Long Spoonful Poems
Long Spoonful Poems. Below are the most popular long Spoonful by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Spoonful poems by poem length and keyword.
"The Spite Syllabub"
The daughter
is not
The mother
Sylvia’s bees were
left milk, bread and butter
Plath by name
but not
the daughter’s path
in evolving nature
not the mother
nor the father
Love for art’s sake
Art not for Love’s sake
Amy G. Dala
a spoonful of honey
taken with the medicine
This is Love
The tincture labelled:
The Spite Syllabub
three measures
the mother, the father, the son
take
swallow slowly
survive
daughter is the legacy
daughter learns to run
a lesson in love
Love for art’s sake
Art not for Love’s sake
Done.
(Ladylabyrinth / 2020)
"Moonlight" / FOALS
https://youtu.be/s9DMDulMIz4
1.
"The Grief Equation" /Frieda Hughes, Plath's daughter
https://www.bbc.com/news/magazine-27377434?SThisFB&fbclid=IwAR0-rAuEMLovUMiMndUcme2Sic3A-OoDiJkHd857ulBwxlk4KXY3cAxHb9Q
2. "Poetry and Co-dependency" / Plath & Hughes
https://youtu.be/hmArLszft3w
3. "Sylvia Plath" (1 of 6)
https://youtu.be/V1QA985lhSQ
(2 of 6)
https://youtu.be/k1ecb6bRfk0
(3 of 6)
https://youtu.be/uDq0trKqyj8
(4 of 6) Bees
https://youtu.be/7lJPFA2JXnk
(5 of 6)
https://youtu.be/Ef5Zypngx6o
(6 of 6)
https://youtu.be/iK6b39hoeGM
4. Hughes & Assia Wevill (Mistress)
https://www.theguardian.com/theguardian/1999/apr/23/features11.g21
5. Frieda Hughes (daughter)
https://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/2016/may/28/frieda-hughes-i-felt-my-parents-were-stolen
"Frieda Hughes, daughter of poets Ted Hughes and Sylvia Plath, is the author of Stonepicker and the Book of Mirrors (Harper Collins, 2009), Forty-Five (Harper Collins, 2006), Waxworks (Harper Collins, 2002), and Wooroloo (Harper Flamingo, 1998). She lives in Wales."
Poetry, books / Frieda Hughes
https://www.friedahughes.com/books.html
"45" / Frieda Hughes
https://www.popmatters.com/forty-five-poems-by-frieda-hughes-2496154001.html
"Moonlight" / FOALS, Lyrics:
https://genius.com/Foals-moonlight-lyrics
Suicide Prevention / Global Hotlines
http://www.suicide.org/international-suicide-hotlines.html
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_suicide_crisis_lines
Another Tale Of Musical Madness...
It was in the early seventies...
My friend and rhythm guitar man,
Mark Trotiner, worked in a well
known musician store in NYC...
Another one of those so rare
"light up the room types"-
He played great rhythm guitar,
Couldn't play a lick of lead,
Sang proudly with an awful voice,
Was the arch-typical Hippie of the 70's,
Knew all about music and bands,
Was friend to Frank Zappa,
Blues Project men, had met Jimmy Page
and countless others, the first
of the Greenwich Village Super Hippies
All the bands knew him...
He could charm your socks off...
Swore till the day he dies,
He inspired Mark Knaufler"s
"Money For Nothing"..
And I'd long learned how
to catch a bullshooter in crap...
Listen to his story....
Wait a good amount of time,
Ask him again about it...
See what has changed...
Repeat this process about
Three times,
You're sure to expose the lie,
I did this to him repeatedly
Over the course of years,
And he passed every test...
(that story itself worthy of
a great work...someday soon...)
However, he was the core figure
In the Grateful Dead Cover Band
I was in...with his guitar player friend,
Mark "Bone" Diaz- 6 foot three,
80 pounds, curly red hair tied back...
Greatest musician I ever played with...
And another anxious singer
with no voice...
Well Mark was always meeting
musicians of various levels...
