Long Paperback book Poems
Long Paperback book Poems. Below are the most popular long Paperback book by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Paperback book poems by poem length and keyword.
(Sanatoga, Pennsylvania location)
I luxuriated as inkling of spring 2021
offered sneak preview today
March third as temperatures
reached low fifties Fahrenheit.
Yours truly began reading
one paperback book
(I purchased three),
and absorbed daily dose of Vitamin D
while secretly ensconced
within favorite nook.
This middle aged rue stirring bummer
favors warmth, boot haint no stranger to cold,
when dark hen stormy wintry days
eggs hit from Arctic portal enfold
ding Atlantic Seaboard
in a blizzard of bitterly, blindingly, and
brutally sub zero temperatures
from an occasional nor'easter
fiercely gripping hold,
the majority years, sans this prolific
recalcitrant scrivener lived
in various and sundry abode
housed within Southeastern
Montgomery County, Pennsylvania
with 19473 current zip code,
and during my boyhood recall,
how massive ice sheets did erode
the (then) opened expansive farmland,
in preparation for planting time,
where runnels of frigid water flowed
with childish cheeks exposed to glowed
after hours upon
many a green acre got tilled and hoed
despite feeling energized and refreshed
with arms and legs ne'er frozen
aye didst eagerly await with exuberant yen
kickstarting thy body electric
experiencing hearthstone nook
designed and built by Christopher Wren
after heading indoors counting fingers
and toes to make sure, I still got ten
soon hearing the chorus of fauna,
and floral kaleidoscope of color
aground or taking wing
thus, upon thawing out thoughts
drifted toward approaching spring,
the season revitalizing
dormant natural inhabitants,
whose excitement (like mine) didst ping
announcing the debut of fecundity
nsync with screeching
from the lizard king
who entered and did break on thru
doors of fame and fortune
becoming out of this world legendary
rock and roll icon,
nevertheless, he joined twenty seven club
for permanent fling.
I
“What in carnation is this?”
A voice I hear in my sleep of dreams
and ghosts in the fog my only peace.
Early mornin’ frost chills and the rains
of discontent neither cleanse nor cease
II
I hear “Caramba Chico!”
This room, it reminds me so of you.
See the picture portrait, your silky hair,
your canvas brush stroke, your books
upon your shelf, your lonely empty chair
III
So it was in older days
a dry Penfolds filled your sherry glass,
and you of me did ask “is the table set?”.
Pelau or maybe ham ‘n hops to thankful fill
but you say “boy, tonight is macafouchette”
IV
“Christopher Columbus!”
You loved among the flowers to tread,
and so happily arrange the ones you took.
Sip sparklin’ shandy and light a cigarette,
write a letter home, read a paperback book
V
“Jeez-an-ages! For true?”
Into wet clay buried burden and pain
in the garage pedallin' the potter’s wheel.
Alone in your spinnin’ dreams, dear mother,
I remember how contented it made you feel
VI
And as the hour grew late
I would camp upon your bed a while.
Lay beside you - feel your warm breath,
and watch you read but “Aye Caramba”
nigh was your own tale of fear and death
VII
“Murderation! Is that so?”
Keeper, but not mine to keep for there
was end of time but no end of sorrows.
Healer, but not ours to heal - now all we
have are yesterdays and no tomorrows
VIII
“Jumping Jehoshaphat!”
Out of the land of the isle of Trinidad
landed crates of tins and jars from home.
But your cup was filled by joy and life
and for a brief short time filled my own
IX
Oh, how the music played,
closer and louder the beating drums -
Calypso Rose the Calypso Queen to be.
When we at Carnival danced but the music
died and now I long for its sweet melody
X
“Chuts!” Not hug, not kiss,
not gaze passed between us ever again
but your spirit guide my broken wings chase.
Now I listen for the soul of a hummingbird
on the wind flown and gone in gentle grace
Written: July 1993
The grandfather on my mother's side was a cheapskate.
A real cheapskate.
One Christmas, he gave me a used paperback book.
Something like “Jimmy Plays Baseball.”
It was written for a 7 year old child, and I was considerably older than that.
Still had “5 cents” written in pencil on the first page.
No foolin'.
Asked he, “You ever read that one?”
Replied I, “No granddad. Can’t say I have. Thank you.”
“Merry Christmas.”
I hated going to visit them.
In the row house in Baltimore city, where my mother grew up.
(‘Balmer.’ ‘Balmer, Merilan.' “How you doin’ hon?”)
Me and my sister sitting on the wood floor in the living room.
Positioned dead eyed to the manger on the mantle.
Given board games to occupy our time.
My father loved talking to him, Leo, Leo Groeninger.
Because he was brilliant.
And he knew everything about everything.
A sedentary encyclopedia on the spectrum.
His second wife sitting dutifully next to him on the couch.
My mother sitting in a chair, the only one left in the living room.
“Maybe you kids would like to play checkers, or Parcheesi.”
But he had one saving grace:
His German potato salad.
The real thing.
Made with ham fat.
Five pounds of ham fat.
Or bacon, if you didn't have any ham fat.
Damn that stuff was good!
This poet decided against
becoming a measly minced meaty morsel
undetected inauspicious augury
assigning adept
aqueous ace AOL amphibian,
who surreptitiously crept
to the secret crypt (guarded by
foo fighters and amazing dragons)
said gendarmes did except
special fluid scrip as egress into
heavily fortified
(with USDA recommended allowance),
thus when the configurative motley crue
including thyself (a bono fied doo
bee brother - long given up for lost,
which "FAKE" oracle
misinterpreted by a goo goo
doll, and cross dresser named Hugh
played being took a vow el,
and hence consonantly knew
all along, i dwelt peacefully
in a soundcloud loo
immensely spacious with ooh
dills of survival trappings
purchased from Peru
laborers treated by free pact
guaranteeing a socially
conscious shopper to rue
painstaking indigenous stoop labor,
now stamped imprimatur could allow,
enable and provide means to shoe
each formerly eczema dappled,
cracked bare foot
ah, a glimmer of hopefulness
(upon this crowded house of a planet) view
which youtube snapchat ting
reddit as joyous outlook
sans linkedin shutterfly,
twitter ring tender flickr ring shoots
communicated an instagram message
of hopefulness kickstarting optimism
versus the initial thread of this poem,
which to set this got off track
(hinting at goal to be
a paperback book writer wannabe)
rather than ending up as a byte size snack
for a limbering beast, into whose tumblr
of one jagged razor sharp teeth
like daggers lined up along a rack
of reinforced steel maw,
which bang for the bite did pack
leaves no room for bing a survivor
as fierce jaws clamp down
worse than getting steam rolled by a mack
truck, but subjected to thee yield,
whence thousands of pounds
per square inch of pressure
on par lambasted from Donald Trump flack.