Long Supper Poems
Long Supper Poems. Below are the most popular long Supper by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Supper poems by poem length and keyword.
Her pink okra fingers play violoncello,
Rises from her harmonic throat songs so mellow;
Is she a swallow? A skylark? A Nightingale?
Or the Greek goddess Calliope's sweet-sounding tale...?
An amalgamation of Bach and Beethoven,
Splays open, in and through her, like a vast ocean;
Piano, cello, bass guitar, and percussion,
Her heart and hands try all with perfect precision...!
Venomous feelings of infantile memories,
Childhood and adulthood draperies of worries;
Mushroom-like or monsoon creatures-like resentments,
Repetitions of termite-eating sentiments...
Like palms or banyans or olives Beth Hart withstood,
Worries and cares, though, continued as wild Redwood;
Grim hurt, anger, embarrassment, and frustration,
Could all these, yet, crash her creative causation...?
Rocks and boulders and hard hills, and mountains she breaks,
Earthquakes and volcanoes of destructions she shakes;
"Screamin' for My Supper", "LA Song (Out of This Town)",
Midst best melodic arts, Beth has her laurel crown...!!!
08 May 2023
Beth Hart Inspiration Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Robert James Liguori
Rhymes Checked At: Rhymes Zone
Syllables Checked At: How Many Syllables
My identical twin and I grew up in two different houses.
Sure, we shared a room, but our experiences were almost opposite.
Things she remembers I doubt happened.
My memories are completely foreign to her.
We both remember Gomer Pyle, Singing along with Mitch,
But I remember the homemade donuts we had for supper on Sundays.
She has no recollection of it.
She remembers Clark Johnson hitting her in the stomach.
I do not think it happened.
When I try to place myself into another person’s shoes
I remind myself that even my twin and I do not share the
same childhood. We were in the same room developing
diverse ideas, memories, attitudes, and believe it or not, religions.
We have the same mannerisms, walk, and voice.
But to say “I know how you feel” would be ridiculous,
so I never do it. Because if there is one thing I know,
it is that I do not know.
In 1985, we had three daughters.
They were 5, 10, and 11.
So life was fun, of course.
Each daughter had a gerbil.
Flopsy, Crumbone and Taylor.
Don’t ask me which is which.
They are rodents.
I broke my leg on a Thursday.
In 5 places, trying to ride a bike to the day care
Center to pick up the 5-year- old because my
Husband had the car, and the police will come
Pick up the 5-year-olds who are left after 6.
This is California, where everything is weird.
My mom who had never flown on a plane,
Flew out wearing wings pinned to her bosom
on Saturday.
It’s a wonder I wasn’t already dead.
I was expecting that actually.
By evening she had fought the dogs
For their cooking pans full of water.
These dog-food pans were soon sterilized and
cooking spaghetti. And there was garlic
bread too, hot, piping, out of
an oven or something.
Home-made food!
My daughters were astounded.
They thought food came from
Styrofoam with restaurant
Names on it.
On Tuesday Mom was doing the 18,482
Pieces of laundry we had used the week
Before, and she said, “Caren, come over
Here.” I hobbled over on my crutches,
Which was not easy.
“I think a guinea pig is dead,” she whispered.
I poked it with a hoe. It did not move.
I poked it with a broom.
Nothing still.
We have to announce this
Delicately, my mother said in
Hushed tones of reverence.
We did not mention it during breakfast.
We did not mention it during lunch.
My mother kept looking at me expectantly.
By supper time after yelling for the three
Girls to come downstairs, and being ignored
I lost it and yelled, “A GUINEA PIG IS DEAD!”
Stomp. Stomp. Stomp. Stomp. Stomp. Stomp.
Wailing and keening began.
“That was subtle,” my mother told me.
Yes, it was.
Form:
Part 3
Long story short,
Let's cut to the chase.
To where the end of the day,
Marked the end of the race.
And as the sun set,
Who did they all see?
Cresting the hill,
It ... wasn't ... the ... bunny.
For, just plodding along,
As though heading somewhere,
It was Sheldon the tortoise,
They saw over there.
Well, such a commotion,
What a hullabaloo.
None of the animals
Knew quite what to do.
In the end, they were thrilled,
That Sheldon might win.
Thought of Rabbit losing,
Well, it made them all grin.
News of events,
Had drawn a huge crowd
And, as such, the noise,
They made was quite loud.
And I'm sure you've all 'heard',
About forests and sound,
And trees when they fall,
But when there's no one around
But, whenever this happens,
Since no - one's ever about,
On the matter of whether,... well
On that, the jury's still out.
But this time there was,
So the matter's twice moot
And of no interest to Rabbit,
Who, upon hearing Owl hoot,
Had woken from slumber,
his "only - one - hour snooze,
When he'd thought to himself,
"There's no way I could lose."
But the knot in his stomach,
Grew with gnawing concern,
Had he rested too long,
Avoiding sunburn.
And upon that note, that rabbit ran,
In fact he practically flew.
And how many records,
he broke is unclear
But it was definitely more than two.
But alas his best, was not enough
Poor Rabbit looked awful dour.
For Sheldon had just finished crossing the line,
(which, from head to tail,
took just under an hour).
When he'd broken the tape
They'd all gone ma-goo,
But, thirty minutes still crossing
Had grown more subdued.
And by the time crafty Sheldon,
Won that race and for good,
Half of the animals
Had started thinking of food.
And this brings us too,
The end of the tale
Where tortoise beat rabbit
In a race through the dales.
And though he had hoped
For an ongoing ovation
Their response fell far short
Of his expectations.
For half of the animals
Were planning their supper,
While the rest were avoiding
Being a meal for the other.
And so while rabbit, still fuming,
outran his fox nemesis.
Tortoise plodded home
And pondered his existence.
