Long Pie Poems
Long Pie Poems. Below are the most popular long Pie by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Pie poems by poem length and keyword.
The sparkling goodness imprisons an autumn sun
And takes me back to the tender days when I was very young
When I'd help my Mama pluck them off the ground
Tart fallen pippin apples which the warm brisk winds had found
We'd stack them in her apron hammock bed
And when we'd gathered enough, into the house we'd head
Right to the kitchen sink to sort, and wash
And I would stand upon a chair to watch
Then gently laid on a towel, they'd shine till they were gleaming
We'd sit, and chat, she'd peel and we'd talk about every little thing
She would open the Crisco can, and the flour canister
And soon, before my very eyes, the pie dough would appear
She would roll the dough, and let me have a try
She would break off a piece for my miniature pie...
Side by side, she would show me how
Her patience was amazing....as I struggled to follow
The petals of peeled slices, layered out into rows
Sprinkled with her spices, added sugar and butter bows
Popped carefully into a piping oven, not quite an hour or so...
We'd watch them turn a golden brown...filling up my nose
With a cinnamon sweet fragrance, that would make my child's mouth drool
She would finally remove them, hot and gold, slightly letting them cool
Would top their goodness with heaping mounds of vanilla ice cream too!
Ahhh....sweet are the memories of those awesome pie ala modes...
Are you watching me Mom?...on those autumn days when I have shown
My grandchild how to peel, and slice, and roll, and bake her own??....
Our Thanksgiving preparations were going smoothly…we had no reason to protest
until, that is, the arrival of some uninvited guests.
You see this year we decided to buy a pie…billed as world famous…best in show…
What does the best apple pie in the world taste like?
I guess we’ll never know.
For we have a sugar ant problem…we work hard to keep them at bay…
and though we didn’t invite them to our Thanksgiving…they showed up anyway.
We bought our pie the day before and snuck it in our house…
we didn’t want the ants to hear us…
because sugar ants…as small as they are…do not respect…or fear us.
That expensive world famous pie was for our loving family to share…
So we hid it high up on a cabinet…away from the kitchen…
thinking the ants would never find it there.
We knew that sugar ants…being so small…the tiniest crevices they can fit through…
but we never dreamed when we hid our pie…they could climb mountains too.
The next morning…Thanksgiving morning…I knew exactly what had happened
when I heard Deborah’s harrowing cry…
the ants we thought we had outsmarted….were now crawling on top of our pie.
“Maybe they’re just on the top.” Deborah hoped as she frantically brushed them aside…
“There’s only one way to find out.” I said. “We must take a look inside.”
So I cut a large slice of that award-winning apple pie…it was thick and juicy and fat.
“Hey, Deborah,” I asked, “in an apple pie…should things be moving around like that?”
Ants were crawling, swimming, spinning…when they saw us the didn’t ever stop!
It was as if they were all little children…let loose in a candy shop.
“Maybe warmed up with some ice cream on top no-one will notice.” I said unabashed.
but Deborah only gave me a dirty look as she threw our world famous pie into the trash.
Christmas is just around the corner and being outsmarted once…
we’re not taking going to take a chance…
We will be buying two pies for Christmas this year…
one for us
and another one for the ants.
I loved a story at bedtime,
but I could do a nap in the daytime.
Before I knew it I was nine,
boy was that a great pie made out of limes.
I would then go back to my prime,
and really really shine.
There would be no more jobs that were part-time,
no more bosses with only a dime.
I would not play life as a game sometimes,
the game of life would be played full-time.
I feel like I am now in life at halftime,
guess it is time to play it like I am in overtime.
Date: 10/7/2019 Written
Third Place 10/14/2019 If only we could turn back the hands of time Contest Judged: 10/14/2019 Sponsored by: Silent One If Only We Could Turn Back The Hands Of Time
Fastidious gildings must dot your mien:
Sizzling lips that ooze unbridled charm,
And a neck sleekest with angelic luster
To daze the eye and sun a smitten arm.
Still deeper graces beyond corporeal eye
Shall your gold’s stoutest bulwarks prove:
A mind pliable into another’s loftier ideal,
A heart malleable to wit’s forging groove.
A full stock of sly eccentricities to baulk
Pert overstepping darts round the clock;
And a placating vocular chime that tells
Time’s tick better than poor-piping bells.
A hope that dares azure's illest signs;
Turning gaffes into leaps onto higher
Insights purer than filtered science,
Dwarfing Fate and her fiendish fire.
And shall all these bejeweled traits
Sure lie within one maiden’s tastes,
And finally match the magic gleams
Of that fairy gal I see in my dreams?
Kapow! Here’s mud in your face!
Poetasting rhymes, rhythms and nuclear waste.
Playing in mud pits, kitchens and certainly laced
Everyting that’s made . . . in this mysterious place.
Prob’ly shouldn’t eat this mud in this pie,
It may be somthin’ that’s all just a lie.
Interesting reads and certainly flies . . . beyond belief . . .
High above all that’s high in the sky.
Grand Master Chefs with their heads in the sand
When they pop out unleashing their impossible plans,
Amaze me mind with swirling twirling expands
Me into magical worlds of colorful lands.
