Long Pressure cooker Poems
Long Pressure cooker Poems. Below are the most popular long Pressure cooker by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Pressure cooker poems by poem length and keyword.
As if a child should understand an adult’s muddle,
putrid oil slick puddle,
the dreadful pain we foist on wide-eyed offspring.
Robotic elders crush with rigid slabs of Portland censure whatever spark remains in those tiny rosebud cheeks before their prime.
Those innocents should never have to wrap their nascent minds around the wanton desecration of intertidal lakeland wetness gradients,
the callous douse of velvet purple algerita berries,
blighted by the stark timbre cloud forms
that recklessly pour bile on every genus.
The rug rats at our feet may never know the joys of sap-addicted sugar gliding nocturnal possums, whose acrobatic tree to tree mirror ball exploits mock Isaac Newton,
or the kinkajou of tail grip fame who flaunt their tan glow wooly fur coat in broad daylight,
or the dawn to dusk fennec fox, that doughty eagle owl and jackal dodger whose kissing cousin dens pockmark terracotta forests. But not alone in wider worlds are children being deprived.
A heartless milieu also asks our clutch and clan to dwell in
alloy girder mousetraps, those pale decor rat infested tumble downs gouged out by scrimp and scrape rust bucket caterpillars.
Beyond belief we tolerate the nick and hoist elevator,
that pressure cooker transit flight abduction of the harried wage slave parent,
those cotton garment dress code senseless
dragonfly stand-ins that hover in mid air.
There’s every chance we’ll leave our nursling’s ire to future bands of mutant stem cell rockers who are duty bound to sculpture rimshots meshed in suckling chimes,
when validating rawhide rattle chainsaw fret board anthems
at crowd mosher mud fests,
where rivers of apocalyptic visions burst the bank.
If only grown ups listened to that inner vocal quiver that we
may not yet have cast into plastic resin folly for the generations weaned in toxic smoke rooms,
we’d pollinate a luscious fairground acorn dotted garden with childhood zest its one and only buzzword.
A sweet treat gift with natural flavour pending,
eternal life for baby planet daisy chains of tender petal linkage,
who‘d finally experience pure clutter free environments,
an eco world that values new born thirst for natural realms
(prior to tha ode dee us political stink sans hillary rodham clinton, i scrawled out this poem. her likelihood to grasp to political mantle than considerably greater than fourteen months when another official will help keep america safe and sound from cares and concerns of an uncertain future).
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Bill leave me
Hugh will cause a beloved howel
From him – the divine necromancer with magic dowel
If ambition stirs thee to make presidential bid for we Chelsea
Reverberating throughout terrestrial bowel
Analogous to former reigning supreme ringleader Muhammad Ali!
As an obedient student who crossed his t’s and affixed every “I” with a dot
Although high letter grades this older papa never got
(Undiagnosed anxiety inducing pressure cooker symptoms made me hot)
I recognize brilliance, and thus would immediately cast my lot
From the current secretary of state whose political skills right on spot!
One year hence, this democrat will cast his vote
Without doubt maintaining his party line
No matter campaigners with republican huzzahs will tote
Unable to change opinion of mine
Praying that economic maelstrom she can brazenly smote
If necessary seeking oracle of Delphi for a positive sign
Or devising my own catchy slogan to quote
Common as this generic human dust mote
Whose esprit de corps would to the stratosphere float
Like some over inflated helium filled ballooning goat
Kidding nobody that view from on high depicts sinking American boat!
Please take to heart
From this fellow (among ship of fools)
Who decries special interest groups sway to sabotage and up-end donkey cart
With extreme elephantiasis haunting white house with ghouls
With penchant to undermine sacred constitution with graffiti art!
This Joe schmoe of a lame duck nada so soup per poet
(who idolizes billy eve able applications of a cigar re: monica lewinsky)
would be in awe
And inwardly hee-haw
If this poem affected your name to be on ballot garnering cheers from this paw
And knows that in those random polls made of straw
The former forty second first lady gaga to engender revolutionary thaw!
A woman of thousand hands,
Never I could imagine,
When I was just Ten,
My Mother said she has,
At twenty five, after my marriage,
I really found those thousand hands,
Attached very close to my arms,
And I am still pleading god for some.
