Long Tabletop Poems
Long Tabletop Poems. Below are the most popular long Tabletop by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Tabletop poems by poem length and keyword.
One two three pea leap. Wow. A slip knot is neither a sleep nor a striped strap. But stealing from an arsenal area is not a wonderful idea is it really? Well come on....is it? Best keep quiet then and sip on a buttercup ball. Oh how quiet simplistic and simplistic is good and carved from a singular form of an art. So bake a tart carefully then. Wisdom in a whisk. Waiting in a wish. And standing tall under a huge blooming canopy of personified petals whose playfulness can portray peaceful pianoforte to a breeze. Even the coldest winds can be mellowed by such charms. Amulets linking arms then. Good. Portray not a salad as a stew and a fortress created from several million potatoes is a potent power indeed. But not when baked. With or without chilli beans. Jump then. Go on. Jump up and down and wave the arms and legs around. Causing cake to care for cream. And legs on a train are the legs of the seats whose tired frames seat many a fat curdled ceo on a wild journey to an office. How rather exciting then for the many cups and glasses placed in front of a portly frame. Tickle a taste. And taste a tissue. Yum then. Oh look.....the right window is showing a pond and the left window is showing a sea. Remarkable. Oh no a tunnel tube duck then. But no quack. It is merely the antics of a rug that can hug the copper blue. And the throwing of one pebble can release a wind machine on the hill. Paperclip is not a paperweight nor is it a planed plank. Ok then. Understood. Uniquely. A sham is not a slam nor a spam. And the delicate floaty fish in a chiffon outfit can scare a shark if dressed in white tunics. So always adhere to colours in an oceanic ballroom. Wow. Vibrancy in scales and fins. Swoosh then swirl. Very nicely timed waltz that was. And equally effective is the whirring of five hundred rotary blades who sing the calling cards to the wings of steel at dusk. Surrounded by over a million translucent clouds. Iridescent beauty. And a clap to hear. And all whilst the tomatoes form a pretty pattern on the tabletop yard. Hahahaha salad singing shape song. Hahaha floors arriving mind your head. Xxxxx synergistic syndrome symmetrically symbolised syntax xxxxx crustacean Z z z z Z.
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Form:
The memoirs of an ashtray should be written by the giggling pot pourri for pot pourri are neither properly printing nor are the proficient professional photographic petals. How exciting is the table today? Not very. For it is very difficult to discover a tabletop when all is thrown upon it like a raked lawn disturbed by a windy day. Tons of papers jostling for position fighting for space with the clothes and the pen takes up the most room but is asleep and snoring. And who would wish to wake a pen for on waking they can become quite irate so always move quietly if they are in slumber. The dog sees the mess on the table and leaves to play with his toy. The leaving of the dog displeased the table who enjoyed the dogs company and often chatted about wood for hours with the woof. The table groans and groans at the weight and the mess. But to no avail. Causing landslides around the house with its bellow and volcanic voice. The little plant pot in the centre popped through a t shirt and with its leaves pushed and swept all of the contents of the tabletop onto the recently swept floor. Ha it thought. I will now get some water today because I am exposed and no longer in a tomb of clothes. Good. The table was laughing at the resulting mess on the floor. The dog re entered the room and upon seeing the clothes and papers decided to chew then sleep. This was not good news for the returning zoo people. Sixty five elephants, a giraffe, a giant eel, a pride of lions, sixteen baboons, a leopard, one five metre penguin, eighteen tropical fish, a four thousand foot ostrich with a four mile beak, all entered the house. Saw the mess but went about their chores. Cooking and cleaning and bathing. Then seated at the table were the gorilla family who played games of cards till after midnight accompanied by the ambience of tunes from the other animals who were well versed in violin, guitars, bongos, trumpets, cellos, harpsichords and penny whistles. The table was quite content. Harmonic heavenly haven. And no bread crumbs to spit on him. Fantastic...........mesmerized Z Z Z Z. With a tall bearded cuckoo clock calling from a cloud. Z
Form:
COOKING WITH JIM
actually, with him in spirit, in the kitchen
of his quaint brownstone on West 12th Street
in Manhattan, decades after his death.
And quite at home with him, I chop and slice;
bake, twice-baked potatoes — their skins crisping
to perfection; roast, the prime tenderloin of beef
he’d earlier instructed me to hand-rub with
coarsely ground black pepper and kosher salt.
(I used sea salt and that was ok with him.)
Right now, he’s reminding me to stir my roux,
then I should add the crisp bacon bits, made earlier,
to the finely chopped spinach I just finished sautéing.
He says I should wait till the last minute
to toss the mélange of local field greens with
the lemongrette he had me make in lieu of
vinaigrette, because, it seems that vinegar
often spoils the taste of wine. As for the wines
with dinner: for the salad, I’m chilling
a 2011 Seyval Blanc from New York State;
with the beef dish, a 10-year-old California
Zinfandel; this followed by a 2010 Pinot Noir
from Oregon, paired with artisanal cheeses
from Vermont and Connecticut, plus
crisp sourdough rolls and flatbread;
and, in the frig, chilling, a late-harvest, Long Island
Riesling to complement the secret confection hidden
away on a silver tray till dessert-time.
