Long Smidgen Poems
Long Smidgen Poems. Below are the most popular long Smidgen by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Smidgen poems by poem length and keyword.
West Virginian Mountaineer, hill country free,
Born down in a holler to folks of dirt po means.
Heard wind blow wave ‘er wave o’er regal mountain peaks.
Fed on cornpone, biscuits, country gravy, and beans.
White mist over each peak a crown of majesty.
In rich valley below, unique person dwelt.
Admired sprawling mountaineer family tree.
Anyone not ‘bon up ’thar in the hills was suspect.
Ran like a deer, strong as a bear, eyes like a hawk.
Had speck of earth’s riches: smidgen from modern store.
Used outhouse year 'round, often times in the dark!
Worldly things rated low; Evermore got high score.
Shot rifle straight as an arrow flying through the air,
As ray of sunshine finds its way through leafy trees.
Had the stealth of bobcat leaving his secret lair,
Could seek up on someone; unaware presence there.
Honored no pass signs around moonshiner’s grove.
Words sounded odd to some; "Whar, thar, airish out ‘har.
Folks growed "tabaccer, lit oil lamp and wood stove.
Misjudged as brainless; mind could ace lawyer’s bar.
Volunteered one day while wearing worn out jeans.
Proud to be a soldier, as ancestry of yore.
Eager to serve country; had just turned nineteen.
Sent off to hostile land; part of medical corps.
Ten soldiers died when compound was hit one night.
Each one was honored; a national hero.
Military honors; flags, taps, and over flights.
One from West Virginia; Marine, Megan Marlow.
Maybe you’ve seen Janet
she’s from another planet
making all her regular stops
at the local charity shops
loves a second hand rail or two
lives in the land of good as new
to knock and shock them in the aisles
with frocks and socks of different styles
for Bolton she’s a smidgen bold
but not one to be pigeonholed
Maybe you’ve seen Janet
she’s from another planet
not for her those workaday suits
but rodeo clothes, matching boots
and swirling curls of shades cerise
ignoring the local taste police
from Morris Green to the Market Hall
she’s always sure to wow them all
wishing on luck to get her through
beyond the latest interview
Maybe you’ve seen Janet
she’s from another planet
offered work at a pub in town
never shirked, to hold it down
pulling pints and measuring shots
her Cheeky Vimto hit the spot
not afraid of mopping the loo
hosting quiz nights, meat raffles too
gave the old place its heart and zing
'til it’s caged till started to sing
Maybe you’ve seen Janet
she’s from another planet
today a tavern’s set adrift
Jan didn’t turn up for her shift
with no replies from flat or phone
the landlord sighed and turned to stone
as whiskey thoughts turned extra sour
cops said give it twenty four hours
but customers are asking round
they're longing for her cheerful sound
Maybe you’ve seen Janet
She’s from another planet.
They have scars upon scars
We do not see them
But they are there, piled high
Invisible to those who have no inkling
But to those who do,
They relate a smidgen and know they are there
Keeping their comments to themselves
Asking no questions
For they were also in a war
And understand and respect the silence of soldiers
They have scars upon scars
We do not see them
But they are there, piled high
Invisible to those who have no inkling
But to those who do,
They relate a smidgen and know they are there
Keeping their comments to themselves
Asking no questions
For they were also in a war
And understand and respect the silence of soldiers
In a white realm, where optimism drifts away.
Frescoed moonbeams on walls, in swirling array.
Such silky cream and vanilla, delicately sifting.
As the full moon lingers, its light briskly heaving.
Languid souls quest elixirs in ewers that drip.
Crystalline nostrums for life's moribund ship
Water mugs crammed with jewels of ivory,
Smidgen mellow, a malodor for the misery.
As we tackle the maze of vivacity and strength,
While anguish and grief seem the only wealth.
The moon's grasp soothes with a placid embrace.
A lambent chimera is a dreamer fulfilling grace.
Within the vault of night, dreams unfold.
As fingers of fate in the shadows reach and hold.
Impending doom may cast its darkened spell,
But within moonlit dreams, all is well.
The moon's magnitude moistens maligned hearts,
Mending muddles and melding the brittle parts
With sanguinity as a mentor, the moonlight dance.
