Long Sardine Poems
Long Sardine Poems. Below are the most popular long Sardine by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Sardine poems by poem length and keyword.
A frog once asked a wizard to turn him into a prince.
So, the wizard granted his wish and cast a great spell.
The frog was pleased and he hopped off into the distance,
Looking for a princess that was worthy, a beautiful belle.
One spring day, while hopping through the woods,
The frog came across an amazing, but dreadful thing.
It was a band of men, all wearing robes and hoods,
Laughing at a female frog that was looking for a king.
After they all left, and she was sitting there alone,
He hopped up close and asked her if she was alright.
She said she had just one wish, to sit on a throne
Next to a kind who’d care for her every day and night.
He told her his wish was to be a prince for life,
But he had to find a princess to accept his kiss.
So, off they went looking for a husband and wife,
Stopping all they could; not one person did they miss.
After days of searching, they saw a royal carriage.
They looked at each other with hope in their eyes.
There was a princess and a king, both looking for marriage.
Finally, their time had come, after so many tries.
They hopped inside and quickly explained their plight.
The princess and king both sat back and thought a bit.
They said, “Why not? This could be what’s right.”
So, they kissed in turn and waited for a long minute.
Suddenly, there was a poof, but the frog wasn’t a prince,
And the female frog did not become a royal queen.
The wizard was nearly deaf, you see. He heard, “Bag of mints.”
And as for the queen to be, she became a sardine.
The princess and the king were, of course, in awe.
They looked at the food and gave up their dieting.
The moral of this story is: There’s always a flaw.
When dealing with a wizard, always get it in writing.
Shakespeare,Turning over in His Grave
Spaghetti can, sardine can. soup can?
Why, hell~~
Any man can!
Do what?
Think poetry is just words!
Like eggs, "any style"
Tossed in a frying pan.
William would totally, fail today!
So, brutal and painful to say.
His beautiful words too long to read.
We live our lives whose watchword
and god is speed.
Speed of our devices, our cars.
Speed of being served in bars.
Time to slow down, me thinks,
And write some sonnets and odes,
with glorious, gleaming ink.
On parchment..written in our glorious
blessed hand.
Poetry that comes ever so softly and
sweetly,
From our mind-hearts' own infinite
meadowland.
Panagiota Romios
3/23/2019
Alexander Graham Bell
It was fine, quiet winter´s day I listened to distant noise,
dogs bark -you can´t avoid this in the Algarve-
smoke from chimneys straight up before disbursing and disappearing.
A few clouds drift about looking like wedding dresses of the unmarried,
The sun is a golden coin captain hook would kill to obtain.
I smell grilled sardine, and a cat on a fence is watching me.
I sternly tell myself to go for a walk before it gets too cold
But blithely ignore the inner voice.
As I drift on a slothful cumulus, my phone rings
I answer the voice says, sorry, the wrong number.
While in the market place I’ll know from a mile
Where the assorted fish is sold, sliced or whole
Tuna, sardine or trout, all frozen tucked in ice pile
Fish smell drives away the essence from my soul.
The recipes of global repute people so much adore
Salmon rillette, tartine, lutefisk, sushi or even caviar
Make at sight my olfactory senses revolt and sore
I won’t eat these, not make gas within, turn cavalier.
If our tastes develop an avid aversion for fish ever
This aquatic species would swim cheerfully, I wish
My food would be full of pleasant vegetarian flavor
The smell of fishy gas would never float over my dish.
September 30, 2021
Contest : May The Gas Be With You Farts Part 2
Sponsor : Chantelle Anne Cooke
A Little Fish
I opened a tin of sardines in olive oil for my evening meal.
Headless and nicely packed they were, except for one that
had a head-on was alive. I filled water in a jar.
Put the sardine in and fed it bread crumbs.
The headless sardines in the tin, so still and dead, I could
not eat them, put the tin back in the fridge.
My little sardine grew too big for the jar, and cats were circling
The house, looking for a way in, so I took it to the empty lake
that once had Bluegills fished to extinction,
set my sardine free to feed on rotten vegetation-
I don`t know how fish reproduce, but a year later, a school
of sardines were swimming around, except for one that
swam the opposite way- Bonanza! Grilled sardines and
The people rejoiced, thinking it was going to last forever,
And then there were none except one, my sardine in oil.
I went down to the lake when the sardine saw me
was glad, jumped up in the air, and was caught by a bird.
Empty lake, a dead eye in the wilderness, tells no story.
Last good days of innocence
He did came
with no trace
with no chain no fame
no frame or mark of true repentance
In skeletons of liquid pawns
carved in satirical steer
Streets bubbling
enchanted in silence
men wailing,
choking, bundled like sardine
strong drink is a mocker
loneliness is a gradual death
hunger is a conquerer
of this earth
men quarantined
Khaki with arms walking
watching and searching to fight
disobedience
but men can't eat air,
hunger In the street lurks.
