Long Overripe Poems
Long Overripe Poems. Below are the most popular long Overripe by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Overripe poems by poem length and keyword.
I went to the man at school today
He chats a bit and watches me play
Asking questions about my feeling
Feelings that have got me thinking
How I am, and what I enjoy to do
Where I go, what time I spend with who
He asked. "How would you draw sad?"
What a stupid question, is he mad
But it got me thinking about sad things
About what feeling sadness brings
My drawing would be dark like mood
Everything wilted like overripe food
I want to draw my emptiness inside
Sadness is like a destination less ride
My picture, an inwardly swirling cloud
No end, no escape, no joy to be found.
Did it help? I'm not sure, but it's not like before?
Now some of my sadness escapes when I draw.
Kindheartedness
Ellen had a lot of experience in washing nappies, six bairns in less than eight years. William
Chapman had a lot to answer for. Everyone knew, or thought they knew, what poor Ellen had
to put up with. His drinking, his womanizing, and, some said, his violent behaviour towards his
uncomplaining wife.
The other women in the village tried to lighten her load without appearing to pity her. That
would never do.
Grace, Isobel, and even Nancy left bits of worn soap and washing soda by the scrubbing
board, and with Ellen being fourth in line, very often there was a good full boiler already
warmed with her neighbour’s coal. Most miners’ wives had plenty coal, but Chappie was not
above selling his allowance for beer money.
The van men from the local co-op store were also heroes in this respect. Davie the butcher
always made sure that the soup bones Ellen bought had more than the required amount of
meat still clinging to them. Her half pound of mince got another dollop after it had been
weighed and the odd sausage found its way into her meagre purchases. Then there was
Jimmy the baker who... accidentally... squashed some bread so it was not fit to sell. Ellen’s
brood did not mind squashed bread, it went well with the very slightly overripe bananas from
Ben McCabe the fruit man.
~~~~~~~~~~~
Not sure if this will qualify as a poem on kindheartedness but kindheartedness is what it was
in the 1940s
This occasion I will be quick
use all my every wit and trick
fast as a shooting star
I will follow, like a mammoth
comet I will cut through and
not wallow in the dark, lighting
the sky, a rabid Solar Firefly!
Constant in my blazing
pursuit, though the heavens
are replete with obstacles
thick, I will remain slippery
slick – sliding over the thin weaving
fearlessly through the thick, taking leaps
and bounds like trumpeting elephants making
raging sounds – God knows this muse of
mine will know no rest! – tired of word-salads,
cutesy at best! – Give me something
of your monarch title worthy, and not continue to
deplete my precious poetic time by offering me another
bowl of mushy, flashy, sentimental-card-like, low hanging
fruit, overripe rhyme – or you're fired!!
Summer, to me, is an overripe peach:
It’s messy and drips on your face.
At this time, it’s usually quite out of reach,
Impatiently eying spring’s space.
Yet once in a while, it plans an attack,
So sneaky you aren’t prepared
For the sweat that will suddenly roll down your back
And the bellies the women have bared.
Most people seem thrilled – there they are in their shorts,
Their flip-flops and tank tops or tees;
The crowds fill the streets and the weather reports
Tell us it might hit ninety degrees.
So I don my capris and, Scrooge-like, I go out,
Not enjoying my sweaty shirt-cling;
And I hope that the weatherman carries some clout
‘Cause he said next week we’re back to spring!
My poems are tops
says Pops
Read me one
begs his son
OK, Here we go
Hear it flow…
#1
Roses are red
violets are blue
Some girls can kiss
Your two lips are dead
#2
Over the river and through the wood
to grandmother’s house we go
Poor old woman, lyin’ in bed
Hey – Why’s she wearin’ a hood?
#3
Joe and Jill Biden went up Capitol Hill
Joe fell down
broke his crown
And Jill ignored him ever after
#4
I warned you
overripe fruit makes you toot
Happy trails to you
until your diarrhea’s through…
OK, son.
I’m all done
Thanks, Pops.
That sure was fun
All around me the land suffers too much greening.
The luxuriant froths over into a feverish lush.
Birds cannot consume all the insects.
Snakes cannot eat all the birds.
The ground hogs on the swill of decay.
If this is natures wealth then a little poverty
is needed, a tax on the riotous and too abundant.
Death the reaper must rule his kingdom with more gusto,
both the prey and the predator sparring none,
the sickly succulence of overripe sap
drained and clarified by a cooler sunlight.
I was whelped in more temperate climes,
wolves died of hunger and age not heat stroke.
The rabbit burrows are oven gates
for marauding hordes and an avid pestilence.
The balance is tipped and off kilter,
The climate repaints its face more garishly
each day.
I hear the mandibles of ferocity, their
click and remorseless grind,
and there is no softness in the nibbling jaws
of those who rampage silently,
those, who strip the bloated and obese
to the dark and rancid bone.
I secretly journey now under dawn stars,
trace my way over cooling paths
before another fevered heat
force feeds the land.
Behold the abominable annals of the Storm domicile,
A living, groaning edifice of lumber and bureaucratic despair—
Where Allen Storm, the paternal prodigal of procedural pedantry,
Treads upon its creaking floors with the rigor of a misfiled memo,
And Betty Storm, matron of mundane mismanagement,
Douses its sentient walls with detergents of dire discontent,
While young Charles Storm, a cherubic herald of domestic disarray,
Lobs rancid vegetables at its trembling windows in a fit of unreason.
