Long Pea green Poems
Long Pea green Poems. Below are the most popular long Pea green by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Pea green poems by poem length and keyword.
Sea of Chaos
Salt the fish
Salt the sea
Sea pea green
Sea like moss
Moss takes over
Moss ground cover
Cover your butt
Cover mine
Mine big diamonds
Mine huge hearts
Hearts of passion
Hearts on fire
Fire the boss
Fire up taters
Taters with eyes
Taters and corn
Corn so sweet
Corn is yellow
Yellow hot sun
Yellow is fun
Fun is gentle
Fun is wild
Wild salmon
Wild wind
Wind whips
Wind torque
Torque of waves
Torque of dancers
Dancers on tows
Dancers thin legs
Legs of table
Legs of leisure
Leisure on Sunday
Leisure for rich
Rich in calories
Rich relative
Relative humidity
Relative comfort
Comfort of company
Comfort of life
Life lived right
Life in pain
Pain of torrent
Pain from sharks
Shark fin soup
Sharks in chaos
Chaos of catch
Chaos is play
Play
Catch ~
8/9/2017
'While stranded high and dry
unemployed skippers ate a lot of kippers'
which smacks of a red herring to me
is a tale told when we were but nippers
altho' with neither fowl nor feline
in a beautiful pea-green boat
the motley crew who put to sea
were assuredly safe and sound when afloat
but then as ocean water rose within
thereby a somewhat large hole revealing
the now woeful matelots felt dreadfully unhappy
as they smelt a strange yet serious sinking feeling
for sadly a rather bad leak had sprang in the bilge below
and their ship went down like the proverbial stone
so the jobless captains fared far better
as landlubbers secure ashore home on their own
His affairs are entirely private, as signified by his facial expression.
In his coat pocket, he keeps his old brown mitts.
We have observed him on every trip as he travels into the city.
His long winter coat is wrapped tightly around his body.
Despite 90-degree weather, he smiles and appears friendly.
However, he may seem somewhat dangerous if not approached cautiously.
Scenes of confusion frequently occur on the streets of New York,
as well as on TikTok, a social platform.
The nursery rhyme, "The Owl and the Pussycat", continues to play in my head.
They went to sea on a beautiful pea-green boat,
taking some money and plenty of honey,
wrapped in a five-pound note—
another perplexing scene familiar to us
to comprehend as an intelligent individual.
These individuals did not exhibit typical symptoms of heat exhaustion.
Wearing only a single layer of clothing seems
to cause significant discomfort even in 90-degree weather conditions for most of us
as we go about our daily tasks,
we see them every day, but little do we know
Their mental trait could be off-putting to some of us
His affairs are entirely private, as signified by his facial expression
Treat others with kindness and compassion, exemplifying the qualities of Jesus.
My feet are under the table,
white linen is beneath the blue and white plates,
the cutlery is sparklingly clean
I have been up all night polishing it.
Whatever the answer is
I need to always be a question mark.
It’s good to be a guest of myself.
I will sit on a seat near the door
least I need to go out and in again.
There is nothing questionable here.
I go to the kitchen
to set fire to a cloud of fruit flies.
The cloud hovers simmering for a while
then bursts into flames.
A phoenix does not arise, but the cloud takes a seat
planting its burnt vapors under the table board
while staring intently left where I had just left.
Teacups tremble.
When I come back to the dining room
the burnt cloud of fruit flies
morphs into a beautiful woman.
Her pink lobster tail
is tucked coquettishly under her right arm.
I may have to spray her with Lysol
or eat her before she attracts more flies,
but the butter has not melted yet.
Now I have questions,
now certain answers must be observed and served
from a silver engraved tureen.
Pea green pepper soup pours into open mouths,
mouths I have previously allotted place-names to,
cards printed in gold leaf
in front of pockets of air and folded like unspent money.
Any questions must wait now
until the dormouse wakes up to ask what time it is.
It’s starting to cool down here in Connecticut. Leaves are falling, like giant, burnt snowflakes (science says that trees send chemical signals to their branches to clip leaves away).
