Long Supermarkets Poems
Long Supermarkets Poems. Below are the most popular long Supermarkets by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Supermarkets poems by poem length and keyword.
The supermarkets in Manhattan
Naturally are small,
Perhaps to compensate for
All the buildings that are tall.
They aren’t meant for shopping carts
Or giant stock-up sprees.
Most people grab the items
They can carry home with ease.
Today, though, in the suburbs
I hit Wegman’s - what a store!
So huge it seemed like there were
Miles of aisles to explore.
The produce all looked fresh, as did
The dairy, fish and meats.
The bakery was filled with lots
Of yummy fresh-made treats.
And oh, the choices in the section
Set aside for beer!
The IPA’s alone produced
A grin from ear to ear.
For someone used to city marts
I sure was blown away,
But overwhelmed by all the stuff
So tempting on display.
Pat's
polecat
ate Jack's Brats**
got way too fat
So when that cat shat
on Papa's brand-new hat
he was punished tit-for-tat
Now forced to dine solely on rat
Pat's polecat said grace for meals, then spat
November 07, 2019
Rhyming Nonet Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Charles Messina
___________________________________________
**Jack's Gourmet Kosher Sausage Company's Cured Bratwurst is available in supermarkets in large metropolitan areas. A three-ounce serving/one bratwurst sausage contains 190 calories, of which 130 are fat calories, 470 mg of Sodium and 55 mg of cholesterol (JacksGourmet.com)
October 16th, 2018, A Day At The Market With The Missus
Oft times zee spouse
lingers at select
supermarkets (Landis, Redners,
and/or Wegmans) without me
(figuratively) taking
all the time in the world
allowing this mister to reflect
alone (imaging tubby
a Norwegian bachelor farmer)
toying with this, that, or the
other writing project
sitting facing this
Macbook Pro laptop
within this one
bedroom apartment
comprising a quite
satisfactory unit, sans
Highland Manor Apartments
in the heart
of Schwenksville, Pennsylvania
reveling in solitude meditating, reading,
or trying valiantly to connect
continuity of words,
always pleasantly surprised
at finished product
(predominantly, asper
hashing out a poem)
with unpredictable captivating aspect
letting thoughts flow as they
may burst asunder
quickly keying
thee elusive threads,
albeit unconcerned
making a typing blunder
mainly focused on
barley distilling, coalescing,
and brewing alphabetic dunder,
when over zealousness
frequently setting wing
to literary creation, which
smug modesty, nonetheless
finds this scrivener to sing
(unwittingly premature
silent ejaculations)
joyus rapturous threnody,
whereat ring around the rosy
abruptly ends caused by
renegade doppelganger quisling
shell shocks yours
truly wear re: eyes
mimic pinball ping
experiencing short lived
(dramatic beaming effusion)
to plummet giving
little attention to proof read,
versus when I indiscriminately fling
an unpolished epistle of Matthew
riddled with glaring mistakes,
aye suddenly feel
embarrassed like a damned ding
bat reprimanding myself
and wrathful madness doth bring!
Palestine
Hamas fighters, the brave men and women who
fights for a free Palestine have been killed in the Gaza Strip
together with wives and children.
And once again, Israel sinks in our estimate to a criminal state
this Jewish-occupied land lives on hatred and only exists
for the benefit of their own tribe and has nothing else to offer
in a world where the everlasting guilt of the Holocaust makes
the world is silent to atrocities committed in its hallowed name.
when the American gun culture, the right to wear arms kills
dozens in supermarkets and on the streets dripping blood
we can be sure of big headlights, but this horror turns to ashes
when seeing the steady drip of murdered Palestinians in what
can be called Holocaust with a long view.
