Long Leftover Poems
Long Leftover Poems. Below are the most popular long Leftover by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Leftover poems by poem length and keyword.
Poet of Perkiomen Valley
discovered aforementioned titled poem
about thirty months ago he wrote
impossible mission critters to smote
chronic issue yours truly does note
years later meaning today
April 19th, 2022
necessitated we allow, enable
and provide welcome to exterminator
actually management did hote
(obsolete) To command; to enjoin
hazard upon body, mind and spirit,
thus ridding apartment b44
visited by said swarming insects,
his expertise sought to mitigate
courtesy applying insecticide.
Insects created dark shadows
analogous brought outer limits
of twilight zone
resembling edge of night
in truth our one bedroom apartment
at that earlier date
affected, encroached, and outsmarted
by massive infestation of
Drosophila melanogaster light
weight winged worst
pests to eradicate
(scientific name regarding
winged flitting nuisance ignite
mentioned in title) besieged,
inundated, and thickly swarm.
dost primp and pretty
fie themselves (to
attract a witty
mate) during their
40 to 50 days city,
or suburban life
cycle long enough
to qualify for this
quickly written ditty
seemingly overnight
a bajillion biz zee
buzzing adults (each
about 1/8 inch long see
their world wide web,
thru at least one
unusual red eye,
which compound eye
of the fruit fly
contains 760 unit
eyes or ommatidia, well nigh
hapt tubby one of the most
advanced among insects,
where Google search
for home remedies aye
didst find to exterminate
these teeny weeny pests,
plus informational pursuit my
instantaneous curiosity yielded
above mentioned
esoteric tidbits,
sans accidentally disc
covered helpful good riddance
material of household ingredients
restraining me to breathe sigh
of dollop, and hope to try
one or more solutions,
which informed
this amateur entomologist -
listed forthright as:
1. Create a trap by mixing
apple cider vinegar
with a few drops of dish soap.
2. Another homemade trap is to
pour leftover red wine into a jar.
3. Mash up banana slices in a jar, and
cover top with a plastic wrap.
4. Pour bleach solution
into bathroom sink.
5. Detonate atomic explosives
as a last resort.
Line of inquiry: track where lies the fulcrum of the fragrance of a rose, then likewise find within, your soul —Unseeking Seeker Contest
Fulcrum of a Rose
pinwheel spinning
reds, pinks, whites, butters
I found the garden’s rest in
peace s i g n
a spray, spewed across this holder
of breath
letting g o
the mailbox painted army green
underneath my nose
I know no more no less
than lessons l e a r n e d
with win some whiffs
does it pass the sniff test…
I’d like to find delightful the p r i c k i n g
of my nostrils, the inducement of petals
at first velvety soft
their perfumes
make my heart bleed
my uncle’s in a green suit, laid out
with just one truck punch, and it lingers
his scent, his lack of smile, the coldness of
the hand I touched -
he’s asleep…he didn’t move a finger
f r a g i l e
youth forever bathed in rose-scented water
a single red rose fought for his life in the snow
the scent lingers in
the leftover towers
I’m adept
in such ghostly afterglow
my husband knows
I prefer T U L I P S
There are so many memories of Hoosier farm life that I remember,
But one in particular I recall occured each cold and drear November.
Dad would proclaim, "The old boar has reached his maximum weight!"
That meant the lumberin' old feller was about to meet his fate!
After Dad had done him in, puttin' an end to his squeals,
He was hoisted by block and tackle and strung up by his heels.
Dad wouldn't abide us kids standin' around unoccupied,
So we were put to work scrapin' the bristles off its hide!
Mom had a tradition we always looked forward to with delight.
She always fixed fresh tenderloins for supper that first night!
Late into the night Dad ground meat to stuff for the sausage,
That he had seasoned liberally with red peppers and pungent sage!
Only Dad handled the curin' of the savory hams and bacon;
He had a knack for smokin' and tenderizin' 'em - expert care was taken!
A concoction called souse was made from leftover scraps of meat.
I don't know which I loathed the most - that or the pickled pigs feet!
I'm told folks don't render their own pork much any more.
Its more convenient to buy it neatly packaged at the local store.
But for my money there ain't no better ham, bacon or sausage to be had,
Than that prepared and cured on the farm by my dear old Dad!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
We are a conceptual space,
come play.
We are hidden so well
nothing can find us
not even space creatures
born in all the heavenly realms.
In my open mind is an idea so large
it can be indefinitely shrunk
until it makes some kind of sense.
Space seals everything
with a cosmic kiss
if you can see it, it’s not there.
Tzim Tzum
There are parts of myself
I have not yet met.
I am as false as any notion could be
but then,
I am that which I ponder.
The unknown cannot be measured;
how can we weigh a false thing
when we know so little of fiction?
The only reality leftover
after I am dead
has just left.
Tzim Tzum.
Progress seems proudly perched on flyovers,
Sold on many a toll-dotted speedways.
Each, pylon-pecked, on hinterland hovers,
And not on friendly crisscrossing highways.
They slyly gloat over our urban mess,
And conceal, not care for local problems,
Which, ostrich-like, we bury to by-pass,
And do sweet little on the urban slums.
Should progress treat poor as from nether land?
Cut off from sun, fit t’be hidden under,
Whilst ugly growth is left on own to mend,
What price progress piled on planning blunder?
