Long Reheated Poems
Long Reheated Poems. Below are the most popular long Reheated by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Reheated poems by poem length and keyword.
It would be fifteen rounds against the longtime champ,
But I was an upcomer, ready to make my stamp.
With an undefeated record, he was well renowned.
I was in good shape, with low weight, hoping to be crowned.
In the first round, I came out fast, full of fire and fury.
Throwing lefts and rights, my opponent I would bury.
He didn’t seem so great, not much of a force at all,
Yet, as hard I hit that guy, I could not make him fall.
In round 3, he landed an upper cut to my gut.
I was badly reeling, while he still remained uncut.
In round 4, he hammered me with a hook to the head.
Some reporters in the stands wondered if I was dead.
It looked like it was over, after he knocked me flat.
Just before the bell rang, I staggered up off the mat.
Dazed and confused, I continued to attempt my best.
This guy was relentless, as he put me to the test.
I was getting tired and decided to fight him smart.
I chose my punches more carefully than at the start.
At the end of the fourteenth round, I was still standing,
But I was a mess, from the beating he was handing.
Next round, I asked, nearly falling, without being hit,
Could I fend off blows, win points, would the judges permit?
No sir, I was knocked out cold, couldn’t be reheated,
And once again, Father Time remained undefeated.
Leftover Willpower
David J Walker
I know
I know
What I said last night
After the last bite of
Turkey and dressing and
Cranberry sauce and
Pumpkin pie
That I
Would never eat again
At least, not this much
So much
That it stretched my belly to
New dimensions forcing me to
Unbutton the waistband of my
Khaki dress slacks
I know
I know
How good it all was
and yet how
Bad for me at the same time
And how I fell asleep in the
Recliner watching reruns of
“It’s a Wonderful Life”
And the morning after
When I cannot think of putting
Any more food in my mouth
Somewhere in the back of my head
Hatches a plan for later
Sliders
Maybe one
Reheated roll with
Turkey and dressing and
Cranberry sauce
Small Sliders
Maybe two
Just two
No more
But surely not three
Would you think it profane to
Curse the names of every Pilgrim
Who landed on Plymouth Rock?
The bane of my weakening
Leftover willpower
IT’s ALL THEIR FAULT!
I feel the world
not going well:
When the puppy from below
barks sadly
lately...
The neighbor cat
remains meowing all day long
in the kitchen...
Here at home we eat
3-day bread ... and coffee
it is always reheated ...
I feel that the world,
not going well:
When I don't capture anyone, anymore
smiling in the square ...
A rare car
moves...
Drowsiness brings down
The Neighborhood...
I feel all badly going instable,
when I observe the winery
of Antonio empty ... he
sitting with Maria dispirited
awaiting for customers in the lobby ...
Without selling anything,
without collecting a
nickel ...!
the sun rose
blooming bright
inviting me
to breakfast
i excepted
expecting
to eat eggs
sunny side up
but she reheated
last nights
rice and
beans
warmed
by her smile
and cups of
hot chocolate
all the while not
noticing the dial
that keeps
time
she stayed
as brunch became
lunch then later
asking to stay
for dinner
she never stayed
so late so
what to want
the restaurant's
menu was all new
knowing nothing
what the moon ate
so on a date
with the sun
across the table
seemed not right
but we now knew
night is day
it rather became her
she placed her order
Form:
In Murano's heart, where fire takes its hold,
Molten glass awakens, a story untold.
The maestro, a sculptor with breath as his tool,
Shapes molten dreams, breaking the fiery rule.
From the furnace's depths, a fiery bloom,
Gathers on the canna, dispelling the gloom.
Blown with practiced breath, a form takes its birth,
A chandelier's frame cradled on this Earth.
Frit dances within, a symphony bright,
Millefiori's whispers, a floral delight.
Enamel's caress, a touch of jewelled grace,
Each hue a whispered secret, on the glass's face.
Punti's gentle bite, a curve takes its form,
Twists and points emerge, defying the norm.
Reheated and refined, in a fiery embrace,
The glass yields to the maestro, leaving no trace.
Of imperfections past, a masterpiece nears,
Lamp-worked blooms blossom, dispelling all fears.
Metal whispers support, a hidden embrace,
A dance of light and shadow, in this ethereal space.
Then, in the lehr's slumber, a slow, cooling sleep,
Brittle dreams are tempered, secrets they keep.
Assembled with care, each piece finds its place,
A constellation of glass, a radiant embrace.
Polished to brilliance, a symphony gleams,
Murano's magic, a world in its beams.
A fiery creation, a legacy bold,
This chandelier's story forever unfolds.
Reheated road
Reheated road retired by moving pandemonium,
Altercating, bitching, clamoring and demanding
sluggishly set forward
Birds and flies dispersed towards different directions
Their infuriate cry overspread the moving commotion
Against the riot the power standing
highly fortified, uniformed with stars
Attentively antagonized, barricading with iron bars
behind the fuming
Uproar reached closer
and disagreement sparking
Bottles, stones, whatever touching hands took wings
High torn and overfilled emotions animated
in place of confirmation, coordination, and correlation
flushing water, smoky gas and rubber bullets
find way to reach a peaceful solution
tears, vain juice and screaming
flowed without win nobody
Road reheated seeking solution treatment!
Jayaratne Weerakkody
On an as is where is basis, we fell—
down the elevator shaft of the day,
into the buzz of a fluorescent hum, the smell
of reheated takeout in cracked Styrofoam trays.
The descent began when the train doors jammed,
and I was stuck staring at my own reflection—
the stale grime of the carriage, the paper ads,
my face mirrored against the strangers, expressionless.
