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.
With looks of celestial damsel
On mission of mystery unravel
A fairy flies from foreign land
Fabulously to discover dreamland
With colourful feathers silky
Plumage so soft as cream milky
With a huge brain and physique
Seemingly bereft of travel unique
Marches with her wings vibrant
Only to devote herself on front 1
Space being her intriguing place
With supersonic speed that’s ace
Surmounting all hurdles many
The angel gathers speed gluttony
Hovering over planetoids tiny
Cosmic powers she has bonny
Revolving around many orbits
Surpassing all heavenly bits
Eventually lands on planet afar
Near the superb system of star 2
The landing leaves no stone unturned
For she knows her vision churned
Deep insight and attitude awesome
Make her an alien winsome
Tidy looks and trendy gait
Extremely stunning to catch and get
Her device offers a beverage strange
That has unique aura and rage
Pinkish perfect pure porridge
The cosmic food it seems from fridge 3
Tailor-made for her specific physique
Is the space suit with electro-magnetic
Induction full speed and winsome
Mere touch causes sparkle wowsome
A protective shield made of an alloy
Thus making her a space decoy
Satellites she whirls like a key chain
Space capsules she twirls on her mane
An enormous angel from an alien abode
Now at my solar system crossroad 4
What could be her mission possible!
Has been my subject of marvel
Is it to bring apocalypse fatal
Or just to revamp my earth petal
Before her I am like a neo natal
What to do to know her mettle
Time passes and she starts
To peruse my earth full of arts
Wonders at the seas and bays
Astonishes at mountains and rays 5
I am now beside myself
As she drills the earth deep herself
Oh soon there comes an mystery man
With torso made of crystal brand
The drilling continues till the dusk
There is a mist and her voice husk
I know it’s their language mutual
Based on the heavenly acts factual
Perhaps the mission is to find gems
In the earth stomach that overwhelms 6
Thus I’m sure she is down for mining
And exploiting the earth for farming
The drill lasts for hours twenty
Finally come out jewels aplenty
Like that of ocean-churn by Gods
Here going on planet-pumping by rods
The purpose is to adjust the axle
Though imaginary-full of miracle
Eventually gathered all gems
Putting axle in firm place 7
FOG HORN ON THE NEVA
Fog horn on the far off Neva dock
A canal bridge to open and unlock:
Today I heard its sound
Unmistakable note found
Implanted down in my head,
Coming today a word long unsaid
Across the railroad tracks it calls
To me through cracks in walls
And half-closed lattice windows,
Across the shadows and meadows
From far away in the salt water -
An ocean-bound huge transporter .
Took me back to porridge oats
And blanketless beds with cold coats,
Sharing a pillow with gran and mum
In a cold unheated tiny bedroom -
But warm as only a mother’s arm can be -
Listening on foggy nights with me
-To horns open Tyne’s swing bridge old,
And in foggy winter days cold
-To lost ships off Cullercoats moan
Trying to find the walls of stone,
The welcoming piers of heaven:
Sandy river’s saving haven.
I was taken aback to be taken back
Thus, on my hustling life’s track
I forget the real roots. I need
To recall from what did I proceed,
For often does my boat get tossed
And in the fog I am sometimes lost.
The Horn’s lament is familiar
Like a family voice or a prayer,
As a bird recognizes its mate’s call
No need to ask what it is at all.
It is friendly. To it I return.
To hear it I yearn.
Like my mother’s laugh,
Like grandfather’s cough -
I Know it like my own face,
It is easy to retrace.
As I walk on Nevsky Prospekt
Turning back the pages of neglect,
I hear it in the depths of my heart.
It reverberates as a note apart
And I feel it in the mist
Of time. It insists. I have missed
Its plaintive call for so long.
As a salmon returns where he belongs
To his birth river on the foam
I am drawn inexorably home.
Bustling Tyne ships are now gone.
Only pleasure yachts that leisurely yawn.
No battleships or tankers to see,
No river smells of sweat and tears salty,
But the horn’s fossilized lament remains
In sand-banks and sea-lanes
And memory banks retraced :
Memories never to be to erased.
Life’s mist becomes too dense.
Guide me in the fog thence.
Lead me to back to reality.
The horn is searching for me
From the past through the cracks
And lattice of my old bridge tracks,
Opening my mind to echoes of the past,
Holding my soul sound and fast.
“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
The river flowing tumble of snow
jackets the buildings and the road
on the last twilight of 1998.
As the sky is slowly draped by darkness and coolness,
there I am on the coldest loneliest walk of my life.
