Long Suppertime Poems
Long Suppertime Poems. Below are the most popular long Suppertime by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Suppertime poems by poem length and keyword.
I loved my childhood summers
In the mountains, where we stayed
In a small, one-bedroom bungalow
Where memories were made.
We didn’t mind the lack of space;
Outside were fields of grass
With lots of friends to hang with -
Oh, how quickly time did pass!
In day camp we had arts and crafts;
We swam and ran around
And played on teams in every sport
Where balls or nets were found.
Specifics now have vanished
From the cells inside my brain,
But the happy feelings overall
Still powerfully remain.
We had such freedom then as kids;
Our days belonged to us.
So when our moms yelled, “Suppertime!”
We bounded home, no fuss.
The youth today, on hearing this,
Would not know what I mean,
For summers now are supervised
Or spent before a screen.
The wind billows out from the seat of his britches
With determined blue eyes, skinned knuckles and knees
he climbs up the rails nailed from old cedar pieces
to the uppermost yoke of an old pecan tree
He is Captain on board, in pretend salty breezes
From his perch in the bird's nest, the world's in his view
A small town boy, who has never seen oceans
sails a fantasy vessel, where his wishes come true
The tall cornstalks stand duty, in the weedy-field waters
He breaks off a branch and a sword fight ensues..
He says "Tally Ho...Land Ahoy!!" to his crew
Dogs are barking below. He must shout out a warning
"There are sharks all around, so his shipmates must heed!"
He is Master Commander, the ruler of nations
He dreams of adventure from his loft in the tree
As he watches the clouds sail across a blue sea
Till his mother calls him in, for his suppertime leave
~
Well, little boys grow, and a childhood will fade
The leaf of the pecan, no longer holds shade
Now a stump of the tree, is all that is left
Yet the memory still thrives, so deep in his breast
When the weight of the world comes tumbling down
He visits this place with the stump in the ground
The rings wrap around him, to take him aboard
To a ship from his childhood, a place he adored
Tonight he will sleep in a bed of contentment
From his bunk he will dream he is sailing the seas
Tomorrow he'll climb up the steps to his vessel
Tomorrow he'll be where the eagles fly free....
...........................................................................................................
Check into the Hotel Pantomime
Hospitality cloaked; words a crime
Dressed with gestures, emotions to prime
Tap your bellhop, then gleefully toss him a dime
Forthwith, the receptionist summon with a curt bell chime
After checking in, dance through the lobby in double-time
Flag down the elevator operator with a nod sublime
Furrowed brow, nervously fidgeting each floor climb
Then spring from the elevator and down the hall serpentine
Reaching the room, cautiously open the door catching a stime
Brashly throw back the curtains it's noontime
Cheerfully grab a cup, stove kettle is whistling teatime
Quietly trapse through the corridors saluting guests inbetween time
At nine, chortle to restaurant, signal hostess to check your suppertime
Finished, hustle to your room; meticulously undress for bedtime
Not the Woman I thought You Were
(both Sides)
You shouldn't really Love me This much
Oh to be with you
Sizzling Summer
Your Slutty Friends
Big Meaty and Suppertime
)*****instrumental******(
Twinkle Dink featuring Gypsy Grin and Shoey Sunshine
Verdti Morre' De Canzone (Malo-Femalo answer)
featuring the Swedish Orchestra of Love
Sounds by Bassy Griffkaulsumm
Reprizzo De Cantrix(Ode to Love)
Modern Day Lover and Trif Gamey remix
the Spectacle/Finale
Dingo Groove Orchestra
Dendritic and Yonidisk
vocal show
"Iktsuarpok"
aria, a solo song;
recitative,
speech-like singing;
ensemble,
multiple singers;
libretto, the text;
and various vocal
ranges (soprano,
alto, tenor, bass).
the riff is a thang of prettiness
sounds made to resemble voices.
We groove ya'll move
:see sum call
that dancing
Ooh Wee
ooh-Wee
Ya'll call that dancing!
From the Book Sounds of Music
The Phattosgophy Edition
Music by Suitor Sam
and Jamin on the Onez
My mother was an excellent cook, not fancy but home cooking,
Our kitchen was always full of delicious and mouth watering smells;
We kids had our favourites, of course, and it was spaghetti and meatballs,
The succulent aromas drifted and floated throughout the house.
Even to this day when I eat this dish I feel the love of my family,
It was not just the handmade pasta or the thick sweet sauce;
Or the delectable meatballs with parmesan cheese all over the top,
And how we mopped up the bowl with a piece of Italian bread.
It was the whole scene, now memory, the vision of togetherness,
Such a simple dish of pasta and sauce is still a bowl of comfort;
Always a family night favourite, so robust and sweet, and flavourful,
And around the table we talked of life and things that mattered.
I found my mother's recipe diary in her belongings after her death,
It is full of meals of my childhood and a lot involved pasta;
Alphabet soup, macaroni and cheese, ravioli, lasagna and fettuccini,
Recipes for long and short shapes, tubes, twisted and flat pasta.
Now that diary is my treasure, it takes me back to the kitchen,
Where mother and father taught me about morals and ethics;
While I helped with the pasta and holding hands at suppertime,
We thanked the Lord for the food before us and for our family.