I finally made it home, my shoes untied,
the hallway dim, someone’s dog barking through thin walls.
The key caught in the lock, metal snagged on silence—
inside, a burnt-out bulb flickered above the sink.
Bills were piled high, half-shoved in a drawer,
an eviction notice crumpled at the edges,
yesterday's dishes stacked like monuments of failure,
and in the fridge—two eggs, a leftover apology.
Then I saw it: a post-it, bright yellow,
crookedly taped above the empty fruit bowl.
A scribbled heart, in a child’s writing, "You're the best,"
the 's' in 'best' drawn backward, rushed—
a small love, pressed into a square of paper.
That night, I folded laundry in silence,
shirt by shirt, sock by unmatched sock,
finding something steady in the rhythm—
the sound of breathing is as good as sleep
when sleep is nowhere near.
I climbed into that feeling, inch by inch,
with each minute stretched, each dollar exchanged
for time, each deep breath drawn. The city
buzzed outside, the cars skating down wet streets,
but here, it was the small clicks of our life—
turning off the TV, the snap of clean sheets,
the drip of the bathroom faucet needing fixing.
I knew it was enough—this climb, this small scaffold
we built to hold us up.
Now I stand, the city alive beneath my window,
swapping scar tissue out for the heat of the moment,
for the feat of staying—my laughter penetrating
the cracks in the walls—a song that makes each broken
piece of the ascent worth saving.
MIRROR of MEMORIES
Disappearing into the mirror,
fading slowly from my own thoughts
memories, photo shopped to black,
voices striking chords of longing
for the once known unknown.
Fearfully I gaze on living’s death
beseeching spiteful gods – spare them
those that I love – this torment
this coming agony of absent presence,
blank stare of empty vessel.
Greedily, will I cherish every touch,
each kiss, savor the leftovers of
reheated passion, hold softly to
hands that offer aid, rage silently
against a stolen past.
Hopefully, they will know
I have not forgotten them
they will live within me
protected, as in their youth,
held tightly in my arms.
John G. Lawless
11/18/2015
submitted to – Mirror of Memories “Alzheimer’s’ – Poetry Contest
sponsor – Tammy Reams
I start-out fresh every morning
but my resolve is reheated
Oh, it's med-school Monday-me.
Thank god my bf understands the fact
that on weekdays my time contracts.
Be careful, she may be grumpy and jumpy.
She’s the administrative flunky
the maker of plans
who strategizes for exams
It’s Tuesday-me
I'm in my zone and likely busy
slumberless and frumpiest
a pithy, dismissive miss-prickly.
who may not have been fed
and barely went to bed
It’s Wednesday me
in over my head, but focused,
patience at its lowest
memory’s key when deep
in theories, diseases and diagnoses
steer clear of me please.
Thursday me
with a brain like ground caffeine
irritation verging on obscene
trying not to be mean but acting like a tween
I need everything 2 B done, I’m under the gun
still acquiring scads of knowledge
but prepping for the evaluations to come
It’s Friday - did I sleep?
It’s evaluation day
dressed to impress
there’s a ballet underway
of peers and professeurs
weighing and clinically assaying
how I cope under a microscope
by 3pm I’m played and frayed
but looking forward to some play.
A few laps in the Shangri-La hotel pool,
and before I know it, I’m smiling and energized,
and with a bit of surface polishing, ready to date!
Why aren’t weekends considered therapy?
Is the air lighter? Are the days brighter?
They may not be but they seem so to me.
.
.
Songs for this:
Formidable Cool by Wolf Alice
Tom's Diner (feat. Suzanne Vega) by DNA
Ramble On by Toni Jevicky
.
.
sci-fy news from med-school..
We use antimatter everyday.
With PET scans, we inject radioactive isotopes (literal antimatter) which emit positrons that interact with electrons in your body to create gamma ray bursts we can track to create a detailed 3D map of your body.
‘Twas the night before Christmas and I didn’t care;
I had dozens of latkes I had to prepare.
The menorah was ready, with candles to light,
Waiting there by the window, a wonderful sight.
The presents were wrapped and I lined up the dreidels;
The soup was a’bubble, with floating knaidels.
The applesauce waited to chill in the fridge
In a Chanukah bowl. (Yes, I tasted a smidge.)
The cookies were baked like my grandmother taught,
(So much better than any that anyone bought)
Shaped like candles and dreidels and six-sided stars;
There were plenty to fill cookie platters and jars.
When I suddenly sensed there was something the matter.
I raced to the kitchen – the oil was a’splatter!
For while I was fixing the festive display,
I should have been frying (not quite my forte).
The first batch of latkes was burnt to a crisp
And smoke filled the kitchen (much more than a wisp),
But tying my apron for take number two,
I ditched all the burnt ones and knew what to do.
I lowered the flame and reheated some oil,
Plopping spoonfuls of batter I wouldn’t let spoil.
Then I conjured my childhood and Chanukahs past,
When I had no idea years would fly by so fast.
And I pictured my nana and grandma, as well
As my parents, my grandfathers and Aunt Sydelle
And my brothers and sister and cousins galore
And my uncles and aunts I’ve not mentioned before.
While my latkes were frying, so crispy and gold,
I remembered how Chanukah used to unfold,
When we played with our dreidels and gathered our gelt,
In our family’s embrace and the love we all felt.
So I cooked the new latkes with patience and care,
Knowing that with my kids and my grandkids I’d share
All the pent-up emotions I’ve hidden inside
With a platter of latkes, now perfectly fried.
And to all who will celebrate Chanukah time,
I do hope there’s a lesson for you in this rhyme –
For the very-best feelings our childhoods instill,
Through traditions, our hearts and our bellies will fill.
December 7, 2022