At night
men Of the underground
with silence they scatter
they ransack every nooks
and crannies women wrapper
opened lock wildly
from her Can of safe
are cowries bugle
she screams in pain
but to nobody
Innocence is to innocent
boys gone to obtain
for the belly
pockets must open
sachets
must be broken
with the matches
"Good she "gone bad"
Hunger don't taste nice
innocence is a title
men locked inside
with chains of fear
can't decide
what this tide wears
they stretch run with their eyes
while standing here with their feet
looking like a lion on a pouncing game
preying an antelope to eat
loud streets wraps in pretence
mosques sits quite
Churches gone with God in trance
clubs eat boredom as diet
Cono!! what have you done
to men of the west
confidence in them is gone
to den
conscience has fallen from
thier pockets
Innocence is a title
they tear the streets
from house to house
bungling every safe to feed
feed from the ruins of
the skeleton of the liquid pawn
23/4/2020
Pick -A- Title , Volume 16-free verse 2
Last good days of innocence
Edward Ibeh
The Contest
I would like to enter,
and sometimes I do.
Occasionally I even win,
to my surprise.
How cool!
The true rule,
to every fool,
or pirate on a mission;
is write,
and write,
and write.
Do something,
say something in words,
that will ripple and feel.
Good or bad,
happy or sad,
most importantly...
Real!
About events that have taken place,
and ones that are yet to occur.
Items of interest to those in the dark,
to sing to the Light.
It is a fight daily,
to hit the right keys and not freeze.
To listen to the birds, for words.
Then, to be still and pray.
I want to move too fast,
I need to run.
But I can not.
I need to fly.
But have no wings.
I need to swim,
but my mermaid tail was sharply cut,
and legs grew back...
Clumsy now,
I stir my coffee with a sardine,
not to be mean,
they just taste good.
Sardines in olive oil
A shop in Lisbon exclusively sold sardines
this interested me since my Norwegian mother
had worked at a factory selling tinned sardines
I asked if they had sardines from other country
they didn't but told me in tinned bacalao they
cod fish came from Norway
I noticed sardines in olive oil with the year the tin
was made, began from 1905 to 2024
but the years from 1930 to 1943 were missing
I asked why, but no one knew, I think no one had
noticed the gap
The staff at the shop, when I told them about
my mother was charmed and gave me a couple
of sardine tins from 1944
Drac's the new food taster at Halloween
He dare not admit, he wasn't too keen
For solid food is not his natural cuisine
But Satan chose him instead of Wolverine.
First to be tasted was the eyeball terrine;
A little bit jellified with some crunch in between
He quickly counted approximately thirteen
His face flushed a shade of Frankenstein green.
After eating the innards of Jack Ripper's spleen
He grabbed a bone toothpick to pick his teeth clean
He suddenly screamed, making a terrible scene
Someone laced his drink, with some garlic poteen.
Then came the dish of pig heart and sardine
Which apparently is full of fish scale protein
That tickled his tum as it slowly went in
Later gave him the shivers as it crawled out from his skin.
A head on a platter kept rotating full spin
Made him feel dizzy, like he'd been drinking blood gin
With every slow turn it gave Drac a sly grin
Then gave him a wink from an eye in its chin.
He spotted a sausage, its skin a blood vein
Filled with minced bat then sealed to contain
Drac nearly vomited, but managed to retain
As the food kept coming again and again.
Last on the list was a bowl of mashed brain
Sitting on top of a mini ghost train
Drac thought it tacky, tasteless and plain
Until he noticed the gravy blood stain.
The food went down well, no undead did complain
The ghosts even liked, the toad quiche Lorraine
The issue now is, who blocked the main drain?
Who's going to tell Lucifer and try to explain?.
Halloween Monorhyme Contest
Sponser Caren Krutsinger
Written 28.10.21
The sun shines through the smoke of that day, a bizarre reddish orange hue. The day before I read signs in shop windows that said, "business as usual" and people out among the rubble trying to carry on with life. A life turned upside down in recent months.
My flat had been bombed in November 1940, and since that time I was living from shelter-to-shelter trying to understand how this could happen. I often wonder what the RAF was doing to combat the German planes, still I wonder. Shall they let London be consumed by fire? What a bloody despair!
Walking through the streets pretending to know where I am amidst ruins I see children crying, asking "where is my mum, help me dear sir"! All I can offer is a biscuit from my coat pocket that was broken in two. "Here, take these lads" I said, hungry myself. Then the rumbling started again, the planes were coming!
I scrambled to the shelter nearby amongst many others, the explosions shook me in my boots.
Down flight after flight of stairs I reached my destination for the night, quite unsure of what would come about but safe. Like a sardine in a can, I could hardly move there were so many people in such a cramped space, so I prayed along with others around me. Looking at the dirty disheveled faces everywhere I felt a nudge upon my shoulder, a voice said, "here lad have a drink". An older man handed me a bottle of Beefeater Gin which I gladly accepted. Its warmth soothed my worries if only for a moment in this living hell I was in. Hearing the bombs above I don't know what was shaking worse, me or the bomb shelter. I became numb as the Gin took hold of me in this nightmarish haze. "How long have I been out mate" I said to the older gent next to me. "The sun will be dawning soon lad" he said, "I'm going to street level, come with me chap". We climbed the stairs lined with people, unknowingly dead or alive until we reached the door to the street, it was so quiet I could hear myself breathing.
I looked at the sky, now a white-pink hue of smoke through which a star still shining shone as the sun broke the horizon. Reflections from the water of the Thames glistening light shone the trees budding their leaves, and in the devastation, I viewed the beauty of English roses..........