Long Mustard Poems
Long Mustard Poems. Below are the most popular long Mustard by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Mustard poems by poem length and keyword.
In my portrait of life the
palette began in pigments
of blue, red and yellow,
but with each stroke,
my horizons slowly dissolved into
mustard, muddy brown
and burnt orange.
Not everything you portray
upon a canvas is mutually accepted,
so my soul remained subjective
and my heart abstract.
As I collect dust upon my shoulders,
I wish I was a painting never painted.
Visibility has turned into a veil,
resulting in stubborn invisibility,
so everything is an illusion
lingering in a black hole absorbing
the conspicuous.
I know I will regret not expressing one day
but bitter roots remain rooted deep into the earth.
I don't want to hide
but protect what breeds inside.
I'm afraid someone may look deeper
into this façade where time forgets the truth.
My hands resemble a box of nothingness,
as hues fade from indigo into charcoal,
with pastels infusing with the darkness.
My heart is an ocean
beneath a motionless surface.
Not everyone can view the world
like Van Gogh's eyes,
where the longer you stare
the more you become aware.
In blind visions a 'driftwood' mind wanders
between mental blankness and
the angst of actuality,
all that survives is blackness.
If fate was fair
then we would all view and be viewed
in soft pastels of peach,
sapphire and lilac.
The harder I attempt to find myself,
I lose more than I thought I would gain.
At the end upon the edge
in the last exhale all that is left
will be the silence after an echo.
God tells me not to worry and to place my trust in him,
though my faith is strong as oak or steel,
sometimes I'm weak within.
I'm told he has a plan for me that only I can know,
but waiting for his answered prayer
is like waiting for grass to grow.
Here I am, Lord, down on hands and knees,
asking you to lift these burdens,
plaguing me.
Although it seems like you're a dream I can never quite discern,
my mind and soul help me uphold,
it's you, for whom I yearn.
As a runner for the finish line and a pilot towards a beacon,
to land his plane on safe terrain,
and birds return each season.
Though lost, alone and sojourning in this land we don't belong,
I keep my eyes upon the prize,
of that home for which we long.
Each step I take and stumble, like a child's first cradle crawl,
I lift and stretch and try to catch,
your smiling face before I fall.
With faith much like a mustard seed, growing in your Light,
I only ask, please let me bask,
in tranquility tonight.
The refrigerator opened by itself tonight
Weird because I had closed it good and tight
Ketchup bottle fell out to dance along the floor
We watched, expecting a few escapees more
Maybe mustard and jelly would be along shortly
And that apple butter jar that was a bit portly
But nothing else flipped out or seemed at all wrong
The ketchup bottle began a tomato song
We were tomatoes, all round and red.
Loving our life in the garden bed
But we were taken out and crucified
Now we are ketchup, buried deep inside
Oh woe is us, this was a horrible fate.
You do not care; pouring us on a plate
A little respect for our death, you brute.
I said to my husband “that was kind of cute.”
I'm eating a hot dog for breakfast
With mustard and ketchup
Watching lecture 18 of
'How to Listen to & Understand Opera'
Sometimes it's pain au chocolat,
But I'm in pain getting in the car at
6:41am; I drive in the darkness
Cuckoos, frightened birds,
Donkey-Jupiter, hurdy-gurdy
Tears, sorrow, cries
I hear the clouds -
See a chariot drawn by two frogs
I say out loud, "That's a mad silhouette of a person."
Such a description may well give the
Impression that the Earth is out of sorts
And every morning, this is the
Birth of comedy
I check the football news
There was a punch-up at the end of yesterday's game.
"Look how happy the crowd is to see a man being strangled."
The pig is in the poke.
Her son died when he was but a child…it was way beyond her belief…
She wrapped him in her arms and walked around…unable to control her grief.
She walked from house to house…”I’m looking for medicine for my son” she said.
Some felt pity…some laughed saying, “Whoever heard of medicine for the dead.”
She finally wandered to the feet of a wise man…she cried, “Oh please wise one….
can you give me medicine…medicine for my son?”
The wise one said, “I will make your medicine…but you must travel the countryside…
And bring me grains of mustard seed from every household in which no-one has ever died.”
The woman was delighted…at last a way to bring her young son back to life….
but at the first house where she stopped …the man had recently lost his wife.
The woman listened to his story with sympathy…as he made his feelings known….
understanding the grief he still felt…was similar to her own.
And at every house she turned to…on every face…with every breath
She heard stories of long sicknesses…of tragedy and of death.
When she began this mission she thought she was alone…
that no one else had cared
But now she felt a little differently knowing the grief she felt was shared.
With tears in her eyes she returned to the wise one…her mission finally done
understanding the grief she had been feeling…has been felt by everyone.
She handed her son to the wise one…who was the first to understand her woe
Having found her grief a little easier to accept…
she found it a little easier to let him go.
Traditional Format
Compassion’s finger strums another note,
he listens as the angels start to sing,
recalling lines from what apostles wrote,
indwells the spirit held by Heaven’s king.
Succinctly spoken leaving soul in tune,
the gifts we need are never under trees,
mosaic mustard seeds lit by the moon,
aspires our gaze and prayers on bending knees.