Before the cock coos my mornings wake,
Kitchen chaos with oil spills and burnt fingers,
Pressure cooker whistles and washing machine grunts,
Coffee to in laws and Green tea to husband,
School bus horns always haunt,
To feed their break fast makes me gaunt,
To pack their lunch and daily books,
And search all around for the little one's missed notebook
The socks and lace of my husband shoes,
Always play hide and seek to choose
His shirt and trousers neatly ironed
To tie his tie he roars like lion,
When omelet and sandwich toasted brown,
His face turns red and gruesome,
When he skips his breakfast for the 8 clock train,
My heart slips a beat to feel his hunger pain
The dinning table chairs are booked,
To serve my in laws with what was cooked,
Mocking stories and ill treating attitude,
Not a pinch of love or pleasing gratitude,
I swallow my tears for no time to wipe,
They always show their royal hype,
Seven years in their home,
They just look me like a servant with broom.
My saree and blouse dumped in cupboard,
Nothing matching and nothing good,
To tie them around with hooks and pins
It pricks my fingers but no time to clean the redskin,
What is left in the empty vessels
Fills my hungry stomach muscles
With little packed in shoulder bag,
And a portion of that to the pet that wags.
I run with heavy heart and soul,
So many thoughts and worries roll,
The bus stand queue shakes my leg,
The crowded Omni with no seats to beg,
Swiped my card but 10 minutes late,
Nothing can change, this is my fate
The ardent boss and flowing files,
Not one day enough to clear those piles,
When I sat on my seat,
Tears rolled down my cheeks,
Like a horse in the Derby race,
I run for life with out rest or space,
The credits goes to the Jockey on top,
Nobody notices the poor horses eye drop,
This is the destiny of working women like me,
Who serve as roots for the beautiful fruit tree.
the noose around my neck only a little colorful scarf on my last day as a slave
to the chefs always screaming their short comings as it's never the fault of the pressure cooker of the kitchen
to managers revolving the doors and telling you are call waiter as you have to wait for the couple that forgot to get a room as they gross you out with their display
an hour or more for the worst tip of the night as they are here to push your buttons
the maitre D as I told them to change their tune if to collect a percentage of your earning and to be sued ask you to finish his job as he is leaving to catch his train on clockwork schedule every night
the next day the computer was fixed with a new tittle and not a thanks from general management to save their ass from a lawsuit as I heard rumors of protest
the bartender an other story as drug dealers you have to bow to them or they will make your life difficult and suck as otherwise your customers will have to wait for their needs
the owners mostly absent only showing their faces to collect do not know the ordeal
as in the past they forgot to declare you and their earnings everything under the table but them protected you are the one suffering the consequence of retirement as you show zero on your social security number for years and never paid hourly toil dusting the chairs and the what not if only mouse **** I though I had a deal with them to pay my taxes and I will be all right
took me two years to amend their lies as they though I was a wet back with fake identity
but still those years show as zero as they didn't pay their due to the government for the welfare of old age but their own
to the clients as they are the redemption of many fun night
with the exchange of words to make a meal memorable
that is what made my job worthwhile as I had a chance to meet many stars enjoying my back serve
black pants white shirt I could tell you so many stories of encounter
Have you ever seen a seesaw?
Do you like to ride it high?
Can you bounce and push so quickly
that you almost start to fly?
I would like to tell a story
all about a seesaw race.
'Twas no ordinary seesaw
for it launched me into space…
My friend Jessica decided:
"We are astronauts, you know.
And this seesaw is a spaceship.
Let us see where we can go."
I pushed off and started soaring,
but she said: "You call that flight?!"
So she heaved and headed upwards
going fast with all her might.
"That is kids' stuff," came my challenge,
as I sprang into the air.
But she screamed: "I can do better!
Watch me jump and then compare."
So it went until I noticed
that I was not coming down.
I saw Jessica below me
as I flew above our town.
Then I rose above my country.
Next I saw the continent.
I beheld the Earth — our planet.
Oh! It was magnificent!
Very soon the Earth was tiny:
just a distant bluish sphere.
When I spied the planet Venus,
I decided to come near.