And so charming, so unassuming
he appeared to be...
He had that aura, like cousin Bill
In all my life, those two still..
Stand out with this gift...
Oh, give me a spoonful of that gift...
And what a boost in my life it would lift
Anyway, (and this happened twice...)
Hope I don't get mixed up...
It's like tossin' them ol' dice...
This band, named "Koala"
Early 70's recording band...
Invited us down, based on Mark's word,
To open a set for them..
At their Bond Street Loft...
We wound up there twice...
Were told to bring naught
but our guitars...
Their equiptment world class...
Now I'll compact these 2 stories
To make my point...
We didn't know what we had
stepped into...
Should'a never entered the joint...
First gig, just like the "Big Day Gig",
All other musicians crapped out
on us at the last minute...
And I wound up doing this job
With Billy, Mark T., a drummer,
and me..
Depression kills
Real lives.
Depression steals
Real lives.
Self-punishment
Is not the answer.
Self-fulfillment
Is the profound desire
To love oneself, to be proud,
To hope and to cry out loud
That happiness and success
Are waiting near the corner.
Suicide is evidently not the answer.
Joy can neutralize anxiety, anguish and anger.
Depression is a bad disease, take it seriously.
Nothing is simplistic, simple or easy
In life. Stay active, keep your mind busy;
So your spirit can soar to the moon
And come back safe and sound. Be a spoon
Full of hope, love and sweet honey
Which can tickle and energize body and soul.
Trial and error is not bad, not failure, only a fool
Will think so. The best is yet to come, tomorrow. Easy
Come, easy go, and easy know. That’s the reality
Of everyday life. Success is definitely relative.
Keep on looking forward like a stubborn bee.
Be strong and not be overly sensitive.
Be naturally optimistic. The past is full of flaws
And every day is a new season for fresh flowers.
Even when the proverbial glass is empty,
A few drops of rain may accidentally
Fill it up to the top, to the periphery,
Completely to the brim,
Obviously to the rim.
Hope is not expensive.
Everybody has hope.
Anybody can hope.
Hope is extensive.
Hope can destroy depression,
Evil or ill feelings and isolation.
Use your words to soothe the pain.
Be your best friend all the time. Be vain
To protect and to celebrate your life,
And you’ll be able to defeat any strife.
Conquer yourself, while doing so,
You’ll surely escape or defeat the undertow.
Danger is certainly everywhere.
Be attentive and be not afraid to dare.
Strike depression early to make it feeble or vincible,
As you seek more help, aid or support.
You’ll definitely be safe and untouchable,
Before the ship leaves the harbor, the port.
Danger is always lurking somewhere,
Be resilient! Suicide is not the answer.
You can defeat depression.
You can always find a solution.
Take depression seriously.
Be a spoonful of hope, self-love and sweet honey!
Copyright © January 2022, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved
Hébert Logerie is the author of several books of poetry.
Surfacing with gasping breaths,
as subtle as exhaling whispers
Subtle as flutter-by touches, I felt it,
and that is how I noticed you.
a ghrá! Love!
And once I saw you spiralling through Space,
Lifetimes came crashing down on top of me.
There is no wall in a world that can hide you,
no form that can keep you in,
There is no key to fit the unlocked door,
there is no map to the unknown kin.
That is why you are aching,
Longing
deeply in your soul.
Your purpose is so pure I can barely take it
You do not need a key!
Don’t you know?
Each awakening I witness is intense;
deeply loved, beautiful, and
Soulful.
Shocking the core to Life with visions;
confusion and fear can be a spoonful.
It is the time for Recognition and Remembrance
Cramming your Being into a small temple of skin
Open your eyes, beautiful darling,
your mission Here is very clear.
[Yes, I am a Welcome Committee,
if there ever was one, who knows?]
Tales are told of who we are,
songs are sung about our existence
Poetry?
Oh, yes, poetic truths are written,
trying to lure us out
It’s been lived for, but also died for,
This Love.
That is why we are here, dear Kindred.
We're creating the Dawn of a New Day.