It stood magnificently in front of our Churchyard,
Like the sacred fig tree before any temple-yard;
My going to church, as a boy, had no other reason,
Than picking all bird-dropped fruits, as a mission;
Collecting as many as possible hastily,
Pushing them into my knickers-pocket quietly;
Thinking of them all through the Holy Mass,
Waiting for the priest to say the final grace;
Hurrying to a corner where no humans see,
Place, as lonely as the very loneliness could be;
Savouring the sour-sweet taste spread over it,
Then breaking it with stones to get the nuts in it;
Quantity of it equaled as little as a butter drip,
Or as much as ten mustard seeds put as a strip;
Relishing it as though nectar of ancient sages,
Coming down to mine tongue from all the ages;
In youth tastes changed and matters mattered,
And this almond became very old fashioned;
Burgers, Pizzas, hotdogs and all tasted well,
Though, consuming them, I often was unwell;
I saw boys and girls picking almonds as I did,
And hurrying to corners and I understood;
The ‘grown-up’ in me prohibited me from doing so,
It’s hence I hid my child within, as a rainbow;
Abroad, I almost forgot the Indian almond tree,
As within me, I was bored and never really free;
I had my worries of marriage and children,
Who’d care for a tree with no monetary gain?
It’s when I went to my home town casually,
It’s under that tree I found my future lily;
We married and got children who grew,
Both with tastes so modern and new;
Yet, it’s when once we visited the churchyard,
My younger lingered over that fruit so thrilled;
We offered him sweet almonds from stores,
And supermarkets that made him to uproar;
He collected for long as much as he could,
And each little one he collected for him he hid;
He too, later, had his dreams and worries,
Sophistications seismically so seduce, seize;
Church now demolished and grounds cleared,
For newer one to construct all well renewed;
I found this almond tree got fully uprooted,
And thrown into a corner like an old harp muted;
I cried and cried till I could cover the tears,
As though I’d hidden my feelings for many years…
30 July 2021
Finding Your Muse Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Regina McIntosh
( 10/24/12)
First and foremost - I am a man
And I had to gratify my needs
Then she came along and planted her seed.
Right then I knew she had to be part of my life
So I made her my wife.
But there was still something missing in my heart
And it was tearing me apart.
What was this need - this desire - that I had to fill?
I couldn’t give up, it was bugging me still.
Then it dawned on me that I would never be complete
Until I had a child playing at my feet.
I fulfilled my goal that my wife would
No longer work- and all my friends called me a jerk.
I was always taught that the man must be
The family head - and on that road I would tread.
Being in the food line since the age of eight
I did not have to contemplate
Every one has to eat ! So supermarkets and
Restaurant management I had to defeat.
I knew also that I would have to be a
“ jack of all trades” - so I watched and questioned
Others who had the skills of plumbing , carpentry
Electrical too, these were things that a home owner must do.
I had become her husband, chauffer, and her friend
And to her , my ear I’d lend.
All her appointments , I was there
And the results we would share.
Then the news came that I waited to hear
That my wife was pregnant and my child she did bear.
Now I felt whole, I felt complete
This news wiped me off my feet
I knew already That a girl would be the part
Who would capture my soul, and heart.
They say only a mother can know the
Pleasures and pains- “ but” in a fathers heart
He feels the same.
He does not feel the kicks and turns
And the morning sickness that a woman may feel
But he shares the joys that he sees on her face
As on her stomach his hand is placed.
Now my need, my desire was filled
And I rejoice to this day still.
© L . RAMS
Written for and about my eldest daughter, Freya Lily (Pickle).
Ive loved you,
from the very first second I saw you,
you are my beautiful first born.
So the times when I see you upset
frustrates me and I’m torn.
Because you truly are lovely,
And trust me when I say
that I look at you every day
Filled with so much pride,
That i can hardly contain,
it makes me want to burst inside,
You’re as sweet as the classical music
you play at night.
Because it only seems like yesterday.
you was that gorgeous little baby.
sat in your high chair,
lacking any eye brow hair.
chucking food down to daisy,
the most lazy,loving dog
Who would always follow you around the house,
With her ears pricked up,as if
her suspicions were aroused.
It’s like somehow she knew
you was up-to no good,
or really I think she was just waiting
for you to drop more food.
I will never forget the the time.
when your mum called me to say,
you had poured red paint on the carpet that day.
I could only imagine her shock and despair.
