Long Served Poems
Long Served Poems. Below are the most popular long Served by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Served poems by poem length and keyword.
As we get older,
Our ability to demolish what is on our plate in short order,
Becomes a pleasure no longer,
And without teenagers around to even the playing field,
Leftovers would continue coming out of left field,
For ever and ever until we find ourselves under the field.
But with teenagers around,
All us non-teenagers get to stay longer above ground,
As the food served up is fresh,
With nothing left on any dish,
That can be served as leftovers,
Which reduces the dangers,
Of obesity for us non teenagers,
From eating portions that are over generous.
Now all we must do is reduce the size of our drinks,
To celebrate the end of leftovers,
If teenagers are around,
To keep us longer above ground.
Could
should
would
rude
mood
crude
and then
pulchritude with root word Paul care
To a back effect
where city provided water through the water faucet clogged
you had your last montage, fixed there, in a fix, succinct,
indifferent you. Not to define those as trauma and flash backs
You consult with the book that consulted the exaltation of poetic forms
In the very recent publication and so.
You knew that the third act would cause the face change to load and unload infringement
With a sonnet 18, sonnet 79, Casabianca and "To be and not to be" , you are now in
For a probable discussion of distance you have travelled alone, all by yourself
With your loneliest night with your school goers to Michigan
And sometimes, not often, I swear upon Allah, I did not do to spread Mary's also, let alone evangelical
I am free, I am humble, I am possible, I am possible, durable about Istanbul
I am a question to often unharmed (unlearned) Turkey
I am Lake Erie where the superior is traveling homebound, Kiyoto around centralized Japan
I am a Mexican boy named Damien, we were waiting around the Tropical hospice table to the moment food will be served
We played Ping-Pong together, had a few misunderstood moments with the least understanding to each other
I gifted a poem to the hospice not to cherish but also to relish next time.
A city name and a county and the last two years with only one word, left for serenity, each time.
Writhing.
October, 20th, 2024
Tasty words! With ketchup served hot..
Shattered Romeos, lover’s paradise: NOT!
The odd desperate housewife, wanting more!
Tired with the ONE hubby real sore..
“Feeling blue” they summon the angels from the wind
Trying hard to kindle the reader’s insatiable flint!
Stupendous secrets succumbing into the great “Void”
Fearlessly the writer rescues his version of The Helen of Troy!
The War time heroes,
With their grueling woes…and wives bestowed with imperial wait
I turn the page with a numb conscience
Still not in for comments!
Its when I see the boy who runs from the world,
A rich kid, a football hunk, always with a pretty doll;
Searching for peace,
Not some corrupt grease:
Lying at the face of the human race:
He finds divinity in nature,
Happiness in the beggar’s couture
All the fantasies he has, and the reality he fakes
Makes my finger whisper, like silent snowflakes:
I applaud the struggling lad, I can feel
The need of the vision and the dream…
~~ Entry in Comments vs Views~~
I found you in the moonlight long ago
Blue sapphire eyes that served as Cupid's dart
Intoxicated by your fine Bordeaux
The only sparkle I saw was your heart
I've held you in my arms so many times
Imagining it's where you wished to be
Then colors blend and bleed over my lines
While tenderly you pour your love on me
But then with sunrise I must let you go
I see your beauty in the morning sky
Those perfect nights we've shared you'll never know
The love I steal, the moon's my alibi
Sometimes the moon will blush and try to hide
Your love reflects as stardust on the tides
by Daniel Turner
I still remember that day as if it were today
The day papers were served, the day I officially walked away
One may think that on that day I would have been sad
But contraire monsieur, on that day I was oh so glad
I was glad because I had returned to myself
I was becoming healthier, and I pulled the 'good book' off the shelf
Goodbye to artificial sugar and its trappings
So long to ice cream and incessant ginger snapping
Good riddance to confused coddling and co-dependency
Sickly love transactions with its debilitating jealousy
Adios to the glass bottle and all of its fake drunken confidence
I'm drinking alkaline water now, Great energy, I behold, with no more somnolence
To the lil' stinky ciggies and doobies... so long
My lungs are so grateful and now I can smell my cologne
Oooh! Let's not forget the good ol' frenemies
Just plotting, scheming, and snickering with very dark energies
So if you couldn't tell by now, I'm elated about my divorce
I rediscovered myself and I got married to 'Source.'
KERATIN is extracted from
cows hooves to make to
make foam for fire extinguishers.
............................................
They butchered the shank
to make disks
to serve with beef cheeks.
the wine sauce would be cooked
separate and and made of
wine
chicken feet
thyme
bay leaves
cayenne
carrots
garlic
onions
sun dried tomato's
3 anchovies
we would need
15 pounds of cheeks
20 pounds of shanks
6 pounds of chicken feet
( to make chicken stock)
the oniony, tender
meltingly beefy
goodness of meat
served with vegetables
and creamy mashed potatoes
ah- God
Mercy on these
people!
