Long Porridge Poems
Long Porridge Poems. Below are the most popular long Porridge by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Porridge poems by poem length and keyword.
Her booty is like yam porridge
She's gonna blow that mind away
I know you can't wait
She will show you how to work
without an interview
She's bad into the cage
You wanna go there?
Ugh! I won't advice that but
The moment is on
The Mic is set
Go into the woods
Deep there
You'll find her.
She’ll make you forget your name.
It's okay babe
I know!
You have 10 thorns
Still you've got to run so fast like a lion
into the jungle fever.
She's alone, along the craziest
crafted woods.
Wishing that someone who
loves her for what she is would visit.
Go get her,
Kill those cats
Rats!
Bees!!
Frogs!!!
Bears!!!!
Beasts!!!!!
Go see your baby..
The last I think I saw of the rustic scene
Of the age long lore and antiques
Before the spell was cast
Was a dancing constellation in the sky
To the throbbing of drum and flute.
A full moon in golden attire watched keenly
Smiling over the quiet thatched huts
And all around the planes of furrows
Where our backbone ache from tilling
Where young cereals countless had sprouted.
Then we reclined on our bamboo beds
Having over-fed with yam porridge
Yam boiled in red oil, dry fish and hot spice
Watching the live coal glow under the tripod
And transfixed by the distant throb of life.
Suddenly a gust of wind descended
Routing from the western valley
The moon quickly puts off its smile
The throbbing ceased, the stars disappeared
And the coal dispersed sparks of its last ember.
I saw the trees bowed to their lords
The sky mumbled with iridescent light
To the distant vale of palms wriggling
Their braided heads to the dissonant rhythm
Of disco and afro night storm.
First there was only a patch of pool
The pool turned to a running stream
And the stream became a flowing river
And the river expanded into a great sea
And the sea brought forth a white monster.
And the monster foaming and roaring
Routed the huts and tossed us into the sea
In the wild turbulent waves set adrift
On a piece of raft, once our bamboo beds
In dark storm and thunderbolts drift amiss.
Then I was woken by voices of weeping
And complaints; doused and shivery,
There was no thatch or mud walls standing
But a great flood washing away
Remnants of our toils and inheritance.
Cover up on the obvious actually does pay
but with a cheque signed by foolishness.
It is folly to tape a broken egg to still maintain its preservation;
efforts on reversing the spilled porridge
destroys the importance of the usable one left.
Noise still remains same no matter how clothed in melody
a mediocre sound is still useless even with rhymes.
Disobedience to the book can ruin the sauce
a concocted soup is a catastrophe even with curry and thyme.
The taste has been ridiculed if
garnishing attempts land the fruit salad with lime.
An unplanned show attracts more mockery
even with stimulating screams and energizing mimes.
The heart’s disloyalty despite all intimacy
shows it’s either not the person or the time.
A bad product or an awkward brand
even with a heavy promo will not generate a dime.
A decaying carcass packaged in trademarks of fashion will still stink,
hence good can never be an upgrade from bad
and two opposites can’t be transformed into relatives.
Defining the spoilt to be condemned
to start afresh for a target so good is simple wisdom.
"food passes downwards into the oesophagus,
then further down into the stomach,
where gastric juices break it down into
what can only be described as
a porridge-like consistency
the then partly digested food moves through
the small intestine (which to doctors is
also known as the small bowel)
here, and not later, it is broken down even further so the
nutrients can be absorbed into the blood stream
the waste products from this process are then pushed
into the large intestine or large bowel
the liquid is absorbed
and the left over waste forms solid stools
these collect together in the
rectum until they are passed out of the body in
a bowel movement."
after the man on the dance floor yelled this in my ear,
i went back to the bar for another round
“50 Words for Poe: dactyl”
When Terror Fell came
he had no complaints
the joint was jumping
it was do or dare
he offered Her his old pear
the porridge here was so glum
She closed the door
to the window of his cell
and sucked on Her plum
She was thinking, a dangerous thing in itself, indeed,
that next time peaches, not pears would be fun
She’d tighten his straight jacket some
fingers and toes to be free
She’d observe him for a while
there was the pressing issue
of The Others let loose on the run
joie de vivre, gone all bat**** wild
there was still the report to write
an extra dose of Laudanum prescribed
She’d blindfold him and buzz him electric
then instruct him to write poems didactic
delusions of grandeur
fingers and toes playing piano
with the other dementors to be denied
he was manic - full of too much ego and arrogant hurt pride
All in a day’s work
He was safe in his cell
or so he thought ...
counting numbers
the seconds tick by
he'd gladly wait
for Hell's Bride
(LadyLabyrinth/2019)
https://youtu.be/mGYUV76Lhic
“In the window full of sunlight
Concentrates her golden shadow
Fold on fold, until it glows as
Mellow as the glory roses.”
https://youtu.be/CoA4goulmMo
“Silver dust
lifted from the earth
higher than my arms reach,
you have mounted.
O silver,
higher than my arms reach
you front us with great mass;
no flower ever opened
so staunch a white leaf
no flower ever parted silver
from such rare silver;
O white pear
your flower-tufts,
thick on the branch,
bring summer and ripe fruits
in their purple hearts.”
