Long Pan Poems
Long Pan Poems. Below are the most popular long Pan by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Pan poems by poem length and keyword.
I bought a Martha Stewart pan and liked it very well
now for my cooking needs I have ten or twelve
I used to drive a big old Ford Galaxy it was colored brown
now I have a green Chevy truck to get around
Once I only drank Coca Cola to cool me down
now a Pepsi even RC my thrust to drown
Blue jeans were all I wore that was a fact
now I am more comfortable in a pair of slacks
Once I always slept in PJ's to dream the night away
now in loose t-shirt and boxers on slumber's sleigh
I once watch network television for shows and news
now its all streaming for entertainment woos
I used to pray at night before I went to sleep
now I pray anytime of the day or week
The more things change they really do
but the one constant I keep as I love you.
A crisp, cold morning in Hyde Park,
and he is waiting for his date.
As joggers jog and poodles bark,
the girl's unconscionably late.
He paces London's crocused heart,
as traffic booms in Piccadilly:
he's practicing that English art
of seeming calm, while feeling silly.
One final tryst beside the lake,
in front of the Eternal Boy:
a parting kiss, for old times' sake ...
she's stood him up? Or playing coy?
The hotel clerk purrs sympathy
when summoned on the mobile phone.
By now, she'll be in Duty Free.
Well, there it is. This Bird Has Flown.
He tries to feign the jaunty airs
of a striped suit on a sandwich sortie,
but doing drily debonaire's
not easy when you're fat and forty.
He tramps the lonely, flat green mile
to Green Park Tube's unlovely portal,
but perks up with a cheeky smile -
well, for a week he was immortal!
My Grandmother’s Baking Pans
I remember peering through Nana’s broken window countless times on my way to St. Augustine’s Girls’ School in St. George. But that day felt different. As I watched the black birds pecking at her ripe golden apples in those tall, windy trees above her wooden shack, I sensed a shift.
Nana would harvest those apples for the summer. The soil-covered ones were reserved for making June plum juice—a sweet treat for us. Those apple trees and mango trees were her livelihood. When times were good, I’d assist her in packing the fruit for the market. They were always moist and incredibly delicious.
And now, here I stand, about to open a new chapter of Nana’s memories. I carefully unwrapped a faded box labeled “Nana’s Things.” Inside, an old newspaper from 1983 greeted me. But it was the Nana bread pan that caught my attention—the one with two handles and an old burnt crumb lodged in the corner. As it fell into my hands, I couldn’t help but smile and shed a tear. Softly, I whispered, “Hello to you too, Nana.”
my heartfelt recollections evoke a sense of nostalgia and connection to family traditions. Keep those memories close—they’re a testament to the love and warmth what Nana’s baking pans held. ??
Hand in hand two sprites on a magic flight
with wings of crystal glass and fairy light
they flew, inside an abstract sky of white
wing to wing, one was nimble one was bright
Wearing taffet gowns of silky swishes
they were often flourishing their wishes
blessing all with benign hugs and squishes
tiny pixies, no bigger than mom's dishes
They were sent to baby rooms and wee ones
they shone like light from fifty golden suns
but every now and then they goofed all thumbs
and landed in a cabbage patch, oh crumbs !
they flew like Peter Pan and Tinker Bell
with magic wands to cast a spell, pell-mell
they scurried this way that and then oh well
they crazed it up and then they cast a spell.
Feb 26, 2023
Sponsor Eve Roper
Contest Name Nursery Rhyme
Poor, pink pan handier
Perfect, pleasant pan handier
Most self thought less people can’t stand ya!
Proud, powerful pan handier
Pretty, pointless pan handier
Perfect, purple pan handier
Are you truthful or are you a fraud, I too can’t stand ya!
If you’re real destitute then it’s a sinners and Christian duty to share with you..
In need, true indeed…
Poor, pleasurable pan handier
Painful, pop pan handier
Peculiar, pale pan handier
Pleasing, prepared pan handier whether sincere, real or a hoax;
I’ll just give you $5.00 for you see too I am broke?
6/9/19
Written by James E. Lee Sr.2019©
In a greasy diner on the edge of town, Dan flipped pancakes with the flair of a juggler, a spatula his scepter, his griddle a kingdom of sizzle and steam.