Everyone dreams a brand-new world to build,
Where no organic growth gets widely spread,
Wherein natural greenery gets killed,
Mother Earth gets gradually degraded.
Flyovers are fine, so are expressways,
Not if overlooked are our hinterlands
Shepherded on the leftover bye-ways,
Not if villages get locked as wastelands.
Yet, that's what most flyovers seem to do,
Expressways if they only metros care,
When dotted lines only but two dots woo,
And leave smaller towns in suspended air.
For concrete jungles, local greens we kill,
Block rivers to build giant reservoirs,
And make the freely flowing rivers ill,
Block neighbours behind winding flyovers.
That progress seems fair— even high in air,
If all that lived around were it to care.
___________________________________________
Happenings | 03.06.2004 | perspective
The last of the daylight
s l i d e s across the riverbank
in
its
own
time,
not hurried,
just moving the way light does
when the day is almost done.
Light d r i f t s
across
the water,
thinning
at the edges,
a leftover brightness
finding its place without ceremony.
Reeds b a r e l y move~
a
small
shift
in the air
suggests something passing through~
not a thought exactly,
more like the pause before one forms.
For a moment,
the world holds s t i l l,
not perfected
or polished,
just resting
in whatever shape
it happened to take today.
White Supercilium, black face mask,
White collar,
Dark buff head with Black central stripe,
Dark gray stout bill,
Gray eye-ring with white awake – eyeliner,
Buff crowned,
Glossy blue, dark green, Turquoise-Blue,
Shocking white wing-coverts,
Thin black trace, garish scarlet Underbelly,
Black blue-tipped tail,
Toned, endless, enviable strong pins
pink
Divine ensemble apt for
Wallpapers, earrings, motifs, art, stamps and study
They sit shy, inconspicuous, in
Leftover dense forest
Mad for being naive in
Sartorial world, they keep
Picking up worms under leaf-litter
On forest floor, autumn always
Secretive Monomorphics
Complain to Sun
Once at dawn, once at dusk,
risks
To migrate preferably at night
Opulent pair dances to mate
Nests to breed, care their chicks,
Teach their fledglings to hide and play
Along predators’ plenty,
Teach their fledglings along
Stressful achromatic life,
to fly away
They took the last paintbrush with nothing in mind.
Just the canvas and who else stomps in.
I have a lot of leftover blooms.
Just trampled on like they do.
The forest is when.
I have another paintbrush in mind.
And evaporate.
The last thing they would trample on.
Deflated for the last time.
I have a band aid.
Just the canvas and.
Got mangled.
I like it when.
The forest is a bank account.
Just leaves pressed against the graves.
They took it.
Trampled on.
Like leftovers.
For no reason.
Has a lot of holes.
The last paintbrush they took.
Got trampled on, mangled, evaporated.
Just like when.
The leftovers.
The oranges came upon the
Reds followed too quickly by golden
Yellow leaves.
Hitting his own autumn the commuter took
One moment to suppose that
Tree had something to do with his own time here but
The metaphysical was beyond grasp.
He understood the sell and the buy
The unstoppable flow of raw goods
To manufacturer to emporium to consumer to junk yard.
He blew his horn anxiously at the gawker in front
And sped down the boulevard toward
Another day—telephone tied to his ear
Retailing and counting exchanges in minute specialty.
Outside, one child
Lays looking through the trees for the day to break
Catching for the first time the mix of redorangeyellow.
The horn breaks his moment.
He too remembers the school bell
And skips off for another repetition
Of yesterday.
I hold on stretching the moment
Out past millenniums opposing the rush
Into eternity proffered by the Wallstreets of America,
Walmarting each of us onto a higher plane of shopper madness.
Shoppers of America, lechers of our time,
Cannot even laugh at me for my leftover
Quixotic operation on the Schuylkill River.
For their stare is lodged at King of Prussia Mall
With its answer to the repetition of changing trees-
Newfangled toys for every day let alone Hanukkah and Christmas.
If they had seen me they could have pointed
To their children an example of
A wasted life without
A patch doll or plastic jack-o-lantern
In the window above the garage door leading into my home.
I kickedaleaf and tried frantically to slow down the trifling time
I had before the parts of my body wanted no more to carry the weight
of my mind digressing or my conceit.
Evangelist, Pastor, Musician, Composer, extraordinaire
The Philippines, to
Israel, Greece
Turkey, Tonga
Alabama, to Maine
Fullness of heart
Fullness of spirit
Fullness of mind
Hers give not receive, offer not demand, love not deceit, prayer
Unfamiliar faces
Not knowing places
Staring into spaces
Peter's hands she graces
Oh mother of mind
Return to me
And free me of my bind
Decisions asked, nay made, heedless to all, sole caretaker
Though she forgot us
Bathing, eating still a plus
Singing songs were gone
Uttering the Word, unheard
Oh mother of mind
Return to me
And free me of my bind
Make her whole this Royal journey that you must take her
For the hour draws nigh
Yet I know you'll deny
For the powers that be
Nay set her mind free
Oh mother of mind
Return to me
And free me of my bind
Your birthday just days ago and still leftover cake there were
T'was part of the course
Be the best, be the most
For nay, not here to coast
Nay so, not even to boast
Oh mother of mind
Return to me
And free me of my bind
"Son, I want to go home", "Oh, doc...", and in 3 days she was there.
...Voyage pacifique royal
2019 September 18