Long Pot Poems
Long Pot Poems. Below are the most popular long Pot by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Pot poems by poem length and keyword.
Twin rainbows arch across, the morning sky,
two parallel arcs, hung reflected on high.
One for tomorrow, one for regrets, grown old—
Twice the road, to the pot of gold.
One for what the years let go,
One for what our hearts may know,
One bow new, and one bow old,
Colors are reversed, reflections in bold—
Once is never enough to seal your fate,
to frame your day, bent-curved, not straight.
Déjà vu dancing the two-step, twice,
fortune laughing, with serendipity its dice.
But within which bow does the pot of gold lie in?
In either bow, or at either end, where to begin?
Unless contradictions can be endured,
the true treasured pot of gold, lies well secured.
Oh carry me where the wild lights fold.
Twice the road to the pot of gold.
With one bow new, and one bow old.
Twice the road to the pot of gold.
The second bow, dim, turns the first, inside out,
showing what faith and shadows are all about.
Gold may not glitter where legends are told—
but when opposites marry, their fates turn to gold.
They say what’s lost may yet return,
when tomorrow and past in one fire burn,
Yet twin truths, have a dual strong hold—
and there's two roads to the pot of gold.
The second bow is the B-side in undertone spun,
It's night upturned in the noonday sun.
Its underside chants what the first bow concealed,
Hidden in mirrored arched echoes, half-revealed.
Change comes layered like strawberry shortcake
with cream folds laid between make and break.
Two thresholds to be crossed, one unknown,
one outward walked, the other inward grown.
Oh carry me where the wild lights fold.
Twice the road to the pot of gold.
With one bow new, and one bow old.
Twice the road to the pot of gold.
Pot of food
Poem
Lionel Derbyshire
Our pot too whoo
You home through the storm
I am in .. you are out
Lighting strikes again
The maple tree is terrified
The dogs are petrified.
The window's fear
The thunder near
The cat runs
under the table.
Hearty beef stew
boiling stable.
Misty you sway
wet back to me.
My heart in hope
For lightning to miss you.
My hope is heard.
The fire keep's it burn
This warm house
Your winter food
Waits on the stove
Wanting you to get home.
This winter storm
A jealous woman
To strike and divide us
To be seperate.
I see a frame
You dripping at the door.
Our beef is warm
Like love
We beat the storm
And a hearty beef
Right in our home.
Smacked the shalliwag’s hand good and clear
He might be my cousin, but not really dear
He was getting too close to my golden pot
He should have known better, he really ought
Hey! The Clurichaun yelled as I slapped his hand.
I thought we were cousins, so Irish grand!
We are I allowed, but you are way into your cups.
It is time to go home, and play hard with your pups.
The next thing I knew he’d harnessed the master’s sheep.
He was riding them to the night cliff, which was way too sleep.
I put down my shoe and ran after him with my hammer
But what was that music? I stopped a second to yammer.
It was an Irish jig it was. Good and clear from Mountain of Cooley.
I knew what it meant, and the dancing began. I became pretty unruly.
I harnessed a goat, and ran after my cousin.
There’d be pretty girls there, maybe a dozen.
A leprechaun knows when his luck is beginning.
Maybe I’d meet two fancy faeries who could not stop grinning.
The gold long forgotten, I head for the mountain.
When I got there my idiot cousin was down in the fountain.
I should have let him drown, but my ma would be mad.
So I rescued the idiot, so big and so bad.
A pretty Irish faerie came flitting up to see.
She began flirting and primping. A beautiful day just to be.
St. Patrick’s Day was the day we were wed.
I had new shoes, made by my cousin Ned.
My bride was fancy, pretty, and not a bit old.
She I gladly traded for all that stolen gold.
One door closes, another opens
different phases oft find us half-asleep
Like the moon, they wax and wane regularly
though folks don’t always see
Conditioned to think they’re spread out
they can come in bunches
Disrupting our mindsets
evading our hunches
And when we think we’ve reached the end
another phase may lie around the bend
To shake us from complacency
to stir the pot ~ to bury reverie
The beauty of diversity..
