Long Larder Poems
Long Larder Poems. Below are the most popular long Larder by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Larder poems by poem length and keyword.
Wanting to get Away...
Needing to get Home.
Are they all dead?
Fantasticals, Fantasy, Phantasms?
Fantastic Rascals.
Masters. Hmmpphhh.
Tin-roofed.
Straw-sided.
Dirt-floored.
Mundane.
Arcane.
Insane?
(Them. Or, I?)
I’m on a meadow
lark.
I’m on a mountain
pass.
I’m at a crossroads;
one lone road stretched out ahead -
stretched out behind -
, if I care to look,
into and through each and every
Eternity.
The tea is thin.
The ember, black.
The robe unment.
The cane unsupporting.
The larder full...
of rot;
vouchsafed against the coming
nothing-more-coming.
The inkquill dry, the pages full.
The air silent and gifted me some
somberity.
The birds nest now in
as well as out.
The rains quiet and pool now in
as well as out.
The empty deepens now in
as well as in
me.
The Master, oh so great, is
Gone.
Now.
The Master, her formative ages forming formless, is
Gone.
Now.
The Master, let his name sweeten my lips, is
Gone.
Again.
Empty, Silent.
Voidhome.
The peak, a valley.
Songbirds sing.
Leaves rustle.
Breezes whisper.
Geese squonk.
Empty; perhaps though
never emptied.
Silent; perhaps though
never silenced.
The Master, the Indubitable Inscrutable, is
Gone.
and or maybe if perhaps could likely or somehow somewhat say
was was never was.
Is, still, somehow or of course,
Gone.
Echoes dwell.
Lessons linger.
Songbirds sing.
The tea is weak;
mine (nay, ours) to
sip.
What happened to poetry
And who was it that chose
No more rhymes in rows
That really paint our woes
Crows restraint still grows
Feint eschews all bestows
Cast of the past now foes
Taint not any faint echoes
So let’s remember all those
Each saint whose line glows
Before poems became prose
Enthralled by whining tweets
Forgot all of the shining feats
So John Betjeman not a don
Tennyson not a true denizen
Appalled no mining of treats
Silver lining dining on beats
Of Shelley, Byron and Keats
They scold old man Finnegan
Clear we no longer hold dear
Told never cheer Edward Lear
Jeer at another rhyming peer
Envoy of joy from yesteryear
Lewis Carroll it’s rather que*r
Fear don’t like Spike Milligan
Despair no old school wares
And that no one really cares
Shares Mr Dahl or Pam Ayres
As where are their flair heirs
Their pastime rhyme in pairs
Sublime as climb down stairs
I cannot contain my dismay
At dastardly scheme at play
Ignore what new poets say
Deplore every proper foray
Encore of gem Lemn Sissay
To spin is not a sin can inspire
No shirking the prophetic fire
The din of our poetic pariah
Right society wrongs desire
Smirking working class choir
Benjamin chagrin Zephaniah
I cry why are critics crippling
Tiff with any riff that’s tippling
As lovely rhymes are rippling
Shout how about IF by Kipling
Is limerick truly just a gimmick
Nursery rhyme is just a mimic
All my efforts are truly pyrrhic
Lexicon crime from older clime
Ardour for a larder in its prime
Duly checked into rehab clinic
Going to say it one more time
To all those who chose prose
It ain’t poetry if it don’t rhyme
Taught is a sort of dirty grime
Shirty don’t care if you glower
Rhymes cease rest in peace
They say from their ivory tower
Poetry they sour by being dour
Well I for one will never cower
Contest can amaze & always
Come what may.. will forever
REST IN POWER!
A jackdaw is stealing
my tote bag of unused words,
a rodentlike kibitzer, a pecking dictator
of the worthiness of sounds.
If I run out of bullets now
he will take over my range,
blue-pencil my graffiti,
he will denounce me
as a purveyor of insensible languages,
a peddler of demonstrations
made for the amusement
of dabbling dilettantes.
Then I shall be defenseless.
I will have to render down
the fat of my mind
and when it is all as lean tree bark
it will be my own wickiup,
there I will wait
until he comes creeping again
into my larder, aiming to rob me
of my last cracked chicken bones,
my winter store
to make just a little broth
for my tongue.
Alone and hungry
left leg aches like a broken peg
in the mugginess of its left slipper.
Not a good day for fixing anything
but the sealed and over salted,
the quickly warmed and spooned
that can be mixed into a taste-less medley
with other sundry comestibles.
The pantry,
(a recessed place with shelf-space),
is a dimly lit store for long kept canned products,
a once carelessly gathered and undated harvest,,
a compulsive cartload
that should never have been bought
opened, and cooked
in any company but strictly my own.
In that larder molders a canned fodder;
here anemic asparagus stalks wrapped in tin
are jammed together with diced jalapenos,
or glossily illustrated kidney beans.
Tomato and noodle soups are haphazardly piled
atop of various loosely defined
stewed meat offerings, including canned Spam
naturally.
After the so-called cooking
(more a revealing of a much mushed-up
mixture of misnamed contents),
I sit down with the steaming plate
allowing the metallic aroma to entice
peckish yet suspicious taste buds.