Meeting Awakening Souls, one at a time
- weaving the remedy against Nothingness.
We are not handing out keys.
There never was a spoon,
you know?
No, no...
We are pulling the veil for clarity,
allowing the Unfolding to occur
The door is never locked,
and Love is never force-fed, see?
Like legends of Old,
the myths, and the rumors;
envisioned by many,
yet only assigned to the few.
Now, the stars are on fire,
the Solar system is realigning,
It seems that Time is here, Love,
it's True.
Being Anointed Vessels is just this,
we're not more important than the next human,
but we are keeping the oil safe on this Journey,
Illuminating Love, Vibrating Love,
Being Love.
Tá an-dáimh againn le chéile
[We're kindred spirits]
Remember now?
PoetrySoup …
I Was Heartily Welcomed… As I Sat At Your Table
By: Carol, Sara, Carolyn, Dane Anne, Moses, and Abel
Tim, Leon, John, Michael, Jim and Yoni
Deborah, Krista, Adeleke and Charlie
… James, The (Two) Ruben(s) and (The Quik-Composer) Raul
… and Many, Many More, I Love to Hear At Dinner-Call !
The PoetrySoup …
… It Has Member – Mushrooms
Chew and Chat Lunchrooms
Delectable Hors d'oeuvre
Every Ear-Full… Heard
Every Mouthful… Taste
Spoonful of Gourmet Grace
Voila’ Words, Don’t Waste
Simmer-Slow and Baste’
In Dug-up, Sweet Potatoes
Ripe Food for Thought Tomatoes
And Onions, That Will Make You Cry
Artichokes and Lemons that Squeeze – ‘til You Die
Garlic and Oregano Are Just Some Suggestions
And Here’s Some Mint… for Your Digestion
Parsley to Parley and Jive-Chives, Just Keep Stirring
But There’s No Clam Chowder, Shrimp, or Herring
A Dash of This… A Dash of That Seasoning
A Pinch of That and Sprinkle This Reasoning…
On The Side with the Mustard and Relish, so Fresh
Are the Cucumber-Contest and Radish Requests
And I Can’t Forgo the Tongue-in-Cheek Puns…
Your Laughter is Passed Around, like Hot-Buttered Buns !
… Poets … Are Proverbial Peas In The Pod
The Harvesters of Herbs-Heard, in The Garden of God
so... Salt and Pepper to Your Superb Style
Did You Say Cheese, Please ?... ( Full Mouth Smile !)
There’s Hot Chicken Broth, When You Are Cold
Everybody Knows… Its Good For The Soul
And All That’s On The Human Menu… It’s In There !
… Even A Mother’s … Tenderized Care
Like Campbell’s Brand… Its Umm… Umm… Good !
The Aspire – Asparagus, I Took… I Understood
So, PoetrySoup’s Cupboard is Never Bare
And There Ain’t No Bones, No Medium, Just Rare
And On The Star-Burner… Is The Savory Meat
So… Grab A Heartbeat-Bowl… and Bona Petit’…
Yes, Thank You, PoetrySoup
(You’re Up There with MoonBee’s FruitLoops !)
It Has Been A Pleasure Getting To Know You All
Thru Your Beautiful Expressions, Coming Straight
From Your Warm and Welcoming Hearts
God Bless You......
MoonBee
With a 7-Eleven Big Cup eulogy slurp
And a McDonalds Big Mac pall bearer burp,
it’s Big Boy Slim Jim holiday mourning time
Take a family reunion picnic funeral ride
to a cemetery last supper barbeque burial ...
shovel down the gullet styrofoam servings
of coffin words charcoal dirtside purged
Famous food jingles playing over the radio
was the final ear candy corpse dish heard
Box of chocolates and cake frosting flowers
bring back such fond broken diet memories
And guilty pleasures
of Weight Watchers infidelities
Illicit affairs of late-night microwave heated morsels
brought forth categorically caloric denials ...
refrigerated temptations
tiptoe sneaking down the pie-hole
Oh, the double-layered life you led,
the gravedigger cravings you had
You always pillow stashed
an eclair energy bar
under the silk sheets kissy lipstick red,
to stimulate your gastro-erotic appetite after midnight
Carnal tastings of naked delight ... good belly vibrations —
sugar rush,
melted butter
Buckets of caramel popcorn love ...