All shall join hands..
Come together as humanity..
One size fits all..
It matters not what size one wears..
Differences in race and culture..
Is the epitome of universal love..
There exists no hierarchy..
As the beauty of diversity is unique..
The uniqueness is what sheds light on unity..
There is no better ..
There is no best..
All is equal..
All is one ..
All is the breath of life..
As each and every single life is precious..
As the melting pot is filled with blessings..
We are all sacred..
It matters not ..
Where one is born..
We are all born with the loving light of the Creator..
May all of our love and light ..
Bring forth peace and harmony..
All shall join hands..
Unity..
As we continue to come together as humanity..
Are British Politicians a Little Potty?
At the end of Faust Part Two
Goethe wrote something most true.
The eternal lies in things of time,
the stone you throw, the mount you climb.
the little bird that chirps and sings,
the honey bee that flies and stings
This logic, to its end pursued,
the British teapot must include.
A teaspoonful per person tot,
but, don't forget: one for the pot!
Boiling water then pour in,
Tepid water, 'twere a sin.
Now you let the teapot 'stand,'
or else the taste you'll get is bland.
but let no other danger lour
by waiting more than half an hour.
Soaked too long tea leaves release
what may disturb your stomach's peace.
Persistence, up to a point, does good
Beyond that point you're stuck in a wood.
They were impoverished.
Boys were always more cherished.
So, the birth of a girl did not bring smiles.
What a girl did bring were many options.
All of them heart-twisting and desperate.
To lay the babe on a trash heap outside of town
seemed cold and harsh, they reasoned.
Wild beasts might painfully finish her off.
Tossing her to the frothy fangs of the Yangtze,
she might get battered into painful death.
They thought about putting a hand over her little mouth
but neither had the heart to do such a thing.
They could gently place her in the chamber pot and seal off the top.
At the very least, it would be dark and quiet.
But any pot would forever be a constant reminder.
They finally decided, like millions before, to place her in a basket.
Perched high in the arms of a tree.
Her last day or two would be spent amidst birdsong.
Gently kneading her soul into prayer wheels.
'''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''
Some people play* for money.
My friends and I do not,
But every time we play, we toss
Five dollars in the pot.
Our games are only once a month
But still, the pile does grow
So there’s enough to have a meal
And see a Broadway show.
That sounds like a solution
Yet it’s not a simple task.
Five different busy women –
What’s the problem, you might ask.
Because we must concur on
Both a date and then a play,
There’s never a consensus
So each month we just delay.
Our bankroll keeps increasing
Though there is no guarantee
That we’ll ever spend that money
For we simply can’t agree!
*mah jongg, a game played with tiles
You don't need to swear and cuss
Making such a big loud fuss
Calm down, take a breath
You are scaring me to death
I know your angers coming through
Because of what he did to you
You are mad and really shaking
Your anger is hotly baking
Into a burning black pit
From this disturbing violent fit
There's smoke coming from your head
There is not a single shred
Of peace or calmness down inside
All your nerves are badly fried
Stewing in a pot of hatred
Too far gone to even shake this
Your bloods like a pot of water
Boiling till its even hotter
Than the suns rays shining down
There's a madness all around
Circling you in a heat
Until you are too far beat
To repair the damage of
A sleazy cheating awful love
If they use, they say they don’t abuse.
If they get high, they say it’s a lie.
If they want it legal, they say it’s medicinal.
I believe they know, deep down in their soul…
that smoking pot is wrong. It’s a sinful act,
something that brings about the unethical, the immoral…
all those erroneous and dishonest thoughts and deeds.
Smoking pot, even if it is legal, is something that brings…
unsound thoughts and inappropriate behavior,
little ideas that assure one of failure and breakdown,
everything that is catastrophic and disastrous.
The crash that comes about is worse than the fight…
to keep living life without the craving for a drug,
the reliance on a weed that is green and simply feeds…
the horrors and nightmares from a mind that succeeds…
at being needy and dependent, addicted to a smoldering seed.
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