Long Litre Poems
Long Litre Poems. Below are the most popular long Litre by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Litre poems by poem length and keyword.
Grow tropical fruits here, near where I live,
harvested, immediately, travels sixteen hundred kilometres south
Then returns on that long journey finally stacked on supermarket shelf
name themselves The Fresh Food People, not so fresh , now inside your mouth
Family farm days amongst beef and wool ,one jersey cow for daily milk
goad her in, lock her head inside a bail
Sit ourselves upon a stool, clasp each hand around a teat
gently squeezed, squirted milk, to fill a ten litre metal pail
Transferred inside to kitchen bench could drink fresh milk if immediately desired
On dairy farm aged sixteen, observing milk collection styles
Twenty four hours gets to factory ,they claim its fresh, not me. We've been taken for a ride
Don't support commercial farming, grow my own,visit local markets
Lots of fresh to fill up several wicker baskets
Seek out real meaning of fresh, buy only what fills the wellness bill
nothing's fresh, if you're lined up to pay at the local "supermarket" checkout till
The only milk that's ever really fresh is what's taken, directly from the breast
Lie beneath a dairy cow, get your face right down close to it's udder
Let me know if you are satisfied with your experience and if the cow enjoyed you as a guest
Footnote: Excluded all dairy almost 50 years ago. Am now always feeling rather Fresh !!!!!
I didn’t know what I would feel about Doug Gay,
But I looked for a motorbike outside the church,
To reinforce his black biker jacket and sociology,
Which superseded church goers and that bunch.
I made it one of the first things I did in Glasgow,
To spy on the sanity crutches of its gem leaders,
Of the contemporary church the ancient throw,
To understand my place in society, had readers’.
I actually managed to have a short conversation,
With him, where I did inquire about monasteries,
And he told me that there was an abby, fixation,
Which he attended often for all his quandaries.
I felt that Doug Gay thought that this discourse,
Was important for what direction I took for sense,
And I knew he wished to replace choice, of course,
For serendipity, onto which god could map, hence.
It was an ephemeral chat, but I kept the dalliance,
And I felt efflorescence from my litre against religion,
Because I’d confirmed that Doug’s bold defiance,
Of the traditional church was fuelled by abbey liaison.
He related the bucolic abbey to Christian theology,
Saying that the Glasgow Christian scene was demesne,
And was a harbinger to the students was cosmology,
By relegating the church’s Jesus to erstwhile, totally.
He said that his god or Jesus had petrichor sweet,
Unlike the nauseating odour of the church stated,
Giving him propinquity to redolent credence neat,
Because he was historical, within the abbey gated.
I appreciated the Late, Late Service somewhat, bits,
His modern worship service of dance, so rebellious,
And now the Rev Doug Gay diligently and surely sits,
As a Glasgow University lecturer in studies religious.
Sequel to changes most socially something strange
and wonderful
some people may not in the first place understand:
How is one dollar, one thousand and five hundred
Nigerian naira?,
or how is one litre of petrol one thousand naira?,
does it mean one thousand five hundred Nigerian
kilometers square is equal to one kilometers square
on the western world?,
then how can we go to excursions there or even visit their
companies?
or yes how is corruption and solutions?.
Now, here is a question and question mark
what is Nigeria being up to date?.
Freedom — is there such thing in the United Kingdom?
Are we really free?
Please tell me, Boris,
When you kept us two years locked up,
Twenty-three hours boxed up,
Let out for an hour a day —
While Number Ten enjoyed countless ,
We were threatened with fines
For turning our car keys.
Is there really freedom in the United Kingdom?
Or in the world?
When we’re dictated to as boys and girls —
“You mustn’t say this. You mustn’t do that.”
How’s that free
When silence is forced
And dissent is beaten black?
This is a poem about freedom.
Or is it?
Am I allowed to say what I want
Without fear of retaliation?
A government dictating the liberties
Of every man, woman, and child in this nation.
But it’s okay — just sit back and relax,
While Rishi knocks a penny off your tax,
And five pence off a litre…
Then raises inflation fifty-four percent
On your gas metre.
The rich stay rich,
Watching their widescreen tellys,
While the poor man claws at empty cupboards,
Listening to his children cry
As hunger scrapes their bellies.
And you all say we’re free,
Living in diplomacy,
That we all have a choice —
How’s this free
When no one hears our voice?
If this is freedom…
why do the chains still rattle in the dark?
The War
==============================
We need a pair of wings
to soar in the luminous skies
and a pair of legs
to walk on the verdant terrain,
then why do you furnish arms
offering dread, agony & harsh restraint,
Who demands blood,
a hardened heart and unyielding soul ?
We require esteemed brotherhood
to guarantee our unity,
tranquil existence
and essential civility for our dignity,
then why do you impart ire,
impart brutality, turbulence & savagery,
who likes a bleak & desolate earth,
a barren land and a moonless dark night.
You may need a slendid palace,
a world of selfish kingdom,
and an ocean of fabricated tales to wage war,
But we merely need a small pond
to swim across, a leafy tree for making nest,
and a pot to cook our bread & butter;
when you will be trying to make your crown
after melting our future,
it is sure you will be no where.
Life is an entralling story
not an engineered pun,
history says,
those who traded other‘s blood in litre
their poison blood drained out in ton.
Wouldn't it be great to win a small prize,
So I can restock my stationery supplies.
I first write it down,then I type it up
I make lots of mistakes, then I rip it up.
Just when I think I've got it just right,
I knock over my coffee,
It's been one hell of a night.
At last it's all finished,
I've got a pile in the bin
If I don't win a prize,I will pack it all in.
I don't need a lot, just paper and ink,
Oh and a litre of correction fluid I think.
Now I'm going to the post,
I say this with a smirk,
If I can win a little prize
It's got to be easier than work.
If you think this is a begging letter,
Of that there is no doubt
If I could say I've won a prize,
I would have something to shout about!
Birthday Wishes
Penning to send myself birthday wishes
My muse flew off alike airborne kisses
Seventy three this month but to dismay
My mind grows foggier each passing day . . .
Gave hubby my birthday present wishes
Can’t say he’s keen for what I have listed
He’d be miserly shopping till he drops
And poor thing would rather avoid the shops.
Asked for ear plugs so I’d have smooth night sleep
Because there’s times he snores loudly and deep
Unwise, he may need me during the night
Can’t have him say I’m an uncaring wife.
A doggie to accompany a walk
That wouldn’t do as we live on third floor
A diamond necklace would suit me well
Must delete, or the living will be hell.
A litre of gin would hit the right spot
Perhaps not, as I would swig every drop
Maybe swap that for a huge box of chocks
But knowing me I’d soon scoff the whole lot.
So thoughts turned to some racy underwear
Not successful when I’m shape of a pear
Maybe a transparent lace negligée
Though it’s chilly when winter comes this way.
. . . I decided to scrap the present list
All I wants off me man’s a birthday kiss.
8th September 2021