According to Jim, red wine should be served at
room temperature, and since older reds have a layer
of sediment in the bottle, he said the Zin will need
to be decanted, and that, right before serving;
he wants the Pinot to breathe 15 minutes, or so,
in the glass before being drunk.
(The aeration of younger reds will rid those wines of
their chalky tasting tannins.) All this for my guests
who’ll soon be sitting round my dining table akin to
Jim’s 60 inch round green marble slab of a tabletop,
where, before the first bite of the Jim-inspired,
5-star meal, I’ll raise my glass to the big bald guy —
James Beard, “The Father of American Cuisine.”
Daiya vegan non dairy cheesecake - oh yum!
Hard knocks Methacton school alum
ofttimes finds ruing his fate
while squarely planted on me bum
disheveled and unshaven,
whereby gray stubble encrusted
with wayward synonymous days old crumb -
after wolfing delectable entitled treat
buttered fingers drubbing upon tabletop
analogous to playing a drum
oy vey, yours truly cannot believe
he ate the whole thing -
argh... my poor tum.
ALDI GIANT supermarkets
(within small radius of miles
from me Schwenksville, Penna abode)
sell delicious delectable treat
goading, inspiring, and spurring me
to craft poem essentially
patronizing manufacturer,
whose skilled food technicians
engineered absolute winning dessert
courtesy their natural born talent
schooled (most likely at culinary institute)
possibly supplemented insync
with advanced degrees
at other institutions of higher learning
after various and sundry
trials and error
concocting mouthwatering secret recipe.
Lemme use hypothetical situation
to accent chew ate,
how alluded dessert tastes great,
especially when rumble in tumbly
clamors for glorious goody
regarding appetite to satiate
unfortunately circumstances
force your truly to wait.
If (the following
constitutes far fetched scenario)
stranded on a desert island,
I after falling to Earth
when parachute fails to open,
weighed down by an excess of
Daiya vegan non dairy cheesecakes,
would finagle an empty pie tin
to signal an SOS.
If left to my own devices,
(where you dear reader
would discover one humbug),
I would be forced to scrounge around
rubbing two sticks together
to create warmth
plus distilling oils -
derived from edible herbaceous plants,
whence I would ejaculate
(not prematurely) - olé
to sauté said greens with wild mushrooms.
Scrubbing dishes in a cold kitchen,
on a tabletop rats nibble
through a leather bible cover.
She turns,
a lock of sweat matted hair over one eye,
shakes a red knuckle at a wailing child
sat on the floor by the door.
When Mary, in washed-out despair,
leaves, she leaves a bible, the rats
and a child there.
Mary drying his feet with her hair.
Mary at the temple calling for him.
Mary full of sperm on a street corner.
Mary full of a Grace,
a face that makes her invisible
to rabid dogs and drinking men.
I want to put all of Her together
old and young,
fat Mary on roller skates,
sweet Mary sucking candy,
badly handled and shady Mary,
to speak now for all the wet and dry virgins
slobber some words from a beaten heart,
for all the mother’s, all the worshiping foot washers;
a patchwork Mary, a working Mary.
Let us adore her from an upstairs room
where the cockroaches scuttle near
having no fear. if we don’t,
she might one day castrate us with a steely smile.
Today I walked for Mary,
the sky was a blue egg, robed with light.
I ate a chicken sandwich, lips slick with grease.
In the Chick-fil-A a family was praying over their fast food.
The joint was hopping
kids scooting in and out of seats.
A dozen Mary’s were trying to corral them,
get then to be nice like Christ.
Later I spoke to her at the foot of a crucifix,
told her all my s..t,
felt better, a kind of peace,
knowing she knew all the things I do in the dark
when she comes to me for forgiveness and rest.
I make the sign of the cross,
I make the sign of the cross.
I mean why not?
There are certain smells, sights,and tastes,
which will always remind me of Grandma.
The yellow of freshly molded butter;
thin, floral china tapping on a white porcelain tabletop;
the frail softness of my own thin skin,
veined now with the tracery of hard work,
Mother’s work, like her hands were.
Rows of gladiolas bright, so bright
in the warm August sun of Maine
lined up like the Crayola crayons;
she always had waiting for me.
The sweet, strong, scent of onions
sizzling in a black cast iron fry pan.
Red-blue, blue-black, venison
popping in her homemade butter.
All memory of the deer,
who gave its all for our meal, past.
The acridly sweet smell of propane gas,
from a kitchen stove,
mixing with the wood smoke and soot
from the living room heater.
Even pennies make me smile,
and remember Grandma.
As I sat on the scrap wool hand-braided rug,
at five, counting the coppers,
she had saved for me!
Books! The joy of a hard cover,
pictures laced with Jesus and Moses.
Tales of God and the little children;
but God was not my world, Grandma was.
The softness of her bosoms, as she held me.
