Long Packets Poems
Long Packets Poems. Below are the most popular long Packets by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Packets poems by poem length and keyword.
CRY PLANET CRY
Every country is guilty of polluting planet earth,
All the way down its length and across its girth,
We all will ultimately pay the deserved price,
Who will be first, it’s like rolling the dice,
To mention a few, Moscow, to London to Perth!
We throw plastic bottles, packets of take away food,
From car windows, from high buildings, so crude,
Rubbish mounts up horribly in suburbs and cities,
We are committing suicide, was it this bad in the fifties
People then could plan for tomorrow, no longer dude!
Factories, trucks and old cars emit carbon dioxide,
We walk and drive through rubbish, have we no pride,
Do we not sorrow for the future, even the morrow?
We might as well go freeze at the top of Kilimanjaro,
I see a planet mourning, hopeless tears will be cried!
We must practice dialogue intellect and compassion,
Is all this now out of fashion, where is our passion,
Presidents, prime ministers, all rulers look ahead,
For quite plainly if you don’t we are all dead,
No malignant plans please, and no more dispassion!
Scribe Under Fire
The wall had been there for an eternity
closing gaps of time and sacred places
field stones memories and gentle caress
Hans could not write any longer any
shorter it was too loud and far too quiet
the truth did not escape the lonely
fortress of sheltered dreams’ betrayal
He had lost a touch of his mind and a hand
already in previous senseless exchanges
luckily he was born tough and left handed
before right became wrong and left was a crime
When the trenches had become thicker
with blood bodies sticky bayonets guts
gore debatable glory and forlorn medals
Hans wrote from the depth of soul and despair
Hell bombs grenades shrapnel and agony
enacted a torrid cacophony of fire and noise
his nostrils became scorched while his ears
refused to hear and to listen any much longer
Scribbling poetry on the back of cigarette packets
his molten fountain pen fused with his mind
and he fought for his life his sanity and one
terminal act of kindness morale and advice
Hans could not release even one more shot from the
gun dangling from overburdened shoulders but
the sergeant shouted ‘attack you wretched coward
for King and for country for honour and sweet victory’
It had been a modern war and someone must have
known about shell shock or post traumatic disorder
but when they executed him with clean merciless shots
from a nameless firing squad because it was not for refusal
But for spreading fake news about the beauty of war for
sabotaging innocent minds of future generations for
soldiering with a mighty pen and not with a glittering
sword so he was shot at the wall for writing and not fighting
September 2018
Hungry souls love a large pot filled halfway with bottled water.
Add 3 12-ounce pkgs of savory mild Portuguese sausages, finely chopped,
While the pot is simmering on the stove, on medium-high heat.
Add a couple of diced ripe round onions
In a short while, add two cans of dark red kidney beans, then, as
It boils,
Add a tray of tiny, sweet, color-filled tomatoes, cleaned.
Next, set the stove to simmer.
Sets of two small cans of tomato sauce and a can of
Tomato paste, into the simmering pot
Yet, keep stirring the pot ever so often
Lastly, mix in two dry chili powders
Enclosed in packets.
Chili powder is stirred in until it is nicely blended.
Hot Chili Mix might be too strong, so medium or mild
Is best
Leave on the stove, well-mixed with the stove off.
It goes great with steamed whole-grain rice.
Daylight slips in and out
of yellowing curtains,
as the sun blinks.
At such times
her thoughts
appear and disappear
The old lady has planted
her mind in closets
where dreams wither,
in kitchen cupboards
where herbs and spices dust the dark.
She will leave what she can;
small packets once gardened
when she cared to cook.
It is coming -
a change of occupancy.
She senses strange feet
and slamming doors,
young laughter runs in and out
of her breathing space.
Until then, she is here
in her last chair
in a memory-seeded apartment,
listening to the history
of her tucked-away life.
if the rain were to fall
and the sky were to bubble in clouds
would you return to me
would you clean the wounds of my life
and sacrifice some of your soul for my own
what is it in this world
that hardens our hearts and strangles love
we have died every day among the beauty
yet, we are drawn to the ugliness of sin
to willingly burn in the candle's flame
if i had lived pure
would you give in and carry
me to places i've only dreamed of
caress me as a child and
love me as a lover from your past
bring forth the packets of pain, gather among us
in a reunion of regret, in a sea of solitudes
as the rain begins to fall from the bubbling clouds
washing the dust from our spirits as we rise
forever and forever free
C2023 Thomas Lee Rhymes - April 21, 2023
O Oreo, thief of rustling packets,
how do you always find the treats?
You pull open drawers in the dead of night
like a burglar wrapped in black and white fur.
You leave ripped catnip bags across the floor
as if destruction is a kind of art.
The dog growls when you pass,
but you only flick your tail and carry on.