Creating recipes so fabulous and untamed
Makin’ somethin’ outta nothin’ - sometimes insane.
Like potters awakening monsters in clay,
I read with a fever . . . Poet of the Day.
New poems always put a smile on my lips,
“What’s this,” I say, “that puts new pounds on my hips.”
Feeding my soul with soupster’s gluteness glips
Coming to life like birds pecking their way thru the crust,
Flocking to screech that it’s Poetry or Bust!
Come one, come all! Don’t miss the bus!
It’s time to unleash the beast . . . in all of us.
I’m not sure I’d eat mud pie turned into soup,
But I’m sure it tastes better than anomalous poop.
No bird brains here, weird just expressing our scoop,
You’re all wonderfully wonking a world worth a damn,
Nothing here can poss’bly be wrong or a scam . . .
No hackers allowed, A.I.s or plagiarizing posers,
Only original awesomeness of incredible composers.
I see you . . .I feels you all . . . eating this soup . . . making the call
To the restaurant that feeds the needs of us all.
No one here starves, no one at all.
So, thank you for being you
And always know that it's true
you’ll always be welcome
in my sandbox of blues.
Pleasant pondering never be realized,
the pie in the sky for now satisfied.
The biggest slice in need of pursuit,
the cherry on top as attitude.
Succulent projections by layers detailed,
downtown look at the sky retailed.
Others already with their fingers in the pie,
to hurry is the profundity in that limited sky.
Religious or political pies so mighty,
spoons for everybody’s social beauty.
Sunset breaking eggs ascendant warmed firmament,
vanilla, butter perfumed baking’s installment.
Crown of all doughnuts after the release,
muffin tops vice versa to please.
Procrastinations and prophecies,
prediction in scientific strategies.
Every now and then to eat some humble pie,
to still the slice of anger on a hungry day.
The ideal pie a comic book story,
insanity as perfect repository.
Custard on the pie as ultimate joke,
magic laughter from the dispensing yoke.
Creating bigger pies for funding,
easy bargain for expanding landing.
The karmic pie in the face as frailties,
sour tears in lemon meringue deities.
The unified future as a mince pie dream,
slow baking and loss of morality scream.
The shrinking pie and the blame,
con leaders in control of crust and its fame.
Blue Plate Special
David J Walker
Why is it I never
Eat as well when
You’re not here
Even though I am the one
The lone man at home
Doing the cooking for no one
When I know that you’re not looking
A chicken fried steak
Might find its way
Into the hot grease
of my frying pan
And there may be
Peppery country gravy
To go with the
Buttery mashed potatoes
And Italian green beans
And a brown and serve roll
On my blue plate special
And by the way
I would die for
a slice of your
Apple pie about now
Come home baby
Before the blue plate special
Isn’t special anymore
I got bucked off a mule, a horse, an antelope and a kangaroo.
I was so irritated I called my friends and gave them heck.
I am sure some of them said to themselves “she’s a pain in the neck”.
I did not care, for frankly, I did not know what else to do.
My stepmother yelled for me to hang up and get a life.
She never did like me as much as she likes my sister Sue.
I did not care; even she no longer makes me blue.
I still wonder why Daddy married her; was there no other wife?
I baked her a pie with nails, wallpaper paste and Elmer’s glue.,
But did she appreciate it? No, she did not even taste it!
I did what any thirteen-year-old girl would do; I had a fit!
And my Daddy ate it all up. He asked for seconds too!
The homemade kitchen table sat
In the center of a small
Cozy warm room, dominated
By her, and her firm all
Cooking meals and preserving food
On the wood burning stove
She could do it all so I'm told
The stove held treasure trove
When she was teen, she learned to care
For the very young child
An older sister died leaving
In their care four compiled
She used her knowledge rearing own
A trick held up her sleeve
To prevent sibling rivilary
Her wiles did tightly weave
She would let one child cut last piece
Of pie, other first choose
Each child would equally divide
One child right did abuse
This little boy cut one piece big
Way bigger than other
He saw he made a grave mistake
Grabbed piece ran from mother
He tripped and fell flat sprawling
Dropped his big piece of pie
And his sister sat relishing
Each bite while he did sigh
The moral of this story is
Do right my friend at soup
Don't take too big piece of pie
The results could be dupe
Just writing for fun and telling a family story
Without teeth, he gums his peach pie
Savoring the deep satisfaction of the taste
Taste of yesterday, aroma of sweet boyhood youth
His crooked glasses still dignify his weather face
Not much to say when enjoying a slice of peach pie
Enjoy peach pie
He eats his secret treat I sneak to him
Not proper for his diet
He is eighty-three with Alzheimer
One slice of pie won't be the reason
For his demise
In the corner of this massive Veterans Home
He smiles as he swallows the last gulp of his sweet treat
As I gently wipe the mush from his face
I feel the presence of another hand over mine
In within a wink of an eye, I see the pale image
Of my deceased mother shimmering in the shadows
Of an otherwise empty wing chair
Smiling
(11/01/2007)