Long Pitchers Poems
Long Pitchers Poems. Below are the most popular long Pitchers by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Pitchers poems by poem length and keyword.
In January, the kaboom of fireworks
Redefining glitter above us: What if
The sky was pink, should purple rain besmirch us
Yet, don a cheer for New Year.
In February, the appearance of bouquets, cordate chocolates
Many secret loves trespassing sticky notes
Lovely nothings hang mid-air.
In March, the hope of summer
springing like anxious fledglings pushed off their perch
Rain becomes wet again, and slinky vines climb, and the clandestine shed their lairs.
In April, the ascendancy of kites, compassionate Christ, innocent rose
enfeebling the Tempter's snare.
In May, the juggernaut of time: mother's five-foot smile
displays Amazing Grace's incarnate view.
In June, the wonder of rivers, warm dews, a Padre's hard hands, and ears
Perhaps, a hidden hero you never knew.
In July, the rhythm & blues of summer moods
fiestas, rowdy follicles flow from idling youth
siestas, catching dreams, catching dust-lust-rust
cane harvests, when fireflies flew.
In August, the brigades of picnickers, lemonade pitchers, watermelon
Days just go by you.
In September, the persistence of our memories
Time mows on.
Some things stay.
In October, the signs of leaves in the copse
and June plums plumping.
Newness shortly falls away.
In November, the reign of pumpkin and cinnamon
With stew dumplings wrapped in singed banana sleeves.
Giving thanks, table heads bowed, raised prayer palms
Discount deals. It's Black Friday!
In December, the thrill of his Christmas kiss
glows my nose a carrot-red
blowing winter back
... till May
Hands move hastily, yet gentle
Perfecting the design
With creative fingers, sensitive
To the clay, the substance
That will be brought to life
With the subtle hints of wonder
Hands shift clay into pieces
Of earthen vessels, vibrant pottery
Terra cotta turned into graceful
Jugs. Pitchers and bowls
Delicious works from strokes
Both tender and persuasive
Hands change clay from soft
Supple mud to delicate formations
Brought to life by enchanting
Hearts who give their best to craft
Out containers worthy of the word
Perfection, flawless, whole, finished
Like God above who works with us
Creating something wonderful,
Something complete and whole
Because He gives the very best
To those He ingeniously changes
From dirty mud to miraculous creations
Jeremiah 18:6 (KJV) O house of Israel, cannot I do with you as the potter? saith the Lord. Behold, as the clay is in the potter's hand, so are ye in mine hand, O house of Israel.
As the sun sets
A hot wind like this
Does not belong in downtown Lansing
But here it is
Speed-boating down the Grand River grinning and wearing Ray-Bans
My wife and I
We hold down our pouncing bouncing patio table
At the Waterfront Bar and Grill
As if we were airborne soldiers just landed
But still attached and tangled
To our thumping jumping parachutes
Strings of lightbulbs clattering like teeth above us
Hung from under the Friday night tent
96 degrees even as the day sinks to evening.
The river converts to beer and shots of whiskey.
The catfish are buzzed and jump for joy.
The four member rock band is amped up
With the addition of a mandolin
And plays the entire second side in order
From Led Zeppelin III
But replacing at the end Hats Off (To Roy Harper)
With Hey Hey What Can I Do? as one big set.
Who does that?
We notice there are well-known bartenders
Playing hooky from working anymore
At the drab and deadly chain restaurants
Back in the townships.
We should all follow their lead
And go on strike right now from the boredom of life
Everyone everywhere
Just quit and sit along the Grand River in this sparkling city
But the lead guitarist
He drinks his beers as fast as the crowd
And the bass guitarist tilts her instrument
Vertical to her shoulder
A mother soothing her baby’s back
Swaying her hips in melodic circles
While the drummer and the piano player try to catch up
On beat
So we sing along
Implanting our hands in the dough of air.
Jimmy Page is here.
Sitting alone.
Dressed in black.