All around, I can see some dancing colored lights.
The houses spells the happy shadows of families.
Some sharing a meal.
Some laughing out loud near their Christmas tree.
Some on the middle of a party.
Christmas carols flying free on mid-air like:
"...But heaven surely knows
That packages and bows
Can never heal a hurting human soul..."
With only a coat, long thick black hair kissed by snow
and some old worn socks to warm me,
I traverse the street--
finding, finding a place I can call home.
About six days ago... I was also with my parents,
so happy, though we only share some bread and cheese
plus porridge that Christmas day.
Me and my parents hugged every night
allowing me to stand the icy nights of December
under the roof of our wooden worn-out home.
My parents though they can't read nor write,
they diligently work day by day for our needs specially mine.
I wasn't given any gift nor we can't everyday eat some meat.
However, my days with them are filled with fun-loving memories.
Not until...
a monstrous fire eat voraciously
our home and three other houses nearby.
My father though old with arthritis
carried me fast as he can to a safe place
and so my mother but ---
father ran back to the house
to save some of our things but unfortunately...
The roof of our home fell.
The fire so ferocious swallowed everything including my father.
My mom and I dealt with this pit of tragedy as one
but later I saw my mother slowly, slowly crumbling down.
She more than me is slowly falling down faster.
Her lamp of hope blown out.
And not long, past six on the same day my mother died.
Hence as the surrounding gets cold
so is the the life of me gradually reaching the freezing point.
---------------------------------
***Inspired by the story: The Little Match Girl by H.C. Andersen
and with some lines from the song: "My Grown Up Christmas List" by K. Clarkson
©O. E. Guillermo
Sponsor Debbie Guzzi
Contest Name A Christmas Tale
Placed 2nd
08:33 pm, December 17, 2014
WHEELCHAIR BOUND
Dots appeared and disappeared
a single sunray flashed onto
wheelspokes, canvas seat
comfortably frayed
bought secondhand
her unexercised legs flabby
window bars rusted, panes cracked
nobody cared
there she sat thinking about
cooking porridge with cinnamon
tricky to wheel in
two meter wide kitchen
lighting gas stove sitting no easy feat
this was charnel ground
no cash oozing pockets or
colour disappearing into op-art
no bra-strap laughter
or fruit bowl decorations
no one visited
thought wheelchair bound infectious
what if they too had to
sit for a narrow cold shower
or pop-a-wheely to see
a bird swallow a caterpillar ?
here trees were being chopped
their screaming pain slicing her nerves
cockroaches, ego-deaths
not knowing about this phase
of unpalatable life
she wheeled to a sunny patch
her relegated cement square
stared at Sun questioningly
He smiled at her pain
saying it was not in vain
she grimaced, then smiled in return
remembering cinema days
mall ice-cream, walks on beaches
vague memories round and round
with wheel tires, like neglected hamsters
nobody wanted to hoist wheelchair into air
then car booth, all too much trouble
had too much to do
shattered human perceptions falling
to be buried
chair had tatty armrests for lifting body
she could not buttocks rise up
to call street boy for corner shop loaf
hunger had to wait
till neighbour knocked
Buddha said all bodies merge
with charnel ground
sooner or later heads, arms, ears
are broken down
images across a sieve screen
Plato saw this too as shadows
still they feared coming near
locked into an eye flap timeline which said
what if I too ?
