Long Sipping Poems
Long Sipping Poems. Below are the most popular long Sipping by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Sipping poems by poem length and keyword.
It’s boxing day (the Brit name for the day after Christmas) and Pamela, Lisa’s grandmother is visiting our little pandemic ark. Pamela’s a Cowboys fan so we’re watching them slaughter Washington - between commercials - but now a Tesla commercial is running. “Those electric cars,” Pamala says dubiously, “seem problematic.”
“You’ve heard of global warming, haven’t you, Pamala?” Leeza says? Leeza addresses everyone (even her grandmother) as if they were her age (12). It’s both seductive and lazy. “This whole system,” she raises her arms to include the apartment, the city and America, “will collapse - we’re DOOOOMED,” she concludes, as if speechifying to an eager crowd.
“Everyone’s heard of climate change,” Pamela says, sipping her eggnog. Pamela is as well informed as any of us and seems rather envious of the future, even the coming awfulness.
“Leeza’s her own theatre,” Her mom says, grimacing indulgently.
Leeza’s full attention was now on the pastry tray - having spotted two small eclairs under the bear claws - she'd lost interest in the conversation and saving the planet.
“The system won’t collapse,” Will says. Will received his early acceptance letter from Harvard the other day and now he knows everything. “We’ll lose Florida, South Carolina and New York,” he pronounces calmly, “so there’ll be some.. migrations.”
“Thank you, professor,” Lisa says, rolling her eyes as if to say ”Harvard people.”
“I think the Covid might get us all - before climate change,” I say, in the spirit of the holiday.
“Well,” Will says, grinning, “that’s what ALL the people at inferior colleges think.”
Leeza, passing by my easychair, curls into my lap like a cat, gently petting my hair. “Don’t be mean to MY friend,” she says, purringly - I was suddenly her possession. Lisa comes out of her chair, a sly smile on her face, to lay crosswise atop Leeza (and me).
“Ugg,” I managed to say, squirming to get comfortable, then “Akkkk.”
Lisa says, “Leave my poor roomie alone!” and starts baby-kissing my head.”
Will starts in our direction like HE’S going to pile on. “Egggg! I shrek, “HELP!”
Pamela whoops with glee as Dallas scores another touchdown.
“Like beating a dead dog with a stick,” she says.
A sweet sound like a robin’s song
drifted through the air,
The blissful melody was soothing
to my ear,
My wandering feet followed and
took me into the middle of Trafalgar Square,
Where music was playing, and
people were dancing everywhere.
While walking around, someone
bumped into me,
Halfway through the fall, I felt a hand
catch me,
Glancing up, I saw two beautiful
pools reflecting the blueness of
the sky,
Before I could say thank you, the
stranger had walked away.
As I sat, sipping my coffee and
resting my weary feet,
I heard someone say, Hello and
turned around to see,
I was surprised to see the owner
of those eyes standing right behind
me,
He had a friendly smile and a handful
of balloons,
He offered me one in the shape
of a half-moon.
Thank you to all those strangers
who go out of their way,
To make a difference in brightening someone’s day,
I was lucky to have met one such
stranger from among those rare
few,
Before entering the tube station,
I smiled as I released the balloon and
off it flew.
by Zyrool
01/26
I have a cup in my hand.
Spilling it.
Then I pour some into my hands.
Laughing.
So I get more.
Sipping coffee from my palms.
Beautiful.
The journal.
Pages.
Folded up, turning into paper airplanes.
A journal is like…
When my car sputters in the winter,
But it starts up anyway.
Crying.
It’s cold.
Pulling out of the driveway, carefully.
I used to carry my flashlight.
Sweeping the light around.
These days?
I don’t know where light comes from.
Just sparkles.
And reflections in empty trash cans.
I threw away my phone.
I didn’t think they would actually take it.
But the garbage truck comes at 6:00 am every morning.
Earthquakes seem very long.
So I think I imagined it.
Cowering for three hours.
Until I get anxious and want a cup of coffee.
I pour a cup of coffee.
But the shaking makes me drop it again.
The man who made his meddle outta' sand,
came to my hand,
and I kept on begging for a chant,
from god-
the angels,
or even the damned.
This locust creeped'
into that big house by the street,
into the cracks
that leaked out the meek,
caused my tree's their little leafs,
and my cats their skis,
I had no proof to see,
but it really happened to me...
That one day at the Peet's-
that one hour of peace,
the crease in the page had folded awesomely,
at the perfect degree.
The sun sparkling,
my eye's dozily-
crosses into the rolling scheme,
and then I become the poetry,
lust gets forgotten,
power emasculated,
hours infatuated,
sourcrout steak being heated to the core,
girls go out the door,
begging in pours,
become seated on the porch,
sipping tea and eating dessert,
never having to flirt,
always having a turn,
oh yes-
come in and become the stress-
come into the best,
and then take home your vest.
You brand me with whispers you've never confirmed,
A verdict pronounced before truth is discerned.
But I am not your canvas to deface—
I'm not your sin, nor your saving grace.
You echo the lies that shadows create,
Feeding the flames of borrowed hate.
Yet none of your whispers came from my lips—
You're sipping poison from rumor's sips.
You were not molded to wear this robe,
Nor crowned with truth from a higher globe.
Judgment is sacred, not meant for your tongue—
A throne misclaimed by the loud and the young.
Each syllable you wield cuts colder than steel,
Words like daggers that forget how to heal.
But as you swing, forgetting grace and plea,
Know that wounds don’t chain the soul in me.
He sees me clearer than your gaze could stare,
Knows every scar, every whispered prayer.
You judge my cover, He reads my page—
I rise untouched from your crafted cage.
So keep your sentence—it returns to sender.
