Long Prepping Poems
Long Prepping Poems. Below are the most popular long Prepping by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Prepping poems by poem length and keyword.
There's no reason for me to think
that the four seasons run wild and free.
There's a God out there, and He's in charge.
Sure, every season has a mind of its own,
and each knows exactly where she belongs.
Moreover, they feel right at home with all they do.
Each may inadvertently cross its boundaries, but all
things being equal, they are tolerant of each other.
My favorite season is Autumn, and she is somewhat
different than her sister Spring, who brings life but is
quite often late on arrival. Autumn tends to be softer
and brings a healing touch. And I think she's calmer
than both Summer and Winter.
Those two siblings can be a bit mean and overstay their
welcome. I think that Autumn is reliable and steady, and
most likely to live up to the expectations of others. She's
graceful and not likely to come with bells and whistles.
That's because she tones things down, not up.
Summer starts her demise, having sung her songs.
Winter is restless, but Autumn stares back and keeps her calm.
She then informs the trees, preparing them for color changes.
They won't tell you, but trees themselves sometime get bored
with green. They know that the colors in Autumn are much
more photogenic, and they can't wait.
Cameras are prepping, and the leaves on the trees are salivating,
because they know that they will be proudly staging before long.
Monarch butterflies, having enjoyed the summer, are presently
setting their compass south toward Mexico. No, birds are not headed
south just yet, but they are thinking about their long flight south.
081422PS
Violence in the political party
A pebble thrown to defend oneself from a barrage of 100- stones
The bully then complains of abuse—might never makes right
will we unite?—I Am Anaya “All for one and one for all”
Bullied everyday was he, his peer would tell the news agent
He was different, a loner, weird, wore camouflage
And so, we tormented him
A lunch bench, a boy sequestered was “bullied every day”
Silent, defeated, sunken, he rarely spoke a word
Clean slate, passes a routine background check
A dietary aid prepping food in a nursing home
Nothing unusual nothing remarkable
Republican at heart for God knows what gave way, donates
to the loyal opposition a progressive bent
A bit addled and mixed up, can we see?
Unleashing his wrath a man filled with hurt with hate
In his own backyard, the tormented dons the guise of the tormentor
The assailed becomes the assailant
The unthinkable is done, perched upon a roof
four-hundred feet away just minutes into the oration
he aims then pulls the trigger
obscure and distressed Crooks alters history’s course
with a firearm at the ready as a duty and right
Father Crooks kept many, in a very pro-gun town
At the hands of a 20-year-old man who was
bullied by their own sons and daughters
Counselors, both father and mother
trained to help troubled minds, how ironic
Where were they as their son’s inner storm brewed?
A blind eye turned away what shame, what horror
Yet the world’s most salient story
Eight people won the Spelling Bee;
It seems that they were tied.
The winners, 12-14 years,
Were surely filled with pride.
In 20 rounds the judges couldn’t
Trip up anyone
Since prepping for this huge event
These kids consider fun.
While critics railed about their skills,
Called “useless” and “a waste,”
Such negativity appears
Both nasty and misplaced.
When athletes practice hours each day
To thus improve their game,
The spelling champs, in their own ways,
Do practically the same.
I much prefer one winner, but
These eight deserve our praise,
Possessing such abilities
That really do amaze.
In Classical Antiquity, “Cornucopia” means plenty,
A symbol of abundance, nourishment overflowing;
That was my Mother, a Cornucopia for many,
In her lifetime of service to others, without crowing.
Evelyn was many things, but "Master Chef" by definition,
The magical commissioner of a welcoming kitchen;
Where small talk ensued, as heat was applied,
Every recipe and dish, using taste as her guide.
Location mattered not, twas her home or yours,
Or a campsite somewhere, Mother loved the outdoors;
And the tools of her trade, simply counted far less
Than the magic she used, to sooth and to bless.
Like Christ on that hillside multiplying fishes and loaves,
She defied earthly science, mouths fed by the droves;
In volumes that satisfied even neighbors, and friends,
Our pets also royalty, their palates too cleansed.
Between meals our long table, was always reset,
Place settings in waiting, cleansed and well prepped;
‘Cornucopia’ describes best, our dear precious Mother,
Prepping meals now in Glory, for our loving Heavenly Father.
Slipping into my silver-gray SUV
Nicknamed " Sly Buster Cruiser”
I speed off down the rocky, off-highway road.
Twisting and reeling like my wired mind,
windows down, sunroof open,
(Annie Lennox groveling on the CD player),
reckless noon rays on my chin,
wind on ticklish, naked nape ...
Damn, who cares? I am 19 again?
Shuffling into the 7-Eleven Store
beside the Shell gas station
(With a free wind shield clean-up),
I draw out some bucks for a Philip Morris pack
and a two bottles of beer, plus a Dorito
( the barbecue flavor , please)…
Ain’t a drinker; a smoker on occasion,
but I feel like being reckless and
slightly rebellious ;
I lock the door prepping up for an untamed ride.