They called him “Dan the Pan Man,” a breakfast circuit legend known for his flapjacks, golden and fluffy, a stack of heaven on a chipped porcelain plate.
One day, a new guy, slick as butter, strolled in, said, “Dan, does the pan make the man? Or does the man make the pan?”
Dan laughed, a deep belly rumble, like syrup pouring slow and sweet, and leaned on the counter, eyes twinkling, like he’d heard the best joke in years.
“Son,” he said, flipping a pancake, “the pan’s just a pan, cold metal and grease. It’s the man who brings the heat, the wrist flick, the secret touch, the love that turns batter into breakfast.”
He slid the pancake onto a plate, perfect as a sunrise, and handed it to the new guy, a challenge in his grin, daring him to taste the truth.
The new guy chewed, eyes wide, as the diner watched, forks suspended, waiting for the verdict.
“Best damn pancake I’ve ever had,” he said, and the diner erupted, laughter and applause, a morning symphony.
Dan just shrugged, a humble king in his realm, and turned back to the griddle, where the batter danced and the butter hissed, knowing that it’s the heart, not the pan, that makes the man.
So, if you’re ever in town, and craving breakfast with a side of wisdom, stop by Dan’s diner, where the coffee’s strong, the pancakes are legendary, and the lessons are served hot off the griddle.
When dark shadows of war fell
And cries of anguish rang like bells
Streets stained, the skies of Sierra Leone torn
The hope of this nation was lost and gone.
Through those dark clouds, a light arose
A force for peace, worries deposed
ECOMOG came with a mission crystal as clear
To drive away the reign of fear.
Through jungle paths and smelly streets
They battled on, defying defeat
With every step and with every stand
They stitched together a broken land
This is the power of unity, you see—
An African brother lifting another free.
One finger alone can't lift a stone;
It takes a union to build a home.
Alice held flowers in her hand,
So huge were they, 'twas tough to stand,
She collected them all herself,
The bouquet was for her bookshelf,
Walking with them proved so tricky,
Her hands hurt and they were sticky,
She didn't see where she was going,
Her steps they were slowly slowing,
Peter Pan saw her and he smiled,
He knew how to get her all riled,
He bumped into Alice, she fell,
A shower of flowers and well,
Alice, with Peter was angry,
Asked him to pick 'em up for free,
Peter Pan did as told by her,
For he was scared of her anger,
He went till her house holding them,
My, they were huge with their big stem,
Alice was happy, her job done,
She hugged Peter and made him run.
Picture #2
Peter came at half-past three,
Tapping sharply from an apple tree.
“Wendy, Michael, and John, too—
Come and fly; the stars want you.”
Out of the window, hand in hand,
The trio swept above the land.
Their mother's sobs fell away behind.
Another bedtime story she can't unwind.
In Neverland, the sky can't change.
The moon is weird, the sun is strange.
No one grows, and no one there cries—
Every ache for going home soon dies.
Boys and girls forget their names.
Their socks, friends and favorite games.
A mother’s hug, a father’s last song—
Memories dim when you stay too long.
Peter laughs and flies high in midair,
But something empty lingers there.
He doesn’t know what he has lost—
Never growing up, comes at a cost.
Wendy whispered, “We must go!".
"For I've lost my shadow.”
Peter waved and turned away—
Still chasing ghosts of yesterday.
So if you hear a tap-tap one night,
Find your window bathed in light,
Roll over, hide, and stay in bed—
Forget Neverland, sleep on instead.
... Among the shadows of the groaning elms,
amid the darkening oaks, we fled ourselves ...
... Once there were paths that led to coracles
that clung to piers like loosening barnacles ...
... where we cannot return, because we lost
the pebbles and the playthings, and the moss ...
... hangs weeping gently downward, maidens’ hair
who never were enchanted, and the stairs ...
... that led up to the Fortress in the trees
will not support our weight, but on our knees ...
... we still might fit inside those splendid hours
of damsels in distress, of rustic towers ...
... of voices heard in wolves’ tormented howls
that died, and live in dreams’ soft, windy vowels ...
Originally published by Sonnet Scroll