Sipping from a tall glass of orange juice.
It’s too hot for flies
So lightning bugs twinkle to the sticky bottoms
Of emptied beer pitchers
Flickering on the table tops
To the night’s finale of Whole Lotta Love
Mixed at the end with Baba O’Riley.
Who does that?
All night
A friendly man at the table next to me
A union bus driver
Who bragged he’d worked enough overtime all year
To take PTO for the entire summer
Flicks his hand against my shoulder
(The same shoulder that has Melanoma growing on it)
Every time the band strikes the first chords
To another rare Zep
With the same look of
Can you believe it?
Apparently, I must have the same look.
The poem requires a mind
that finds meaning, even divination,
in language. Non-fiction,
up to academic standards, demands
evidence. Nothing less will do.
Most of us read fiction and this
needs a taste for action, motivation.
Lately, as have you, I have
thought about our war and its purpose,
motivation. But I have also closely
listened to the wood thrush, analyzed
its song like a tune by T.S. Monk
or J.S. Bach concerto. One belongs
to the loved ones who ostracize us, too.
A robin looks, hops, pecks, is never calm.
It is the flute-like tones, yes, but mostly
the patient, meditative clarity
of the thrush that enchants. One wants
to be that bird. How will we attain
calm clarity for the species *****sapiens?
Through the discipline of asking questions.
Mimics, woodpeckers, sing-songers, hawks,
chippers and trillers, whistlers, name-sayers,
loons, owls and a dove, high pitchers,
wood warblers and a word-warbling wren.
Unusual vocalizations.
What did the wood thrush sing
teaching its young thrush meanings?
Too much emotion is the commonest of mortals’ sins.
Peace has many faces,
the wood thrush in the canopy is one.
A word of praise here, an encouraging word there.
A wraith, a ghost against an impatient man,
verbose, unsure of the path, always longing.
Nothing satisfies like the thrush's song.
Spoon-fed by
Manifestations of
Truth-like truths
Partial particles
We have stopped
The pursuit of search
Sense of
Subtle satisfaction
Has put a lid
Onto the otherwise
open pitchers of
Our minds
We follow now
The mere rhythm
Of the half-filled
Half-empty pitcher…
===
Thoughts –
Picked like fallen plums
Have filled our heads
Thinking
And the process of
Logical reasoning
Has gone out of sight…
===
We utilize
What someone else
Has discovered
Discovery and
Inventions
Have become
Mere dreams for us…
===
Desires have
Dominated
True joy and
Fulfillment
Have flown from us
Search is shut
Search is shun
Stunt will be our growth
Till we start
Searching…
22 November 2022
A friend is one who sees you not as weak
But in the process of becoming strong
Who listens long and well as others speak
Not judging but encouraging along
Though in the very prime of life, a friend
Thought not of me as old or out-of-style
With genuine affection he'd extend
A laugh, a handshake, hug, or friendly smile
And you, kind sir, were just that friend to me
Although we met not frequently enough
With not a bone of insincerity
You lived as advertised: the real stuff
We spoke of sports, for this was common ground;
Of baseball, football, hoops, and favorite teams
Of quarterbacks or pitchers on the mound
Of Super Bowl, Olympic, World Cup dreams
You're gone too soon; too many words unspoken
Too little water passed under our bridge
Now through my tears I see that bridge is broken
But to have known you was my privilege.
At the ballpark in a sequestered location
are baseball pitchers waiting in isolation.
They ready themselves for a bad situation.
When starting pitchers falter, they are called upon.
The call goes to the bullpen, and they toss the ball.
The fans can see them “warming up” behind a wall.
If their teams are in danger of losing the lead,
the managers summon them during time of need.
If the pitcher on the mound’s outcome is in doubt,
relievers take their places to seek the third out.
Left or right-handed, they cannot break when bending.
With each “save”, the contests have a happy ending.
Cat and mouse
Within a garden somewhere out there,
butterflies were dancing free from care.