The End
Pike Place Market and Space Needle
race tracks out at Indy
stands Jefferson's Memorial
Nashville's Grand Ole Opry
Biking somewhere downtown Beijing (Bay-jing)
Great Wall nearby Xian (Z-on)
wow, thirty million in Chongquing (Chun-king)
pass Hong Kong on sampan (sam-pon)
St Petersburg a sweethearts tryst
ballet at Mariinsky (a theater hall)
an icon city of artist
like those by Kandinsky
Cars on freeways not stepping gas
fans run after The Rock
L.A. Lakers sign autographs
strolls in Hollywood Park
Chinese market in commotion
kids playing fingersticks
riverbanks in Tai Chi motion
reruns of Bruce Lee flicks
Stunning St. Basil's Cathedral
posing pics on Red Square
pass the Kremlin on a night stroll
goulash supper affair
Golden Gate, city by the Bay
Gateway Arch, St Louis
down Bourbon Street Mardi Gras Day
Graceland out by Memphis
Like that of Poe, in his real life,
to write was his haven
suffering the loss of his wife
two years since The Raven
Lamenting a loss is noted
though before it to be
guess a premonition floated
Poe writes of death, mostly
As you can read the no-frilled rhymes
a few strokes on the board
nothing compelling no-thrilled times
such things should be ignored.
Merely go out and drive somewhere
steer from them who forebode
Just be able to simply say
"Are we on the right road?"
While at homes here, or homes o'er there
Just living the homelife
Enjoying each other here--there
Live as one, free of strife.
I shut down and die each night.
I do not want to entertain anyone.
I do not want to hear my name.
I do not want to fix supper.
I shut down and die each night.
Spending my evening in my zippered zebra pajamas
And fluffy socks that do not have to match.
I pick up the remote and two I-pads and I sit in a stupor
Dead as the wall, the floor, the carpet, anything in the room.
I die the second I jump into my pajamas.
My phone goes off, and I am incognito, inaccessible, and dead.
My husband annoys me sometimes.
"Someone is calling you."
He used to answer my phone.
He has learned.
This is a dumb thing to do.
I will not be coaxed, coerced, or guilt-ed into anything I do
Not want to do.
I am dead, in my Lazy-Girl chair, clicking aimlessly through TV
shows I am not watching. I am dead to you, and me, and him
and everyone else. I die every night. It is how I can face the next day at work.
All are feeling anxious on the old camp ground this night.
Weary Yanks are girding for tomorrow's awful fight.
Young soldiers loll about, staring blankly into slowly dying embers,
Dreaming of home, recalling happier times that each remembers.
Supper is finished, the usual rancid coffee, hardtack and beans.
The sentries call out, "All Is Well!", one of their hourly routines.
Sergeants huddle with comrades, offering solace to their platoon.
From across the way is heard a harmonica's melancholy tune.
From afar, Rebel cannon is heard, a portent of things to come.
Men in gray are readied for battle to the beat of muffled drum.
The ebon sky is aglow with the cannons' awesome display,
Competing with the moon, overshadowing its mellow ray.
Here and there a Bible is opened to the Twenty-third Psalm,
To once again be comforted by that eternal message of calm.
Pensive eyes that on the 'morrow may be forever sealed,
Gaze upward, imploring God's embrace as their guardian shield.
Hastily penned notes read, "If I should be borne to heaven above,
Know that we will be reunited in The Father's gracious love!"
Gallant men draw upon their innate will, apprehensions to allay.
The dulcet strains of "Taps" lowers the curtain on another day.
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
The split level blinks
at Chestnut End under
twilight's tremble, ripping me,
the oily menhaden bait,
from the under boot
The Chestnut dwellers bold
interrogative flushes him down
then plunges-up the flotsam
village scrawler
the way you talk
to a blooming night blooming
to a blow-fish blown unsuspecting
of the scuttle, skating the wake away
The insomniacs billow from
their raged ranches, wisely,
and after supper, tumbling
the trickster tumbledowning
the scrawler, the baitster
dip-fished in his own inkwell.
Ripped and chipped
in my underbrush
I hunker down loading
the mossy mossbunkers
inside my spitball.
Kicking, winding up
tumbling down madly aiming
for the ramshackle fence,
escaping once again
in my handsome
lederhosen.
I remember when it rained
During my childhood days
That the rain would
While we were sleeping
rain through the porous roofs
Of our twin mud huts
I remember when it rained
When I was still a young boy
That the water would
While my grandmother
Was trying to prepare supper
flood the fire place
and put the fire off
And we would go to sleep hungry
I remember when it rained
Back in the days
That all our food,
All our clothes
Would be subjected
To coffee colored stains
Of water dripping through
The porous roofs
Of our twin mud huts
I remember when it rained
During my childhood days
That we could not sleep
We could not have food
to fill our hunger
We could not have
Dry clothes to put on
And I did not like the rain
Once upon a magical evening an enchanted fairy I happened to see
dressed in a fantastical dress with two dappled wings of lace,
she shone like the midnight sun;
I must confess, she looked rather whimsical
sitting there by a green wooden door, waiting for your lore !
A vibrant purple aura surrounded the magical scene
to me it seemed that I was seeing a fairy queen
I went over and asked her
if I may sit by her side
but she led me through the wooden door painted green.
We were in the trunk of a very large oak tree
where fairies and elves lived together happily
they seemed eager to learn
of my life’s chronicle
so I told them of all the things from my memory.
They all said they had truly enjoyed the reminiscing
and offered me supper with all its trimmings
lots of goodies to eat
a magnificent spread
I ate so much my poor tummy was brimming.
Then they put on some music and we had a dance
the ambience was perfect for a romance
if it’s a purple dream
it’s the best dream I’ve dreamed
‘twas a night to remember, by happenchance.