Long Molasses Poems
Long Molasses Poems. Below are the most popular long Molasses by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Molasses poems by poem length and keyword.
An anti-resolvent-fume-
of-infest-chokes-out-integral-yield of humanity.
Thick as molasses, blackstrap morass of emnity.
Blight is apathy, and apathy is blight.
A Void, a claim farming the abyss.
Marketing it's lie, on sale.
Though it has a monopoly.
PolyEntropy.
In the garden of life; an empty field of dreams,
lays unintended on its side,
untended save for the shadows
that yield a mock harvest.
Decay on display of manifest.
The sky, descended as a Judas Ascendant,
it's belly gorged with malfeasance.
Exotic particles curse the ground
like wormwood in ritual burn, cache of ashen incense.
Libra sells you back your rye, mildewed and palmer wormed, to bore in at the destitute
at double price, double dealing
with the wages of Sin and Death.
Doubled down.
Doubled over.
So the pendulum swings
in shadows deep, a soul did sleep- in
Crimson and Clover, over and over, so over
the Lords of Plunder.
Its essence lost, a memory weeped as it counts
the costs.
Whispers of sorrow, a silent scream,
in the Wilderness-
under project Blue Beam/Warp Speed.
In the void, the soul did dream of cover
by militias of truth needs to redirect the beams.
The sky, a jumbotron of betrayal and lies,
false witness to commercial treachery
portrayal in its thespian guise.
Cursed particles dance in the wind,
like venus flytrap babys breath.
A haunting reminder of the wages of sin,
the touch of death.
The scales of justice are unbalanced and frayed,
black judgment, jury, executioner-DOJ.
Truth and falsehood in a deadly coliseum
where devouring Lions roam.
The rose of passion, its petals torn,
as humanity's innocence is forever shorn.
As the pendulum swings, a dance of despair,
seduces in masked charade in the wings.
Hope dwindles
in the poisoned communications air.
Ploughshares turned to weapons of hate,
In a world where love is overshadowed, here,
eclipsed by the tech magistrates in monopolistic
fare synods.
The farms bought by syndicates who will use starvation as cattle prod,
obedience broad, shock and awe.
The World Economic Forum is a synod,
a syndicate of Lawless Ones using purse strings to strangle us into submission.
Submission to their Fallen Angel false Gods.
I wanna tell you a story about a little girl
A beautiful sweet little girl
who enjoys living in her
own world of recluse
hopscotching to the beat of
her own drum
She's a dreamer and boy let me tell you
her imagination loves to run wild
You may find her gazing at the stars
envisioning the birth of an
ORANGE MOON
while love RAINS DOWN
Once gray skies dissipate
Heaven then opens up
as the GOLDEN LIGHT OF THE SUN
sticks to her skin like HONEY MOLASSES
She imagines taking A
LONG WALK to admire
the beauty growing
from the branches of
an APPLE TREE
reminding her that she too
grew from her family roots
to become BEAUTIFULLY HUMAN
She is CROWN ROYAL
BLESSED to have witnessed God
line her journey with FOUR LEAF
CLOVERS to impregnate her
with luck in the form of strength
It empowers her to move mountains
and dismantle walls 20 FEET TALL
Fearing no DANGER
she marches ON AND ON
like a SOLDIER pushing through
rivers of obstacles GETTING IN THE WAY
of her purpose
The SPRING SUMMER FEELING
leaves her SO IN LOVE
as she quietly confides in the flowers
by telling them
"the ancestors are WATCHING ME"
all while dancing to THE EARTH SONG
wearing peace and
blessings on her feet
while basking in the
manifestation of gratuity
He mother nurtured her
with food for thought
refilling her with infinite wisdom
She can hear her mother's gentle voice
telling her "GON' BABY, DON'T BE LONG
TIMES A WASTIN' and
be sure to pack light TODAY so you
don't hurt your back trying to
reach your NEXT LIFETIME"
The sticky sweetness
of an EPIPHANY rest on her mind
She levitates amongst the clouds
to swing on a rainbow
She don't want nobody
next to her on this journey
but the good Lord
guiding her beyond the ROLLING HILLS
and the valley low
holding her hand
until reaching her destination
to the woman she aspires to be
In her possession she has $3 and six dimes
a bag full of scribes
and a book filled with PENITENTIARY PHILOSOPHY
written by Mumia Abu-Jamal
I am proud of this beautiful sweet little girl
who enjoys living in her
own world of recluse
hopscotching to the beat of