The make shift area would be chicken wire two sides
with sand and cement mixed with a cob material
and plastered
to create walls
with a tin overlapping roof.
Conundrum
This confounding conundrum,
This continuing act of untying the pesky knots of existence,
This conniving, beating whirlwind of ever-swirling stresses,
Again served up on a plate mixed with legumes and angst,
Is taking all of us to the brink of aqueous insanity.
Life is eating at our gonads like a ravenous chigger,
And the madness of it all bites at our minds and hearts,
Leaving half dead infected people with terminal frowns.
We wake up every morning dreading the endless daily tasks,
The endless psycho-dramas concerning trivial insignificances,
The never-ending shuffles through the busy, hopeful turnstiles, to
Another turn of the page, another interminable trip to Magic City,
Where we all find our share of romantic nirvana dressed in grey suede.
But a dollar must be earned to pay the bill of the one who must pay his.
And so, we continue to breathe on reflexively and instinctively,
Like fat whales pulsing in a green bay.
Azteca
As a young girl growing up in Los Angeles City
My mother took me everywhere with her
Our favorite Mexican restaurant had great hospitality
Casa De Nina, I enjoyed the music and she, their famous platter;
Guajolotas o tortas de tamal
Desayuno, plato de huevos rancheros
Champurado and pan dulce de Pasqual
The owner made us feel special, served us our usual
There were, Chicano art hanging
Some of the most authentic were of Azteca
Roots in the primeval instincts enchanting
The details of nature surrounding, alla prima,
A painting of an epitomal Aztec noble prince
A beautiful princess in his arms, bien fe`rma
The traditional cuadro stayed on my mind ever since
There it was, in all places, the painting was everywhere
La Marketa, the textile district, La Golondrina
Pintura’s de Indios Mexicano’s all about the town square
Olvera Street, even in the Mission at the Marina
As soon as I got home, I cleared away the furniture,
from up against the wall
In one hand the print on the calendar
a charcoal pencil in the other I began to sketch it all
A mural has to be painted in close relationship
to the scale, style, and mood of the interior,
With regard to such siting, to eye levels, a very good tip
Considerations as light sources, make realism art superior
I hid the paint from my mother and dad
Unnoticeable as of yet, I drew very lightly
I worked fast with what mediums I had
Brush strokes here and there, ever slightly
Until a finished project, my very first mural
I took her scarf and covered her eyes,
lead her down the hall and pushed the door
I whispered into her ear, s-u-r-p-r-i-s-e
Happy Mother’s Day, I prepared her a little more
With her fingers splayed over eyes and lips
My mother processed, motionless, in awe
Focusing on the corner at the paint drips
she said, I always knew that you could draw
An inspiring experience for the most part
Exhaling—she saw that I was passionate of my Chicana art
THE *****'S ANNALS:
At the table of verdict was the ***** seated;
Breathing his last before senteced to prison.
Couldn't hide the state of how's feeling;
'Dead zone', he exclaimed as he's highly fronzen.
Every heart of his loved ones really saddened.
Friends and families connived to pull him down for no reason;
Grinded his excellence and burnt down his dignity,
Holistically because he's always winning.
Intricated him to sign a stoical deal they schemed.
Jilt they served him after achieving what they aimed;
Knocked him out from the working team.
Later in years, he's now freed.
Mighty God's replaced all that he lost.
Now his traitors are jailed after right-time's talked.
Openly, he's vindicated in the law court.
Praise and adoration he sings unto God.
Quadrifurcating of this issue's solely to be thonged;
Raised completely for'll to learn not to give out a trust.
Same way staying wise when you've been dass.
Troubles in the suspooks house,
Unable to understand the *****'s acts.
Voice of the visionary's highlighted with an active mind.
Whence, the studious scholar says 'it's a fact'.
X factor positively influencing the *****'s heart.
Yeah, his emancipation is strong and intact.
Zone of proximal development, the *****'s annals abstract.
Who Even Told Her That
We have our priorities. Our lunches. At prissy linen-covered tables.
With the best silverware, and steaks cooked exactly right.
So do not let that woman in. Tell her I am gone on sabbatical.
It is too bad about her child and cancer is awful, but I am busy.
And that steak is waiting with warm hot rolls, and real butter.
We have our preferences. Guns, ammo, and war machines
Bringing in lots of money for constituents who have paid me well.
I cannot wave at them at lunch if I filter their profits into something
As unpopular with them as cancer research.
Maybe we could give a dollar
Or two, but who cares that it is the number one killer of children?
My children are safe. My grandchildren do not have it.
I have lunch
Ready, at a table, ready to be served to my waiting belly.
Tell that woman to go away.
Bringing her child with her is a media trick.
I am not caving on this.
Seven hundred and ten billion to my fat cats,
Zip to cancer research.
Why does she even KNOW that none of the
Pittance we give is going to find out why
cancer is the number one killer of children?
Who told her that?
You bleeding-heart secretaries ought to keep your mouths shut.
My lunch is waiting dhramm it!