Long Spice up Poems
Long Spice up Poems. Below are the most popular long Spice up by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Spice up poems by poem length and keyword.
They examined me with tape measures in their eyes as I entered
superimposing famous female faces over my own in their minds
like pictures printed on clear plastic sheets
placing one atop another onto an overhead projector
my teachers used years ago in the classroom
contemplating the magic of makeup
the limits of lighting
I could see in their stares what I’d learned to recognize
though the expression on their faces
remained stoic as if carved from cool, smooth marble
True talent was to them a secondary consideration
It wouldn’t matter in the least how well I delivered the lines
interpreted the character or set the scene
Audiences are apathetic to a poor performance
if the actress is sweet enough eye candy
I was more on the savory side like sage
used to spice up the flavor of roast turkey and dressing
I gave it my all anyway as I always did
though I already knew the outcome would be the same
They’d forget my name and number the moment
I passed through the door behind me back out on the street
my phone playing the part of a medieval monk in a monastery
who had hidden himself away from the world
taking a vow of silence
hOt SoUp
my poetry’s eclectic, electric
what stews in the mind
f i l l s t h e p a g e
i thumb threw my mind’s index
and choose a recipe card
a child swings through the air
grabbing oxygen to breathe
relating images dear to the heart
i grew up watching “dark shadows”
a mind filled with vampires, werewolfs,
witches, and victorian houses
often these ingredients are thrown
into the soup to spice up the story
to surprise the ears and eyes
main ingredients:
love for family
love for Jesus
i embrace the myriad forms, not afraid to try a new recipe
and if i can make it my own - stir it up with cayenne pepper
i’ll gladly sip it, taste it, savor it, hope you love it too
as i flip through the stack of cards, tree bark is a much
favored ingredient, and a dash of poppies, honeysuckle,
and coffee beans – yes, you heard me right. don’t judge
my recipe, you have yours.
1/21/2017
“They’ll be corndogs,” Grandma muttered.
We cousins laughed, having never heard of these relatives before today.
“Corndog company,” Aunt Mina agreed. “They were ridiculous last time.”
Last time was twenty-four years ago.
“They are goofy, mongrels,” Grandpa whispered. But he winked.
“Crazier even than your Arizona cousins,” he told Grandma.
But he was smiling, as if the corndogs were comedians or entertainers.
I loved them before they arrived.
If nothing else, they would spice up Grandma’s annual reunion.
We would watch for any oddity or nuance, reporting it in detail.
Bringing new stories of their strangeness to the other reunions.
In this day and age, when happy seems vacant
Where people’s hopes appear forever distant,
It’s the little things that see you through the day
Often it seems, in the most trivial way.
A simple smile might spice up your day
Maybe an ‘hello’, said in a friendly way
Or a driver, who lets you pull out in front,
Or the boss who’s ill, you would normally confront.
To stumble across a coin, when you’re stony broke,
Bump into an old friend, when it’s years since you spoke,
Receive some flowers, right out of the blue
Or complete the crossword you thought you could never do.
Wake up with the thought - ‘it must be Monday’,
Only to then realise, actually it’s Sunday,
Or a kiss from a loved one, with an ‘I love you’
There’s no greater act that anyone can do!
It’s the little things that can give you hope
A gentle ‘pick me up’ when it’s hard to cope.
Whatever it is, that brightens your day
We must conclude- ‘it’s surely god's way!!’
I have had a great life, but I am truly not done.
We’re surely in this world to have a little fun.
People who know me, truthfully and happily say.
This woman is always sure of a really fine day,
I advise you to do something to issue some play
I will spice up my cleaning, to happy up my day.
I set the timer when I clean the filthy kitchen.
Then I race the clock, like a switch that is a twitch’n.
Play wash the counters with a new, freshly laundered rag.
To collect enough dirt to make a cleaning freak gag.
Cleaning bedroom closets seems to be my biggest chore.
I do after all of the hanging clothes are on the floor.
Have many wonderful hobbies that keep me happy.
Write poetry, limericks, couplets, but nothing sappy.
Have lived many years, and the best idea I’ve found
To get energetic is to keep children around.
If children are not accessible, which is often true.
You can always find a man; a long-time husband will do.
Scads of men have no problem bringing fun to their life.
Leaving the cleaning, and the cooking a to-do for their wife.
I learned long ago, to stop all this nonsensical cleaning.
Because painting, dancing, and writing are all much more freeing.
The awkward walker and excellent climber
Pulling thyself to a higher branch.
With thick muscular tongue
Used deftly for manipulating words
The single use of thy unbridled tongue,
A million damage of the best things
A match, though insignificant and small
The forest, it can set ablaze
Causing trillions of damages to humanity
Shall I compare thee; to parrots?
Thy tales, less enticing
More gratifying reactions thou caused
The professional painter
Painted black lie white,
Coloured it, twisted it and exaggerated it to other’s peril
Just to add spice to it
The super natural radio without battery
Thy groundless rumour has become scandalous.
Thy bucal cavity out of ill will thou open
Through thy zeal to spice up the tale
Thou never remember the harm inflicted
On the one involved
Thy mouth becomes a snare
In which thou put thy own foot.
What is the latest over there?
