Long Repast Poems
Long Repast Poems. Below are the most popular long Repast by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Repast poems by poem length and keyword.
Blurry e-motion
Waiting on words;
Upheaval swirls
Meal time posture
Food court harvest;
Same old stuff
Chinatown fringe
Walkabout excursion;
Hot humid weather chokes
Word for word jazz
Relevance juxtaposed;
Poignant verse strains
Book store punctuates
Tucked in a corner;
Niched following
Verse genres ply
Moods and variations;
Starling change surprise
Clap books monochrome
Small print runs;
Modest readership circle
Works on offer
Book bargains tease;
Second-hand relevance
Simple repast
Eat when hungry;
Flexible meal duration
Migraine fatigue hits
Siesta to recharge;
Stop gap measure
Cash and carry
Shopping trip downtown;
Happy getaway
Tired eyes droop
Glare of noon day sun;
Sudden shower wets
Casual visitors
Impromptu discourse;
Catchup chit-chat
So much to say
Hourglass reprieve;
Abruptly cut short
Conversations hurl
Mid-afternoon visit;
Twenty years backlog squeezed
We style a smile
Catch-up with past wit;
Great mileage in minutes
Joy in swift passage
Touching bases now;
Moments in retreat
Leon Enriquez
13 June 2014
Singapore
That voids within fill,
we employ free will
in our waking state
but dark desires bait.
We dream by instinct,
where thought forms are linked,
a remorseless bind,
borne of lower mind.
Third state is deep sleep,
where no cravings leap
and so we’re at rest;
no load on our chest.
Our question is this:
where lies divine bliss,
holding still focus,
along love’s locus?
Love is a merging
of currents surging,
where we disappear,
that God may appear.
Both future and past
are ego’s repast,
merely illusion,
birthing delusion.
In the here and now,
if no thoughts we plough,
bliss bubbles delight
grants us inner sight.
Hermit, make no fuss,
just board God’s bliss bus
to become the sun ~
God and soul’s light one.
31-August-2022
Notes: https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Turiya
Are we heading for the same fate as civilisations past?
As we grow too fast,
On too big a repast.
Our muscles bound up in red tape,
Bending us into the wrong shape,
To look more like an ape.
Taking happy pills,
Instead of paying the bills,
Only a few heading for the hills.
People on high horses, going nowhere,
As we foul up the atmosphere,
Spending too much time in the air.
Those in command no longer wearing chains,
Free to turn off the mains,
Is there anyone free of muscle pains?
Can we at least check the size of our boots?
Look at the colour of our suits,
And go easy on eating too many fruits.
Maybe there is still time,
For some of us to shine,
And set it all to Rhyme.
In tattered stacks I sought my way, through dusty tomes of lore
To trace the steps of yesterday, reflections of a time afore
Where apparitions haunt the mist and tarry for a while
To sadly rue the curs'd path of follies artful guile
A shadowed figure paused paying heed to my regard
And from the silent mien I collected my reward
Oh how the heart in hopeless grip doth dwell upon the fear
Reflected in those empty eyes afar and yet so near
They told of tales aplenty, grim in ways unmatched
Of fated days to come in distant memories past
Of portents and of omens, of misgivings dour repast
In ancient times afore those held in futures grasp
There I marked the warning in somber tides of woe
There I gained in mourning the tears of sorrow left unsown
With heavy heart and troubled mind I went upon my way
From tattered stacks and dusty tomes to seek the light of day
With weary steps I trod the paths so many trod before
Of follies dark and artful guile from curs'd days of yore
I walk along the slippery shore.
of the shingled beach
that welcomes the inland sea.
The sun rises slowly in the east,
lighting my way amongst
the small rocks and drying seaweeds.
There is a lift inside me
that nurture enthusiasm.
Peace and quiet reign around
disturbed occasionally by the barks
of sprightly dogs that race upon the sand,
the squawks of gulls gliding gluttonously
swooping down for their repast.
I look with sympathy on other walkers
on the beach. Thus, I meditate,
a marvellously therapeutic exercise.
Who am I, Lord, to deserve all this?
The quiet meditation calms my mind.
lowers my blood pressure,
a spiritually potent release.
My mind is tranquil,
I know who I am,
my soul is happy.
