Long Milk(a) Poems
Long Milk(a) Poems. Below are the most popular long Milk(a) by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Milk(a) poems by poem length and keyword.
Santa Claus, Babbo Natale, whatever you choose to call him these days, in the hearts of many he was never defamed.
Yes, he rides his sleigh on Christmas spirit, fueled by the Northern lights.
Nine special reindeer with 4 toes on each foot,
prance around at night with a glowing red nose full of soot.
He wears a white trimmed jacket of velvet and fur
and when he flies across the moon, it's like a blizzard, a big fat blur.
Chimney drops, present tucks, by the time he leaves,
there really isn't anything to sweep...
A glass of milk a cookie or two, then off to bed for a fortnight sleep
While there across the midnight sky, Santa gives a
ho ho ho and a wink on the sly
Yes, he rides his sleigh each Christmas Eve for all the hearts that wait,
while Christ is readying for His blessed birth,
he Santa, is always waiting at the gate.
Child Drinks And Drives
(Parents Plead 5th. Beat the 5)
Mommy and daddy are going to jail you know
5 is too young to let your baby drink and drive on roads
Something went wrong along the highway of life
The child was not lucid enough for Officer Johnny
Who pulled the kid over, doing 50 in a 30 mph zone
“Where you off to kid?” He inquired
The lad picked his nose and said, “Want some?”
The law asked the youth, “You been drinking boy?”
The lad responded, “Mommy said you’re a pig.”
The pig…I mean Officer of the peace shouted out
License, registration, insurance card please!
You know the rest
Arrested on the spot by Mr. Prissy Cop
The toxicology test came back 2 weeks later
The child had been drinking at a bar
Snack bar, and had consumed chocolate milk & a candy bar
(Permit included)
Mom and pop are still off to jail
Derailed by other charges
Child endangerment, negligence
And simply being born prevailed
They will fight it though
This is America you know.
They will plead insanity, afluenza, (let’s say they’re rich)
And dehydration if it fits
This is a wonderful land we live in
And in the end they’ll take the 5th
Then take the brat home for a beating
That’s the least they do
For eating and drinking and stealing car keys
*(He will be punished in accordance with a nationally approved government sponsored beating program naturally. Similar to IRS corrective measures applicable for all citizens.)
Sear my heart, O rampant rage!
Simmer deep within!
Scour, devour this rusty cage!
What it takes to win...
As below, thus up above?
Not in this fair world.
Raptor hawk, guard well the dove?
Dead man's fingers curled...
Golden sparks to signal?
Attention that will get!
O prospectors, pill or pall?
Does it pay to fret?
No! Indeed not, my wild child!
Red run reconciled?
Crocodile in Nile beguiled?
Doubt and dismay dialed.
Tiled like floors in ancient tower?
Which architect planned?
Nightshade, is thy milk a-sour?
Blighted by the banned.
Is the ocean welling up?
Where the wound began?
Ark of Covenant, thy cup!
Revenant, how you ran!
Mutilation! Mutiny!
Murder in the streets!
Something lurking we can't see?
Have you seen the beats?
Reservations kept for six?
Bring thy crucifix.
Sullen heat out in the sticks?
Candles without wicks.
Fix it up, O soldiers!
We really must make do.
He who survives, first deters!
Ask the wallop hoo...
Germ of essence.
Human blob.
Shattered eggshell to the chicklet hatched.
Interlocking family of a kingdom.
Beget or begone? Antigone!
Pouch bearing mammal with no issue for her milk a plenty.
Enlightened species on
a zodiac sign.
Propagating genus wild and free yet stillborn.
Wet nurse in a pregnant phase but still a child at hearth or so it seems.
Meadow grazing Macropod fazes antipodean observer all the while.
New arrival signage whose laboured footprint chills on every impact.
Courier from catacombs, fateful torch aloft, flambeau at a glance where toddlers cheer, sonnet form heraldry ablaze with kindling verse.
Human destination thread that spins a hopeful tale.
Cave of legends halting site persevered by household zeal.
Stalagmite, stalactite, granite grey day gulag’s natal spasm.
