Long Stove Poems
Long Stove Poems. Below are the most popular long Stove by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Stove poems by poem length and keyword.
Burnt Meat
Black and blue were not
her favorite colors nor very fun
especially in the hot
glow of the southern summer sun
Both eyes, tears now dried
swollen shut by his fist
once again he lied
said no more would he do this
Her only fault was burnt meat
no dinner today
He expected a treat
but it didn’t turn out that way
Anger foiled reason
no talking about it now
temper hotter that the season
couldn’t explain anyhow
How she stopped cooking
to answer the phone
you said she should be looking
for you to come home
So by the door she stood in wait
dreading his arrival
never expecting that fate
held a fight for her very survival
As smoke filled the place
No hello. Just an instant fuss
No kiss to her once beautiful face
Just a finger pointed in discuss
First a punch then slap,
and he grabbed her by a braid
yanking out a weaved in nap
on the floor it and she laid
Attempting to deliver a kick
he cocked his right ‘gator’
sweat made the floor slick
as he would discover not much later
She couldn’t see, but what was clear
his foot missed it’s mark of intention
didn’t even get near
the point of contention
Next thing she heard was a shout
as he fell against the kitchen stove
she couldn’t see to put the fire out
as flames engulfed his clothes
he attempted to used his feet
to issue abusive correction
in turn becoming burnt meat
solace comes without direction
Have you ever had a dream where you were herding puppies,
But they were piling on each other, licking, and lollygagging,
Laughing, and giggling, and incessantly playing?
Have you wished perpetually to dance, and color, and sing, and play
All day long?
Do you understand that children want love
More than food or water or air?
Do you get excited about silly stuff?
Can you tell jokes?
Do you know what a riddle is?
Can you put all your sarcasm on a stove burner and burn it up?
Do you like to dance?
To sing?
To skip?
To hop?
Would you like to dress in a bunny suit and read a story, as a bunny?
Do you respect and love children?
Do they amuse you?
Can you be amused without making fun of them?
Congratulations.
You, my dear, are a kindergarten teacher.
The foxglove Summer has tripped away
I am farmed out far from home
Alone, with strange tongues
Winter slips quietly into
The far corner of my comfort
While the Mouse size room sleeps
Night has stolen days short hours
Pulling at the rare white light
It tip toes past in a dust stream
Cold glass holed, and damp cardboard
Subdue the pin-pointed reflections of me
And darkness has side stepped itself
Slowly daylight drips itself into
Watery, blurred, sleep filled eyes and
A jig-sawed dawn arrives in pieces
Blue chilled noses appear from itchy blankets
From Winter pressing heavy down
Frosted Jack the Cat slips on grey slate
Frozen breath particles float upward
The shy Sun, mixes stiff scary shadows
Cold toes string like pegs too the floor
Ah, smell hot tea, drifting in a saucer
It snakes up bendy in the stairwell
Its heady scent sweet too the senses
Yawning and hot, a pot black Stove
The thin day slides in under the front door
A letter arrives, accompanied by voices carrying tears.
He fancied himself Mr. Fixit for things that broke around the house.
He had a knack for screwing things up which aggravated his spouse.
His tool kit consisted of a wrench, hammer, screwdriver and a brush;
Also, a plumber's helper to unplug his toilet commode to make it flush.
Mr. Fixit stood in water in the basement that came up to his hips.
He busted a pipe and cussed his luck with naughty words from his lips!
At this, his long-suffering wife became enraged and was totally pissed,
Screaming, "I told you so, Mr. Fixit! You shoulda called Angies List!"
A light switch went on the fritz and when repairing it he crossed the wires.
This caused a neighborhood electrical outage raising his neighbors' ires!
It caused all kinds of consternation and at this his darling wife hissed:
"Don't ever try that stupid trick again - you shoulda called Angies List!"
Mr. Fixit's next project was to cover the kitchen walls with new paint.
He splattered paint on the floor and stove proving a painter he ain't!
Losing patience, he wife hurled a skillet at him which barely missed,
Shouting "You incompetent nincompoop, you shoulda called Angies List!"
Mowing the lawn with his electric mower he ran over and cut the cord.
He received a shocking jolt and his spouse screeched, "Oh! My lord!"
That did it! He finally learned that if with his wife he must coexist,
Next time he needed help he'd call the experts at Angies List!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
She buried the bodies down by the orchard grove
It's so pretty in spring
You just gotta go
The flowers grow tall
When the sun goes low
You gotta go
She didn’t kill him just for fun
No fun was had that day
He had the looks that said okay
It was just his mouth
That did betray
She was just an easy lay
The years rolled by
And time forgot
All until that day
The storm unearthed
What was buried
Down by orchard grove
He pushed her awake
Gave her the news
Something about orchard grove
They found dead people down there
Wasn’t that the place
You left in disgrace
She laughed
He had the looks that said okay
It was just his mouth
That did betray
She killed him quick
Burying him next to pear tree, Rick
Sometimes late at night
They come back to say hello
Some scream indignity
Others scream hell no
It was like having good friends around the stove
The bodies buried down by orchard grove.
nestled in the lee of a thick flint wall
guys taut, grappling to hold firm
our canvas castle shook and shuddered
flimsy but somehow reassuring respite
as mountain giants prowled through the night
inside, hunched low over his stove
blue flames licking around the pan
Pops whistled a calming retort;
his gourmet dish to warm us up
bangers ‘n beans in a tin camp cup
we ate and we watched through the half closed flap
as lightning struck nearby -
so, while thunder grumbled at the drumming rain
(still in coats, with hats on heads)
we stretched out on our blow-up beds
father and son fishing had been the plan
on the shores of the lake that weekend
but different memories, caught by different lines
were shaped and set in that storm
as Pops read me ‘The Hobbit,’ all cosy snug and warm
I dreamed I accidentally bought two expensive tickets to a musical play about Thomas Jefferson, then figured, what the hell, Rhonda and I might as well go. Then an ex showed up, someone I get along with fine to this day, but I was surprised in the dream that she screamed horrible curses at me.