What I saw was clouds and darkness.
It looked poisonous and hot.
Venus was a pressure-cooker.
Fit for living it was not.
Then I left it far behind me,
moving closer to the Sun.
Soon appeared another planet.
And I'll bet you know which one.
It was Mercury — the smallest
of the inner planet group.
To observe its barren surface
round it I performed a loop.
I saw empty cratered highlands,
and the Sun loomed large and wide.
But I had to move on further
and continued with my ride.
I was getting hot and bothered,
for the Sun was right next door.
I could see its burning gases:
as they blazed, they seemed to roar.
It was big. It was enormous —
full of energy and light.
All the planets spun around it.
Yes, the Sun was quite a sight!
Cont'd in Seesaw into Space: Part 2
Puddin Day
Christmas Begins
they come on a Saturday
in November, the Puddin People,
brothers, sisters, nieces arrive.
family with their arms full of parcels
sacks bulging with ingredients
and of course the maestro to orchestrate.
bags of raisins: sultana, golden
tins of spices from distant trees
grown in exotic lands,
flour white as the snow
sugar and carrots by the pounds
and an new bottle of best Brandy.
on a cold and frosted morning
we gather for another year
snow or no, our spirits are tinselled
bells tingle from the sleeping garden
we carry out a tradition formed
out of our love for Mum and the season.
Christmas pudding created each year
since the first, exploded onto the walls
and ceiling of the kitchen on Clinton street
ever since nineteen forty four.
this is our day when we
remember together.
an assembly line of merry alchemists
forms around the table in the warm kitchen
chopping, measuring, mixing and tasting
telling jokes as old as Methuselah.
laughter rises up on scents of steaming
cinnamon and nut meg
old stories, each year slightly different
depending on the teller, regale us all
with Brennan history spilling into
catch-up conversations
about kids and their lives
those dispersed to the far corners.
the pressure cooker,
one of Methuselah’s wive’s,
perks happily on the stove
its own Christmas song of
whistles and hisses
producing the sweet dessert.
the day stretches out unnoticed
by the flour daubed
some what sticky crew
popping in batter
pulling out fat round puddings
enough for everyone’s celebration.
we part in the dusk for another year
Holding close our memories like gold
and pudding of course all brown and moist
soaking in its first drizzle of Napoleon.
at Christmas dinner, no matter how far apart,
we feast on Puddin and remember.
Wandering the roads. It has me under a spell even at this juncture in my life.
Even when spiked brambles
scrape my eyelids or those tender foot soles are being twisted by tooth-like stones. Quaint and angular they cluster mischievously among
green shoots that litter every footpath.
They lie in wait, in ambush for the absent-minded unsuspecting venturer.
It goes with the territory for this seasoned footman of the road.
The labyrinthine landscapes are house and home to the spiral lanes and clover clad hills rife in my area.
Their rustic heritage now sacrifice to the
orphanage of a malleable environment
Crop farmers obsessed with harvest bounty.
Restless developer pushing limits of an urban jungle. Fellow traveller in league with those fugitives from the cockpit.
The pressure cooker of modern life. Town habitant with split loyalties who clings to tumults of the city but hankers after rural haunts of yore.
Culprits one and all.
A lair from the hubbub.
Dwellings of the strangest kind huddle together like dots in a matrix separated only by a minuscule space.
Their charm not yet eroded by intrusions of the steel plant genus.
Brick and mortar athletes of homes in a jiffy.
The more alluring aspects of tradition have been fostered and preserved.
Among these are the shortcuts or bypasses of a different more sustainable engagement
Sequestered passages that shave miles off perennial ramblers with a penchant for straying off course.
Saviours of the clueless hitchhiker whose load saps his or her every energy.
One’s eye becomes a lense to all these things hidden or supposedly hidden.
Optic sensor to those trails just slightly out of focus.
Those tucked away secret spots beloved of local wiseacres.
They festoon far flung countrysides at random. Here there and everywhere.
Posted ; April 2nd 2022
I knew it was you all along, trying to compose a different song, I knew you were standing in the line when the bullets explode into the sky
Everyone had to run for cover and hold onto what they could find; they use handkerchief to cover their mouth as billows of smoke climb up the roof and encircle the place, where they dug the mass grave.
