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.
today i sat down on my phone,
hoping to find something fun,
but instead to find something to make my mind run,
longing for something that would make it slow down,
at least to a jog,
when i saw your name my heart began to pound,
a rhythm to make your breathing heavy and your back weak,
where you fold like a piece of string and fall into a sleep,
a slumber you never seem to wake up from but still somehow learn to sleepwalk through life,
i can never seem to get you out of my head,
as soon as i think i’m over you somehow all the memories seem to come back to me,
the night where i saw you for the first time in what felt like an eternity,
even though we were little i never forgot your smile and deep brown eyes,
eyes you could get lost in,
eyes like a pot of honey,
the honey that gets stuck on your fingers you can never get off,
just like you,
stuck in my head like honey.
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
The humid air sweats streaming curls down the toddler’s flush cheeks like Fusilli hot from the stove. The golden ringlets cling to her forehead, bouncing like Slinky’s in front of her, blue-agate, eyes. The backyard’s sounds-bat cracks and wise cracks-surround her. Squeals echo from the mounds of loam behind her new house. The homes out back form a red, yellow, blue, green monopoly board configuration.
The sand box she sits in is full of scrap two-by-four blocks. Using a naked purple-haired troll doll, she attacks the pine-block castle, tumbling the battlement. A plank spans the puddle
(created by the leaky green garden hose). The barefoot tike, troll in hand, starts across the board toward the moonscape of mud mounds; where her sister and friends run screeching armed with rotten tomatoes. She almost makes it before falling in and running mud covered to mother.
Polish Catholics, Italian Catholics and Irish Catholics, lived side by side with English Presbyterian’s and we errant, runaway, Jews. The scent of tomato paste, knackwurst and borscht wafts through the same soupy air, where we play King of the Mountain. Big Boys and Plum tomatoes flew indiscriminately through the August air like missiles. The only thing which stopped the action was the distance ringing bell of the Good Humor truck, here on Cherry Tomato Alley. Here where each new neighbor had transplanted themselves: their children, their gardens, their sprinklers, and their cars to fulfill the American dream.
First Published in Melancholy Hyperbole Spring 2015
Medical they proposed to be
Arnold Schwarzenegger and me
Relentless advertising - negativity
Individual battles - the Ebay girl - a possibility
Judging seventy-two year old's virility
Under cover all some political pot heads
Another election seeing thin, colorful threads
No one's thinking clear, a foggy way to go
Andele, Andele, - Arnold and I will end up in Mexico...
for Carolyn Devonshire's Contest "Election Humor"
The California Proposal of Legalizing Marijuana did not pass... :)
Election results for Governor of CA: Meg Whitman (R) (former CEO of Ebay vs Jerri Brown - 72 (D) He won.
ándele excl (Méx) (=¡venga!) come on!, hurry up!
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.
A Shadorma
Pot-bellied,
wizened old oak sage;
resting in
silent woods.
Each swollen arthritic joint
tells a magic tale.
Within dark
knotholes of blackness,
lie secrets;
songs only
sung when the woods are silent;
echoes of the past.
You don’t think
that I hear your voice,
when I walk
through the woods.
Wild ferns tickle your fancy;
make you talk in sleep.
I heard a
squirrel mocking you
on Sunday;
while searching
for a nut, beneath your root;
a fairy slapped him.
I laughed and
frightened both of them;
away they ran,
too frightened
by my revealed presence and
I saw you smiling.
I sat to
rest in your shadow;
you told me
that fairy,
was your very own diva
I apologized.
I would not
want to offend a
sweet fairy;
since she cares
for my favorite old oak tree;
who imparts wisdom.
The pot
Tat killed my great grand’s thirst
That reared all who lived before me
That produced our water
Water sweeter than honey.
The pot
She valued more than gold
It was her favourite
Because it was passed to her
From her grandma.
The pot
Is a generational pot
Passed from one generation to another
But now it’s no more
What am I going to leave for my granddaughter?
The pot
That I broke with my carelessness
I know the one who passed it to me is now annoyed
But anyway, I will tell her
It was too old and it had worked for long.
The pot
What if I glue it?
Won’t it link or become a puzzle of a pot?
What will my jajja say about the pot?
I’m confused.
A pot am I made some two decades back,
Baked too but not enough,
In search of a good kiln
To rid some half-baked fluff.
And then to set sail
In this ocean of life.
Why?
Go far without getting drowned,
Someone is waiting there for me.
Who?
Not sure, I’ve to figure out
Nor I know who he is,
Nor why waiting he is.
When will you be fully baked?
That is my question too.
When or if ever.
_____________________
Free verse |21.01.2025|poet, ocean, life
Poet’s note: Poetry, like literature, arts, philosophy, science etc is trying either to find this world, other things, or one’s own self. Yet, one is unable to do so beyond a point. A poet feels inadequate and the underlying pain of his gets reflected in his creations as an echo of his struggles to search and find out.
Where is the line,
You know the one,
The line from which you start your judgement,
Because let’s be honest,
You only go back far enough to prove your cause,
The history is heresy to you,
Looking through naive little yes,
You don’t even see half the picture,
Worst is - you don’t want to.
As long as you can see far enough to call me guilty,
And what about your past transgressions ?
Sorry,
Your off limits,
Your twisted little hypocrisy works for you does it,
Let’s you sleep soundly in your dumb little bed,
With your dumb little ideals,
May god have mercy on your moments of weakness,
I hope when your judgement comes,
It’s with the same blind stubbornness that you’ve shown me,
We all have a past,
I can’t change it,
I can’t condone it -
I own it - That’s it,
It part of me and who I am.
Go find someone that meets your expectations,
What you want is a good little slave,
That will take your bull and make you feel special,
Your pathetic and I’m not playing your game anymore,
Get a grip,
Get a life,
And get to .
Every poem penned may not get writ well,
Some bloom, some wilt, some see not much of light,
A full moon wanting to cast silver spell,
Dawn dawning, submits to her splendours bright.
Not all pens get to reach the depth of heart,
Nor all of life may from a dream dreamt stem,
Some get withered by old nightmares apart,
And fail to imprint their lasting emblem.
Man toils still all the same, hindrance nor let,
Tries spreading dream blossoms on a tall bough,
And yet, few what they greed may ever get,
Alas, soil seeds or not, one ought to plough.
Man ought to sow seeds— wild rather than not,
And never once keep parched his karmic pot.
_______________________________________
Sonnet |02.12.2020|
Topic: life, death, poetry (of life), work/karma