Troglodyte who once did tramp upon a uterine tunnel trading in survival for relief.
Embryonic creeper stuck on dry wall canvas.
Border crossing cradle cordons off a check point, never mind the cost or inconvenience.
Acorn random toss, mighty oak seed trap between a leaf and fallen log.
Flower pollen stigma,
never seen as shameful to the fertile mind.
Tree of life penumbra casts a limelight shade.
Concepts pulse the mind like nascent parabolic kites that stymie outcome.
Genesis of brainwave.....
nurtured by insightful minds and marble carver tomes.
Olympic status offspring, budding Einstein player on the ball.
Thought, the inner urchin magnet probing deep inside magenta labyrinths.
Wheel of fortune‘s mumsy shadow
ova.
Masterful philosophy storing foetal logic on some growth cell’s wellspring fountain.
Infant augur embers fan their winter flame regardless.
Birthright , birthstone,
birth pang, the reproductive organs of infinity whose algebraic series has no final chapter scheduled.
What a nice sleep I had, no more yawn,
that tingling prick of hunger, all have gone.
slurping creamy milk, a tummy full upon
my soft cuddly mom calling 'Cootchy John'.
When will Dad blow bubbles on my belly?
and mom will give me some red apple jelly?
I love Tom and Jerry..oooh.. running on telly
but I hate my sticky poop, so bad and smelly.
My diaper now so dry, aaah..so silky I feel
Gee gah boo.. tah pah nhi,..with them I deal.
Only vowels of chuckles, from head to heel
I am growing funny bones, with every meal.
25th May 2019
Baby picture No 3
Sponsor James Edward Lee Sr.
Contest : Baby Face What's You THINKIN 2
The moss clung tightly; making it unbearable to breathe,
and she sealed her lips tighter than a clam’s— not letting the pain take over
As the stars drift silently, like ships on a lost sea of darkness,
she whispers to Hope:
“Swim free and look for the horizon, then come back to me...”
The night; collected on the leaves,
drops fell like Mermaid’s milk onto an already moist floor
Striking the shimmering tearful medium,
it gives birth to a shower of graceful pearls as the dawn awaits
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I hear your voice drift upon a cool ocean breeze;
gilded words of adoration
I glide towards it, praying that it guides me,
strengthens me,
nurtures me
like Mermaid’s milk
Touch as I might, my senses are in-different to please, my voice mute!
Be my Siren’s song and sing for me, serenade my senses back to life...
With an inquisitive tongue, I taste an almost scentless flower
It is but a wisp, a whisper, a flick of a ray of sunshine, but it was There.
So much is lost.
The rivulets of time, hear me, see me, like a ghostly apparition...
Capture me in that moment by lovingly painting me.
Sing me a song while you do,
and let the Mermaid’s milk flow again.
*****
Thank you David, for waiting ever so patiently for my long overdue part--
it was a very nice challenge for me to write this :)
Thank you very much for the inspiring lines...
In the morning light, a milk bottle stands,
A relic of bygone days, in my trembling hands.
Embossed with nostalgia, a link to the past,
From the dairy farm, where memories last.
As a little girl, I'd wait with glee,
For the sound of the milkman, with bottles three.
Clad in white, with a smile so kind,
Bringing fresh milk, a treasure to find.
The clink of glass, the cool touch of the jar,
Filled with creamy goodness, from cows afar.
A cap of foil, a symbol of care,
Delivered with love, from the dairy farm fair.
Each morning ritual, a simple delight,
The taste of fresh milk, a pure delight.
In that old bottle, a story untold,
Of days gone by, of memories bold.
Now the milkman is gone, the farm a memory,
Yet in that bottle, lives a legacy.
Of childhood moments, of innocence so sweet,
In the simple act of milk delivery, a connection complete.
