Long Supped Poems
Long Supped Poems. Below are the most popular long Supped by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Supped poems by poem length and keyword.
gotta be evasive of worldy things
gotta keep it straight
broken arrows
won't fly anyway
tryna watch my mouth
be careful of what
I say
tender feelings bruised hearts
and love
never mixed anyway
check my regimene
nd keep my back straight
lack of proper posture
won't let it the way
I aint supped
better get sumthing
clear minded and
a fresh start
is the best catalyst for change
get my saddle ready
be back after while
grab my gladbag
I might something to snack on
still warm out
Baby I see ya later
be back in a while
i'll be back in a while
check my feelings at the door
My Baby don't want me any more
Looked me in the eye and said
she never did
said the weddings off
And I can go
said everything was just a show
get it right
she called me ah buster
said she refrained
as much as she could muster
told me I can find ah' nutha
get my coat
saddle my horse
clear my throat
change my voice
deep inside
what I want to say
but won't matter any way
—The Earlier Allegiance—
Before foreknowledge supped beside my bread,
Aurora sought no covenant from mine;
The root received the dew where it was led,
The flame fulfilled an elder countersign.
No field appealed against the year's decree;
Spring kept the oath because it used to be.
Then apprehension learnt my proper name.
I housed misfortune ere it sought the door;
The kettle cooled awaiting absent flame,
The rain delayed above the threshing floor.
What bore no substance governed every mile;
The road forgot the discipline of arrival.
The letter wandered counties of its own.
The train stood listening somewhere past the hill.
The orchard held its sweetness half unknown,
As though abundance waited upon will.
I loosed one fear I had mistaken for my own;
The evening shortened every road to home.
One vesper, without sacrament or sign,
I laid two cups upon the oaken board—
One mine; one hers withdrawn from mortal time.
The vapour bent where absence was ignored.
The chamber never questioned whom it knew;
Its welcome recognised no former view.
Thereafter memory ceased to speak in loss.
The fire made no distinction in its light;
The ash retained an undiscovered gloss;
The dawn restored what evening left from sight.
Creation seemed incapable of proving
Which warmth was memory, which warmth was loving.
An old wife scattered crumbs beyond the hedge.
No witness praised the courtesy she gave.
The laden bough descended to her reach,
As though the fruit remembered whom to save.
Tomorrow altered nothing by command;
It merely sought the undisarming hand.
Then came the knowledge language could not house.
The gate remembered long before the hand.
The river changed beneath its secret boughs
Before the valley understood the land.
The seed became its April in the clod
Before the sun interpreted its God.
Since then I neither litigate nor plead.
The rose petitions no ensuing spring;
It keeps inviolate its fragrant creed,
And leaves the wind to finish witnessing.
Thus every circumstance, however far,
Arrives where love has always been before.
...or It's good to be the king!
What was't made King Cole
Such a merry old soul
As he sucked on his pipe,
And he supped from his bowl,
And he fiddled around
With three young court musicians?
And what was the role
Of his missus, Queen Cole?
Was she under a table
With a lad from the stable
Who was told he'd be able
To upgrade his position?
These royal highnesses
Were not known for their shynesses,
But more for their quaint peculiarities.
The queen drank from a chalice
That was shaped like a phallus,
While he labored away
Doing king things all day
In a black lace brassière
And a pink negligée.
But their subjects adored
Such eccentric vulgarities.
Now, getting back to the king,
That sweet silly old thing,
Here's how his story played out.
He had good years aplenty,
Then at three score and twenty,
He finally retired
And expired of the gout.
My eyes were sorely struck when once they perceived
verity in your insightful words. Oh, how they grieved
when you chose to kneel low enough to kiss the ring
of a cunning being, whose unmerited praises you sing
My ignorance would have been a cliched state of bliss
if I'd not stumbled into great depth of a poetic abyss
'Twas with bitter regret that I unveiled your charade
No longer do I doubt the crux of a contrived crusade
With prudence and humble nature, you oft' disclosed
but a false facade was revealed and hubris exposed
As a poet you declared compassion and a meek heart
but sold your feeble soul for the nod of a counterpart
Poet, I hungrily supped at the banquet of your lines
but a person's integrity is one that genuinely defines
human value. From reading you, I refrain and eschew
Aware of your pretexts, I know what motivates you
*You may think I only post something on PS when I have a gripe, and I have when I've felt it was warranted. It's your right to believe what you will. My recent posts prove otherwise, but after very recently reading something that touched my heart in a sadly profound way, I chose to write about it instead of trying to forget that I saw the words. Writing has always been a means of comfort, solace and closure. This write serves as a dissolution for me.