Peter borrowed a friend's toy-like, pea green, Fiat-500 convertible and we drove into the country to see the turning leaves. We hiked a bit too and stopped, in Mystic, for seafood.
I never realized just how theatrical trees could be, with their few, simple, chlorophyll tricks and how reflective still lakes could be. Wowzer, just - wowzer.
There are some things that should never be shared. Like a toothbrush, an iPad, lipstick, strawberry stroopwafels, a slice of pizza or a secret lover (that last one just sounded good - but yeah). But life is good, I can share that. We’re young, dramatic sophomores with good hair products and we’re at it, working and playing hard.
Ahh.. ok, upon consultation, I have to add that some of us are in their mid-twenties with only a few good years left.
Did I mention that we climbed up a twisty lighthouse staircase too? Peter always thinks people should take the stairs, and not the elevators, “You want to have muscles and bones that work when you’re eighty,” He says. Since he’s closer to eighty than I am, when we’re not carrying furniture, I let him have his way. Of course, he’s never been to up Lisa’s 50th floor townhouse either.
My mom told me that they’re off to Poland again, over the holidays, for another tour with “Doctors without Borders” (Damn war). Lisa’s parents have (kindly) invited me to share their high-rise utopia again this year. Who knows, maybe Peter will have his chance to try those stairs.
I walk along a shore
far inland from the roar
of two great oceans,
the Pacific to my west,
and much farther away,
the Atlantic to my east.
Here is desert land and a foul-smelling, shrinking lake.
Salt retention - the lake's peculiar claim to fame -
attracts the curious few
who test the brackish waters to see if,
floating on their backs, they really won't sink.
Some tread far out toward the horizon,
salt stinging and painting their legs white.
Here now, alone with the sun and resident gulls,
I own this stretch of sand.
Arid heat creates a desire in me
to wade into the coolness of the water,
but nearing pea-green scum, I opt for staying dry.
Suddenly,
a small wave appears,
and with it, a splash of water on my legs.
I close my eyes.
For a moment, I'm the wisp of a cloud
drifting above a cool lake big as a sea,
mirroring the azure of sky long ago-
so long ago, in fact-
that I imagine this land right now
-with its few creature inhabitants-
has little resemblance to what was here before.
I ponder what it could have been like
those many centuries before, but I cannot.
Alas, I know very little of science or
of how exactly this area looked or felt or smelled
once upon a time
when it was more water than land.
I know only this:
today it is we that remain. . .
I open my eyes,
conscious again of the remnant water's stench,
and walk to my car,
anticipating my drive back to the city,
with the top down
and hot wind in my face.
Dream Keys
by Odin Roark
A NY mantra
Rent the rentable
Move the movable
Key the keyable
Apartments
Four-wall-guardian of yesterday’s youth
Vacuous cellmates of old age loneliness
All part of a cyclic maze
All having a key
Urban life’s Rubik’s Cube turnover
Today’s the day
“Two rooms”
“New paint”
“Clean window”
“No-squeaky floorboards”
Superintendent loves to present
Move in
Keys
Entrance door
Mailbox
Apartment
Laundry room
All yours
A windowsill vase of plastic roses
Your welcome of faded memories
The window to the people below
Your traveled city as roommate
Through another glass darkly
Gotta love it
Pea green layering
Over cracked and peeling bygones
Your very own chipped-paint scrapbook
A giant shoebox of ghostly images
Once possessing your castle-keys
Settle in
Struggle
Dream
Survive
Stand at your window
Watch canyon updrafts
Swirl your make-believe snowflakes
Carrying them skyward
Mixing with sparkling darkness
Where every star is yours
Count the days
Where light to see
Will be owned by neighboring towers
Where former tenants came young
Left old
Where thrown cups and china
Christened walls
And confinement’s anger and tears
Found solace in an ever inviting empty bathtub
Where pounding fists
Rattled bathroom door hinges
While a child hid beneath a bed
Smiling tearful thanks
A wanderlust roach
His ever-faithful friend
All yours
Here
Where a Sammy Glick got started
And an undergrad
An engineer
A Radical leftist
A piano teacher
All touched
All turned
All once secured your keys
So
Add your imprint
Become tomorrow’s remembered page
The scrapbook knows no end
This is Manhattan
Scenes will erupt
Hysterics will rebirth
Life will live
Maybe live some more
Then
Your turn to pass the keys
Your turn to pile worn memories at the curb
Mattresses always appreciated
Stand across the street
Watch the ever-smiling Super
Hand the keys to the next habitant
And then…
Go
Never to forget your contribution
Leaving behind another preparatory memory
Allowing the coming year
Your next season of imaginings
To dream of another home
Somewhere
Waiting…
Gifted with keyless entry?
