Long Spoons Poems
Long Spoons Poems. Below are the most popular long Spoons by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Spoons poems by poem length and keyword.
repurposed from first
old scars build identities
each mark retells use
a nail hole, scorch, and scrape marks
makes the temporary last
worthless things endure
when no one fears a new scar
so they serve again
reuse imbibes resonance
purpose hums in harmony
second-hand uses
never quite fit for purpose
yet their blemishes
give the makeshift things their charm
like sharing with an old friend
afterthoughts retained
stand-ins outlive their first lives
makeshift afterlives
roles we never intended
making do among old mates
old fence board scrap piles
become sign, doorstep, bridge, shelf
never intended
each new role remembers what
the plank has otherwise been
old bricks become steps
envelopes list the shopping
stone weighs down papers
small duties engender things
discarded from grander roles
jam jar catches spoons
then pencils, screws and buttons
clear glass exhibits
each new cargo quaintly held
with ghosts of what came before
railway sleepers rest
unrailed from thundering past
holding garden earth
old tire swing beneath a tree
still remembering the road
given one more go
the second-hand resonance
creates harmony
nothing used ever forgets—
first choices humming within
Never in my lifetime have I seen,
In any of the places I have been,
So many who have an infinite supply of steam,
Who to stir the pot are keen.
Day or night they are to be seen,
Discussing the best way to stir the pot clean,
Never asking for a bean,
And recruiting for free those who seem to have enough steam,
To help them stir up interest in a new dream,
Which should be good for cooks everywhere it would seem,
As they awaken those whose stir is more mean.
So, to cooks everywhere who keen,
To find places for their spoons to lean,
And a hook for their aprons that are clean,
They can sell their washing machine for more than a bean,
And the dishwasher as well now that pots are stirred clean,
By those who are only just working up steam,
Enough to score the jackpot of which they dream.
How can I be so sure.
There have been many times where I have been sure before.
In fact, surer than sure.
Standing outside of myself; I brush pass every other thought.
A space crowded with nowhere particularly to be.
Except here.
Shoulders brush against the thought of other shoulders.
Irked in irritation; the search of a higher purpose.
A casual meet and greet of lips.
A bistro of conversation with neither of us knowing what to order.
We swirled in each others thought.
Becoming the spoons which swirled around in creme and sweetener.
The thought was mutual.
We were both generous with our sips.
Both known to the after thought of addiction.
The roof of our mouths drenched with infatuation.
Lost somewhere between the rumbling of our stomach.
And the eying of Banana bread muffins.
Moist in infatuation.
The fulfillment of a connection of something so simple.
F O R E V E R I N Y O U R E Y E S
F orests of floral passion desire converged reflections shining mirrors
O f wildest dreams come together true bidden not forbidden fruit in
R ound curvaceous mangoes cherries grapes and mutual temptation
E mbrace transcend your words unspoken colours scripted orange pink
V iolet indigo scented tapestries of sensing sensual climactic fragrance
E ver forever everlasting from that fleeting blink of splashing moments
R etrieved consoled compounded enlightenment in wet and pastel blue
I n your eyes all worries vagaries fragmentations unveil another story
N arrate two minds two souls melt and forge sensational sensations
Y our wings touch my roots and your foundations make me rock and fly
O n cotton moons of weightless lighted sensuous blends of coupled spoons
U nder floating tears of laughter sadness joy scream gently sparkling stars
R oll tease spark encourage squeeze the river delta’s flow from your spring
E mbrace your touch taste perfume the tingling waves and beautiful delight
Y our glance your entertainment of my humble offerings your frown and wink
E nshrined in bark of cinnamon and humid floral passing capturing passiflora
S hed secret secrets intellectual pheromones lost lust emotion lover’s love
12th July 2016
Ever see the counters wiped clean
in purity, whilst the laughs coincide
with rolling, cutting and baking?
Ever try to duplicate the situation
comedy do or die? Rolling up
your super sleeves - smiles and falala.
Ever clear, after midnight - elbows
covered in bubbles, pots and pans,
beaters, measuring cups and spoons
that the laughs didn’t measure up?
Ever near - the loved ones swallowed up
in pillows and quilts, in raging snores,
tired as trees after a storm; sweetened
up with proverbial sugar plums.
Ever be the one still standing near the broom
and mop, by the glow of the moon, by
the teapot hissing its silent night wishing?
Ever see the counters wiped clean,
in purity,after hours and hours of disbelief?
Ever believe you’ll do this holiday win -
again and again? and laugh and laugh
at the vitriol that you launch at t.v. land…
12/17/2022
Twenty fifth of December, three thousand and four
and already I'm down in the dumps
we're round at the neighbour's via tubes that save labour
propelled by some hydraulic pumps.
We've exchanged all our presents and got them unwrapped
once again I've got self-cleaning socks
the wife's Kevlar panties, though they are quite scanty
are going straight back in the box.