A beacon of solace, a happenstance for romance
In moonlit dreams, the world is at peace.
As anguish and grief descry revered release.
A sanctuary of quietude, serenity, and grace
Dreams amid the moonlight, a sacred place
No longer burdened by the weight of despair,
In this ethereal realm, troubles strive for repair.
The moon's healing touch, such a gentle caress,
A soothing balm, a respite from life's stress.
[David Kavanagh’s recent poem, ‘Of Infinity’ so
astonished me in its similarity to my own pet
theory, that I was inspired to finish this poem
that I had been struggling to get right.]
***
All the ingredients there ever were
The atoms of everything ready to stir
All of the molecules in you and me
Have been in existence since prehistory
It’s sheer mathematics it simply must be
Our atoms exist in perpetuity
All that there was is all that there is
And all that there is is all there will be
One big Earthly spice rack, our ‘from’ and our ‘to’
Yesterday’s old becomes tomorrow’s new
A smidgen of this and a teaspoon of that
A pinch and a sprinkle made me… and my cat
And when I lay down for my very last time
New life will come using bits that were mine
Because when we die we return to the rack
To season the new with whatever they lack
Though space ships go up and there’s asteroid hits
Our Earth doesn’t gain or lose that many bits
So cave men and mammoths and tyrannosaurs
Had bits that are mine and bits that are yours
The atoms that make up the grasses and trees
The monkeys, the bats, the horses and bees
Might one day be water or silver or tin
Or even your great, great, great granddaughter’s gin
So whether we’re burnt or laid into the ground
We’ll be going spare when the time comes around
It may be our iron or maybe our salt
For all that we are does not become nought
We’re made from ingredients from way back when
And someday we’ll all be ingredients again
And someone that you may have lost in your past
Perhaps you’ll rejoin in the same blade of grass
Mine Impossible Self Educating Mission...
Finds muss elf facing Lenovo
(external Macbook
Pro screen) whoosh'n
with all manner
of thoughts cascading,
flowing and swoosh'n
thru ma mind like
yoyo wing thoughts,
whether right now
aboot me late Russian
maternal grandfather,
who made a
lasting imp Prussian
though whose departure
more'n deuce
score years ago,
nonetheless left
many a question
on me boyhood
memory, no matter
he predominantly talked
Yiddish with smidgen
of English peppering conversation
with scant sprinkling of
Anglo Saxon known to him
despite crossing ocean
as a scrappy young lad,
(and hightailing to America
as a possible stowaway)
for some notion
never told, hence I prevaricate
whipping oop tall tales
courtesy magic potion
of spellbinding words,
not the least bit concerned
freely falsifying any quotation,
cuz no paper trail
extant for citation,
nor other medium survived
attesting to birth family
of said relation
Morris (Moishe) Kuritsky,
his near half century ago
passing into oblivion,
sans after major life mission
emigrating to Ellis Island
bing faux scion of
attending sewing spool
as self taught
harried styled swift tailor
finding goo goo
doll young bride
(eighteen Earth orbitz
round the sun his junior),
she died during her late 50's
(during early nineteen sixties)
attributed to poor nutrition,
which definitely aggravated
by poor dentition
tooth fully, not
fondly remembered for
doting o'er my mama
(the last born)
as favored offspring
at psychological expense
for beastly crush'n
life source of two eldest daughters.