Every cat in the street knows you somehow.
You meet them beneath garden fences,
touch noses like you’ve shared lives before.
And maybe that is why I love you so fiercely.
Because before you, there were others.
Four names I still carry quietly.
Three boys lost to the road,
one girl stolen by poison.
You are chaos, Oreo,
all sharp claws and crooked habits,
yet you curl against me at night
like something determined to heal what it never broke.
Blemishes
My body’s mistakes
My wounds of disgrace
Injected by faith
In science and progress
Flogging myself with second-guesses
I have given myself away.
to uncaring men, pressed jackets
white jackets, packets of sympathy
baskets of fruit set upon the writing desk
in solitary confinement, padded walls.
haunted halls, bathroom stalls with locked doors.
Linoleum floors
Poor, poor pitiful me
Cherry pick my favourite reasons,
depending on the season
Why do the patterns keep repeating?
serve them up on a platter!
for delicate devouring
and just desserts
some things are generational.
inherited
bestowed
I cradle my worth.
In my own wretched hands
Once delicate
Here I stand.
Not stolid
Nor stoic
I am not put together.
Not sorted
I am apart.
Electrical currents running through the pieces,
stringing them together
Making a woman out of angst and energy
The sheer will of being.
I have nothing to live for
Only these words
Hospital gown flowing in my rage.
Windswept, like a mage
In the middle of casting a spell
A sorceress in distress, in peril
Fighting to remain
In the moment, present and tame
But wild fear presents itself at my feet.
The wolf is ready to eat.
I stay indoors to hide from the chase.
But at the end of the day
When night falls to the ground
I heard the call.
I wish to respond.
To howl back at the crack of dawn
Rolling in the sun with my wild baying, panting, praying
But I stay put.
I hold it back.
Inside my skin that cannot contain
My ancestral blood
This is the flood.
The flood
I drowned in the flood.
The wolf is not only animal.
But avatar
for gods too abstract to see
with the naked eye
It growls it snarls.
It bites my legs.
It promises peace.
as it gnaws on my pride
the alure of freedom,
teasing me to leave my comfort zones
knowing it will crunch my bones.
the first chance it gets.
when I trip over my intentions
into mud
face first
ruining my escape
I do not outrun the wolf.
I do not outsmart the gods.
I do not escape the flood.
I fall—
not like a heroine,
but like a relic dropped mid-ritual
mud in my mouth,
bones in the wolf’s grin
the spell unfinished
The door still locked.
the howl still inside me
rotting sweetly
like fruit on the desk
We used to label our Iowa garden at the end of the rows with seed packets.
We would plant the row first, sprinkiing the teensy seeds and covering them.
Then we would nail the seed packet to the stake at the end of the row.
Like little soldiers we saw peas packets, carrot packets, radish packets.
Lettuice packets, potato packets, green bean packets, rows and rows of them.
Mom always threw in two rows of flowers - usually marigolds and zinnias.
Dad rolled his eyes, but I think he liked them too; we kids did also.
Our table always had fresh vegetables, berries and mushrooms from nature.
The rest of the field next to the garden was left to plant corn. Big juicy corn.
We lived in Iowa, so we never had to label corn; everyone recognized it.
Today I was a prisoner in an emergency room for 3 hours,
Quite irritating on a beautiful 67 degree day
When all I wanted to do was Re-plant the flowers I
Planted on Friday but tore out of the ground and put
Inside the house all over the place on Sunday before the freeze.
67 gloriously warm degrees! Of course I wanted to plant
My flowers again.
God knows something about me though and She is not afraid to use it
She knows I will keep working depleting my energies every day in every way until she takes me down hard.
Straight from a stomach cat scan to a hospital room; and by 6;pm
I had grabbed the legs or hands of 5 nurse and 2 doctors by the leg ot
Neck,
Begging for a drink of water, reminding them that I am not too proud to
drink toilet water.
One sassy nurse straightened me up by telling me if they did surgery I would be very sorry to have had a measly fork-tine full of water.
When supper came I downed it with gusto: best beef broth in the whole world, 2 apple juices, 2 teas, and 5 whole cubes of orange jello.
As I finished I stared at the 2 packets of pepper.
Where does the pepper go?
Still starving I sprinkled it on my tongue.
Hospitable church asks for charitable contributions. Helpful children stock empty backpacks to overflowing. Humanitarian convoy of people and food meet needs.
Hungry children's stomachs are filled by a weekend backpack.
peanut butter
crackers
mac and cheese
fruit cocktail
chicken noodle soup
corn, peas, or beans
cereal, oatmeal packets
SpaghettiOs’s
Little Debbie snacks
applesauce
August 6, 2019
contest: The Marmite Poem hosted by Natasha L Scragg