As she desperately tried to scrub
The paint from the top of the stairs.
Your poor mum was in such a distress,
As she told me later that night
she was cursing my name,
as she cleared up that mess
Because apparently me and you
are like two peas in a pod,
We play fight in a supermarkets,
and be mischievous
like a dad and daughter should.
But as I sit looking at you now watching you grow.
I love you so much.
that I thought you should know,
what a wonderful young lady your going to become,
your loving and kind,
with a softness and innocence.
But at times you have a worrying naivety.
Also I think that it’s fair to say.
and I’m sure your agree with me,
that getting you to tidy your room
doesn’t come so easily.
other then that don’t ever change
as your doing just fine,
We all love just how clumsy and silly
you are most of the time.
You have a brilliant sensor of humour and
your a fantastic young artists
With dreams of designing fashion
And moving to Paris.
And You will,
with some heart and desire.
So Never lose your love,passion or fire.
You can do whatever you want to do.
and be whoever you want to be.
because your my beautiful darling daughter,
My Angel face,
Freya Lily.
( pickle)
LONELY
Cooking for one is not much fun
There doesn’t seem much point.
The smallest saucepan’s far too large
And if I cook a Sunday joint
It’s still around mid-week.
The supermarkets seem so vast
And I’m not catered for.
Although they have the things I want,
They’re all in packs of two or more.
And you’re no longer here.
Remember when I cooked for us
And ate by candlelight
Our favourite pasta recipe
You always said I cooked just right?
I never eat that now.
My dinner’s on my lap these days.
The television’s on.
I tune our favourite programme in,
Then realise once more you’ve gone
And let the image fade.
That tear? It’s just the onions.
You know what onions do.
It’s force of habit I suppose
That made me go and chop up two.
But you’re no longer here.
15th March 2023
Writing Challenge - 'L' words poetry contest
Sponsor - Constance La France
>The Unseen Clock
This is not the struggle of a single, glorious fight,
Not a dragon to be slain upon a cliff at night.
This is the struggle of the gutters, slow and deep,
Where promises and paychecks are a bargain you must keep.
It’s the alarm clock’s verdict, a sentence you can’t pleacenterThe 9-to-5, the 9-to-7, the 24/7 plea.
It’s the bus that sighs and shudders, breathing metallic breath,
A chariot for the weary, on a road that smells of death
By a thousand paper cuts, by a million silent screams,
And the flickering of office lights on forgotten, tired dreams.
It’s the everyday people, with their everyday scars,
Pushing carts through supermarkets, polishing the bars,
Fixing someone else's engine, staring at a screen of code,
Carrying the unseeable, but ever-present load.
It’s the gutters of the spirit, where ambition goes to drain,
In the gentle, constant drizzle of the monotonous rain.
It’s the coffee cup that trembles in a hand that’s going numb,
The calculation of the days until the weekend will have come.
It’s the struggle in the shoulders, in the small of the back,
The fear that if you stop, you’ll never get the rhythm back.
But in the gutters, look again, a different kind of fire,
The stubborn will to build a life, is all the soul’s desire.
The courage in the lunch pail, the love packed neat inside,
The second wind you catch for kids who run to you, eyes wide.
This is the daily battle, fought with time and weary bones,
On the factory floors, the call centers, the telephones.
A war waged for the simple things, a roof, a meal, a song,
The struggle makes the everyday people mighty, proud, and strong.
Flowers, waiting to be sold,
Beckon, brilliant, bright and bold.
Such a colorful array,
Nature’s palette on display.
Veggies also strut their stuff;
One can never buy enough.
Fruits compete to draw the eye;
Hard to pass that freshness by.
Peasant bread and tangy cheese;
Scones and muffins, sure to please.
Home-made pretzels, farm-grown meat;
Supermarkets can’t compete.
Urban spaces seem to thrive
Whenever farmers’ trucks arrive.
We city folk appreciate
The bounty that their farms create.
It must take so much time to prep
And oh, the crates they have to schlep!
We love the peonies and phlox;
The Farmers’ Market really rocks!