No matter communication
betwixt us askew,
spontaneity explains reason I dashed
off this poem for thee and thy beau
pattern ally conscious at obvious clue,
how overjoyed, (though a
self subdued exclude did dude) due
tuff fully feels beholden to
toil let past hateful indiscretions
jackknifing kindred luck,
and quite convenient
for me to eschew
avoidance behaviour (my specialty) etu
Brutus tangled with Popeye ignoring
sailor man turned beastie boy, no foo-
ling, sans spinach (spin age) of my boyhood
fighter, aye linkedin hearty genuine parental
affection culled forth
since your joyous birth,
ah how the years flew
and fierce determination grew
a strong vibrant young lady,
with BOTH brains and brawn, a hue
man... er woman, whose
heart could melt an igloo,
thus thy motive of this
very reformed gentile Jew
nary a whit of genealogy I learned,
hence this schlemiel lets
out eclectic Kathmandu
gestalt steeped, not the
least familiar about Semitic customs,
smidgen much less
than mine parents knew,
which deems yours truly cock eye loo
wee, perhaps this poem
not very a moo
zing to ye, yet
an extemporaneous whim
kindled this papa to write,
especially, when mother came home
exhausted, yet alight
with bubbling ebullience
at dazzling bright
unbridled vibrant warm
yawping zealous delight
displayed between thee,
our eldest daughter,
she (mother) burst with excite
ability, her frothing, gurgling,
and harboring flight
of fancy, thee, and respectable
gentleman from Puerto Rico
fit like a hand glove - and also
approximately the same height
no deterrent for me to gauge insight
and reckon both perfect
as day and knight!
I have always been a minimalist in my writing
using simple words and no ornamentation
I cannot do iambic pentameter
yet, my writing has a melody and rhythm
I started as a bitty little girl
in an attic room penning stories
negligible
a speck, a smidgen in the scope of this world
I saw a million things from my attic window
the birds, the seasons, the sky
I was bullied in school as a child
so I felt belittled and beaten down
but in my writing I threw off the scars
I still do with words unadorned and pure
I have been to the darkest, fathomless pit
had nothing
been an underling to abuse
kept down
but inside a humble flame burned
and I refused to be diminished one day beyond
so, I crawled up from my pit of nothingness
and I stand here a simple girl
who writes minimal art . . .
______________________________
December 19, 2018
Poetry/Free Verse/A Small Little Speck
Copyright Protected, ID 18-1095-610-01
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
avast extent of following poem
crafted a couple plus years ago,
when foretaste of temperate weather
covered swath of eastern seaboard.
Courtesy climate change
(think global warming),
I would never wish to exchange
unseasonably warm temperature
(eighteen plus degrees celsius
in Schwenksville, Pennsylvania)
meaning way out of expected range,
cuz far to balmy, undoubtedly
with old man winter furious
his blizzard snowbound
weather forecasts shortchanged.
Once thermometer readings rise
even smidgen one moost not minimize
Earth way out of balance,
an inconvenient truth
I haint gonna catastrophize
as bajillion acres plus
one after another ocean dries
even the skeptic cannot turn
blind eye and believe contrary lies
when every species practically extinct
and self proclaimed éminence grise
doth trumpet and stubbornly tries
to claim plethora unearthed resources
as sudden goldmine
against wages of sin
former traitor joe
(biden his time) redeemers actualize
to catalyze nth industrial revolution
teaching as heresy
ecocentric, which material basket
of deplorables power mongers bowdlerize
concurrence toward meteorological
trend most all people agree
toward adapting, experiencing,
and witnessing increase -
fair in height degree
bestowed upon Thomas Newcomen,
Richard Arkwright, Samuel Crompton,
Edmund Cartwright
and James Watt first Industrial
Revolution conferred as honoree
appellation not necessarily
in retrospect donned as noble pedigree,
now hundred of years
later downside we see
of belching, coughing,
disorging... yes siree
foul, (née deadly)
cancerous, gaseous, noxious... pollutants.
[Quite possibly the most juvenile gag I’ve
ever posted on Soup. In my defence, I was
probably twelve when I first heard it.]
*
He went to the library to borrow a book
The librarian said, “Please do take a look.”
He looked for an hour but couldn’t decide
She said, “I’m surprised, when the choice is so wide.”
She pushed two books forward and said, “Look at these,
I’m certain that one of these writers should please.”
He gazed at the books with a smidgen of doubt
And asked her to detail what they were about
“Now, Dickens,” she said, “a likely solution,
With London and Paris: the French Revolution,
But if you feel reading this might take you ages
How about something with rather less pages?
“This other suggestion instils quite a chill.
A man selling body parts fresh from a kill
He first kills a woman so ample of breast
And markets those ‘wares’ to a girl who has less
The man said, “One Classic and one Burke and Hare,
How might I distinguish the books you have there?”
She told him, “The first is ‘A Tale Of Two Cities’,
the second is titled ‘A Sale Of —’
[you were warned]