But today, I still love pasta and I follow mother's recipe almost,
Except for ethical reasons I make mine vegetarian, still good;
The pasta with a sauce of tomatoes, basil, oregano and garlic,
So yummy and scrumptious, it gives me that feel-good feeling.
_______________________
September 9, 2015
Didactic Verse
For the contest, Didactic Food, sponsor, Tammy Reams
First Place
Times Up Folks! Its 3:15!
What's half the span
from 40 to 15,
added to 3 O'clock time?
Its 3:13, 3:13!
OK, but what's half the span
From 40 to 2,
when IC is back from the Gong?
Its 3:19, 3:19!
So, what's the mean
of 3:13 and 3:19,
in clock time?
Ah Ha! That's a Question
It's 3:15 - It's 3:15!
I asked sailor Mike
Why he's so Mean
when you take his wind away!
He thinks and says:
'Cause we're sailing, sailing,
past my suppertime
past my suppertime
I want to head back in!
Time's up, I'm going in.
OK, but what's the mean time
For all our P races this season?
You guessed it, folks!
It's 3:15 - It's 3:15!
I asked Jake the Peg
"Do we need and extra leg"
diddle-iddle-iddle-um
diddle-dee-diddle-dee-dum
Nah! he said:
Two Tri's and two Snags
with a work back home,
is just fine and dandy!
You can't beat perfection
by over doing it.
Times Up! It's 3:15
It's 3:15 - It's 3:15!
I see a footbridge high above a gorge.
One bannister is gone; the other lies
on narrow rotting boards. Rough waters surge
beneath this passageway that creaks and sighs
in answer to footfalls of children who,
while clinging to each other, move ahead
with wary steps toward home and suppertime
and hope they'll soon be safely tucked in bed.
These innocents are not alone. Unknown
to them, an angel stands close by to keep
them safe from peril that could plunge them to
the depths. Tonight no one will grieve and weep.
"Guardian Angel and Children Crossing Bridge" by Lindberg Schutzengel
September 14, 2017, entered in Debbie Guzzi's Fear II Contest
placed 2nd
January 5, 2021
entered in Brian Strand's Podium Placing Promise Poetry Contest (5)
Placed 2nd
Mom got up early and is in the kitchen
Preparing the breakfast for everyone
Dad's still in the bathroom and is shaving
And the beat of life goes on
The kids are busy getting set for school
One is still trying to get homework done
The others are taking things really cool
And the beat of life goes on
Now all sit around the breakfast table
To fuel themselves for the day's action
Each consumes what he or she is able
And the beat of life goes on
Dad leaves the home for his workplace early
Mom patiently checks the kids one by one
To ensure that for school each is ready
And the beat of life goes on
Dad is at work earning his salary
Kids are at school getting education
Mom is at home with some chores she's busy
And the beat of life goes on
It's suppertime now for the family
And it's filled with lively conversation
Each one partakes of the meal heartily
And the beat of life goes on
After supper, mom tidies the kitchen
Then joins the rest watching television
Later, for next day each starts preparing
And the beat of life goes on
The kids get busy with their assignment
Mom and Dad continue to linger on
They chat a bit about now the day went
And the beat of life goes on
Then finally they all head off to bed
For much needed sleep and relaxation
To refresh each for the new day ahead
And the beat of life goes on
-------------------------------
Mom got up early and is in the kitchen
Preparing the breakfast for everyone
Dad's still in the bathroom and is shaving
And the beat of life goes on
Whole milk was good than it became two percent
than skim milk next, forget it being fat I was meant
Milk at breakfast and always for school lunch
milk at suppertime and at a restaurants brunch
Milk with cereal the easy breakfast meal
Chocolate milkshakes were such a big deal
First in cartons than a gallon plastic jug
Milk was one thing you never had enough of
Drink so much milk in my childhood youth
but now is an old adult milk is poo poof
Lactose intolerant or just tired of milk
vitamin D take a supplement for health
Don't eat cereal and milk seems quick to sour
for some reason milk lost its mystic power
Milk upsets my stomach and makes me go
got to take tablets and drink Pepto Bismol
Don't use milk much unless for a recipe
drinking milk now just doesn't appeal to me
Still like cheese and great ice cream
yogurt seems healthy real butter keen
So I guess I enjoy milk just in other forms
maybe milk is really for babies and newborns.
The African night goes robust with
silence and attentiveness.
Darkness, grave, deep and merciless,
hisses remorselessly but soundlessly.
The moon is on a visit to her grandmother
Fireflies on bulrushes give blinking light, like exhausted
Twinkling stars expelled from heaven.
Post-suppertime, belching stomachs recline on
Whims of a slow-travelling night with faithful
Silhouettes walking ahead of stalking shadows.
Orchestral insects keep the night company
Folktales steal into this power of darkness —
A breathing nocturnal art with the pulse of
Communal growth . . .
The town crier is abroad
He needs no other identity but his voice,
A foghorn in the entrenched darkness.
Next is his wooden gong,
An instrument of life.
His voice rides smoothly through the night —
At times with punch, some other times
With the sound of glory . . .
And when there’s gloom,
With the sonorous flow of woe.