Lip-smacking custard creampies,
your tongue couldn’t get enough
Popsicle toes,
finger licking
Mouth watering pickles,
spicy honey breasts of chicken
Succulent crab legs,
steamed oyster juices exotic
Lobster chowder brie ... pure aroma ecstasy
You took a Cajun deep creole swallow,
spooning the bottom of the gumbo pot
Relaxing those alligator jaws for the belching last time,
loosening your belt past the final notch
Satisfied donut eyes orange glaze hollow,
cinnamon bun thoughts be on your English muffin mind:
Restaurant quality neo-mortician style buffet,
wine cellar casket smorgasbord
Undertaker carry-out at the Last Breath café,
with a menu selection to die for
Oh, the extra toppings life you led,
such gravedigger cravings you had
Time to put your Pizza Hut pepperoni desires to bed,
and brain-freeze
that last heaping spoonful of Big Frosty in your head
Then close them Cheesecake Factory eyes,
when those antacid,
digestive ...
gluttonous lights go dead
Washing my face at night - I drown in sorrow.
Patting a towel on my skin. Pressing firm.
Laughing causes wrinkles. Everyone knows that.
Yet humor is one of the best defense mechanisms.
My heart skips around like a 90's Walkman.
Suddenly I don't feel so alone.
The music takes over my limbs.
I wave my lanky limbs around like a kite.
I ask myself whether or not I should smile.
My eyes roll out of habit.
What am I supposed to do now?
Taste the coffee that you delicately poured.
I prefer tea but I needed some energy.
As I throw my cup in the recycling bin..
I count the ants - lined up and ready to march forward.
I know my limitations. I know my end is near.
I hold my hands under the faucet.
I wait for the water to boil.
I am making a cup of tea.
I am trying to relax.
I am trying to be something bigger and better.
Each day is beautiful. Each night is divine.
Is there something wrong with this picture?
I only film in the grey areas. No more joking around.
I thought about the last thing you said before you died.
That you wanted God to love you.
I think He does. I sure knew I did.
The spoonful of honey and cream.
Make the tea less bitter.
But it is still a challenge to swallow.
Like the lump I got in my throat while reading your obituary.
You were the one who I saw a future with.
I don't know how much I can pretend that I'm not hurt.
Grab life by the collar and dance in the reflection of the moon.
She whispers lines from your favourite poem.
Once I get comfortable, I begin to weep.
I can't remember what brings me peace.
A small cursive chant that makes me ache.
A part of me that hasn't been afraid.
Washing my face in the sink.
Tomorrow is another day.
I love you now, then, and always.
I sold a story to afford to eat.
Now I just need to learn to digest.
My heart skips around like a 90's Walkman.
It will never cease to amaze me how much you knew.
About Faith and Charity.
I softly sing the words to your favourite hymn.
Hope you'll hear them.
I think laughter is one of the best ways to heal.
Even if it does cause wrinkles..
Today we drove from Wolf Point, Montana to Minot North Dakota
making one major stop on the trip…
at the Dakota Drug Store in Stanley, North Dakota to enjoy a Whirla-Whip.
What makes this treat so special and why we had to stop today
is they have the only remaining original Whira-Whip machine in the entire USA.
In the 1930’s Whirla-Whip thought they knew what their customers deserved.
Their machine took frozen ice cream…mixed it with other flavors
and, voila, the mixture came out soft serve.
What made this machine unique, still does, in the 1930’s speak…it was dreamy
how frozen ice cream went in…and came out smooth and creamy.
Whirla-Whip didn’t take off like they hoped it would…
soon these machines were nowhere to be seen…
replaced by soft serving establishments…like those at Dairy Queen.
