Long Pepper Poems
Long Pepper Poems. Below are the most popular long Pepper by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Pepper poems by poem length and keyword.
Each word supported the other
there individual effords supported
the structural placing of this
Invisible concept.
When words were papered,
It read like a rambling of
Untamed words.
This venture was uncharted
I wanted to give these men
Fictious names to create
A way to describe what my
More ND saw your them doing
There work was hard and tediuos
In what they spoke I was confused
But one quote by "They Mein" caused
Me to stop and think .
Looking around I found myself in the way
So I left.
In the kitchen they spoke there
Language and did there work
One overseeing the other so
There labors would appeaze
Those who were to be dining.
The meal. Of the day was
Hericuim Erinaaceus and
Cajun oreilles de porc with
Mango and cayeene
He sauteed
3 cups of shredded cabbage
1 cup of onion
1 cup of green pepper
1/2 cup of carrots
1 cup of diced apples
In 3/4. Cups of olive oil
When the cabbage begun
To wilt he added
5 cups of sliced pigears (cooked)
The sauce comprised of
2 cups of tomato paste
4 Tablespoons of strawberry basil crown royal
1/4 cup of vinager
1/4 cup of fishstock
1/4 cup of lemon juice
1/4 cup of of honey
1 cup of pureed mango
4 T spoons of cayeene
The festival is centered around
The praises of the solar pump
Which moves water from
Wells, springs, ditches, and ponds.
The submersible motor drives
The pump to push water against
Gravity to the surface.
A bad acter might lose his concern
But he paints the picture
He includes facts to support his
Involvment and speaks to the value
Of his concerns. It helps to reduce
the risks, and keeps him focused
to his objectives. If you doubt my
Sincerity, might I mention you would
Have what you needed, if I wanted
you to have it. Beg me like you begged
your fiancee to marry you, let me tire
of your peasent like ways!
The poet says that war is a wasteland.
But there is a crueller breeding.
Where those who drink coffee
And breathe the secondary smoke of their lovers
And drink the Scottish honeyed poison
And those who make slavish mortgage payments
And chase the tinselled glory of the cup
Or the greasy position
Or the fickle adulation,
Waste away in their own self.
Where the innocence of the childish
And the trust of the good man
And the naturalness of a pure women
Is hijacked by their sin nature.
The playground of the cheerful dying
is found in the skeptic of the extra dimension
who says seeing is believing;
those who are blinded by unbelief of truth.
The wasteland of the Adam nature separates death from life:
What is true from the truth,
The game from its purpose,
The mask from the face,
Tradition from it's reason,
Oil from water,
Salt from pepper,
Heaven from Earth.
Nothing eternally remains there
Nothing spiritually remains there
Only an inhabitanted wilderness
Where the heat breeds the life that rots.
What a waste.
Poetry Soup Is…
A place to post words and be heard
a platform for prose, a poet’s eatery
A sonneteer’s palace, for the sagacious or the absurd
A silver chalice that pours golden poetry
Rhymed and skillfully quilled
Artful rhythmic compositions, sublimely finished
Inspirational ink spilled,
authentic and unblemished
Poetry Soup Is…
Ramen in a cup
Slurp up noodles of literary lines grand
or footles so clever that never end
by Brian Strand
Sensual scribbles we sup,
Miraculous moving messages
Tasty spiritual nibbles
Share Zen in a bowl
Pho ga is chicken and
miso broth for the soul,
Inspirational Ink that takes
the breath away
Tsunami of wisdom
Confusion, and disarray
Poetry Soup Is…
Sovereign power poets, feud they may
Both mixes are needed, Sweet and Sour
Poe “The Raven” guy and Longfellow to my dismay
We become seeded, behind the pen there’s power,
We allude to epic ballad chowder
Gently add an attitude to an articulate mind
Pink sea salt, red chili powder
With crushed white pepper be kind
Without comparison where would we be?
It was George Harrison, his plagiarism
My Sweet Lord, to another’s tune he’d copy
Poetry Soup Is…
We came aboard this friendship—fleet liner
All that’s needed is a gift of language
And we have a thick savory brothy soup diner
Harmonic words woven together
It takes me a bit longer than most to write
of unrequited love and forevers
Botch it up I might, it’s swim or sink!