Screams and shouts echoed in the street and people were running right and left shouting profanities to the blazing sky, shoes scattered on the ground and the goats were flung out of their safety nets lying in the street gasping for breath.
The grocery store where they always have the disorder and grocer was always cutting corner was no more; he and his grocery store went up in flame and they all perish in the heat before the fire truck came.
Everything was sudden and the heavens was filled with trouble, rockets were not going up, it was the manche that sail through the air that created much fear and the kingdom robe in his gown stood on the other side hugging his bride and counting the harvest and the abundance it brings. And somewhere deep down inside, they found comfort on which to rely.
What on earth could have caused that explosion; it wasn’t a suicide bomber or a pressure cooker; it was a magnifying glass reflecting in the sun that sets off the plastic bottle in the bush that cause that big explosion. Everything thing quite down and the first responder left the town and everyone was homeward bound.
The narrow path saved their lives, the narrow path made much sacrifice, the narrow path knows how to roll the dice, and when you get lost get back on the narrow track and you will obtain the victory that you seek.
The narrow path is where you score goal.
Faraway Footsteps
How present
This past
Called memory
Hollow sole dragging
Hobnail boots
Caked with crud
Mud
And oil
Atop the landing
"Drop them greasy clothes"
Came the sometimes loving voice
The sometimes malevolent voice
But always his wife's warning
My mother's caring way
So many years past
When linoleum's impoverished sound
Is so remembered
Stepping from stove to table
Her laboring hands
Hefting the pressure cooker
Laden with steam softened cracked wheat
Barely eatable
That day's nourishment
Weighing upon
Forever toiling legs
Cushioned by sheepskin slippers
Whispering their shuffled prayer
I care
Generously ladled
Chew-your-brain-loose grains
Fit for health
Unfit for a kid
Layered my stomach
Fortified my heart
Prepped me abler
To gather reverie
So dear
Then
There was the sound
So ethereal
Heavenly I was told
Of bare feet
Curling the once-a-day-vacuumed
Pride and joy carpet of sage green wool
Replacing recently vanquished
Throw rug jigsaw mess
My early youth played upon
Our palace place
The living room
Scrunching pleasures
Toes lapping up that carpet
Dad's feet
Awful specimens
Calloused of years hard labor
Mother's feet
Preserved with nightly hot water soaks
Epson salts
When we could afford it
Worthy of pedicure
Never afforded
Me
Always wore my socks
Heavy wool
Darned when worn spots
Yelled loud enough
Mixed colors
When necessary
Yet always comfy
Homey
Loving covers
For footsteps
Unaware of the journey ahead
When steps would have to become strides
Leaps
Bounds
And eventually
Idleness
So present
These footfalls of then
Becoming echoes
Foreshadowing paces to come
When a once stubborn child
Needed to listen carefully
Or miss the lessons
Still offered today
From faraway footsteps
Passing near by
Living with depression can mean peace is hard to find. It’s like a pressure cooker; building tension over time.
The stress and sadness rises, but has nowhere it can go, so you start to feel like one day soon you may just simply blow!
Sometimes there are signals when the pressure starts to rise; your heart beats faster, breathing quickens, tears can fill your eyes.
There seems no rhyme nor reason; on the outside things are good, and so you yearn to smile like you really think you should.
But as a safe precaution you may hide yourself away, as the pressure in the cooker can be different every day.
It’s affected by the atmosphere and everything around, so you isolate yourself to try to turn the pressure down.
Though then you live in fear that it may take you by surprise, because every added stress can cause the heat inside to rise.
But the human pressure cooker has a purpose you will find, as it tries to give out signals to your heart and to your mind. It lets you know when things are cool but also when they’re hot and it doesn’t let you feel that you are coping when you’re not.
And there are ways to control it, you don’t have to self combust. You can give instruction manuals to the people that you trust. So tell them how to care for you, explain the things you need; there’ll be times they need to check on you, and times they’ll need to leave. As sometimes you may need your space; the solace of your home, and other times you may feel like you just can’t be alone.
So, like a pressure cooker, when things really feel extreme; you need to find a way to just release a bit of steam!
18.08.2020