Long Ladles Poems
Long Ladles Poems. Below are the most popular long Ladles by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Ladles poems by poem length and keyword.
Goodnight and good sleep little one
Off to bed, no tears to cry
Dream your dreams until dawn sun
This is an attempt at lullaby
My best I swear I'll try
I believe they start with falling cradles
Or mockingbirds that cannot sing
No guitars or drums so playing ladles
No diamonds, so brass will be your ring
How many sweet dreams could these bring....
So as you are hurtling down from high
Or trying to ignore an off key bird
Banging pots with utensils, not sure why
A looking glass has helped I've heard
But that also seems absurd
Lullabies seem sad and sometimes tragic
An Odd combination to allow
Maybe there should be more magic
So if you fall from a breaking bough
I promise I'll always catch you somehow
March 14, 2023
L words poetry contest
Sponsor: Constance La France
Thumbs Up To The Journey
At the footbridge as it bridges past from present future and perspectives your
feet might be-come and may be-go confused be-fuddled as can your mind before
the shadows rainbows feathered fancy pastel tunes and blues-bound colours
can memories anticipation taking-stock ooze pots and lots of lived experience
re-scribed re-told rewound projected narrated from emotive thoughts
stand still
At the bridge as it cradles the canyon with ladles and measures of the moment
where it spans what once was what you enrich in here and now not there and then the sweeping meadows fields of harvest schisms unions paradigms evaluations can treasures scary scars letting-go liberate scents and stents of living fragrance perceived untold configured touched upon stocked up condensed
reflected wait
The past is yet to come and not withstanding what bridge which side what size
and whence long gone remembrance spins and spans and slows and speeds the motion the sunrise dusk and dawning tapestry mosaic photographic lens sensations can truth reality attitudes and imperfections find soul and solace shared solitude re-modelled shaped anew confronted soothed harmonised
accentuated rise
The future has arrived and has been long projected and the past is living on
where they settle and sizzle on in ember’s glory and ashes to ashes and Phoenix in flight when horizons and boxes un-boxed wriggling worms preceding grave graves can joy pleasure senses and sexes passion peace human works of art in progress accepted invited challenged unchallenged channelled welcomed
gratitude prevail
At the foot-bridge at the mind-bridge where it bridges cradles sweeps your meaning brushes and jungles juggles and wonders which hand’s intuition which path to follow lie the answers to the questions asked lie the questions known and
not yet explored
24th July 2016
It was the Main Street hangout for the teenagers of its day.
For a nickel they could dream as they heard the jukebox play!
Wispy white metal chairs surrounded tables topped with glass.
(There were secluded booths where lads could woo their lass!)
From the tin covered ceiling hung a fan with its whirring blade,
And arrayed along the soda fountain were the tools of the trade.
Symmetric white and black tiles covered the spotless floor.
A gleaming steel and marble counter completed its bright decor!
Presiding over all was a guy oddly named the "soda jerk."
Clad in impeccable white, he took great pride in his work.
He was a wizard at his craft and when his sorcery was done,
He'd whipped up a heavenly treat that couldn't be outdone!
A Hamilton mixer, scoops and ladles were the tools of his trade.
In a trice he'd make a root beer float or some tasty lemonade,
Hot fudge sundae, banana split, soda or strawberry shake,
Cherry coke or any such concoction you'd ask him to make!
The "soda jerk" did his duties with consummate skill and grace,
Always with a ready quip and a contented smile upon his face.
Fast food joints or drive-ins today do not have that elegant flair,
That yesteryear's soda fountains and ice cream parlors had to share!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired (© All Rights Reserved)
Soupers as lovers unite, with spoons and bowls held high,
All soups from broths to chunky chowders, they'll try.
Making steamy affairs in poems that burn and delight,
To fill the world with soup, that's their plight!
With spoons like scepters, ladles toppled full for the fight,
They struggle as wordsmiths with all their might!