But the Dakota Drug store’s Whirla-Whip remains…
and as far as ice cream on this trip…we haven’t had our quota…
which brought us to this soda fountain…in Stanley, North Dakota.
We shared a spoonful with each other…but the rest ate a capella
I had chocolate with brownie cake and peanut butter
Deborah…vanilla, peanut butter…with Nutella.
And it was smooth and it was creamy…but what really blew us away
were the people we met and talked to…at the soda fountain that day.
Two air force men (I must be getting old because they looked more like boys)
talked with us a bringing us such joy.
And we stayed and talked with the three young girls
the ones who made our Whirla-Whips
We talked about their winters in North Dakota…
and they asked us about our trip.
If I had to describe, so far, each part of the first 3000 miles of our trip
I’d have to say it’s been amazing…and a lot like our Whirla-Whips
How different people, each with different flavors, mix together…
just as we did at the Stanley, North Dakota Drug Store….
and how those flavors once mixed together…
come out tasting better than each flavor did before.
In the black and white days of the 1950’s schools made youngsters learn and learn well or else,
Uniforms were as important with short trousers and knee length grey socks with elastic garters,
Garters would get so tight they left impressions on legs that took ages to stop legs itching,
We sat on wooden desks with ink wells in the corner, wooden pens with removable inky wet nibs.
Every single day my hands would be covered in ink no matter how hard you scrubbed it stayed,
We began our ten year education reading Janet and John books, and others not allowed today,
Girls wore grey pinafore dresses and blue knickers, we knew as they always played hand stand,
Playgrounds, black tar with chalked hopscotch grids and in the grass puttyholes for marbles.
In the London schools there was sometimes thick smog a thick fog mixed with smelly pollution,
Each morning before we left to go to school we were given a huge spoonful of malt with cod oil,
Disgusting, a big spoon shoved in my mouth, gagging as it was wiggled about bashing my teeth,
Discipline was tight the cane was used often, lesser offences a beating from the big slipper.
Never knew why it was called the slipper because it wasn’t a slipper it was a shoe and it hurt,
In class and I was fiddling with something and not paying attention I got a rap on my knuckles,
When not expecting it, out of the blue a whack was a painful experience and the class giggled,
The edge of a wooden ruler covered in ink made the back of your hand go red with a white line.
Then it was the dreaded times tables a teacher would randomly spit out a question and stare,
What’s 7 x 9 boy? The pressure of the stare and the stick patting his palm made me forget,
Stand in the corner boy, I will deal with you later, so for the rest of the lesson I worried,
Hands up on my head, my arms heavy aching, waiting for a portion of punishment what would it be.
It’s all about the art- and not about the chart
About the story being told, not coins or bags of gold
Does it come from deep inside, from that hidden secret place?
The emotion from within, the page of life to grace
It’s all about the art- the song being sung
The lyrics of my life, the bell that’s being rung
Long hours spent, must be spent in love
The practice, the drive, to reach the stars above
It’s all about the art- not about the game
The gift that we give, not coveting the fame
The call of the road, the journey of life
The spoonful of joy, the cut of the knife
It’s all about the art- it’s all about the love
When talent and desire, fit just like a glove
The picture being painted, the sketch being drawn
From the last crimson sunset, to early morning dawn
It’s all about the art- the gift that we leave
Intricate fabric, of the legacy we weave
Life is not a fake, a lie or crafted cheat
What is real is all that counts, upon the final sheet
It’s all about the art, the gut the sweat the heart
It’s all about the art, from the finish to the start
David Kettler
The other day I was listening to a song on Pandora that I really liked and immediately I found myself scrolling to find out if the singer had written the song. I realized that many times I find myself doing that and I guess the reason is that it helps me try to identify with the artist and match the emotion of the voice with the emotion of the writing. More and more I find myself rejecting so called pop-music that is generated, manipulated, often plagiarized and butchered beyond belief all for the aim of climbing some so-called chart. This line came to me on my way to work that day…”It’s all about the ART…NOT about the chart!! After a good thanksgiving meal yesterday at Grandmas and a long night spent in a turkey coma…this poem came out this morning.