(H.S. 1886 - 1961, The Pear Tree)
https://youtu.be/PgqHi5HkBRk
"before I am lost,
hell must open like a red rose
for the dead to pass"
For the Lost, out of their cell still serving time in Hell.
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/51869/eurydice-56d22fe6d049d
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/h-d
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/h-d#tab-poems
Hoo-ya, hoo-ya, ziss boom bah!
My doctor has given me a thumbs up
I'm good to go for another year
Let's see, how should I celebrate?
Perhaps I'll try going a day without my walker
Just kidding! I don't use a walker
Hoo-ya, hoo-ya, ziss boom bah!
Maybe I'll try dressing myself today
Last time I tried that, I wore checks with stripes
A major “faut pas” in the fashion world
I was laughed out of the local coffee shop
Perhaps coz I was wearing shorts, a bowtie
And NOTHING else!!!
Hoo-ya, hoo-ya, ziss boom bah!
My adult diapers are starting to give me a rash
Methinks it's those damn No-Name brands
People kept asking, “Why are you walking that way?”
Told them it's an old war injury!
Hoo-ya, hoo-ya, ziss boom bah!
Gonna close now. Wife Cathie made me some porridge
Told me it's good for my toidy habits
She usually knows what's best for me so I listen
The doc just gave me a thumbs up
So I'll keep doing what Cathie says!
Form:
Merry Go
Poem
Lionel Derbyshire
AAAY..
It is the pluck of dawn
In full mettle moxie
Morning is examined
YAAY..
I am afresh and wake up
I am breathing again
Ready stable and able
Bouncing and determined
First eat is the porridge on the table
Aay say I beautiful day
Yay sunrise has been created
Morning Santos
My soccer mad hound
Chase your ball or
Fetch a bone all day
Morning Sirbastian
Mine attitude cat
So fat and stubborn
He has 14 lives and
Best survival skills
Morning Cracker
Our patriot parrot and
All feather faithful friend
Greatest home patriot.
Rev up your symphony and sing
I am ready and fresh
Feeling chichi also razor sharp
On the way to the door
Spot the handle
Can't wait to grab it open
To see the crispy sea city
It is yellow and gold not filthy
A lusty lively fresh braggy breeze
Is felt in the nose
No hold me back
Pajamas and all
Ready for my playmate Earth
Let's play.
Procrastination
A bird chirps to get me out of bed,
But I am still resting my head and I don’t want to get up yet.
It’s nice and cozy under these blankets
And I haven’t got to go to work today,
So I am deciding what to do next.
I will get up, but I don’t want to.
I will make myself a nice breakfast
And for lunch I will have soup;
But I will not be cooking tonight because I have a date.
I must not be late. I think she said to meet at eight…
Or was it seven? Or half past? Oh well.
I will figure it out;
I have no doubt,
Things they will all be just swell.
I am sure she will text me before then,
So I can pretend that I knew all along…
Maybe I will finish writing that song,
That I have been working on.
It’s so nice and warm beneath my quilt,
So why move at all when I can be happy being still?
But still I am hungry, so up I will get
And make myself some toast,
But I am so bored of bread!
My body needs sustenance and I think I need porridge;
My stomach will just have to be patient for a while
And somehow I will manage.
(C)2017 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Shanties of pain, children of lesser God
hungry and homeless, our naked feet trod
Propitious nights, desperate and sleazy
in ugly darkness , sleep comes so easy.
On silken dust, hard pillows under a bridge
extra slice of bread,... some more porridge.
Alliteration of plight, poor pain of poverty
a picture perfect, in poems of prosperity
Models parade ghettos, bones of pale skin
Gross Domestic Products, we end and begin.
Fat bank accounts, talk of weak misery line
over barbecue dinner, toasting health in wine.
From pots of kindness, your charities flaunt
beg two meals a day, you think is all we want.
You push each other, upgrade in fancy cars,
we stay put in boxes, sinking dome of stars.
A child of lesser God, hopes higher totem pole,
sparkling silver spoon on golden glittering bowl.
14th April 2020
Sponsor craig cornish
Contest Name Children of a Lesser God
A black fly in midwinter
has burgled the warm air of the kitchen.
It struggles for height,
a brittle-winged air-bender
reaching for plateaus,
higher footstools,
grasping for spice shelves
or the slope of a slick cooker hood.
The splutter
of an over-revved engine,
the bolted clicking of insectivore plates.
Up it lifts again
turning like a wounded helicopter
only to crash-land
on a dish of cooling porridge.
Mired, it scoops gravity out
from a clogged exoskeleton
staggers to a porcelain edge.
Heavy airfoils battle a steam laden air.
Its weight now cannot be sustained.
It falls to the hard kitchen floor
spins disorientated on its back.
A dervish dance.
Sibilant thunder-claps
of a now dismantled buzzing.
Will it try again
to lift its wreckage?
Between the paused silence
of a ticking wall-clock
a burnt-out fuselage trembles.
Nothing disembarks.