I answer to the Maker, not your agenda.
And when your pride leads you astray,
Grace may find you—if you look His way.
Because judgment was never yours to give,
It's love and mercy by which we live.
Only One above holds that key—
And it was never handed to thee.
Hummingbirds gather, sipping nectar,
wings buzzing as they rapidly flutter.
Fun, feisty and fearless visitors,
treasured enchanting moments.
A bright ruby throated male,
perched waiting for his mate.
Sweet chirping as he preens,
vibrant emerald feathers glow.
Pale green, shimmery feathers appear,
sipping nectar, her wings start to flutter.
Now chasing, a playful courtship show,
like bright gems dancing in midair.
Dancing, zipping, soon soaring,
in a flash, landing in a tree.
Sweet chirping sounds emit,
so wonderfully whimsical!
Contest: Marathon Mile 12 Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Mark Toney
I..
I
I... I would rather be a doorkeeper
In the house of my God
I would rather be a doorkeeper
In the house of my God
Than to pull the tail of an of a rapid diseased dog;
Be a doorkeeper, Greet all the sinless people;
Praise the Lord
Covet not, rooms of sins;
Remember what you've been taught
And what ya should believe in;
Mansions of deployed decay set in;
Pestilence, violent house of despair;
no one worthy, worthy
no one cares
I would rather be a doorkeeper
In the house of my God
I would rather be a doorkeeper
In the house of my God
Than to pull the tail of an of a rapid diseased dog;
Be a doorkeeper, Greet all the sinless people;
Praise the Lord
Romans just being kind;
Corinthian Paul has said
NO room for disorder;
No room for sin
Hand me that brush so that I may paint a blessing;
I am not enticed by your dissension, oh did I mention. . .
I would rather be a doorkeeper
In the house of my God
I would rather be a doorkeeper
In the house of my God
Than to pull the tail of an of a rapid diseased dog;
Be a doorkeeper, Greet all the sinless people;
Praise the Lord
Holes in the foundations;
House sinking fast
Flood is filling waters coming up to the windows
While your sipping on your flask
you look all around you and no one, no one worthy no one cares;
Romans just being kind;
Corinthian Paul has said
NO room for disorder;
No room for sin
Hand me that brush so that I may paint a blessing;
I am not enticed by your dissension, oh did I mention. . .
I..
I
I... I would rather be a doorkeeper
In the house of my God
I would rather be a doorkeeper
In the house of my God
Than to pull the tail of an of a rapid diseased dog;
Be a doorkeeper, Greet all the sinless people;
Praise the Lord
Written by James Edward Lee Sr.
June 02 2007
from anthology "Purpose and Calling"
Today, I was sitting in the PX snack bar sipping a cup o' joe,
Just biding my time while my spouse was busily spending dough!
There was a host of intriguing people passing by in review.
I couldn't help but muse about them as I savored my cup o' brew.
I peered back thro' the mists of time when I was a swaggering youth,
Proudly wearing my uniform. (I was smitten with nostalgia, to tell the truth!).
Watching those young soldiers strolling by, my soul was filled with pride,
But I was jolted from my reverie, knowing that too many like them have died.
A sergeant hobbled by on crutches, no doubt wounded in the war.
So young, so very young, thought I, to have seen such morbid gore.
His son, about five years old I'd judge, marched proudly at his side.
I couldn't help but note the love and pride exhibited by his bride.
An old veteran leaned on his cane and was tenderly guided by his wife.
No doubt, he was a Greatest Generation hero who'd see his share of strife.
Gathered around a table were grey-haired veterans enjoying lunch.
Tho' I couldn't hear their banter, they traded war stories was my hunch.
A young mother and her kids scurried by - their soldier I suspect was overseas.
I'm sure her fervent prayer was, "God, bring him home safely, will you please?"
Watching the parade at Fort Carson PX is one that to me will never grow old.
Each member of the unique military fraternity has an epic tale to be told!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired (© All Rights Reserved)
My rage tastes like rusted pennies,
like the evening news scrolling its red ticker-tape of corpses~
another ceasefire broken, another stock market sighing
into its bourbon. My fists clench at nothing,
at the headlines, at the mirror where my face sags
into my mother’s frown.
What good is a voice when the war machines
hum louder than hymns? When the banks
swallow pensions whole, grinning with marble teeth?
I am just a congregation of one,
preaching to the walls, while the politicians
lick their knives clean and call it progress.
I measure my days in pill bottles now~
white capsules rattling like loose change,
like the coins I drop into collection plates
for causes that evaporate by noon.
The world burns on schedule.
My knees creak their betrayal.
Some nights, I dream of revolt~
of storming the palaces with nothing
but a walking cane and a scream.
But dawn comes, and I’m still here,
sipping coffee, writing poems, scrolling~
another ghost in the algorithm’s feed.
O, Bone-Dust Republic,
what do I do with this fury
that outlives my body?
What do I do when the war
is both outside and in,
and no one’s left to surrender?
Feeling a bit scaly
and my usual fleet-footed
I followed a lizard
into an evaporating wash --
somehow, all living critters
eventually enter the wash -- the
lizard looking for insects, and the
coyote looking for lizards
and to drink from a puddle
of water -- more like
a thimble full, the sun reclaims
quickly when 120 -- dwellers learn
to conserve, survive on less
in the desert; did not see
one environmentalist though;
probably in a comfy college
dorm, or staff lounge, sipping ice-tea,
writing his or her next hit piece, main
focus on how he or she suffers along with
a greatly abused planet. Gulp, gulp!
Honestly, I prefer the company of lizards,
coyotes, and an occasional rattler -- always
having found the desert far more hospitable
than Arid intellect.