the early morning crowd caught on to it and everyone start dancing, coffee cup in one hand and cinnamon and bagel in another.
Morning came alive and my emotion touches the sky.
‘I was born with the meaning of home running through my veins.’ Lauren Eden
inside the back door of our house our laughter rang out
as we sat chit-chatting around the kitchen table
playing board games or telling silly stories
upstairs at night we giggled in our bedroom
snacking on treats we had sneaked into our room
when dad would yell up the stairs at us to go to sleep
not able to quell youthful exuberance
for we had ties bound by a forever sisterhood
born by fate – I don't know
but molded nevertheless by our time together
secrets whispered in the dark
and heartaches assuaged sympathetically
fighting at a minimum
the place where today
though it be no more a building made of brick
is but a phone call away