As I was walking over a drum bridge at a zoo, I realized I had to take care of the Jefferson tickets which I'd wadded up and put in my right-hand pocket, the one with the hole in it. Fortunately it hadn't fallen through the hole, so I took the two attached tickets and tried to unwad them and smooth them out on the bridge's railing, but the tickets preferred to stay wadded up.
As I was waking up, something smelled like it was cooking and I momentarily wondered if I'd left the stove on the night before when I made spring-burgers. But the radio was on and they said the reason the atmosphere stank of barbecue was towns around Puget Sound were being "smoked" by forest fires in British Columbia. So good, I hadn't left the stove top on, I could relax.
I'd been up most of the night and hadn't gone to bed until about 4:30, so I fell back to sleep and dreamed I was wandering the countryside with the ghost of Johnny Cash. He was so pleasant. I was so happy to be with him. I wasn't sure he was dead, because here we were together, I must've misremembered. It's not my usual sort of dream, a happy one that is.
I didn't wake up until ten. Went down stairs and discovered the oven was on! Rhonda had put a big slice of apple pie in there hours earlier, then went off to work forgetting about it. Surprisingly it wasn't burned. It was dehydrated and flattened into a crispy apple tart. So I ate it.
dear read... stop
that's almost a
palindrome start
...er my
father called
my mother
mother but i
called my mother Mum
also this is not a poem
for mother's day but
though written on
mother's day
please
read the title as intended
simply to be a memory of
being at my
Mum's
house one day when i was
thirty one years
of age but
this
is
what
was
going through my head
knowing that someday
i would write it down
i was in the
kitchen sauteing
onions in butter and
Mum was in a back room
in the back of her house when
from the stove suddenly a splatter
of butter now
turned to ghee
but still with the
fat floating on top
spat up and on to my
arm stopping all thoughts
as mentioned
above as well
as the wooden
spoon i was using
to saute the onions
in the butter now ghee
i caught myself but not
catching myself in time
also dropping the F bomb
in fact dropping the whole
nine yards when suddenly
the stampeding sound of
a single animal entered my
ears as suddenly as did my
Mum and she slapped me
in the face and said, "Don't
you ever use that kind of
language in this house ever
again!!!" and that slap
took my 31 and turned me
to 13 once again back to
when i was a boy in the
kitchen cooking and said,
"Yes Mum."
Form:
Just down the gravel road a piece is an old-time country store.
On its saggin' shelves are things you won't find much anymore.
Ladies in bright calico barter with Mr. Draper their eggs and butter,
As they visit neighbors on Saturday nights amid the piles of clutter!
Menfolk lounge on benches in front of the store to discuss the price of hogs,
Argue the merits of John Deere tractors and who has the finest huntin' dogs.
The kids were given fifty-cents and shooed off to the movin' pitcher show.
Later they'll meet at Bruce's Deli Shoppe for ice cream and cups o' joe!
Shoppin' carts or computers ain't used in the store owned by Mr. Draper.
He grabs things off the shelf and totes the bill on scraps of butcher's paper.
Snoozin' nigh the glowin' potbelly stove is Spooks, Mr. Draper's hound.
His inscrutable cat, Wilbur, sprawls upon a barrel of pickles a-sleepin' sound!
Ah, the variety of interestin' stuff available in his store is so replete.
Fels Naptha, Oxydol and Lifebuoy soaps as well as pickled pigs feet,
Wrigley's, Black Jack, Beamans and Clove chewin' gums are on the shelf,
Plus Clark, Power House and Walnetto candies to satisfy yourself!
Farmers keep his bins stocked with fresh roastin' ears and sweet potaters,
Rutabagas, green onions, rhubarb and luscious beefsteak tomaters.
If you can tolerate squeaky floors and Mr. Draper's old-fashioned ways,
Drop by and savor the nostalgic ambience of his store one of these days!
(c) 2014 All Rights Reserved
Entry for Kelly Deschler's "Just Down The Road" Contest
T’is the season of jolly and such fun
Ending a year and starting out brand new
Others will be looking to the long run
Uplifting many with words from a few
Celebrating the new binding like glue
Moving together with tag poetry
Pot on the stove with Epulaeryu brew
This stew is filled with great artistry
T’is is just like cosmetic dentistry
Brings a smile to celebrating faces
The time is now for a royal entry
Like playing cards with faces of aces
Hello Lynn Marie go put on your clogs
Look out the window you have just been tagged!
Comment: I was tagged by Katherine Stella. Hello Lynn, this is especially for
you. Happy New Year! Now you will have to find someone whose poetry you
enjoy to tag. NOTE: The Spenserian sonnet rhymes as follows:
ABABBCBCCDCDEE. The second four lines are linked by rhymes to the first four
and the follow four, and a couplet concludes the poem by reemphasizing the
main idea or proposing an alternative view. Isn’t this fun!!!