her own drum
She's a dreamer and boy let me tell you
her imagination loves to run wild
©5-11-2020
Thy arms are opened
to embrace you
to hear them sing
ah-song of love and peace
who calms the shores
to create beaches Lord and King
held in high esteem
the sweetness of
a world ah-plenty
the world should know
how sweet the taste
Love lifted me
to great esteems
to make me smile
to make me sing
I taste the sweet
and glorious things
double fired plantains
pan fried and pressed into a muffin pan
filled with strips of pig ears in a tangy spicy sauce
topped with a cilantro green sauce
and toasted sesame seeds
5&1/2 cups of cooked pig ears
cut into stips
and boiled in
3 quarts of water
1 orange halved and squeezed
3 peppercorns
4 smashed cloves garlic
1 medium onion diced
5 tablespoons of vinegar
3 tablespoons of salt
3 sugar
2 star anise
cook for 1 hour until fork tender
drain and add to a bowl
2 Tablespoons of cayenne pepper
1/4 olive oil
1/4 lemon juice
4 tablespoons of garlic
1/2 teaspoon of fish stock
3 tablespoons of shredded coconut
2 tablespoons of honey
1 tablespoon of molasses
1 Tablespoon of spiced Rum
1?3 cup diced onions
5 tablespoons of toasted sesame seeds
1 teaspoon of celery seeds
2 tablespoon of soy sauce
1/4 cup of diced apples
1/4 cup of diced candied ginger
fry plantains golden brown
press plantains in muffin pan
to create cups fill with pig ears
and bake 15 minutes at 350 degrees
1/2 cup mayonnaise
3 tablespoons lemon juice
1 ?4 cup of chopped cilantro
1 teaspoon of jalapeno pepper
2 tablespoons of crushed garlic
3 teaspoon vinegar
What God has Claned you must not call common!
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
She was lean, she was mean, a fighting machine.
Sixteen brothers had toughened her up.
She was secret woman, our little Arlene.
Raised on cold kerosene from a cup.
Our mother had passed when Arlene came into the world,
On a horribly stormy and mean October Saturday night.
We all crowded around, as the drama unfurled,
Sixteen brothers, and a dad, oh, so tight.
We dressed her in our best hand-me-downs, the best fellows all around.
And took turns with her feedings, up until a quarter ‘til three.
Dressed in blue overalls, and short-named Arley, she loved to run around.
Like a wild thing, thinking she was a boy, the best she could be.
When she started to school, the teachers wanted her to change F to M,
Thinking she was a boy, a fellow, one of the guys, which she thought she was.
Until one accidentally discovered she was girl, but knew nothing of fem.
Then them teachers started horning in teaching her to cook and sew and stuff.
Pa and us stood helplessly by, as they tried to change Little Arley into a girl.
It was great when she could make delicious chili soup and cheese cake surprise
But we were all irritated at sixteen when she started wearing girl clothes,
And got her eyes on some idiotic seventeen-year-old not-so-great guys.
She went to the prom, and we all followed along in our pick-up trucks and RVs.
She was our baby, and we were not about to let anything change our family’s way.
Five years later we followed her and her new husband to Texas, so he could see.
She was our baby, and we were not going to let her move so far away.
The marriage did not last, and we have lots of reasons and thinking about the why.
But she is home with pa now, safely tucked away, with her wedding dress on the closet door.
Making chili and pastries, and other good stuff like molasses cookies and pumpkin pie.
Home where she belongs, wild and crazy as ever, Little Arlene, we always knew before.
Little Arlene, the best auntie around,
Little Arlene, the one our children adore.
Little Arlene, the best sister we have found,
Little Arlene, home for ever more.
Little Arlene, Little Arlene, Little Arlene!
I should have been a Beat Poet
I should have been a Beat Poet
Like Ginsberg or Ferlinghetti
They were good but not that great
Oh, maybe I'm being petty.
I could have driven across the States
Like Cassady and Kerouac
But couldn’t bear weeks on end
Jammed in battered Cadillac
Living on beer and cigarettes
Sleeping under a hedge,
I really prefer a comfy bed
And I need my meat and veg.
I don’t smoke much or really drink
A lot of alcohol
And drugs, well I am worried
That they would take their toll.
So, although the idea of dropping out
Is one with real appeal,
Is all that existential angst
Essential to the deal?
