Long Peppermints Poems
Long Peppermints Poems. Below are the most popular long Peppermints by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Peppermints poems by poem length and keyword.
As a little girl she loved western boots
Loved to pretend she was riding a giant horse
Pictures were all over the home of her and the white boots
When she got a little older she finally rode a real horse with laughter
Her parents bought her a horse when she was ten and took many pictures
She wore her boots and that horse as well
She fed the horse apples,carrots and peppermints
The horse would chomp the apple and carrots but put the peppermints in his cheek
He sucked on that candy and the drool was red
She would wear her battered boots to school and the horse wore the drool
When she was eighteen the horse died but the boots didn't
They were bigger now and polished in case the boys called
She bought a new horse but wore the old boots
The horse didn't know they were old and the boots were shined
Her friends were all fashionable but the boots were hers
They carried her with marriage,babies and through her divorce
The heels wore down like her marriage but she didn't and the new horse loved peppermints too
Marriages wear as do people but those famous boots can be re shod
And she was older and forgetful and the horse died
But when she put those boots on she was ten and galloping
And she would chomp an apple or carrot and suck on a peppermint
And the drool on her famous boots
To my dear friend and her horse who loved peppermints
When lilly kisses rose.....
and lilly i did know..
and trees i thought...
grew very deep..
and lived...
within the forest...
.......
and green...
the hay is sweet...
and brown...
dry moss asks why..
....
and lillies white...
remind the sky...
sweet cotton.....
how it swirls..
....
there grew the two..
so dear...
most thought...
....
sweet..breath..
and..peppermints...
two centered..
scents....
...
and how....
before...
them both..
i stood...
too near...
their heart
by far...
...
and when..
i know....
how..
roses grow...
and pressed...
so hard..
was i.....
.....
and cups..
of milk...
i loaned to..
them....
cinnamon..
and spice...
....
sugar sweets....
they made...
from them...
now to know..
both why.....
......
while..
lilly bridged..
sweet roses..
bank..and..
water rushes...
by..
Want you please speak to me in the 60's
In far out psychedelic rhymes
Take a ride beside the blacklight
On the Velvet Underground
Wake me up with the Strawberry Alarm Clock
Serving incense and peppermints in bed
Fixing a hole where the rain gets in
As the 60's flood my head
Walk with me through Asbury
With a flower child in hand
Listening to the groovy tunes
Of Captain Beefheart and His Magic Band
Hang out with the hippies
Before Monterey goes pop
As they fly like butterflies
At the moment the acid drops
Want you please speak to me in the 60's
In the innocence of peace and love
Back then we all had our share
But is there ever really enough?
Twas the night before Christmas - came like a flash,
Mob of gingerbread reindeer prodding elves for cache.
The Clausman reigning, doling out orders this stint.
Lady of his, keeps his tongue supplied with peppermints.
The vainglorious list of children, like snow through the Pole,
Now hides in the cloud - smart tablet tabulates toys or coal.
Head of the snowmen, cold and wise, supply the twinkle
To Santa’s eyes. Green-elves polish his boots, unwrinkle
The fat man’s caboose, untangle the reins, ready the ride.
The lineup from A to Z better well shine or it’ll be their hide.
All is still as the stars light up the path until Santa hops
Down, creates sinkholes in the snow with flatulence, flops
Into the overstuffed sleigh, jolly and jingling, creating pain
For the svelte and prideful eight who sail gift cargo like a plane.
Twas Christmas Eve and children around the world wait,
For the jingle and jangle of the sleigh-bed to find out their fate.
Tired, the sharp-suited Santa, now enters by window or door,
A small finder’s fee for each elf who steals a key - keeps score.
This year dear Santa abhors the cookies, milk, and snores.
The liquor cabinet habit keeps him warm, loving kids to the core.
Even when both parents and all the kids deserve some coal,
He’ll ignore the rules, with a good whisky or rum (takes its toll)
The reindeer left the last house hastily, and onward they speed,
As lightning sears the sky but jolly old saint Nick is teed-
Off, for he was found sleeping on the floor, by a kid. Now he shops
For a good Santa Claus lawyer. Who doesn’t toy around? The cops.
On Christmas day he is one of many dressed in black and white.
All say they’re the real Santa. He snatches beards, ready to fight.
Mrs. Claus makes him retire after his cheerless reflection.
The head elf ready to update the store in a whole new direction.
She puts the sleigh to bed, the deer no longer on loan,
Fires up the internet, next year she will send out drones.
11/27/2019
The Night Before 2 Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Joseph May
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The bell above the door still jingles~
a sound like nickels spilling from a tin.
Inside, the air smells of licorice and mildew,
of something sweet refusing to let go.
Dusty glass licorice jars sit on the shelf.
A single ceiling bulb flickers
over penny candies wrapped in wax.
Wooden floorboards groan underfoot,
remembering when kids reached for treats on the top shelf
A rotary phone rests on the counter, black and patient,
its coiled cord a noose for yesterday’s conversations.
Behind the counter, Mrs. Nicholson stalworth stands;
she’d grown up in our town,
knew everyone and just about everything
about everyone.
She also knew where everything lived~
the peppermints, the lye soap, the brittle
catalogues from 1947 curling at the edges.
She moved slowly, dust rising in her wake,
a pioneer woman who remembered
world wars, the Great Depression, and
when bread cost a dime.
Behind the register, her apron now hangs empty,
still smelling of peppermint and camphor.
I pause.
This is where time comes to loiter.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The bell above the door still jingles~
a sound like nickels spilling from a tin.
Inside, the air smells of licorice and mildew,
of something sweet refusing to let go.