I'm constantly goaded to eat nuts they've downloaded
they'll try any tactic to feed ya
but the problem, I quibble is that some have been nibbled
as they're passed around on social media.
We're looking for doorways or just any more ways
to find a quick route to get out
and escape if we're able, being chased round the table
by genetically modified sprouts.
They've offered a glass of Martian Pinot noir
and they tell me it's alcohol free
so there goes my boozing and afternoon snoozing
and waking up just after tea.
Grandma kids are teasing, cryogenic freezing
means she won't wake up until noon
to find grapes in her hair and a plum, God knows where
and they've blocked up her nose with some spoons.
Don't know why they have bothered with plates that can hover
it seems so bone idle to me
they could have just handed the pudding that's landed
on the light fitting just above me.
The custard's abundant but the jug is redundant
administered now by syringe
and so is the Brandy which, though is quite handy
prevents us from having a binge.
When later we get back from fresh air and jet packs
remembering when we could walk
I'll look back fondly then to those Christmases when
we just used a knife and a fork.
November 16th 2015
For Contest 'A futuristic Christmas', sponsor Mystic Rose
I was looking forward to the big surprise.
My daughter had called to say it was a prize.
We ran to the porch before the big demise.
Because we have a puppy who chews everything that hits his eyes.
What is it? What is it? My husband asked with glee.
I said wait just a second. There is a bunch of tape as you can see.
It was not the gift we had been waiting for from our daughter Vee.
It was a mop head, which had been sent as a replacement for free.
We opened every Amazon box with relish that week.
But alas, the big reveal never appeared with even a peek.
It was a fruitcake, our daughter said with a squeak.
We looked at Buddy, our dog, whose language is Greek.
You do not suppose he devoured it, I asked my husband Fred.
He would not eat a fruitcake, no one likes them, Fred said.
And he could not open the tin, right? I asked. Buddy’s face was red.
We found the tin later, in pieces, laid up in back of the shed.
There was not a bit of fruitcake left for the mice or the raccoons.
So to all those who use fruitcake as a label for crazies and loons.
I have just one thing to say. Here are your large silver spoons.
I shall order you some fruitcakes, you silly Christmas loving goons.
The Totem ©
The totem speaks of the tribe’s history, lore,
deeds of courage
Animals, fish and gods
carved in reverence,
from a fallen tree hundreds of years old,
living wood, with a face, a fish,
a bear, a bird marching down it’s trunk,
a seemingly random sprinkle of
obelisks in a circle,
tells of incredible faith true enough
to move tons of stone
Totems today, statuary in the front garden,
wooden rooster atop the mail box,
the weather vane dressed in
golden green patina.
Carvings of flowers,
frolicking baby squirrels and
rabbits on a sign at the front door,
A mural brushed upon a barn wall,
the flag of a beloved country,
the lone star of a beloved state,
the wind chimes of dolphins, stars, frogs, and spoons
capturing the breeze,
singing a song of welcome
Tribes today paint their vehicles in much the same way
that the People painted their sturdy, brave little horses
before a battle
Circles of paint about the eyes for truer vision,
hand prints on shoulder and flank to ward off the spear,
ornaments braided into mane and tail
to celebrate victory
Bumper stickers, magnetic ribbons,
all totems to tell members
of other tribes what is believed in,
what the tribe stands for;
support this, hate that,
down with this, up with that
proud to be a redneck,
a woman,
a boater,
a parent,
a fisherman,
a politician,
a farmer,
a dancer,
a soldier,
an Aggie,
a sailor,
an Irishman,
a lover of guns.
Trisha Sugarek
Butterflies and Bullets
23 Jan 2021 12:35 AM
As a child during gatherings and visits
Sometimes I sat by the old men to listen
Among the sounds of laugher and the clink of spoons in coffee cups
Was wisedom and excitement from lives well used up
Tales of trials and triumphs and sorrow
Warnings of things in distant tommorws
The smell of smoke and a hard days sweat
Became triggers of memories from when they met
Yes I ran and played with the other children
But those memories are some of my favorite gems
I learned when to sow and when to reap
To early rise and early sleep
Of war and peace and Gods sweet grace
And the reason for the lines that scared their face
Now I am the old man but the children are to busy
Fast games and music and distractions a plenty
There concentration is slave to their screens
While real life flies by to them unseen
Personal history to them is lost
Their master entertainer charges a terrible cost
iv'e turned the heat to maximum, and thrown in quite a lot,
that saucepan lids sure jumping,the liquid must be hot!
i might get moans bad comment..? you never really know and
i'm told i can't use square words..! in case their tempers blow.!
now i know my styles unorthodox'' a trial no doubt in truth,
i think i should give it all i've got, plus more (verbiage)
perhaps rough-cut or... uncouth.? no! i'd better not get heavy
in case indegestion looms, oh..bother i'll just serve it as it is,
and use the extra large soup spoons..! yess.. they won't get in
one full helping, at least not at a thyme, the lumps for those with a nose for
prose,
for the others some soupy rhyme.