He visits the coffee shop every week
On Thursday, his personal treat
Buys skinny latte, with biscotti
Then takes his regular seat
In the alcove, by the window
Sits to watch the world go past,
With book taken from his ‘man-bag’
Settles, to enjoy his repast
He used to come in with his ‘Mrs’
Now he frequents on his own,
Looking out of the window, and reading
He’s content with sitting alone
Odd times, when the shop is busy
Someone will take up the opposite chair
Some, if inclined, he’ll talk to
Most, he won’t notice are there
He’s happy in his own world
Simply, just getting by
At times, he looks so lonely
It breaks my heart, and I could cry
There must be others, in the world like him
Widowed, divorced, estranged,
Who keep on going through the ‘old routine’,
Living in fear of change
Acting out the old adage of ‘life goes on’
When they lose husband, partner or wife,
Sticking with the same day to day regimes
To help them muddle through life
Maintaining the familiar,
Can help you to stay strong,
Until the day you find yourself ready for change;
You’ll feel the time’s right to move on
Until that day for ‘The Man in the Window’ arrives
He’ll keep visiting every week,
Persisting in his habitual routine
To find the solace he seeks
For now, he sips the last of his coffee,
Neatly packs away his tome;
With a nod of farewell to the barista’s
Solitarily, leaves, to head home.
I savor a hearty repast of meat and smashed pertaters,
And a salad liberally laced with fresh termaters,
But spare me anything slathered with anchovy paste!
('Tis just a matter of my discriminating taste!)
'Tis a gastronomic delight dining on Chinese cuisine,
But my appetite is dulled by things best left unseen,
Such as bird's nest soup and octopus when it is faced!
('Tis just a matter of my discriminating taste!)
How delectable are hams, bacon and sausages to eat,
But my stomach roils upon seeing a pigs pickled feet,
Or souse containing stuff that should be consigned to waste!
('Tis just a matter of my discriminating taste!)
Moroccan folks are wizards at brewing their tea,
But cous-cous with glazed sheep's eyes staring at me,
Is more than I care for when before me it is placed!
('Tis just a matter of my discriminating taste!)
I'm a glutton for cookies, puddings, pies and cakes,
But I'm repelled by the flesh of 'gators and rattlesnakes!
As can be seen, ordinary vittles I have embraced!
('Tis just a matter of my discriminating taste!)
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
I remember the days of yore.
Entering my house, out came my knight,
my sable-coloured spaniel.
Licking my face, giving me great delight.
He jumped up and down with joy
and I’ll never forget the smell
of my lovely lively dog freshly washed.
He was so glad; my pride would swell.
Mother would come to search for me,
a hug, a kiss and always a blessing.
The smell of Bouillabaisse Soup,
impregnated the house and her dress.
How I loved the smell of my mother’s cooking
when I came home from school.
It would not take me long to wash my hands
and at table expectantly sit at my stool.
Dad would come later, chewing his cigar.
I got used to the smell though I never tried one.
And after our short repast we would depart
to play a game or laugh as him I outrun.
Everything welcomed me home.
A final drink of camomile in my favourite mug,
Thus, at night I would sleep tightly,
the smell of clean sheets so cosy and snug.
Alas time went on and I grew up
got a job and met my love.
Now we live in our brand new house,
but it smells differently.
Like the air freshener that wafts above.
It can’t be helped. My parents died and
so did my spaniel. Time has its laws
Life changes all but
I’ll never forget how warm my old home was.
Those born unto a family large will know whereof I speak.
When you sat at table, to get your fill there was a technique!
During Pa's interminable grace, bellies would begin to growl,
Anticipating the meat and taters or noodles with the fowl.
There was a paucity of babble as the cutlery began to clatter.
(I always had my eye on that chicken leg reposing on the platter!)
But I usually had a choice of the lowly gizzard or the liver,
Or maybe the rooster's scrawny neck, that ghastly bony sliver!
On the Hoosier farm there were bushels of Russet pertaters,
And from Ma's bountiful garden, juicy beefsteak termaters,
But you must be very deft when such was set upon the table.
When the grub was passed, you snatched whatever you were able!
Being one of the littlest kids in the tribe was my bane!
That invariably placed me nigh the end of the food chain.
Little was said 'cept and occasional, "Please pass the salt."
As elbows flew during that aggressive culinary assault!
When company came, tradition was that women and kids ate last,
While we young'uns agonized, the men enjoyed their repast!
I mumbled 'neath my breath (and it wasn't always "praise" the Lord!),
As I impatiently awaited my vittles from Ma's sumptuous board!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
Rain
As in the pouring rain they dine
on soggy leaf and muddy grain
an icy wind disturbed repast
served carelessly to break their fast.
What topics do they chirp about
as in the pouring rain they dine?
The new nest and the coming chicks,
the switch to daylight savings time.
Perhaps they share their thoughts on spring
and the changes in the weather
as in the pouring rain they dine
with the birds of other feather.
They are less cautious of the sky
than others who, in rain won’t fly
and so, relaxing, share white wine
as in the pouring rain they dine.
John G. Lawless
3/30/2014