I have a beard so that’s a start
And a denim shirt or two
A pair of worn out 501s
In that stylish, vintage blue.
But is it really necessary
To embrace the seamier side?
Couldn’t one write poetry
Having had an easier ride?
I’ve seen the films and read the books
Surely that’s enough
Research for a verse or two
It shouldn’t be that tough
I could have been a Bahai,
I listen to “Thought for the Day”
Or a Catholic, Jew or Vishnu,
Well what I’m trying to say
Is, that faith is now a lifestyle choice
Like a car or mobile phone;
A tribal badge to identify
You’re a yuppie, punk, or sloane
For as we strut Life's High Street
Consumed by rampant consumerism,
Is it a socialist lack of pies
Signifying nothing, a mere spoonerism,
Or a repressive Capitalist Plot;
A new opiate of the masses
To avoid the inevitable truth
That we're wading through molasses?
Now I didn’t have to blow my brain
With mind expanding drugs,
Or travel to a sink estate
And live among the thugs
To pose these twenty-first-century woes
Or postulate their cause;
I managed sitting home in comfort
It flowed without a pause.
But really I’m just kidding
This is pseudo psycho-babble
No more intellectual
Than a game of junior scrabble
So no, I couldn’t be a Beat Poet
Like Ginsberg or Ferlinghetti.
Even the very thought of it
Makes me feel all hot and sweaty.
I’ll stick to writing doggerel
From the comfort of my home
And you never know one day
It may form an amusing tome.
What a sad day out on the farm;
A raccoon got a chicken, did harm.
At the edge of the heather,
The large pile of feathers
Was enough to raise the alarm.
Bat and Gat knew they’d need an assist,
So they asked Juno dog to enlist.
They watched at all hours,
Did all in their powers,
But still one more chicken was missed.
They defended another attack,
But the raccoon would keep coming back.
So they thought, and they planned;
This was going to be grand.
They were taking a different tack.
Juno thought it a brilliant idea,
So they ordered some parts from IKEA,
With molasses and more,
That they got from the store
And the rest sent by boat from Korea.
Then they waited for all to arrive.
Their assembly could now be revived.
They put all together,
Then added the feathers,
And their Tar Chick looked very alive!
Just as soon as they put Tar Chick out,
Here comes that raccoon with a shout,
“Hey chickie babe, dear,
Please come over here!”
He said, “That’s what I’m talking about!”
Well the Tar Chick, see, she never spoke.
He said, “Ma’am, are your kin stuck up folk?
And he laughed and romanced,
Then he grabbed her to dance,
And that’s when the molasses jar broke.
You see, both of his hands were now caught,
And the more that he thrashed, worse it got.
With his head and feet stuck,
He has run out of luck;
It all stemmed from the trouble he sought.
Then Bat, Gat, and Juno reappeared.
From his head to his toes, he was smeared.
Of the Chick, there was nothing;
She’d lost all her stuffing,
But no longer was he to be feared.
He was quiet; he’d quit talking smack.
He was so scared they thought he would crack.
Once he understood,
He got hauled to the woods,
And that old coon, he never came back!
With the raccoon threat now gone away,
The chicks could come back out to play.
Hero cats for the win
With their big Juno friend,
Bat and Gat once again saved the day!
----------
With an obvious nod to Tales of Uncle Remus, by Julius Lester,
one my mother read to me, and I to my children, growing up.
Time to get with the grands and outline some more stories!
THE OLD FART SONG
(sing to the tune of "Mamas Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up To Be Cowboys")
Verse one:
Old men ain't easy to love and they're harder to mold,
so train 'em when young, girls, don't wait till their bones have turned cold.
They're slow as molasses, wear cheap reading glasses, they're hearing aids give them away,
they grumble and mumble, they bumble and stumble, what hair they have left turns to gray.
Chorus:
Ladies, don't let your husbands survive to be old men,
Their best parts get limber, their brains turn to timber,
they spend too much time letting farts.
Ladies don't let your husbands survive to be old men,
because when they're home, you will wish you're alone
and they think they have all of the smarts.
Verse two:
Old men like old stuff, ain't that some strange stuff, how antiques will make 'em feel young?
They whistle like thistles, sling advice like missiles and sing like their a**es got stung.
They're always ploying and tinker toying, they usually, always repeat:
What did you say dear? SPEAK UP NOW, DAMMIT! and, When in the hell do we eat?