Submits himself to love and sounds of grace,
mistrust no longer drowns and mutes his heart,
united song with Christ, him to erase
so many sins in mercy to impart.
In essence, life and hope beyond today.
Contrasts the world, as it dissolves away.
-------------------------------------------------------
Acrostic Format
Compassion’s finger strums another note,
He listens as the angels start to sing,
Recalling lines from what apostles wrote,
Indwells the spirit held by Heaven’s king.
Succinctly spoken leaving soul in tune,
The gifts we need are never under trees,
Mosaic mustard seeds lit by the moon,
Aspires our gaze and prayers on bending knees.
Submits himself to love and sounds of grace,
Mistrust no longer drowns and mutes his heart,
United song with Christ, him to erase
So many sins in mercy to impart.
In essence, life and hope beyond today.
Contrasts the world, as it dissolves away.
The Lone Tree
The autumn day has been muffled up
in thick scarf and rainproof jacket
until darkness, countryside darkness,
clambers gradually over the horizon;
silence, stillness obediently at its heels.
Then black the night, wild the sea
and the lone tree stands tall,
branches muscled, trunk heavily rooted,
protective of its remaining leaves.
Next morning springs up; a multi-coloured umbrella!
It begins listening attentively
to the whisperings of the lone tree
teaching its remainder of leaves their tables,
i.e. how many wooden tables
could be cut from a certain sized tree?
Then suddenly scampering beneath is the wind
whistling a perky rendition of, “Good Golly, Miss Molly!”
Then pulling and pushing at the tree's branches,
it plucks at the helpless, hapless, hued canopy
until only a few leaves remain,
until only.. one remains;
a trapeze artist swinging from a high branch.
The lone tree now stares helplessly towards the hills
where its cousins, the evergreens, hold arms
as they dance gaily down a staggered slope
while a well-trodden path huffs and puffs
its way up in the opposite direction.
Then beyond, the sky sits heavily on the sea
as though resting on a blue chaise longue
while that wayward wind whips across
a mustard coloured scarf of a beach
tugging relentlessly at the weak and helpless.
Meanwhile above, the lone tree,
clouds sketch themselves in dark grey
and watch as the wind tires to an old man,
gnawing away with its bared, toothless gums
until finally that lone leaf.. succumbs.
Later, the hills step backwards into a fading light
leaving the lone tree standing naked
apart from wooded limbs swaying heartedly
in an attempt to cover its remaining… dignity.
Ian Souter Dec. 2024
Im on Edge
(Verse 1)
Im on edge
On the edge
Of the chair
Thanking the Lord daily
Through all this epidemic
He saved me
The price he paid for me
The peace of mind
From all that's happening with mankind
The heart start racing when I turn on the news
Everyday something different
Im becoming confused
Chorus
If you're on edge
Be on edge for me
You see I got you covered certainly
If you're on edge
Be on edge for me
You see I got you covered certainly
Verse 2
Have the faith of a mustard seed
That I will see you through
After all this is over
I hope you've renewed
Renewed your heart and your ways
In the midst of this storm
Give me the praise
Praise me while you're going through it
Know that I'll see you through it
I don't you give you the spirit of fear
I give you my listening ear
I'll listen to your story
Still give me the glory
Be still know that I am God
And know I am here to guide you when things get hard
Chorus
If you're on edge
Be on edge for me
You see I got you covered certainly
If you're on edge
Be on edge for me
You see I got you covered certainly
Bridge:
Don't you fear
I am here
Don't you fear
I am here
Chorus
If you're on edge
Be on edge for me
You see I got you covered certainly
If you're on edge
Be on edge for me
You see I got you covered certainly
Written by: Concetta Hardnett
03/31/2020
How can a cloud be made up of paint that doesn’t splatter?
It’s like someone took gross mustard and smeared it to make that hill in the background.
I don’t get how a painting can have a pond like that.
It just looks fish-less, nothing under there.
If I got so mad that I tore this painting in half?
There would be an obvious tear of anger.
Then you savor the energy.
Continue, slosh.
With paint like grated cheese turning liquid.
Everyone knows your paintbrush wasn’t washed enough.
Everyone can hear you grumbling and grimacing that you’re hungry!
The howl of two paintings.
Have you ever let your paintbrush be alive?
I hear canvas holds onto the old grit from your claws.
Having not done the things I wanted to do
and the things I've done not being what I wanted to do
I sit here looking at lichen on the north side of trees.
Black-capped chickadees
cheerful and truthful expression
grouped in platoons, sharing the point.
The tribes travel together
first finches, then chickadees
following the squirrels every morning.
What luxury, abundance! Handful after handful
of grass seed thrown, into wind.
The corn ripe and the rye with it.
The other main families: pines, roses, peas,
lilies, daisies, heath, birch and oak.
Maple, honeysuckle, pink, mustard, cypress, mint, olive, buckwheat,
primrose, willow, buttercup, saxifrage, snapdragon, cactus.
Truth may be ascertained by considering
the truth we feel, the truth we're told,
the truth we reason, and the truth we've seen.
It is so good to be a chickadee.
To tell the truth cheerfully and joyfully
in a way that makes others want to live.