when wheels become legs
and humans less, sight clears
what was once flotsam and jetsam
floats away into goodbye bays
enjoyment of senses merely a persistent
layer of life
wheelchair bound is part of Plan
so sound, a mechanism for peeling
two wheels become friends
grinding ignorance, flattens what serves not
unfolding a Mode of Goodness
every spoked circle has a
tacit teaching agenda
No experience in virtue vain
Taxes are not talking nor are they taxis. But airports are often very congested. Packed tightly forming queues. Vastly unreported by news. News are neatly arranged newts in a bath licking ice cream. And a single melt of globular sploosh is merely an unwelcome loss. So washing becomes very dextrous in beckoning an eroded surface. Bubbles can form at will from depths of over fifty five feet. Whereupon a steely coloured beast of old will rise to take on even the mightiest of modern weaponry. When travelling in herds step left right left rigidly and always steer to the centre. Cinematic viewpoints of pathways filled with the patterned stardust trails. Break no saucepan in a rage. And cage no plant. It is to be said that at this time the potency of a banana sandwich with jam can run at great athletic speed over a basin drop. So always drag a meal to a ballroom. With chains. It is also wise and often imperative to shield eyes with cups and harness the knives,forks,and spoons. So as to avoid the high fluted champagne glasses who can be very nasty if crossed. Particularly if wearing a nine million pound gown. Sweep no lawn for lawns must be mown with a one centimetre pair of scissors. Many blades. Long time cutting. And dangling off the central high way at midnight is a feat only achieved by a very large circular bat. Pinnacles painting prisons playing political polo parties. And jester moments from the east and west ignite laughter and cheers from birth and south. So far heard by the eleventh moon many miles away. Air current velocity then. In a bowl. Chatting to a ladle about the state the potatoes are arranged in. It us simply not done. Unheard of in fact. To chop and place potatoes next to carrot and cabbage when all must surely know by now that this is unsafe as they simply do not get along together and therefore the soup will taste most sour. Dour diaries digging digital downloaded dreams. And a large portion of porridge in a mist on the horizon. Skipping. Hahahaha face of a thoughtful tissue. Hahaha exclamations exciting existential exotic experiences explicitly. Hahaha rotunda rotating rut. Xxxxx numerology Z that was the latest from the p y q reporting from a morning zoo next to a nice sty. Z cvb jackets Z.
Form:
Most people got married in June because
They took their yearly bath in May
Body odor was the reason
Of the flowers in a bouquet
A big tub of hot water was used
For a bath, so that's not complex
The males's right was to go first
The women and children went next
Last of all was the babies turn
By then the water was real dark
"Don't throw the baby out with the wash"
Soon became a common remark
Dirt floors were all the poor could afford
The old saying "dirt poor" came from that
The wealthy's floors were slippery slate
In wet winter you just might fall flat!
So they would spread straw on the floor
But they called it thresh way back then
and a "Thresh Hold" was what they called
The piece of wood used to hold it in!
Stew in a big kettle over a fire
Provided their dinner for them to eat
Leftovers left to get cold at night
With vegetables but not much meat
They added to the pot every day
It could be several days I'm told
That was referred to in the old rhyme
"Peas porridge in the pot nine days old"
When they could "bring home the bacon"
They were always proud about that
They would cut a little off to share
Then sit around and "chew the fat"
Pewter plates would cause lead poison
If like, in tomatoes, the acid was high
So for the next four hundred years or so
They thought tomatoes would make you die!
Bread was split according to status.
The burnt bottom to workers was thrust
The family would get the middle part
While the guests got the "upper crust"
Sometimes they'd pass out a few days
Because with whiskey they'd use a lead cup
So they would be prepared for burial
But "hold a wake" to see if they woke up
England had to re-use their coffins
But there were scratch marks, on some inside
They thought about it and soon realized
They must have been burying people alive!
Then they were buried with a string on their wrist
A bell was attached outside as well
Someone sat on "the graveyard shift" so
a "dead ringer" could be "saved by the bell"
This is true history, you can look it up
For me history always gave me a fit
But now this history doesn't seem so boring
Since I managed to make a poem out of it!
A template swap is a switch over to a swimming sword. Swordfish are very pleased at this and dunk their noses into goblets in a godlike fashion. Such etiquette in a swim. Formational framework finds format. And even a small pinnacle of cake icing could dance down the highways. So ignoring the wraths and word of woe it is wise to take out a pretty smiling biscuit. Place it carefully on a plate. Then climb up the hill and over the rope bridge. Very high altitude causes biscuits to be afraid so they must be calmed with soothing words and beats of breath. When the other side of the mountain is reached the biscuit must be harnessed securely using over twenty ropes. Then and only then can the abseiling begin. Wow aren't they travelling with speed, courage and optimism but optimism is neither an original orifice nor an octagonal oversized overspill objective. It is really then the sway of a ninety thousand foot toothbrush that can announce the time with no need of amplification via a microphone or a tannoy system. Wow. How intriguing is the belligerent hard yard of a semi dressed riddled jester? And how time consuming is the ongoing rashers of tinned and sliced ham? How delegated are the powers that are worn around and around and adjudicate the environment? Thus thwarting life in its structural natural weave. And a giant beehive hairdo must be re worn as a signal to a hive. Hide then. Hideous hags having heaping heads. And legs like little tables spin and rotate via remote control. Similar to a plate of writhing meal worms and a workshop of controlled chapel chaos. Big birthday balloons bring balls banging. Circumference of circulating capital charms. And a diameter of a diagram is a dare in the deeds. Castle that then fortify but do not attempt to fry for to fry is to form fiendish frolics. And to frolic is just not a fashionable way of wearing a peel is it? Hahaha the sausages are listening to their cousins today. Hahaha I want a cup of tea and a toast too said the little bluey green lamp. Xxxxxx parasympathetic parody xxxx xxxx etymologies z z z z z at twenty one full meals of porridge in a bread pan to twenty sequences of serving cereals to a six inch bowl. Z.
