Long Simmered Poems
Long Simmered Poems. Below are the most popular long Simmered by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Simmered poems by poem length and keyword.
Toasted teacakes,parmesan cheese
Croquetted chicken,fricasees;
Apple dumplings,yogurt creamed
Welsh mutton,in pudding,steamed.
Baked Alaska,Banbury cake
Lyons ices with Cadbury flake;
Gorganzola buttered roll
Side salad oil drizzled,in a bowl.
Melba meringue,warm mince pies
Filet mignon,mushrooms and fries;
Sunday roast in dripping jelly
Onions and peppered tripe belly.
Trout poached,not microwaved
Slowly cooked,and no time saved;
Thick fishstock,bouillabaissed
Beefsteak so lightly braised.
Hash browns,sausage,gravy and mash
Casseroled stew or goulash;
Poached,simmered maybe pressure cooked
Tempting meals from Granma's book.
seed time and blackthorn hedges dusted off winter
hibernation lost its sleepy crown and laid to rest
inward turn of events that simmered in the cold
as daffodils shed their woolen hats and mittens
opened their crowns to bluebell’s wedding vows
a violet haze rose from the mist in lavender bloom
witness to the union of undying warmth made in heaven
crocus offered saffron and danced to poppy’s delight
stinging nettle though uninvited lured butterflies
blue skies applauded
not a single cloud in sight -
loved tender kiss
I take you my sacred partner for better or worse
poorer and richer impermanent and until the end
for when we are dead we still had springs in our step
holy word showers
love pure kindness compassion -
a canvas of bliss
11th March 2021
Brittle Silence
It is afternoon,
and the coffee pot was never turned off.
It is still burning even now.
The liquid inside... black,
and in dire need of cream,
and sugar.
I flip the switch, and pour a cup,
of the intense brew.
There is a message waiting,
for my attention...
as the milk is introduced,
and the honey leveled,
I smell the question,
and the answer at the same time.
The true reason,
for every season... is "time".
Too much, too little, too late.
Cooked and burned.
Simmered... until overdone.
Historically, out of place.
I walk back to my space.
I sit down at the desk
and glance about for a pen, or pencil.
There is none.
Instead, the computer awaits my attention.
It is always there.
It sometimes will even stare... at me.
I have to answer, like a scratch,
that must be attended to,
or it will simply drive you mad.
I grasp the hot beverage with my right hand.
I bring it to my lips, knowing it will hurt...
in a good way?
It will sear my lips, but wake me up,
from a dream,
which is neither good nor bad.
There is no jury to decide the difference
at this point.
(09/19/11)
Can you picture the blood of JESUS lying on the ground
While laying on this cross being nailed and bound
The pain that was etched on his face
As he prayed for the lords grace.
The nails being driven through his hands and feet
Knowing soon that god he would meet.
Yet he was forgiving his fellow man
For they could not understand.
That he was being sent by god above
To show his compassion and his love.
As they picked up his cross and placed it in the ground
The screams of “ crucify him” simmered down.
Many fell to their knees and cried
While others were joyous and satisfied.
Now picture JESUS looking down at the crowd
Searching for his mother and seeing her on her knees
And with god she did plea.
You could hear in her mind saying
“ let thy will be done, for you had blessed me with your son”.
And as the skies turned completely black
And his face fell to his chest
The crowd felt the fear and the unrest.
The thoughts entering their minds
“ is this truly the son of god that we crucified?”
And we believed the rabbi s and all their lies.
Now that you visualized this in your mind
As I had done so many times.
Now picture the face of JESUS looking
Down at you and saying
“ I forgive you”.
So much emphasis is placed today on the role of the wife
She is to be pure, pristine, just, hardworking
She is to imbibe all who surround her with faith
She needs to be able to know everything without ever asking
She is to be the woman behind her husband
The one who would make of him a gem
To be a wife, is surely a complicated state
Acted out badly, one can even be a contraband!
But what of the duties of a man,
Is he as important as the woman
To be a husband requires one only to work and bring money
To care not whether the home is, without him, in harmony
Husbands are in heaven whose wives scold not
Husbands have rights, rights to use words of spite
Rights to beat, rights to abuse
Rights even to cheat, to hurt and bruise
When the woman speaks out, or scolds such a man
She becomes something seen by some as a legend
Seen by others as un-womanly
Whatever, she knows how to protect herself through her duty
What of those men whose wives scold not
Should they be brought back to the pot
To be cooked and simmered
To be brought to the right path
Feminists, equal rights, equal opportunities
Women's places no more being in the kitchen
Husbands, change your mentalities
We, women, we are frail and easily broken!