Adjusting Appetizing Palates.
I have sampled the variety,
I am the one who has tasted life;
The one who has had a taste of life.
Rarely indulged in the main course-
Seldom a full meal-
I come hungry-
To leave satisfied...
I want more substance.
Sampled the world on wooden toothpicks.
I have had itty bits of everything.
Piecemeal offerings to try entice my loyalty.
Old ladies with new recipes passing
them around on trays in supermarkets of the world.
I come back for more free samples.
The more I have traveled the more
I have sampled life.
Moi-Moi- and peanut butter stew.
I have tasted life with different seasonings and spices -
Tried a variety of cultural dishes - Some bland, some spicy
Tried the soul food of each one's pride as
I swallowed mine.
I have never gained control of my soul.
It wandered with me sampling life on platters.
Now desirous of healing-fish soup.
I wanted more – Traveled;
Partook of more –
Tasting life's offerings from the - rich to the poor.
Drank out of Chrystal as well as tin cups.
I have eaten from Chinaware,
and drank from gourds,
I have supped on
Hors-d'oeuvre and canapes';
Inner-voices led me to hot rocks and tepees—
Sweat camps with medicinal potions.
Tasting life in places where strange
medicine men reside.
I have eaten rice in 2000 languages.
In Asian and Indian tongues.
I swapped collard greens for callaloo;
Then stepped up to taste breadfruit -
Filled up on Ackee and Saltfish a
Exotic palatable dish.
Though never full off of life –
Not gluttony statutes yet, I have done
more than get my “whistle wet"
Still, I am glad:
“Oh, how grateful to be alive”.
Able to sample the tender morsels
of appetizers so fine.
Even though I am a
Connoisseur of fine wine.
…and have enjoyed plenty
tidbits of earth’s great bounty--
In this life.
I have supped in the finest cuisines.
Treated royally as if I were a queen.
I have supped in mansions,
or sat, an ate under exotic trees;
Yet, there is nothing so satisfying-and no one abler.
As to be back in the hood, trying not to go berserk;
Waiting for a slice of Sweet Potato pie for dessert.
After getting my grub on, at Grandmas table.
It grew limbs in another clay house,
eyes shut it supped at that table.
On a day or night it awoke to great confusion.
The little clay house waved its arms
and yelled.
It did not know it was a clay house,
It did not know what dwelt within it.
Before it moved into the clay house
it chose to forget.
Other’s told it who it was.
For a long time
it believed it was only clay
with a clay name, a clay identity.
Life flips through its book of years,
only a few times seem indelible
most sink into a fog of forgetting.
Yet you co-create more houses of clay,
you bring forth new houses.
Today you look out of your windows.
You notice, you know
that what you see is inside out.
The clay of your house
is illumined by the one thing
the world of perception cannot create.
It has a real interiority, a real owner.
You turn to see that being in your house,
now you go blind again,
now there is nothing to see.
Are you being haunted?
You ask: Who lives here?
The clay is mute
yet the being speaks
from every room, nook, and cranny -
it speaks.
It has the voice that you forgot you once had,
a voice you share with a greater being.
You remember at last that clay
is part of the many illusions
that the world belongs to.
Now you renovate, clean and sweep,
make ready to step out of the guise
of your house.
Are we less superior to ourselves than realization?
Our temporary shell, our salt, our generation.
Our streamers flutter like snow in Antarctica.
longing and valid expansion, made of mica.
Striving to liberate us, it rips apart its body.
Once again, envisaging us embody.
Systole, diastole, adventure indiscriminately.
The wide open oozes a scent of love imminently.
Shimmering between each of the drumbeats.
Summer, you are the windlessness of such feats.
We ate, kissed, cuddled, and then supped food.
A day's total is a unit of measure for what you lewd.
Need and desire exist in an interdependent reality.
We bury our bodies as a sign of our mortality.
The fate of our remains while wearing the shell
The land utters us the title of a spare body smell.