For a brain to pick such as mine
I should have used the days wiser
Tells of withered wasted time, I think
I thank my lucky stars
I am a verse improviser
Now for warm oatmeal with honey and her sugarless tea
To this chrysoberyl dawn rescue from chuted linen bedlam,
For here's a bedside tale to whispered promise and plea.
She sits on her hands and shuffles her ugg boots,
And watches me toast, I'm butter, I'm smoked ham.
Now for warm oatmeal with honey and her sugarless tea.
Pepper shakes, egg white eyes, her yawning toots,
Her champagne hair bubbles still of our liquory sham,
For here's a bedside tale to whispered promise and plea.
The wonder to her sprite body and this morn in cahoots,
When I feels like I'm sunken, with lids like a sleepy clam.
Now for warm oatmeal and honey and sugarless tea.
Not flowers on feathers, hoodlums we are - munchy and moose,
Nothing much matters but her lippy kiss coat of strawberry jam
For here's a bedside tale to whispered promise and plea.
This first light and cigarette and her shuffling caboose
Closer, comfier, her smile on my shoulder, to the day be damn'
Now for warm oatmeal with honey and her sugarless tea,
For here's a bedside tale to whispered promise and plea.
3 cups of pureed shrimp
3 cups of grounded white fish
1/2 cup of lemon juice
3 cups of bread crumbs
1 tablespoon of mace
3 tablespoons of cayenne pepper
2 tablespoons of garlic powder
1/2 cup of parmesan cheese (dried grated)
2 cups of heavy cream
in a food processor, mix fish and shrimp
add seasonings, add bread crumbs
mix smooth.
add heavy cream, mix until rich and creamy, add bread
crumbs to even out the consistency.
in a non stick muffin pan, scoop fish and shrimp mixture in
bake in a in a square baking pan filled with hot water.
bake until golden brown.
fuse together
1/4 cup of olive oil 1/4 cup of lemon juice
5 tablespoons of chives, adding more oil if consistency is incorrect
in a large oven ready pot with a lid
add 4 cups of beef broth
2 cups of chopped broccoli
3 cups of chopped cabbage
1 cups of chopped fresh kale
2 cups of chopped fresh cauliflower
2 cups of minced onion
1/4 cup of crushed garlic
2 cups of minced potatoes
1 cup of minced carrots
2 cups of diced fresh tomatoes
1 cup of minced green bell pepper
1/4 cup of chopped celery
4 tablespoons of soy sauce
2 cup of minced smoked hock meat (cooked)
5 tablespoons of red pepper flakes
cook until the potatoes are tender and you can smell the hock meat blended with the veggies!
Dear farm,
I write to tell of what life has become of me
Life in the city and this white collar job-
Has blotted from my memory
How to plant the seeds in your bed
And clear the beard of weeds that grow on your jaw.
The smell of the city
Has charmed me away from the smell of dung
And the bush air that fills my lung.
Now I adorn my self in suit and tie
Dropping the cutlass for pen and pie.
Dear farmland
I remember how once I shook your hand
And beneath that banana tree-
You showed me what it is to be free
How most times I'd cry
And rush to your recluse-when my pocket is dry.
When the sun go down
After being chased out of town,
And the crabs emerge from their holes
Heading towards the tin trap with onions has moles
We'd sit down waiting to take the prey home.
Now I know not what has become of you
Since granny's death and we've dispersed
Just to flourish in other trades-
Following the foot prints in the evening shade
I just want to show how grateful I am
For showing me the other side to life.
So here we are in the city
Getting fed in self pity.
Knowing not how to appease the ground
With seeds of libation-
To come to our aid with multiple germination.
A basket load of pepper now goes for thousands
When there on your chest we could get for free.
Sweet oranges we shared with the birds
In the city we hardly could afford.
What a mockery of ourselves
What a shame for being unable to feed oneself
May be someday I'll turn to your shelf
And pick from it books to feed this nation.
My Nonna
My Nonna lived to age eighty-six,
and Rosa was her given name.
From Italy, she settled in New York,
and married my dear Nonno, who
from Florence came so long ago.
Nonna, such a kind and gentle soul,
taught me to understand her words.
Although I never could speak it well,
she did convey her thoughts to me
through her native Italian dialect.
She was a seamstress and as such,
designed and made my fancy clothes;
some adorned with her embroidery...
all works of art by her creative hands.