Thousands of flowers loving the dance,
love the lovers and loving romance.
A lot of butterflies full of lust,
drinking and dancing in love they trust.
Daffodil pitchers filled with the wine,
drinking that wine was wholly, divine.
Roses and jasmines fully bloomed,
enchanted aromas sweetly perfumed.
From its hiding a devious mouse,
saw the butterflies right from his house.
He ran to the garden, chased the fly,
grabbed him tightly, bit him to die.
Ate him like candy tenderly sweet,
the smell of jasmines made it complete.
Loving his food and loving its taste,
the mouse was happy nothing got waste.
Until he saw a ghostly shape,
scary giant, he couldn’t escape.
There was a cat with a smiley face,
growled and meowed and started the chase.
Running like wind, he didn’t gave in,
hunting for food is never a sin.
He grabbed the mouse in a playful way,
ate him so fast then rested all day.
The mouse tasted like jasmine and rose,
the flavor of butterfly joined with those.
The cat was happy and licked his paws,
adored his power sharpened his claws.
Until the next day there was a dog,
with big shaggy tail, fat like a hog.
Ugly and old he ran after cat,
hunted the cat and ate him like rat.
The dog was old and his fate foretold,
he died in winter when air was cold.
He died and buried and turned to dust
nothing can escape from time and rust.
The months have passed and years gone by,
what else can we do except comply?
Living and dying is a part of life.
Life and death are in constant strife.
The flesh of the dog made the jasmines grew,
butterflies came with their lives renew.
Roses and lilies grew one more time,
butterflies dancing, dancing in rhyme.
Another mouse and another cat,
the playful cat, that ate up the rat.
Another dog and another feast,
after a while the death chose the beast.
Life is a circle, circle like a chain.
Everything goes and comes back again.
There will be death for me and you,
like roses and jasmines lives renew.
3/12/16 Haloo
Whether I got married by my choice of courtship and romance,
Or given an unknown bride with arraigned marriage,
In the end, I get a wife, sincere, devoted, caring and loving.
The time takes toll,
The bright sun sparkling beauty turns into charming moon-faced doll,
The discussions and arguments begin, she turns into a volcanic rock.
An old Indian proverb says,
two water clay pitchers put together rub against each other,
A discussion dictates what’s right, arguments points who is wrong.
A marriage between two strangers,
IS to make some one imperfect into a perfect being,
Although a good concept, does not work until both amend.
A few times, she will complain,
I cook and clean all the time, today it is your turn,
All excited I cook, she takes a bite, and dumps everything in trash,
Now I am barred even ever thinking of cooking again,
A few times, I will be dragged to her shopping spree,
Buy this, buy that, does this dress look pretty?
After a few likes and dislikes, she makes her own choice,
Lesson learnt, just being together makes her happy.
A few times, she loves to buy an expensive item,
She will say you don’t worry, I will charge on my account,
When the bill comes, she says you have the money, you pay,
Despite all the little skirmishes,
She likes and loves me from the core of her heart,
Mutual support and respect will survive the marriage.
The holidays are history and winter settles in with
its pain-in-the-rear wind chill; a light covering
of snow finally brightens the mood for a day or two
until it’s washed away by rain. The sump is broken and the
north end of the basement floods.
The overdue heating bill on the desk screams at me,
telepathically, for attention; a red circle on the
calendar says a check is coming and my crusty eyes
begin to widen. But since it’s already been spent,
they quickly narrow and re-crust.
The soothsaying marmot sees no shadow, and my mood
stays low as the thermostat stays high; hey folks:
it’s February and things are supposed to get warmer,
right? Pitchers and catchers report, but I’m not there,
so I might as well be in Helsinki.
Things should get better in March, but we’re greeted
by a mother of blizzards; however, the next day it warms
and snow drifts disappear like vanilla ice cream on hot
pie. By six-thirty, the sun still hasn’t set. Sump’s still broken,
but I have wide eyes and a smile.