Adding chillies, spices and herbs, to en-flame the brew,
They take aim with stakes to drive into apathy's stew.
So here’s to all soupers, lovers of muse, noble and true,
As they dish up their broths, lost souls, to bring to,
With their bouillon and bisque, mulligatawny and minestrone.
Let's say bon aperitif to them all, with a hoot, yippee and whoopee!
Brain strain – A kitchen adventure
Broken ladles scattered about the new granite countertops
Veins of years gone by, prehistoric earth tremblings, spotted composites
in a vast array of colors, wickedly smooth and hard as rock (go figure)
Silverware sings like wind chimes on the tile floor,
cast aside in frantic search…long drawers, endlessly hiding that utensil,
somewhere behind the egg slicer, yellow plastic (what would I do without it?)
Meat thermometer (that sounds nasty) Tupperware tops for what?
Plastic reminders of meals past, no longer fitting their
spaghetti sauce discolored partners, in assorted sizes (used now as makeshift cat food bowls)
Pots and pans, why is it always pots and pans, never pans and pots,
hell in alphabetical order it would be, who thinks up this stuff?
And then those damn lids that never stack (handles, who needs them?)
A blender, a mixer, a dicer, a juicer, a toaster and an apple peeler. An apple peeler?
Brownie tins shaped like a labyrinth, but look at all of those corners…chewy
Not good for the diet but make the perfect Christmas gift. (much more than an apple peeler)
There it is, finally, behind a 5 lb. bag of potatoes and the old Mr. Coffee machine,
tarnished silver, at least a hundred star patterned holes, three little worthless feet…my colander
The one I use to strain my brain, removing all of the bad stuff (so the only thought left is you)
4/6/17
Written for the Go Ahead…I Dare Ya!!! poetry contest
Sponsored by John Lawless
The Moon plays a cello made of blue cheese,
While comets dance tango with the cosmic breeze.
They bow to the planets in top hats of gold,
As the stardust serenade starts to unfold.
Pocket-sized nebulas hum in high C,
Pouring silver syrup into the Milky Way tea.
The Big Dipper ladles out shimmering dreams,
Sewing velvet night with neon light beams.
Orion’s belt buckles, too tight, snap in two,
Sending pearls of wonder directly to you.
The meteors giggle in bright, sparkling showers,
Waking up sleeping, astral sunflowers.
Shh... hear the dust particles sing in the dark,
A quiet, bright song of a shimmering spark.
The silence is dancing, the stars are in tune,
Serenading the world with a spoon and a spoon.
So catch all the dust in your pocket of sleep,
Where mysteries slumber and gravity’s deep.
The serenade ends when the purple dawn breaks,
And the sun eats the stardust, for goodness’s sakes!
Poetry often starts outside
of one's self – on a distant hill or near
greenhouse shelf; our-cultivations
as the consideration of a grafted rose
goes; the meandering, dripping of a stream
or nose; submerging of our toes in
chilling clarity – we see to the bottom,
sometimes fooled by depth –
or that of a winged flight, wingtips tossing
sparks of light, dipping and scooping
winged ladles of air, unseen but yet
we see them there, pouring out there,
back into our fanciful sky, our fanciful
eye -- in a heart's invested sigh -- up
high in the atmosphere, sighted unseen
spirit -- looking and listening for the echo
of angels -- turning us more inward, where
deeper observation and motion begins,
the pen is lifted, and the paper stained
finally, fondly into lyrical submission –
When time flies, feelings of euphoria,
spur jaw-dropping habitus within,
vision of nirvana on groundswell earth,
chirping bird amber tone on hedgerow,
cacophony that piercing aural backdrop,
riotry of wild bewitching warble,
golden fronted leaf, black nape oriole,
northern red bishop,
snapshot or sedation, honey dribbled spatula,
that ladles satin eardrums,
as momentary plot unveils its kernel,
fleeting countdown to ecstatic charm,
mesmerising tailspin gust bract swirl,
of diamond stud color burst variety,
time lag is an instinct riven leap,
lustrous spark escape hatch mere sprint,
who could be immune to such splendour,
embellishment or antic flourish,
folly swept aside in brisk stanza,
hyperbole on jewel rim chariot,
passenger in situ juggling spheres,
morning dew mist clad bank enchantment,
divinity in spiral foam waterfall trance,
speckled moon’s transient blind soar,
amid hall of mirror dream cloud etching,
bonfire of imagining without rein,
infant echo chamber left me thunderstruck,
lightning flash recall as I shudder,
with ardent inkling of toddler stopwatch era,
parental caper, boisterous shriek,
blue stain paddle boat capsized,
guffaws at the peak of silver rush,
backscatter on a prior and current bloom,
like a reckless swimmer’s wild swipe,
at a grazed iron metal lifebuoy,
whose toss and turn gyration high jinx,
another symbol for the heaven in one’s palm,
that vanishes as soon as it clocks in.