Fed now with the quickly chewed-over
I’m both glad and grateful
that this ten minute feast
can be wolfed down in so much less time.
Hunger
Not even a crumb in the bread bin
No trace of nice icing in the cake tin.
I looked in the larder
Dark, so I looked harder
Its shelves bare and empty no trace,
Its previous good food had left stains.
So where do I go to find something
My appetite crying to eat?
I could go in the garden and sit on its seat
And hopefully somehow some fragment
Of nourishment somewhere would fall.
A crow could fly over
With food for its young ones
And carelessly drop me a crust.
I’m glad my Redeemer
Never lets me go starving
Never lets me dry up in my soul.
It’s true that he sometimes sends feelings
That make me feel needy and thirsty
But always He’s waiting to give.
He knows my deep need
He knows how to feed
And somehow he’ll work in my soul.
Somehow he’ll make me feel hungry for Him
And prove to me there in my uttermost strife
That He, precious Jesus, my Jesus,
For me is the Bread of Life.
There’s a bear in the kitchen
He’s ever so rude
He’s drinking my milk
And he’s eating my food
He’s broken the table
He’s broken a chair
And most every surface
Is covered in hair
He’s smashed off the lock
That was once on the door
He’s ruined the curtains
And pooed on the floor
The fridge he ripped open
Stuff strewn all about
I’ve nothing for dinner
He’s eaten my trout
When this one is gone
I will do some repairs
Fit a strong door
To repel wild bears
But should they get in
Their work will be harder
I’ll store all my food
In a solid steel larder
© John W Fenn 06-12-2009
Form:
Three weeks into lockdown, we're still in one piece,
the house is now looking pristine,
we've dusted and shined every surface we see
now only the air left to clean.
We've searched every cranny, we've looked high and low
but still there's no sign of our Puss,
I think that last night she decided to go,
got fed up with being over-fussed.
The missus each day in her favourite pyjamas,
and slippers, just wanders about,
but when she turns round, well, it really alarms us,
there's a hole,and her bum's hanging out.
We've tried to eat healthily, bought the right stuff,
organic, and calorie free,
but now it's got boring, and I'm feeling rough
so it's baked beans on pizza for me.
A real ale delivery is next on the cards,
it's top of the list on our plans,
don't know where to put it, there's nowhere to go
since the larder is full of beer cans.
At least we're all civil, no rows or profanity,
for three weeks now we've all been stuck,
I'm off to the shops,now, quite proud of my sanity
with mask on, and dressed as a duck.
You are the horn of plenty
Drinking I want you more
Drunk I am
with your beauty
Like a swan in flight I adore
You show me
such great passion
As life moves on
I want you more
The log on the fire
keeps on burning
embers warm with love
to the very pores
Like a squirrel
I fill my larder
My heart filled
with you I adore
I am the lion
in your jungle
It's your name
that I do roar
You are the queen
of my heaven
On bended knees implore
That you forever
will love me
Never leave to leave
me on my own
As the sun sets
hand in hand
into the distance
It's you I want
forever more
All about fall of Bazball and Stokes’s not Foulkes fate
Well what about back slaps for Black Caps chaps mate
Pundits rude culprits pulpits spewed twee oh so Kiwi trait
Mighty minnows again punching well above their weight
Really a campaign even without Kane their all time great
And the penury of an injury spate they were still first rate
Doff our hats to Matt’s vat of stats could hang in the Tate
Darryl no right knight apparel didn’t unravel to bouncer bait
Simply from harder Kiwi larder did Archer Armada frustrate
Nicholls with the don gone did come on and compensate
And the willow wizard Williamson he did commemorate
Way Tom & Conway with aplomb did play did elaborate
Riff of Smith & Glenn dashing or Rachin flashing celebrate
Blundell loving gloving getting a bundle myths liberate
Cruel flak that Zak got for being middle pace cack did irritate
Not in the top pack but joined the attack and did penetrate
Had a crack and got a stack so ace can each hack flagellate
Old school grace beat cool fool as Bazball rule did annihilate
Two of New Zealand’s famous ex pat sons they did eviscerate
Shroud in praise in proud land of long white cloud tributes percolate..
ODE TO MONEYLENDERS
Oh, what designs can one possess
Lending succour to those with naught
Such desperate need one must confess
And how hard one must have fought
When courtesy has no more currency
With those to whom one is indebted
And there is a sad loss of coherency
Then additional loans must be netted
Limited choices never were the best
Yet lenders all may seem attractive
In selecting just one from all the rest
One does have to be quite proactive
Yet each time, the first steps are easy
Later payments getting ever harder
Mounting dues can make one queasy
It can be hunger and an empty larder
Interest becomes the pound of flesh
With debts spiralling out of control
Raw need and sympathy never mesh
As timely repayment is ever the goal
Whether institutional or private loan
More than money may be involved
Property as capital soon sets the tone
And any timely exit is rarely solved
Pleasant outcomes appear quite rare
Borrowing is always a slippery slope
With risk of ending in a pit of despair
And yet for some, there is still hope