Synapses are memories, and we are waiting.
In order to cross its boundary, there is no gating.
Written: August 09, 2022
They came in by hyper drive
Just a quick trip from the stars,
Parked their ship in orbit
Just slightly north of Mars,
Switched on the intruder shield
Around the hatched front door
Then set off for Blackpool
Kiss me quick hats to the fore,
Took a trip around the lights
Complete with stick of rock
Supped six pints of bitter
And by eight o’clock,
Having done the tower
Toured the sights
Decided to call it
A very decent night.
Vacation over,
Splendid day
Time to be back
On their way.
Transporter drive
Took them back to Mars
Then the hyper drive
Took them to the stars.
Meanwhile
Back on a rainy Blackpool street
Waited the four birds
They’d promised faithfully to meet.
Enea Gets the Red Hat
Finally, he's getting somewhere.
Fifty years of age and almost crippled,
prematurely aged, but at last,
sweet recognition rains down
on the poet. Kneeling before Calixtus,
he accepts the Cardinal's hat.
Fancy that.
With every triumph, we're swept nearer Hell.
Each anthem that we sing's a kind of knell.
No matter what we get, or grab, or gain,
we're human, and our lot is death and pain.
Both Frederick and Ladislas
had to do a lot of lobbying
(Calixtus was a Borgia, after all:
and family is family.) Por fin,
esta elevado. Behold the scene.
Frederick with his back to us
and Ladislas holding on to him
(shouldn't that be the other way round?)
deserve their pride of place.
The seething swell of humans
swirls around the little altar,
but can't budge it.
The clear-cut marble doesn't give.
What is the painter telling us?
Men move, and flow, and live, and go,
but soon or later, their
energy is spent?
The Church is permanent?
Regard the four main players,
the upper crust of Mankind's many layers,
yet each one a loser clone.
Calixtus took the throne
already old, and singing one stale tune
(and that, corrupt!)
He didn't use a long spoon
when he supped.
There's Frederick, the Emperor,
a joke. Bullied by his minions,
unhappy, hapless, broke.
And Ladislas, a king without a kingdom,
a cock without a crest,
he's Frederick's long-term guest
(another kind of jest).
A prisoner -- or let's say, at home,
he and Frederick make a palindrome:
august additions to this Pleasure Dome.
Enea: worn out, homesick, ill.
Surviving now on sheer will.
Is that Nature's tonsure, or Man's?
He's kept alive by feverish plans
to mount a Great Crusade --
but we all know it won't be made.
Two rigid windows and an altarpiece.
The Trinity? (The painting is the Holy Ghost.)
Or are those plain, framed panes
the Empire and the Papacy?
You think we're reading too much in?
We point you to one subtle artist's touch.
The youth, right-centre, in the azure cloak,
who's smirking at some "only-I-know" joke:
head cocked, as if he's watching all, askance:
he finds the dainty, double-dealing dance
amusing. Isn't he Rafael?
Hatted like some crimson Cardinal,
he's watching how they rise up, how they fall.
He's waiting, calmly, to inherit all.
The house is boiled cabbage
goose fat, gizzard stew, and beets.
Windows steam and simmer,
you can write your name on the glass
winter or summer.
If you can live among rutabaga
or borscht; if pickled eggs haunt your palate
then this house becomes air in your lungs.
The landlady was Polish or Russian;
she spoke with a burly churlish tongue,
she moved like a Turk, her walking cane
was a scimitar. She supped a tarry tea
from a Serbian samovar.
We shared a toilet with a slim man
who was slinky and still in the closet,
he would saucily wink over strong drink.
His lips were rosy not pink. He washed
argyle socks in the kitchen sink.
There were others, they left early
riding pushbikes into the grey streets.
The lady groused, patrolled perimeters,
barged prying hands into private matters.
Hairclips and rubber bands fell from her curlers
as forewarnings and threats.
The Bulgarian or Croatian crone
had broad bad hips and liked me not
for back then
I used a substance to ease my mind.
I would smoke in the shared toilet
leaning my thin mouth through
a small slanty window,
she absolutely knew, and threw
passing daggers
with tightly curled Estonian lips.
We stayed like that for months
until the city regurgitated our lives
once more.
Once more seeking low rent rooms,
from those cosmopolitan guardians
of small city spaces.