Dusty glass licorice jars sit on the shelf.
A single ceiling bulb flickers
over penny candies wrapped in wax.
Wooden floorboards groan underfoot,
remembering when kids reached for treats on the top shelf
A rotary phone rests on the counter, black and patient,
its coiled cord a noose for yesterday’s conversations.
Behind the counter, Mrs. Nicholson stalworth stands;
she’d grown up in our town,
knew everyone and just about everything
about everyone.
she also knew where everything lived~
the peppermints, the lye soap, the brittle
catalogues from 1947 curling at the edges.
She moved slowly, dust rising in her wake,
a pioneer woman who remembered
world wars, the Great Depression, and
when bread cost a dime.
Behind the register, her apron now hangs empty,
still smelling of peppermint and camphor.
I pause.
This is where time comes to loiter.
*Mrs. Nicholson was one of Garland's early female entrepreneurs; she established “Nicholson’s Variety Store” in downtown Garland to help support her family after she was widowed. Her husband, Stephen Edwin Nicholson, a former Garland mayor, perished in the deadly May 11, 1927, tornado that swept through Garland. Mrs. Elma Nicholson made dreams come true for many a Garland kiddo back in the day. Her store was a legend on the former Square, as many local children would spend their hard-earned allowances in the store. Their parents would conspire with "Mrs. Nick" to set aside dolls or other toys for Christmas gifts to be retrieved just before Christmas Eve. (Source: Garland Historical Society)
You may read the related memoir vignette at poetrysoup.com/short_stories/i_remember_when_13626
Adapting the Craft
My father looked up Zealot Street
toward the mountain where ore
buckets hung to cart the coal.
“Don’t go near the mine” he repeat-
ed, the chant of elders who fore-
warned him of the dangerous hole.
He’d just go up through Bessie’s place
to find a young tree with a v
that he could cut out with his knife
and string with rubber like a lace
to hold a pebble that might be
a deterrent in the daily strife
for a kid in Wiconisco
who didn’t wear patches on his pants
when the miners went on strike.
My father bought a super sling
from the Nu Martz Hardware’s stock
across from the farmer’s market.
It would be the very best thing
to load with a peppermint rock
and blast the squatting pidgin set
that left its guana in a pile
between the houses on our street.
No one ate peppermints anymore
since Hannah went away to hole
up at Marion’s down on Darby Road,
so my father used them to blister
the butts of pidgins unloading
in our alley way, day after day.
“Got another one,” he would roar.
Enid smiled. Should she keep score?
My father kept on going for
ninety years and a few months more.
He shot baskets with his grandson
and prowled the pathways in the park
across Whitehall in search of a young
straight tree with an inviting v, one
that might be honed to aid the aged.
But since the veterans that he served
had wandered far from earlier strife,
he cut a longer sapling with his knife.
He smoothed the wood, applied the stain.
My father’s slingshot had become a cane.
Dawn is more than what it seems
Take my hand, I’ll lead the way
through oatmeal frosted cookie fields
The two of us will run and play
enjoying all this morning yields
Candy coated pebble lanes
lined with chocolate butter creams
Fence line melted sugar cane
here among our sunrise dreams
So much love I have for you
as we stroll this paradise
Whipped cream sea foam morning dew,
maple glazed, a perfect slice
Hold me close as now we lay
beneath vanilla pudding skies
Kiss me once more on this day
as I gaze into your eyes
Meadowlarks in flight they sing,
melodies we love to hear
Lemon drop horizons bring
all we see so crystal clear
Marshmallows and jelly beans,
peppermints from up above
Dawn is more than what it seems
when it’s shared with one you love
Good morning Soupers
Joyful ice blankets coat Soldier's Monument
Air full of condensation, hands warm with hot chocolate
Many families gather to the stands, breath cool like peppermints
Amazingly, I feel content in a cramped apartment I call home
In case I change my mind, the balcony door is left ajar
Calling my lover briefly, I let him know my urges
Answering to heart's demanding beats of passion
Pet my cat goodbye, then run like I'm playing at Fenway
Lunar energy gleams, caressing my shadow
Arduous quests became feathery to my muscles
In the nestled Boston burrow that I was born
Never will I leave somewhere else to die.
If you're sitting comfortably and have locked your mobile 'phones,
I'll tell you all a story about Indiana Jones
I met him on a wooden bench whilst strolling through a park
He was mumbling incoherently about some missing ark
At some point back in history, a loaded ark set sail
The animals had disembarked according to his tale
Instead, some coins and jewellery were loaded from the dock
But several chests were not secured and the hull began to rock
I offered him some peppermints to show my gratitude
And listened hard for any hints of track or latitude
His plans seemed very tentative but he clearly had ambition
But didn't even know the name of this ark, or its position.
The headland where the ark decayed was really quite remote
And the islanders with crates of gold, they didn't want to gloat
The bodies of the final crew were never, ever found
But Mister Jones was quite convinced - that ship had run aground.
The barmaid had a hunch the wreck was east of the Azores
But she had no time for banter, 'cos she had to do her chores
If she shared her speculation, she'd be scolded by her mum -
Were it not for weekly meetings, they would not be selling rum.
I never went back to that pub to meet that motley crew
Whose plans seemed quite ridiculous, I had better things to do.
If you are ever tempted to sail away in stormy weather
Steer clear of men with stubble, wide-brimmed hats and shabby leather.
Arks are ships of substance with many planks and beams
Losing one is careless and much harder than it seems
If a fellow on a park bench engages you in conversation
Stand up to him and shout “Raid an ark of known location!”