It was she who taught me how to sew.
I still remember her salt and pepper
hair, so long, but wound up in a bun.
Her face that looked a tad older than
she was, from quite a stressful life
in growing up...but as a mother too.
My Nonna did outlive her only son,
who she lost to World War II.
My Nonna outlived my Mom, who
succumbed to cancer at age fifty-five.
To lose two children, way too young...
a double tragedy for her it was.
And so, we bonded closer after that.
I still remember her loving arms
around me, soft but very strong,
and the security I always felt within.
I so much miss her still today...
my loving, caring, sweet, Nonna.
March 3, 2019
Note: Nonna means Grandma in Italian;
Nonno, Grandpa
Day one out of the womb – had a full crop of hair,
black like my daddy’s (it later went more fair).
Early childhood – Mom kept my brown hair short
because I’d twist it into knots. What a silly sport.
Peanut butter and some gum in my hair might stick.
Never a long hair style could I ever pick.
Pre-teen years – at last I saw my dark hair grow.
Pony tails and pig tails were ways my hair might show.
Junior High, late 60’s, hair piled high like a hive.
A wonder that no bumble bees were seen in there alive.
My hair was also parted always on one side.
I’d wear curlers in a store. Did I have no pride?
High school days – hair longer. In boring math at school,
I sat there pulling off split ends. Must have looked a fool!
College days – used a cheap product from the store.
“Sun-In” gave me reddish-blonde. I used it four times more.
The 80’s – got a perm. The curls were tight. Had oodles.
Now I can have sympathy for cockapoos and poodles.
90’s – used extensions. A lot of folks I fooled.
Strawberry blonde seemed to be the color then that ruled.
New century. New color. My hair was very blonde.
There were two guys in a tram in Rio that I conned.
My friend who looked American knew every word they stated.
About my natural color those guys in Portugese debated.
They finally decided my blonde was natural.
I got a kick out of those young fellows’ folderol.
Later on, my hair got over-bleached. I showered, and
lots of strands of it crumbled right into my hand.
After that, while growing out dark roots about two years,
I wore a wig until uncolored hair went past my ears.
A co-worker , not knowing I wore a wig at school,
told me that my hair had never looked so cool!
By 2010, my hair was in a rut.
Only one side of it grew, so I’d always get it cut.
Turned 60 and got cancer. Ate better to be stronger.
Miraculously my hair AND nails grew a whole lot longer.
Since then till now, my daughter’s been my dear beautician.
She keeps the gray away and my hair in good condition.
Were my hair not dyed, salt and pepper it would be.
I love my gold-like hair, thick, and long and wavy.
Some people think a woman of my age should wear a shorter “do.”
Decades it took to get this look, so NO (and I’ll keep my cute bangs too!)
When dad made breakfast, he always fried lots of bacon,
crackling and popping in the pan,
It scented the air, juicy and crisp, always beckoning.
Then, he piled the dark gnarled strands on a plate.
I became one of Pavlov’s frothing dogs.
When dad made breakfast, he fried a dozen eggs.
They were always over easy with lots of pepper.
No one expected anything else.
And yes, he piled them on another plate.
I added salt and ate 3, sometimes even 4.
When dad made breakfast, he toasted lots of bread,
buttering each slice with attention.
The yellow melting evenly over browned pieces,
I smeared them with jelly or honey.
We all sat with aspiring pallets at our
family Eucharist.
My knowledge of bankers is limited and esoteric.
They have a virtuosity of keeping a poker face no matter what.
Even during a robbery, they are to act as nonchalant charlatans.
Handing over vast amounts of loot, stereotypically including dye lot.
I did not realize how banks operate when I arrived as a newbie.
My inexperience and ineffectiveness was measureable.
I had not planned to land a bank job at all; I wanted to be a ballerina.
But having never danced or even worn a tutu, what are the odds?
I am on auditory alert this morning at my teller’s cage.
The guy behind the old lady I am serving has a stony glare.
I ask her about her son’s new plane’s rollout, to stretch time.
Justifying nothing, she explains about his psychological problems.
Prevention is better than waiting for a shot in the knee right?
The second the stony-faced soldier comes closer I pepper spray him.
In the eyes; he yelps like a surprised puppy!
The bank manager comes running over. And my job is over.
No worries. I have hated all four hours of this job any way.