Ten is the number to begin
Early in the garden
Gathering herbs, foxglove and more
On her face casual grin
Nine are the ingredients here
Placed in beef stew to simmer
It will be tender, succulent
For his eye will grow dimmer
Eight minutes sear the stew beef
Add some herbs like lemon thyme
Pour in beef broth to simmer down
Let it stew half a day's time
Seven is the count to cook some rice
A soft bed to nestle
Colors a great contrast appeal
Beauty, aroma will settle
Six add carrots, red and green peppers
The slow simmer, leaves crunch
Perfect in shape, color and taste
He will munch, munch, and munch
Five memories of his abuse
Threats, terror, and betrayal
Guns pointed to head even loaded
To public opposite portrayal
Four ladles of stew removed
Add some oleander
To stew on range, and let simmer
Stir the pot, leaves meander
Three flowers from pretty foxglove
Maybe this stew he'll love
Hear his truck come down the drive
Everything's quiet even dove
Two ladles served upon white rice
Her's prepared set aside
Upon a plate over white rice
Stew served that she contrived
One ambulance pulls quietly away
Rushing to hospital
Entirely too late to save the day
A crime? Really Committal?
I watch TV crime stories..LOL
The devil
is a
dancer
In the
cabaret
of fire
His steps
are most
alluring
His eyes
beget
desire
He twirls
amongst
the partners
Disguised
but known
to all
And making
his
selection
A child
of Adam
— falls
**
Never let
reality
— obfuscate truth
Never let
the legend
— be tarnished by proof
Never let
the facts
— carry the day
Never let
the magic
— get reasoned away
**
Staying close
to the moment
the world made sense
In touch
with his feelings ...
tomorrow’s paid rent
Alone
with his questions
the answers collide
Breaking through
the unconscious
— forever alive
**
You can never tell
unless you show it first
What the eyes will see
— the mind will free
**
Colors drip down
but never up
Gravity’s palette
— rainbows to touch
**
Looking for a
socket
to plug in tomorrow
Looking for a
conduit
to exit today
Looking in a
mirror
reflecting my future
Looking until
breathing
— each word that I say
**
Hidden
in caverns
the words
rising forth
Each droplet
a treasure
in ladles
to pour
Through whirlwinds
of drought
and twisters
ordained
The wellspring
indulgent
to fill
— and sustain
**
There are no
accidents
though some
would explain
Cause
or causation
each hair splitting
phrase
What is
and what isn’t
their images
born
Unconsciously
conscious
in matter
— and form
**
The art of looking
grows slowly ...
Tall oaks in
the wind
The bison in
Winter ...
His warmth
from within
The art of seeing
takes longer ...
with each passing
glance
Reforming
the picture ...
you once left
askant
**
In the distance
pirates chase
like devils
on the wind
Tonight’s horizon
morning brings
what destiny
— portends
**
Metaphor
only thrives and grows
forever
on the vine
Simile
lies a
rotting fruit
— bereft among the rinds
**