Long Napkin Poems
Long Napkin Poems. Below are the most popular long Napkin by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Napkin poems by poem length and keyword.
The Mad Hatter wears a cape
velvety smooth and perfect
He walks with a diamond tipped cane
with white and black pateint leather
shoes.
Gold laden braclets and chains
carrys a silk stotch guard napkin
that repells stains.
hair slicked back
Man dudes flective
Smiling and grinning
at fellows and foes
with two bouncers to
protect him
He made his wealth from
palladium
he once was a preacher
and a scientist
who created a creature
the Scarecrow
he made this creature
sounds like a film
the main feature
he mock the poor who rejected
his science
gave wealth to the flock
so they'd be in compliance
there lands and there deeds
I will wear the crown
like a well respected man said
"aint Nobody can stop Me now!"
Baby Jesus wrapped
in soft tissue paper
Mary and Joseph
in a bubble plastic bag
The three wise men
wrapped in a
Christmas napkin
The cow is missing an ear
and the sheep have become
slightly yellow -
a donkey and an ox
are also included
No angels sing,
the star is extinguished
History and symbols
placed in a dark cabinet
Same procedure as every year
The mantelpiece
is empty
Wait and expect
all-consuming
hope is sucked out
empty mind
Believe when
all doubt is against you
Enjoy the beautiful dim twilight
Can't change who you are.
Can change who you become.
I want the millions and then sum.
This ain't no Willie-Lump-Lump.
Ain't tryna be no bum.
Spit that bull **** out on a napkin like sum bubblegum.
Leave that ass stankin.
Sip on the drank, and.
Next day do it again, Realities only began.
Like this morning when the birds sung.
David Daquan, mommy won! "Mommy won"!
Still reaching for the sun,
Reciting to the drums.
God is my bullet proof vest,
"Can't be taken down with a gun"!
" I walk like this cause I'm cold l like that"!
"Stand like tho cause I'm strong where I'm at"!
This ain't no pitty pat,
Automatic homerun when I swing the bat.
Stay tryna sit fat.
Scrambling and rambling
The mice were racing through
We held back, not wanting them
To drag their ugly tails over our feet.
Tearing paper into tiny bits
The mice were on fire, running in all directions.
The few people in the street
Ran back to their houses.
It was reported on the news that night
That there were tens of thousands of mice
Running through, tormenting us.
I counted most of them.
There were no more than six hundred.
You know how the news often exaggerates.
It did not used to be that way
But all standards have been tossed out now.
Uh-oh. I hear some scrambling and rambling
On my roof. I check the calendar.
It’s December 25th. I run to my bed.
I do believe in Santa! I do believe in Santa!
The mice stole my slippers that night
Ate Santa’s cookies and left a napkin
Shredded into little bitty bits.
Their intimacy is gloved,
moments dovetail
in a tea-room.
I color-in implied gestures,
listen to the ambience
of undertones.
They enter a confessional space
lips linger over shared visions,
oracles only they can read.
Lipstick on China cups,
the twirled edge of a napkin,
the unclasped mouth of a purse;
pieces arranged on a white tablecloth
of magnetic intimations.
They are both attractive
yet in different ways,
together they impart
a comforting confidentiality;
bring to this small space
a delicate allurement.
I sense a wry tilt into humor,
a deeper conversation surfaces
as they settle the bill.
Leaving the warmth of the tea house
they kiss
but only lightly upon cheeks,
no flamboyance,
yet the inferred diffidence
is far more telling.
One of them seems to carry
the other's onus of care
sheltering her body from the cold.
I have a brief impulse to follow,
to stay awhile
in their mutual life raft.
These observations I record here,
are moments
to be contemplated only later
with closed eyes.
It was not a dark and stormy night and the
captain was not on the deck of his ship.
He was at the old Spanish Inn at a table
by himself. I asked him what he was eating.
He said, "Tuna on rye, coleslaw and a mug
of beer." He was furiously writing something
on a paper napkin.
"When it's not a dark and stormy night," I
asked, "and you're not on the deck of your
ship, do you often come to this old Spanish
Inn and sit at this table?" 'Though he was
busy eating his tuna on rye, coleslaw and
sipping his mug of beer, he replied that he
liked to sit here and write.
"And, what will you do when you retire?"
I asked.
"If it's not a dark and stormy night, and I'm
not on the deck of my ship, I'll probably
come to this old Spanish Inn and sit at this
table by myself and order tuna on rye, coleslaw
and a mug of beer. Then I'll probably sit and
write for awhile. Here's one I wrote:
It was not a dark and stormy night, and I was
not on the deck of my ship. I had come to the
old Spanish Inn to sit by myself and write at
a little Spanish wooden table. I had just
ordered tuna on rye when the waitress asked
me what I was doing. I told her I was retiring
and had come to this inn to sit and write
poetry, repetends mostly.