O disconsolate domicile, thou art no mere inert structure,
But a quivering, sulking house of living, loathsome lament—
Its beams and banisters pulse with the bureaucratic heartbeat of neglected archives,
And from its secret cellar, a staccato drip of mislaid paperwork emerges,
Each drop a damning note in the dissonant dirge of decay,
A relentless reminder of a dwelling abused by its custodians.
In a most uncouth and disquieting retort,
The living house retaliates with vile vibratos of revolt:
Its walls emit a stifled, staccato sigh of overripe despair,
As doors creak open like the groaning lament of discarded forms,
And corridors exude a miasma of forgotten memos and administrative regret,
So that the very air around it becomes thick with repugnant, repressed bureaucracy—
A spectacle so discomforting that even the sturdiest sensibilities recoil
In revulsion at the unholy union of living architecture and domestic abuse.
Thus, in the annals of the universe where Vogon verse is vile and void,
The Storm family's treatment of their sentient, suffering house
Breeds an unutterable and visceral reaction in the heart of any unfortunate listener,
A poetic penance of pulsating pain and perturbed paper trails,
That leaves one pondering in nauseous wonder the tragic farce
Of a house that lives—and dies—under the oppressive hand of the Storms.
God wears the bling,
Its a constitution ting,
King Chazza going to fix it,
Give the corgis their biscuits,
Now he's got the crown
He can turn that frown upside down,
There's no way his Regal reign
Will get washed down the drain
The Patri, mono and hier archies
Rely too much on his malarkeyGod wears the bling,
Its a constitution ting,
King Chazza going to fix it,
Give the corgis their biscuits,
Now he's got the crown
He can turn that frown upside down,
There's no way his Regal reign
Will get washed down the drain
The Patri, mono and hier archies
Rely too much on his malarkey
To dazzle the curious populace
That might wonder if now its the time and place
To shed the over familiar embrace
Of a pale, stale, overripe monarchy
The media's wet dream fantasy
Filling front pages with hyper hysteria,
'Did Andrew deflower a teenager under the wisteria...?'
What will it take for everyone to see,
He's no emperor and, without clothes on
He's as naked as you and me....
Dusty day departs
Nightfall brings rest;
Home awaits heart
~~~~~~~~~
Weary day retires
Night birds coo Good Night;
Sleep on sweet dreams
~~~~~~~~~
Electric words whiz
Electrons on iPad;
Swirl of feelings
~~~~~~~~~
Silent hours
Rain washing panes;
Streaks of lightning
~~~~~~~~~
Fragrant kitchen
Food on the stove;
Happy meals await
~~~~~~~~~
Jasmine flowers
Scented explorations;
Garden party
~~~~~~~~~
Old tree guards
These ancient grounds;
Final resting place
~~~~~~~~~
Death comes around
Unexpectedly sudden;
Another friend dies
~~~~~~~~~
Crimson sunset
Somewhat different;
Misty drizzle tints
~~~~~~~~~
By this bench
No words separate;
My lover and I content
~~~~~~~~~
Watch the haste
World in a swirl;
Indifferent stillness
~~~~~~~~~
Hot weather ferments
Overripe pineapples;
Sour odours pierce
~~~~~~~~~
Small market stall
The Bisquit Store;
Tons of crackers
~~~~~~~~~
Mobile devices
Cellphones and stuff;
Brisk evolutions
~~~~~~~~~
Talk and chat
Nothing new to add;
Rancid conversations
~~~~~~~~~
Good housekeeping
Sparkling and clean;
Homemaker's pride
~~~~~~~~~
Leon Enriquez
21 August 2014
Singapore
I am writing you in purple. Not the word—
the taste: that iron bite of violet petals
crushed between molars, the way they stick
to the roof of the mouth like communion wafers
dipped in wine gone slightly wrong. You understand,
of course, that I can’t help but eat
each sentence as I write it. The ink
bleeds grape-skin bitterness across my tongue,
tannins puckering the soft flesh
where speech should live.
The envelope waits on my desk, fat
with pages I’ve been licking at the edges.
Violet. That’s the specific shade
of metal—not silver, not quite lead—
the taste of costume jewelry warming
against a throat, or blood
when you’ve bitten down too hard inside your cheek
and tried to hide it, swallowing.
I seal this letter with my teeth.
The glue tastes like the end of something:
overripe, about to split, that moment
when a grape becomes obscene
in its sweetness, when fermentation starts
inside the skin and everything turns
to wine or vinegar—there’s hardly
any difference, really, just time
and what you’re willing to call it.
You’ll taste this when you open it.
The paper will dissolve like sugar
steeped too long, and purple
will coat your mouth for days: brutal,
gorgeous, the specific flavor of a color
that exists between a bruise
and a flower, between the blue
of suffocation and the red of wanting.
I’m sorry. I know you asked for yellow.
But yellow tastes like cowardice and butter,
and I have only purple left to give—
this bitter sweetness, medicinal and lush,
the aftertaste of beauty
or of poison. Sometimes
even I can’t tell which