Amethyst shades dazzle her mysteriousness
hiding black secrets in vulnerable mellows
though recognized in the forgotten marshes
she's said to possess dark onyx powers.
She smiles at lost passersby in the red valley
aware of the myths bubbling beneath wet soil
and they disappear in unexplored forests
seemingly safer than her uncharted evil mind
every full moon augments her fragrance they say
her Carmen blooms to entrap innocent souls.
A thousand false alarms wrapped in assumptions
for they'd never know she's a trampled magnolia
tattered spirits in frayed rags was all she had
dried oceans of scarlet tears in enclaves of fears
humanity died on a full moon night under heavy breaths
her weakened screams muted with lustful arms
blurred visions of a forced conviction in blood
her faint shrieks died in this swamp of tragedies
till her blood froze beneath slumbering snow.
Her burning spirit simmered mauve mists
slimy seeds sprouted the dirty green marshes
spring bloomed her courage to recollect storms
crushed to sprinkle colors on heavenly topanga
diamonds in her mind shimmer as she laughs
sending ripples of valor in perturbed oceans
embracing her flaws she sings a folk melody
trances of whispers blended in mellow symphony
legends of crimson valley float with her flute
a goddess calming oppressed souls to breathe
they've heard stories of sapphires burning
splashing colors of freedom and kindness
but all they see on drooping moonless nights
her pious caricature coming alive in dark
magenta petals blooming in layered fog of storms
turning mauve then scarlet glittering ruby
spreading wings from green marshes perfumed flowers
on elevators of courage to save scarred souls
infant butterflies arise in lilac hues of whispering hopes.
July 4, 2020
A Contest About a Goddess or God - Not THE God Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Caren Krutsinger
~Winner: 1st Place
butter flies and marshes mellow Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Kai Michael Neumann
~Premiere Contest Winner: 2nd Place
In the unquiet chamber of a kitchen,
where brittle leaves of thyme and sage sway
in unison, to the hot hum of convection
crooning softly from a stove of iron.
The guests hang waiting, by turns,
for their moment in the simmering cauldron.
Thick, steaming whispers of warmth
curl around the herbs like a secret,
as the ample arms of winter wrap the day,
in a slowing cloak of comfort.
The soup, a slower surrender of spinach,
blooms in the broth—verdant and tender at first,
then shrinking away, like sunlight at solstice.
Wilted strings of greens tie memory
in their tendrils, mingling with the earthy echo
and unrushed tones of rosemary.
Garlic, its own pungent alchemy, intrudes
as a perfume, lingering like an unpaid mistress,
an alabastered addition to the elixir, a liquid hymn,
of patience.
Bones simmered to capitulation,
cradled spoonsful of succumbing, each sip
an immersion into the gentle resignation of day.
Ladle gently circles the pot and the world slows,
even more, as though time, too, seeks refuge
in the simmering depths of the ordinary,
and the richness of the balm, in stillness,
at the center of the supper.
You don't see what I do
You don't see what I do,
Just b'coz you don't want to...
The vibrant beauty of mind esplanade,
Jubilance afloat in pleasant breeze,
Emotions pristine simmered in aubade,
You don't see what I do,
pretend to be a mannequin..
While heart beats in absolute rhyme,
radiate rosy blush to red cheeks,
When passion could nurture no mime,
You don't see what I do,
altruistic if you be, I doubt..
Muffled sound of cold heartbeats,
sluggish blood dragging in veins and
Frigid perpetual stare on face fleets,
Is what you have become,
Insensitive and fancy-free.
Written May 12, 2017
For "Fancy- free poetry contest" by Julia ward
One summer night, in the month of July,
After the heat of the day had simmered,
The moon softly glowed in the starlit sky;
And your beautiful blue eyes had shimmered.
That night, something deep within us awoke-
Over your shoulders, I brushed back your hair.
At last, your nervous voice finally spoke,
Breaking the silence in the midnight air.
Suddenly, we were sitting face to face,
Looking at mutual eyes of desire.
Soon, we were locked in each other's embrace,
With a passion that burned stronger than fire.
I find myself still longing to renew
That night under the stars-when I kissed you.
© 2020
how's love is eternal
that these men suffer
from the lack of love
that those who would or wish to love
would love if not hindered by those
who wish these men to be unloved
like nights the days precures'
the evenings
that mornings come from
the resting if allowed to rest
those awakened we are bothered
his nose smelled the food cooking while he was sleep
she had peeled 8 pounds of apples.
They were kept fresh by the juices of lemons
sugars simmered with cinnamon and nutmeg
the butter melded : and fused the aromas
of whisky, apples, and butter
cobined with the deliouis cookie type pie crust!
she told us " any stress outside of a relationship, is that of the devil" !