Form:
My Mutinous Mum
I thought my own Dad was patient and so cool
And Mum’s temper; pretentious as itchy wool:
For no reason her Temper was hot, so I thought-
Its sundry Duties that respite gave her nought!
Iron Amazon now all gone, ideas begin to show;
Ready pinch and her hot rebuke give me chow!
I remember my late Mother’s indefatigable lips
Disciplinarian of Love’s with relentless whips
And Fast Rules like: “You don’t talk when eating!”
Or blatantly: “You stop eating when talking!”
Iron Amazon now all gone, ideas begin to show
Had I reviled, would I’ve got Life’s sweet chow?
A reason had she to separate Grain from chaff:
“A Rod not spared bestows an efficacious stuff.”
So, like a Cowgirl, she cracked the whiplash
In her usual Marching Drill: Left, Right and Right;
“Boy, sleep well and NO bed-wetting tonight!”
Iron Amazon, now all gone, ideas begin to show;
Had I denigrated her, I’d have missed my chow!
Would I’ve heeded anybody and go to School
Had she not stepped in proving no cosy wool?
Her cautious mind got me into a smart spank
Lavished in porridge when lessons I did bunk!!
Iron Amazon all gone, now ideas begin to show;
Her force to resist would’ve deprived me chow!
Mum in my Dad she had a sweet Boy of a Friend
Yet: “Girls, no!” She called illicit love “Ugly Fiend.”
“Old-fashioned Goat”, I thought, she surely was-
Clap-infected, she proved a Goat eating no grass!
Iron Amazon, now all gone, ideas begin to show;
Would you heed Hot Mum to elude Aids’ blow!
That my Mum was hard to inveigle or to please-
She wanted being wild to terminate or decrease.
Lie to your detriment, she could read lying mind-
Caught, you’d get a tanning on the behind!!
Iron Amazon, all gone, now ideas begin to show;
Had I a hardened Liar, would I eat this chow?
A perfect Teacher in Church at Sunday School
Who, one day made me crawl on fours like a fool:
Acting me a Donkey- though Joseph be my name!-
While a girl rode me like Jesus into Jerusalem!
Iron Amazon, all gone, now ideas begin to show;
Had I not heeded God, I’d have faced Sin’s blow!
JM
02nd December 2013
No winter postcards of deep snow and bliss
No winter postcards of mistletoe kiss
Winter was cold, winter was tough
Winter was long and we all had it rough
No Father Christmas, no Saint Nicholas
No bright blue, glass baubles, no presents for us
Fantasy Christmas, fantasy tree
We had to live, through the reality
Dad was long gone, the man did his best
When chronic bronchitis, seeped into his chest
The place where he toiled, was all he had known
But it's dust and it's damp had now left mam alone
What would befall us, what would we be
Who would care for us, if we did not have, she
Mam did her best for her nine hungry brood
But I will never forget, there was so little food
Mam had her pride but the children came top
She burnt all the cupboards to keep the rooms hot
Furniture smashed for the fire was the norm
Furniture burned just to keep the kids warm
The hard times as a child sit deep in my mind
The emotions and memories, I remember, unkind
The hunger, the cold, the panger remain
So little food, again and again
The times were of hardship, poverty, pain
Coats on the bed was the name of the game
No warm fancy blankets in my childhood
Just old duffle coats and we fought for the hood
All of the cooking, from one frying pan
Hunched round a fire, nine kids and their mam
All I remember is fried porridge oats
Dark dankie bedrooms and old duffle coats
Snotty nosed kids crying hungry and cold
What bread there might be would be covered in mould
All of the clothing was hand me down stuff
Nine children to dress, there was never enough
One stocking each and sometimes one shoe
In all of my memory I can't recall two
Now most of the children, have just what they need
Warm clothing and food and laptop PC.s
Ipods and kindles with mince pies for tea
Have they ever heard of the word, poverty
I am not angry, I am not sad
One learns to accept, what one had as a lad
Would you swap that Hulme time, to be young in this day
With modern technology and regular pay
Would you sell your soul to escape poverty
Then sell it elsewhere, your not swapping with me