Long Mealtimes Poems
Long Mealtimes Poems. Below are the most popular long Mealtimes by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Mealtimes poems by poem length and keyword.
Memories dance across our minds
Day to day memories surround
Stand and look at scenery that astounds
Jolting us into times gone by.
Family, closely followed by places you visit
Always with our forever friend.
Other memories jump the queue
Land of your birth waits to welcome you.
Returning for a visit long overdue
Journey, long and arduous.
Arrival, brings a smile to our faces
Bridge in view, brings homesick feelings.
Onward, onward, signs point the way
Arrival at birthplace, causes laughter
Families, friends, all waiting eagerly
Visits, mealtimes all sorted early.
Where to start, planning is a pleasure
Visit haunts that were treasures.
Breathe the air, so joyful to be here
Now, time to start that fateful journey.
Where you started childhood
Does the home still exist?
Always a welcome on your return
Other visits, lots of sadness.
Stand there looking at concrete and brick ruins
Memory banks start a slide show.
You just sit back as memories wash over you
Voices, laughter, fills the void.
Faces appear clear as day
If only you could touch and have your say.
Time to turn and walk away
Sadness presses itself upon you.
Bump into long lost friends, hugs, and kisses
Hold on tight to your forever friend.
Leaving this place, your heart it aches
Back to where your future called.
Another bridge, clearly seen from the air
Your other Country wants to welcome you.
Lavish mealtimes, Snicks would evade
She grew weak though paws jumped around
Clinging tighter, sweeter than dachsund licks;
Then... on fateful one noon, she simply heaved her last
Wink of dachshund eyes locked upon mine ,
The rain tears tapping, d r i f t i n g on my bosom --
Reveries of us brought raw pain, immeasurable joy
You, not a heartbeat far from my soul
That I rocked you where our herbal bush rested. Ever.
) *
))
All Dogs Go To Heaven Contest
Sponsor: Constance La France 8/19/2020
In the year 2319, we can only imagine how and what life will be,
Will there still be families, or just a pooled incensed, breeding sea,
Of writhing, intoxicated humans, clocking in for their lunch hour,
Trying to reproduce and gaining ten more points towards power!
Will mealtimes be as we know them today, or just merely queuing?
For a measly tablet which you must have daily, chewing thus renewing,
Your stamina to surf the planets at a graceful, fiercely unimaginable
Pace, you must be in Planet Venus by 8 docks, o’clock, fashionable!
As you arrive darkness greets you, your spirit, your being generates light,
Only on those you want to see or places that you long to be in spite,
Of the fact that if you stay too long, you sky home will be auctioned,
And your brain scrambled, and laid to rest, without been cautioned!
No rules, no policies, no systems, no charge, no one to give any rating,
Just chaos, and the thought of inhuman elimination, your clone is waiting,
And inherits your looks, your character, your wired and messed up brain,
And this clone will be cycled and recycled for the same to begin all over again!
I don’t know about you but I think it right
That kids should eat at the table, most every night.
Sit down with mum, sit down with dad
For these are the best memories you’ll ever have.
There will come a time and it creeps up fast,
When past days are gone, for they never last
When you will wish those days were back
When there is something in your life, you will forever lack.
It had been tradition, it had always been
But today at mealtimes children are never seen
They sit with their takeaways on their lap
Whilst the video games will, their attention sap!
And these days parents are forced to compete
With mobiles phones as their offspring tweet
For conversation at mealtimes may well be lost
And the lack of table manners will be the cost!!
Placed strategically close
to suburban hedgerows,
elderly backyard mavens
nourish generations of groundhogs.
Daily the grass is seeded
with 'Puffcorn Delites,'
bought wholesale from Costco,
An elderly lady died last year.
I see her at night,
as I take out the trash;
a small possum-like shadow.
The ladies seem to me
to grow more like the marmots,
and I wonder if I will ‘turn’ any time soon.
I think I could live quite comfortably
as a whistle-pig.
I dreamed that the widowed ladies
had put a spell upon our local critters.
By some manner of black-arts
had married themselves to woodchucks
and other medium sized mammals.
The late bewitched Mr. Mason
has dug a cubby hole
from which he peers
myopically each evening.
Archie Smith stays
amid the shrubbery
where he can read
the odd moonlit almanac.
Fred scratches his head
with a rear claw
contemplating eternal vows.
They show up at mealtimes.
Furred paws in tartan slippers
shuffle at back doors.
Herbal tobacco scents night airs.
A grey whiskered fuzziness
permeates the Autumnal evening.
Do I wake or sleep?
The widows lay their heads near
to this enchanted nether land;
snore in harmony
with their nearby furry loves.
All here snuggle close
to the roots of this
mist conjuring season.
2. START OF SCHOOL
The very first traumatic time for me, was when I started school
To be away from both my parents, and endure the teacher’s rule
In school when you’re a newbie, those early days, they were scary
You’re in a classroom full of strangers, where teacher made us wary
Lunchtime was not much better, the food, was really bland and plain
And no matter what they served you up, you didn’t dare complain
My seat was at a table, with my cousin and his mates
And any food I didn’t like, got shared around all their plates
The plan worked fine until the day, they served the salad ration
All the green stuff on my plate, I hated with a passion
We’ll help you out my cousin said, just give us the green
But alas, we all got rumbled, for the teacher, she had seen
She wasn’t very happy; she had caught me sharing out my lunch
You will eat that food yourself, not pass it round the bunch
but I cannot eat the salad miss, it’s food I really hate
I will stand here watching you, making sure you clear your plate
That set the tone for mealtimes, for the remainder of the year
So as lunchtime came around each day, I was paralysed with fear
I tried hard to miss those mealtimes, by turning up so late
All that agony and upset when I had salad on my plate
Working in a nursing home can be fun,
those darling old folks sure have me on the run,
like Mrs. Butt who says, I need to brush my boots,
or the nice old man, Huckerbee, who calls is salad roots.
Oh dear, my sciences are blocked cries Sadie,
she is sweet but her mind is just a little too scary,
at mealtimes she is always looking for salt for her tea,
she likes to wander up and down the halls following me.
It may be a pigment of my imagination,
but I am exhausted, must be time for vacation,
after I chase them down, I lay them down to sleep,
each dear soul safe under a pure white hospital sheet.
And as I turn off the light, a soul is praying,
blessed at thou, Frail Mory . . . .
________________________
June 27, 2013
Poetry/Rhyme/Hail Mary
Copyright Protected, ID 06-488-930-27
All Rights Reserved, 2013, Constance La France
Always later than I'd like, richness in their cells when ripe
Backberry with Apple pie delight, once to taste is not my style
I've also found them there, at times and whiles, and tasted also before
I'm home.' and now I've opened up the tome, the one on puddings; basin filled.'
Mullberry and plum, raspberry and kiwi, gooseberry and Logan
Make pages of colour, that one could dote on' But I'll admit and without
Duress, blackberries in August are the very best, their deep rich taste
Is always smooth, enhancing many mealtimes; theyre comfort imbued.'
The pot is on; the apples peeled, blackberries tender swiftly yeild
Aroma rich, perfumes the air; there are paintings of them on my spiral stair
All in all, I must profess they are a real forte; in culinary prowess.'