As a child I lived in an old farmhouse
I was just three years old
The earliest memory that lately
In my mind begins to unfold
A creaky old place that made noises at night
Bumps and creaks, phantom footsteps would keep me awake
Shadows caused by lit candles caused such a fright
In winter there would be frost on the bedroom windows
And frozen condensation on the glass pane inside
Formed a picture of sorts which shone in the moonlight
Which freightened me greatly and sometimes I cried
I would pull up the blankets and cuddle up tight
Cocooned in my bedclothes I felt safe from harm
So as to keep warm and hide from the cold frosty night
As the old house creak which was part of its charm
As time went by and the older I became
Things started to change for the better all became clear
It was all in my mind’s eye Just dreams and nightmares
Just brought on by fear
Downstairs was the Kitchen the main room in the house
With a big old wooden table a bit worse for wear
And an old Arga stove where all meals were prepared
And in the corner an old rocking chair
The front room was used for a Bar like a pub
Which on a Saturday night could be lively and noisy to boot
Where Dominoes and Darts were played freely
And occasionally someone played a tune on a flute
Outside in the Cowsheds three cows stood and surveyed
About thirty Chickens out in an enclosed pen
Which Calliban our black and white Border Collie
Would wake up and check on now and again
At six years old I learned how to milk a cow
An experience I never fail to remember
And to drive a tractor whilst pulling a plough
And picking freezing Brussle Sprouts in mid December
Mostly I remember Harvest time collecting the hay
From the three fields that we had just over the road
My Childhood memories are never forgotten
Memories remain with me like a heavey load
Their Etched in my mind forever like a picture
I was nine when I left our old house in the lane
And I remember it as if it was yesterday
And oh how I long to be that child again.
To make a limerick oatcake
Five spoonful of wheat flour it`ll take,
The first, second and fifth spoons of 7-10 syllables must chime
With a rhyme that flows smoothly through all times.
The third and the fourth spoons of 5-7 syllables are bound,
To hold to the same sweet final sound
To each other with the same air,
Though quite shorter they surely are.
Then one adds a cup of powdered milk grand,
One cup of rolled oat of a noble brand,
Half a cup of sugar one must weave,
With a pinch of salt as joke that readers shall believe.
Let `s not omit drops of vanilla, a spoonful of baking powder,
And half a cup of butter before bringing to a knead proper
By adding a cup of liquid milk, a little at a time,
Leaving the knead for a while to shine.
The knead is checked for correctness,
Rolled in little balls, flattened with sharpness,
Then placed on a preheated buttered pan
And set in the oven, eight minutes each side, to turn grand.
Not that folks out there are keeping score--
But I envision myself as something... more
However, the main obstacle getting in my way
Is predicting what could go wrong every day
Particularly because I tend to be strait-laced
No place around here is hiring me with haste
I didn't succeed in school to prep for a career
Now I lack proper income, year after year...
Even with 2 A.A.'s-- and scads more classes
Finding my niche has been slow as molasses
Now I found out that with just my library card
There's access to free courses which I regard
That should have been my entire college ed!
But they made me go, so I got debt instead
Sometimes I feel I do not belong in this city
But independence requires being more gritty
Yet since my goal is not merely to impress
I often long for simplicity, something... less
Imagining rising early-early to tend a small farm
Except I can't myself cause an animal any harm
I could gather hen eggs and learn to milk a cow
Would I be dedicated with my hand to the plow?
Fickle as I am, my indecisive discernment
Confuses me as where to be God's servant
Would I find purpose in the White Violet Center
Helping with crops and alpaca, being a mentor
Or am I destined to keep putting up with this mess
Stuck here in a trial of patience, & learning to bless
Being here for my mom later, in her elderly age
As she was here for me, from my earliest stage
I don't mind my role as a helpful "volunteer lady"
But I hope for job security, without turning shady
Perhaps my hobbies and art could be an online biz
Earning my bread without shoplifting as in Les Mis
Probably I missed my chance to be a cloistered nun
Now that I'm too old, & tried to have too much fun
It's just as well, since I need to take care of myself
Avoiding kidney stones doesn't contribute to my pelf
And in what climate could this Little Flower grow...
Do I really need all this sun, or could I endure snow
Have I been complaining literally this whole poem?
Guess that's what happens when I'm bored at home
Through it all, God has done great things for me
I'd like to offer more to show how He set me free