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.
You stir it one way and they the other,
but the mixture stays just as hot
You attack their motives and they attack yours,
while the contents boil and rot
“It needs to be this way”… the other side revolts,
“Your mind’s faulty with avarice and greed”
The pot has simmered; the broth is thick,
and its bottom not easy to see
A mutual exclusion, first left then right
a feast—all soul’s consumed
With spoon or fork, its offering slick
when the bowls come out at noon
In single file, day turns to night
pointed talk with nothing said
Both cupboard’s bare, two rat’s within
guarding their last crust of bread
When the final story is written and told
of what in concert you destroyed
A drum will beat, zero-sum complete
leaving you soulless—but still conjoined
(Villanova Pennsylvania: June,2016)
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
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
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.
Have you had a dinner overlooking Rome?
A quiet, garden setting, where you two are alone?
Darkened bushes, candlelit table, with tiny lights all aglow,
romanticize the setting, as we all know.
Start with a glass of a fine red wine,
aged just right, and sweet as the vine.
A little Antipasto is what I certainly would say,
Cheeses, Salami, Pepperoni, and Flatbreads all go a long way.
A Caesar Salad prepared at your table side and done,
by a young Brazzi look alike, with a certainty of perfection.
The glass of a fine white wine will next set the pace,
changing the evening, while staying in place.
The Entree ordered is a delicious Piece of Sole,
large enough to share, baked to its flaky goodness in whole.
Asparagus Spears, Broccoli, or Italian Beans simmered with soy,
could all be accepted as Side Dishes with our fish to enjoy.
Tiramisu for her, Creme Brule' for me with its golden crown,
with an Ice Wine to wash these tasty Desserts down.
Then a Latte or Cappuccino might just do,
with some Creme Sherry to finish the mood.
A short romantic walk to the Trevi 'neath Rome's idyllic moon,
means that our dinner has ended all too soon.
Our "Special Evening" however, is only done,
When we later make love to each other...uniting as one.
written: 10/25/15
Hotel love
I arrived at the uploaded village in the north, which had once been
a working hamlet, until famous people bought property there.
More people followed, as did estate agents the parish became
an in-place with posh cafes and restaurants with French names
where the original inhabitants could not afford to live in what was
left was a postcard idyll and a fake Tudor.
As I was booking in when my ex-girlfriend burst in full of eager talk
she was going to a restaurant where a well know singer would
appear and do as singers do sing.
In the right light and clever make-up, she looked about 37
it happened; I knew she was 54 but was not going to tell.
A young man she called darling carried her leather suitcase.
I was here to visit my daughter, her two noisy children and
her husband, who spoke of investment and paying taxes.
I ate wiener schnitzel, drank a bottle of wine, and served
by a woman dressed in a sexed-up folkloric costume
went to bed; my ex-girlfriend had a room next to mine
made a clamour when she arrived with her young man,
but after a while, things simmered down.
In the morning, when she came down for breakfast, she
as alone, not for her to let a lover see her in the morn
I called her name and asked her to sit with me and drank
coffee, her hands trembled, needed a drink but
I got her to eat a croissant.
Up in my room, drink in hands, she had a moment
of clarity, my life is a mess, she said it is your fault
for getting old and bald; slept in my bed for hours
getting up, going to her room to put on her young face.
I didn’t get to see my daughter and her children
had to drive my exes home before she got into
more trouble.
I like my fungi
sauteed in butter
in a pan with a chopped clove
of garlic, parsley and plenty
of salt and pepper.
Or sliced and simmered
in chicken stock
with arborio rice
and topped with parmesan
cheese in a creamy
mushroom risotto.
I like the musty,
earthy smell
that some fungi have,
the exquisite delicacy
of the gills,
the soft, spongy feel,
the variety of shapes
and colours that range
across a pallet
of grays, yellows,
pinks and purples
through to a bleed
of vibrant reds.
Fungi feed
the senses.
But most spectacular
of all is the fungi
that hides beneath my feet
in a buried network
of fibres thinner
than a human hair,
connecting a forest
in one enormous web
carrying nutrients
to hungry roots
and the secret language
of trees. Poetry
is like fungi.
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
Snow white has been weeping profusely
But hers are tears of joy
Warm air has tempered cold
Has simmered howling winds to sleep.
Meanwhile, heaven's skies sit silent in sheer white
Snow white has covered everywhere
With her wings, soft as light
There's slumbering I see, like still life of bare trees.
Forthwith, virgin teardrops potent as cleanser
Continues with their course
Some folks see hardened black ice
Lord, please end such harrowing sight?
Send us a whirlwind of pure joy delight?
For now, I'll simmer in coziness of pajama days
Hot oats, steaming vegetable alphabet soup
Our granary feeds curious weary souls.
*
Form:
I don’t write what I think, I write what I feel.
When the magic sets in sometimes it comes out too real.
The laughter and tears, the strife, pain and heartache. Sorrow finds words, lines and stanzas to bake.
Bake in my mind when the recipe is done. That’s when I realise how the feelings have worded, simmered, tenderised and become.
Sometimes these feelings are too powerful to write. They can give me relief and they can give me a fright.
I see what I’ve written now the feeling has gone and I know that what’s written may give something to someone.
So I’ll write what I feel and I’ll try not to think. Because feeling are real and the mind can play weird, yet wonderful tricks.
Feelings have the power to cleanse our minds and our souls. Feelings are with us whether young or old bones. Feelings are there twenty four hours a day. Feelings control us in so many different ways.