Repeat Chorus
Verse three:
Old men like talkin' way more than go-walkin', but listening, well, not so much.
Don't try to change him or even "re-range" him, or mess with his habits and such.
Changes upset him, so you better let him, still think he has plenty pizazz,
or he will snuffle, kerfuffle and shuffle, doin' stuff that's a pain in the azz.
repeat chorus
Verse four
They say that old soldiers don't die, that they just fade away,
it's the same with your old man... remember each dog has his day.
Don't nickel and dime him, remember to prime him, be kind as he turns into dust.
Through thick and through thin and through silly and sin, you're together for better or bust.
FInal Chorus
Ladies, don't let your husbands survive to be old men,
let 'em be babies and let 'em be children
and let 'em be heroes again.
Ladies, don't let your husbands survive to be old men,
When they hit bottom, be thankful you got 'em,
'Cause soon enough it will all end.
A man talking loud in the subway
For every body to hear
He talking about his country
And the beautiful women they have down there
Well I open my ears now
I playing “maco “I want to hear
Now every one looking at him now
But he just talking, her don’t care
He said he from Trinidad and Tobago
With the prettiest girls where ever you go
From down by the wharf in san Fernando
Port of Spain, ste Madeleine, and mayaro
He said, Trinidad and Tobago
Is like one big fruit bowl
After god made Trinidad women
He destroy every last mold
Some tending cattle in the country
Some is an executive secretary
Some is doctors and lawyers
Some is house wife’s making hot sada roti
Some dress in the latest style
Some just like a casual dress
Some goes to Shirley beauty salon
And some like their hair in a mess
You will see them bathing on the beach
You will see them walking on high street
You will see them entering at “Naz cuisine”
To get the best food in Trinidad to eat
They come in all shape and sizes
Different color and different race
like Molasses tulum and sugar cake
With Different religious practice
Trinidad is the beauty capital of the world
Remember Janelle penny commissiong
The first black miss universe
To ever hold that prestige’s crown
Well I must admit he had me thinking
Were is this paradise Trinidad and Tobago
I going work hard and save my money
And just buy a ticket and go
Trinbago women love doubles with pepper
But still they sweet for so
And they kiss does still taste like sugar
Even when eating chow with half ripe mango
The way he talking bout Trinidad women
You would swear he talking bout a candy factory
All the men who was listening
Take out their phone to call the travel agency
Well the guy gets out the train
But leave us thinking bout Trinidad woman
Some of us just want to go for one
And some want one of each in their bands
Well I know I’m not good looking
But I want to go to this island in the sun
So I call Sandra travels to make a booking
So many beautiful women, I want to get one
The day would pass in blissful brightness, with our brains on auto-pilot. The stories we'd tell and the memories we'd conjure up from years past, one couldn't help but think we were all running on about four pots of coffee each with the energy that was pumping through our veins. From jokes about serial killers in the woods, wondering if we were ever gonna find the lake, to the constant face-palms of: Why-didn't-we-do-this-sooner? and We-should-do-this-more-often! It was an indefinable mix of regret at having not done this earlier, and joy at the prospect of more to come.
To this day I can still recall the feeling of sitting by the shore of Hidden Lake, watching the sun set behind the tall mountain peaks that threatened to shatter the sky, knowing full well what would happen if I didn't gather wood for the fire soon. The darkness would encroach, and the temperature would drop to such that even the leaves themselves might shiver. The sun took his role once more as the proverbial clock, and the moon, his mistress, would instill within us that feeling of yearning long buried beneath decade's worth of city distractions.
Joel would be chopping sticks and logs, and Monica would prepare the sausages for the fire, while the rest of the gang (Jonathan, Brandon and I) struggled with setting up tents. Deeply knit eyebrows, tongue stuck out in deep concentration, as if anticipating future interstellar flight. It came to me shortly after, once the pegs were pegged, flaps were zipped, that if by some miracle Buzz Aldrin stepped into the woods on that fine snowy evening, he'd happily affirm my suspicions: it's not rocket science, folks.
The mirror of the lake would turn into molasses when the sun finally set. The flashlights would be drawn, cutting into the night like light-sabers or futuristic cyclops if headlamp is more your style. The rest of the crew were all huddled around a crackling fire, and I'd be changing into my skivvies not 10 feet away. Why?
Because I could.
coals smolder
a spark cleaves
to the sky