Allegro
Crystal decanter, wine in a glass.
Tabletop woodwinds court candlestick brass.
Fine sterling service, stems in a vase.
High-tone enamel meets low double bass.
Pale yellow roses, peaches and grapes.
Clarinet colors tint saxophone shapes.
Citrus in concert, lemon and lime.
Echoes of summer in three-quarter time.
Adagio
There are brazen implications
In these muted, pulsing horns.
The strings are thick and creamy.
The bass line’s strewn with thorns.
Scherzo
Nail-tap percussion, tremolo drill.
Twelve o’clock whistle sounds cranky and shrill.
Shipping yard sunlight, loading dock shade.
Forklift holds pallet in mid-serenade.
Mustard-stained napkin, Styrofoam cup.
Strains of a power saw being tuned up,
Baritone belt sander wailing away.
White glove allegro turned grease monkey gray.
Rondo
Without darkness, there could be no light.
The sun would rise unnoticed.
Without silence, there could be no song
From either bird or locust.
Without winter, there could be no spring.
No flowers for your lover.
Without music, there could be no art.
They flatter one another.
I woke – or did not – and found on my pillow,
Bound by a knot – printed on a white napkin,
Strawberry lips with a pale pink glow;
Then I wished they were copied on my chin.
The only mirror is above the ceramic sink,
In the gloomy bathroom – But I dare not to see:
If nothing I discover, what would I think?
Could this kiss be less true to me?
I can unfold the napkin to place in a frame
Where all will know lips with a heart mold
Or maybe I leave on my pocket hidden from fame
Growing with me - a happy tale – so it’s told.
If every morning came to kiss me awake twice
I will keep sleeping - a third kiss will be nice.
A crazy old man once told me,
“Heaven is made of the things you give away.”
It appeared he was next in line for heaven
as he had next to nothing left to give.
We shared a cup of coffee, conversation,
well not so much conversation
as a gentle walk through a magical forest.
His voice had not grown old or weary
of his quest to share his experience.
He stooped to pick up a napkin
discarded in haste, tucked it
in his pocket as we walked.
He shared his muffin,
spoke with a woman
pushing a shopping cart
through the Common.
She walked away smiling.
The muffin crumbs he left for the birds.
He nodded to the homeless,
waved to strangers, petted stray dogs,
offering all the brightness of his being,
warmth of his eyes,
quizzical wrinkle of his grin.
His rambling soliloquy
poked sticks at the universe,
offered hope to the ducklings…
yeah … the ducklings followed him
as if they knew that he knew.
As we approached the starting point
of both walk and oration he spoke
of the completed circle – not the
circumference - but the center,
said that the achievement was not
in amassing things to give away
but to offer freely those things
that you always have. Time, he said,
is huge, as is a smile, a word,
a shared muffin, a moment
in the passing of an eon.
He left me sitting on a park bench
sharing muffin crumbs
and smiling.
1/25/2017
submitted to – Random Acts of Kindness – Poetry Contest
In a small café, customers stream through the door. I jot down orders that pile up as I wonder what’s happening in the back kitchen. The patrons are looking more and more displeased. I scurry table to table filling glasses running endlessly dry and simultaneously noticing the increasing number of empty napkin holders. Where’s the manager? Why is there nobody here but me? The order slips are almost gone. And now plates of food begin appearing in the back so quickly that I cannot recall to which table each one goes. I’m running and running, the proverbial dumb chicken but with its head still attached and throbbing! I hear the clamor of “Where’s our meal?” and more people keep entering through the door.
Now I find myself in a plain white-walled classroom of my school. The clock on the wall ticks on and on as students trickle through the door. Students sit staring as I search a pile of papers for the attendance sheet. The papers fall and I just know my lesson plan is lost among the scattered sheets. I bend to pick them up and my brain is a fog. What am I to teach? I sift through the disarray as ticking seconds become minutes, and a silence pierces me as I view the stony faces before me. I try to mouth words, but they simply won’t come. I can almost feel the fidgeting of the students as my upper lip begins to twitch. I know they are thinking me an imbecile. As I stand dumb stricken, time is fleeing, and more students are entering the room. . . . .
I awaken to the loud incessant ticking of the clock beside my bed. I’ll rise to greet my day, get into my car and meld with a stream of other people driving to their everyday jobs. There will be days that I encounter the cheerless or dissatisfied faces of strangers or even of family and friends. There will be times that I hasten frantically, feeling all is futile as bills pile up or work overwhelms me, and there are sure to be times when I will feel at an utter loss as I live vicariously the nightmarish woes which sometimes my husband must confront. How grateful I am for ordinary days whose hours of normalcy are heaven compared to the mind boggling misery endured throughout this world. And how thankful I am for ordinary days that greatly outnumber a few awful dreams!