Loneliness gone?
I will watch the sunrise and the moon set
I will taste oysters and reap mint
I will harvest vegetables from the farm stand
I will live as an orphan adopted
finding joy in rain and in snow
I will walk on many often peat-ed paths
my paths are dune bound
and stretch to a salted dark pea green sea
The songs of gulls and osprey decorate the sky
inner ear re-peating long after they are flown
I tiptoe where the plovers nest
challenges come
seem insurmountable
and then flow away ....on the trivial tides
My heart is broken today
Tomorrow
I will learn to worry only when asleep
I will ask humbly
for acceptance of the hard and cold .......like those 4 nails
embrace the bloom...but adore the fall
When the sun sets early
I will adjust my internal organs
wooing them
I will rejoice more having understood darkness's seasonal game
So when spring next year kisses me full on my pale waning lips
driving me closer to the close of my life
I remember that you loved me
I will remember that I loved you
I will not argue that we are not together
I will not rage against the almighty machine behind
the soft flowing velvet curtain
I will not ask
why I can't have everything I want!
Before
beautiful heartbreak was dark chocolate's
burning bitterness
fraught with the bows and ties
flaming storms of mental confusion and conflagrations of desire
I no longer hold onto loss
You will die and there's nothing I can do about it
I will keep walking down these -bike tire and flip flop rutted paths
scanning the horizon for boardwalks ...that stretch out into the sea
What a gift it is to walk out deep past the cresting wave breaks
Without fear
Without sorrow
Without regret
Trusting the current to take me gently... insistently into the bliss
Wettest dewdrop hangs soundless on the edge
Of flashy, cheerful orange red lily
Mirroring emerald green foliage
Balanced close by, aimless, o’er the beauty
Dew drenched pea green shrubbery is carefree
With bright and showy blooms seen everywhere
Bold blue purple and yellow or cherry
Beside soft pinks and deep, dark red fanfare
Exquisite colored hues caught by prayer
Leaving murky shadows across lush grass
Light summer breeze falls across thoroughfare
Caressing, softly touching to surpass
Mild morning dew carries soft melodies
Contented moments spent with elegies
Written on August 10th, 2014
©2014 by Regina Riddle
Women run into stores and buy up all the tan crap, oohing and ahhing.
Thinking how wonderful it is going to be in their beige houses
with their brown trim.
I paint in neons – neon pink, neon green, neon yellow, neon blue neon purple.
I saturate my walls with anything and everything.
My house is a colorful sanctuary.
Other women ooh and ahh over a woman “designer” on TV
whose every room is the same each week.
Identical almost to a “O” to the room before.
I would say to a T but a T is more interesting than her stuff.
Her “make overs are exactly the same”.
Beige, white, a streak of pea green – a very small streak.
Maybe a tiny red rose in a corner giving a glimmer of hope and people cheer.
What kind of a world do we live in where women trade color for beige?
Where women will trade individuality for blah?
Where women will trade their money for books
on how to make their houses tan?
Where men stand outside, to get some color, and to smoke?
What kind of message is this sending to our children?
Be creative, but blah.
Be inspirational, but tan.
Think outside the box, but we cannot use any colors for colors are bad?
Sad to me and to my neon princesses,
pirates, faeries, warrior women, elves, and dragons.
A world I am glad I do not share with the masses.