Can we have some juicy tidbits here?
Is the delicious story ripe?
What is the response from thy host?
Longing to see thee tomorrow
Offspring of the devil, incarnated with evil!
Thy serpent father established the slanderous tale
In the Garden of Eden
Tell me, O! Tale bearer
Can thou be boastful of thy inheritance?
The professional transformer of x-ray to hearsay
The more thou talk about people,
The more people talk about thee.
And thou do thyself no good.
Welcome to the 90's!
Dial-up, pogs and frosted tips.
A decade to spice up your life,
Take a moment to reminisce
Blockbuster's and pic-a-flic's
Tamagotchi's, SNES, MSN
Slap bracelets everywhere
Burnt C'D's for your discman
Met Forrest Gump and Mrs. Doubtfire
Travelled with Thelma and Louise
Dreamed to work at Empire Records
All through the VCR, rewind please...
We cheered Tiger woods and Armstrong
Both pre-scandal at the time
Saw McGuire's 70th home run!
Watched Gretzky retire #99
We saw Harding take out Kerrigan
and OJ Simpson try a glove,
Holyfield lost a bite of ear
and John Bobbitt lost his love
Mandela released from prison
Kevorkian went inside
We witnessed the fall of Waco
and we cried for Columbine
We said goodbye Mother Teresa
She meet Diana up in Heaven,
We mourned Tupac and Biggie
Cobain is forever twenty-seven
We were cool as ice at hammer time
in our baggy jeans and plaid
And we met a sheep named Dolly
So it wasn't all that baaa-d
It was the decade of Titanic
and the birth Harry Potter
Google was born in a garage
As the internet got hotter
Dance crazes and impeachments
And found out we could supersize
It ended all with Y2K
So there's the 90's, with a side a fries :)
Of course, the East Coast of our country's best
to come from overseas...or here, from West.
A place in New York's suburbs meets the test
to plan a PoetrySoup meeting fest.
What fun if we could join for a gabfest
and see the faces of those poets blessed
with talents, we all share and so attest
in online comments pleasantly expressed.
We'd each recite our verse from a contest;
share words that come alive as they retest
to stir emotions with nuances stressed
through images portrayed with heartfelt zest.
For evening, plan a show, fine food ingest;
next day, perhaps to Poet's House suggest.
A dream come true if this idea professed,
becomes a working plan that is addressed!
March 12, 2019
Contest: The First Annual PoetrySoup Convention
Sponsor: Line Gauthier
https://poetshouse.org/
I throw my hands up in the air
And wonder what was going on over there
The ship has just dock at sea
And the coast guards were running after thee
And tugs boats were standing by
To send an urgent message to the mischievous sky
The sea crew had gathered around
To put the pieces together that had gotten burn
The ship was attacked and the petrified crew had to evacuate
but the mission arrived just in time
To rescue the divine, the damage was not great
And in seconds the ship was already on its way
The attacker was shot dead with a pillow over his head
And so the traffic at sea rolled on
And the birds are singing a merry little song
They are flying around in droves
Piloting the ship at seas as it
embark on another mystical journey
There is no drama at seas when
you have freedom and liberty
there is no drama at sea
when you up hold your dignity
they have been living on the ocean for years,
Traveling here and there
Learning about the mysteries of the world
And making friends with great sage of the mountains
They visit some exotic town and join the party all around
They had Peru roast pig straight from the ground
And German beer coming straight from the fountain
Chinese and Japanese food was in the mix and Indian cuisine
Spice up the scene, they had some British casserole
And American barbecue ribs with onion and salad dip
the experience is sobering
so book your ticket for the next
world wind journey
They have cabin for two
and one reserve specifically for you
There is one for hot grand mothers and
Cabins for promiscuous grand fathers
And if you are a busy writer
There are cabins with a view
To create your masterpiece for the evening news
There is something to suit everyone
So book your ticket and come along
We will travel all the continents
With courage in our hands
As we travel along
The traffic at sea is thick
And the boxes are full of gifts
Reserve your tickets
And get ready to sail with me.
I hadn’t heard of the wonderful Poets of Gloop!
How could I know that there was such a group?
I kept up a Blog where my work went to thaw.
But no one stopped by, no one ever saw.
Then one lovely day I happed on to this garden
So I strolled right on in, I do beg your pardon!
What I found smelled delicious, not gobbledygook
So I sat myself down and had me some soup!
I read and I cried, I skipped and I crawled
I laughed and I giggled, read more and I bawled
I thought, “What a garden they have here in Gloop!”
Then I pealed me a carrot and dropped it in Soup.
I had hoped it’d be noticed, not just sit and ferment
A nice A-type poet dropped by with comment.
From then on, I was hooked and set up my tent.
I’m here for the long haul, I even paid rent!
Those A’s and those B’s, now they know their knittin’,
But the C’s have such fun, like a room full of kittens!
I won’t make the A Team nor even the B’s
Can I please join the C Team, please, can I please?
Well I’ve read fifty poems now, perhaps ninety nine
And others have dropped by and read some of mine,
I sure feel at home in the Garden of Gloop
I’ll do what I can do to spice up the Soup!
After “The Poets of Gloop” by Becca Teagan