Grabbing a spray of cologne mist
and red-violet lipstick from the tote,
my irises roll from the lane to the side mirror,
as I slowly dunk the beer, icy and bubbly
zooming away with hands laughing on the wheels.
Nobody knows me in this place; my ribs shout silently:
This is just all for me; just now, I’ll be.
This is just between me and the edge of a free road.
This is about my navel breathing fire and ice,
It’s about touching danger fast without reason or fuzz
Because later, all this smooth craziness will soon pass.
Back to the same home trail, I rip the cigarette sticks,
slide the unused bottle in my bag
before wiping the red on lips with the Dorito foil…
“ Mommy, Mommy… where have you been?”
I smile as if my skin had chased a tornado…
Dumping the beer on the back porch,
My hand is cleansed by some kind of holy water,
And I start to hug my mischievous girl...
Then off I start to roll the plates on the sinking sink.
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Celebrating My Faves Contest
For Andrea Dietrich--Faved by Sponsor
Reposted 4/24/2016
Choices are made to fill the space,
Embrace the still small voice,
Rejoice in what it has to bring,
Cling to all that comes through,
The things you hear are true,
It truly does love you,
The best part of you,
Is hidden from view,
Smothered by all you do,
Becoming an anchor to hold onto,
Through dark and stormy seas,
Energy is creating reality,
Entities translate whats to be,
Waiting patiently to see,
The masterpiece unveiled,
Sailing an ocean of choices,
Curtailed by an inner voice,
Hoisting up the anchor,
Releasing the anger,
A stranger I must face,
Chasing away the danger,
Exchanging places,
Re arranging the space,
I choose to erase mistakes,
Retracing my steps,
Prepping for whats to come,
Welcoming something new,
A choice can change the view,
A small voice will guide you,
Before everything you do,
Chasing space through,
The choices you choose.
In the still of the night,
I become intoxicated with the moon's soft light,
the view of Roxy Anne, City Lights.
Whispers of the wind caress my lampogen,
I let her back into my skin.
as I let my thoughts unravel, within I am drunk in;
each breath
Petraglyphs a dance, each sigh a song prepping for romance.
In this moment, I truly belong
where Time stands still, in this tranquil space,
my cup I fill-
as I lose myself in her gentle embrace,
distilled amoress.
Life draws me onto her milky page
as the night slowly slips away,
I carry this feeling into the light of day.
For in the fill of the night,
I find my soul laying upon her canvas spotlight,
may she never dry up or fade,
or cease being my muse-ment park and
sight seeing eighties and nineties Valley Girl babe. Perhaps she can romantically teleport us back to lovers/memory lane.
EASTER DINNER
they liked the one behind me
the teal and black checkerboard
its sparkling tiles on the diagonal
red, yellow, blue, pink pillows
on sofas and chair
the sunrise was unsympathetic
like the cross, but the service
was cozy for Easter Sunday.
remember how it was raining yesterday?
they liked the one behind me
with framed women and palms
i’d have to look over my shoulder
see the eyes of the beholders
steadily for twelve hours plus
prepping the whole affair
can you smell the onions and peppers
the beginnings of love
they liked the one behind me
with the blue and pink sky,
red roses fanned out, ferns,
and modern art on display
stirred the flour, salt,
nearly a dozen eggs
and water, still needed
more water
they liked the one behind me
with the great picture window,
the surf and sail, red and white
striped shell, a book, and
a cocktail with straw
chicken - legs and breast
red and white wine
no deviled eggs - tossed
toadstool radishes
they liked the painting
it drew them in
i liked that they liked it
wonder if they saw
the red parakeet?
even the beach chairs are red
did they spy all the red things
obviously I’ve counted
most everything
that is behind my back
and in front of me
4/9/2023
In prepping for a funeral
The family gathered in the hall
They sat there all mourning
Even though it was nightfall
He had eaten lots of vegetables
Yet, he passed on in his suite
Must have still had too much sugar
And not enough heart beets
A farmer by trade, he grew
Not just beets but onions too
When he passed, they cut his crops
And cried all the way through
They made his favorite cheese as well
A batch to honor him that day
His athlete niece, age nineteen, fell
Now there’s pro teen in the whey
Onions served at the will reading
One son got more than his share
“Yes, I see”, said the executor
I can smell it in the heir
“Woof” exclaimed his trusty dog
“This situation is certainly tough.
Although I’m sad about my human
These jokes were pretty ruff…..”
I remember in her eyes the color of Christmas day
and the taste of melted butter in the early morning sun
The cadence of her voice the undertone sounds
of her silences, it was long ago
She was a matriarchal mountain of energy back in days
when her hair was red and her cheeks were pummeled pink
Decadent cakes for Christ's birthday, accompanied by her own
we ate cheerfully with eyes aglow
Then in the eve of midnight we unwrapped
secrets of her hand me downs, a knitted family tree
prepping up our dreams we slept without the know
that Christmases of future, would hold no mistletoe
I remember her eyes , two melting Chocolates
and her laughter, rippled layers of agate.