The black mesh netting, that held her silvered-black hair.
How she held my small hand on wood walks.
Lady slippers, acorns, pug noses…
Dandelion yellow, fried dandelions,
hand dropped fat-fried doughnuts,
and the tang of Winesap apple,
Apple vinegar.
Grandmother never leaves me;
I hold her near my heart
To MY bosom, always, where she held me.
Another Easter spent
feasting on Jelly Bean Martinis,
sculpting butter lambs
with Nana’s mastiff Escort
snoring by tabletop fire.
Aunt Bea smoked lemongrass,
shading wooden eggs
with Dappled Willow shrubs.
A whimsical Slovakian cousin
suggested we whip each other with willow rods,
sprinkle ice-choked water on the women,
then blacked out on the buffalo grass
after sneaking three Peeptinis,
two Blushing Scots, a pitcher of
Nana’s Tea Party Two-Punch.
Aunt Harley arrived in a felt foxglove bonnet
laced with tender golden ribbons,
not for a moment distracting from
those swollen, swindled lips.
Papa Bear worked the washy den
in a plush paisley bowtie
decoding poached pagan relics
every fairy tale tradition
from Pancake Tuesdays
to Passion Plays,
straw doll Judas bonfires
to pitching pottery
off olive wood balconettes.
Cousin Kaylee supplied the wildwood rabbit salad,
hot-cross buns spangled with sunny raisins,
blossom bread drawn into dandelions.
Uncle Rio dispensed the Roasted Cacao bunnies
and flattened pennies from a Gator World pit stop,
raving on about the Timberwolves, the Raptors, the Jazz.
The triplets tore into jute-twined baskets
stuffed with chiffon peony barrettes,
Minnie Mouse compacts and combs,
microscopic, backstitched Bibles
beforehand highlighted, honed.
I wonder, sitting in the corner,
mulling over the child cleaning tabletop for the owner;
Owner of the shop where i am drinking tea,
And feeling sad about the boy's plea.
I rose from my seat-
Moving ahead with trembling feet.
Then offered him a piece of cake,
Which he took gloomily and mutely ate.
As if his eyes questioning me:
“Could this piece of cake,
Change my unfortunate fate?
Is this really the ending of my all work and toil?
Will I be able to play like other (children) on the same soil?”
I could feel his desire’s ocean,
I was moved by his seamless notions.
I wish I could write sweet memories on his life’s pages,
Wish I could free him from entanglements, the bondages.
How he desired of getting freedom from his master’s rule:
And how he must be longing to go to school!!
Desire that I could stop his sufferings, agony and pain,
Could lessen his grief, could save his life passing in vain.
Every child hath the privileges to live thou childhood the ingenuous way:-
But the innumerable innocent questions remain unanswered.
Undiscovered – the child’s mind so curious,
Alas! The vice of old brains created child labor:
The unjust thought itself makes me so furious.
Ode to the Cockatiel
You exasperate me.
The most maddening creature
To walk,
Waveringly across the tabletop
Drawn by an invisible wire
To my bowl
You stand
On the tips of your claws
Four scaly toes strain
You peer
Over the edge
And take a nibble
Of what’s inside.
Did you like it, little bird?
Your beak smiles
As you climb,
Perch
on the rim of my bowl
And with neat bites
Eat my breakfast.
And I wonder,
Why do I keep you around,
You have no manners.
Sometimes I admire
Your slender tail,
Body the color of a storm cloud
Head the color of the sun
With two orange embers burning in your cheeks
And the elegant,
Filmy
Swoop of crest.
I pick you up
Light enough to sit on my finger;
I no longer marvel at that,
Long ago becoming accustomed
To the marvel living in my home,
I take you and
I scratch your head
I feel the softness of your feathers
Between my fingers
I feel your skull
And realize you are much more fragile
Than you like to let on,
You sweet bird,
Resting your head on my thumb
Trusting me completely.
And then my thumb displeases you;
You must attack it.
Hissing and pretending to bite it
And I smile
At my
Utterly confounding
Cockatiel.
Pile drivers have replaced gandy dancers
And Mayflower trucks the circus, open-cage parades
Horse drawn down Main Street U.S.A.,
But overnight canvas bosses still command
Roust abouts to raise big top sails,
Over decks of prairie dogs and tumbleweeds.
There are gaudily painted juggernaut ride machines.
Smells of grease, heated white from oozing knuckle joints,
Calliopian music and rounds of happy screams.
A carney operator offers two a Scrambler car,
Teases riders with the tip of his bitten off cigar
A flick on your nose and ash that crashes to the circus grounds.
Jukebox music by Wurlitzer gets tinny with distance
On both sides of musty tented, kid show exhibitions
Mushrooming quiet translucent, sideshow shadow lands.
One sign says:
A WOMAN’S LIVING HEAD!
And inside there is a severed head up on a tabletop.
She answers questions easily, smiles and winks.
A kid shill says she’s doubled up
Inside a box affixed with mirrors.
Our cheeks redden more for her
Than the fact that we are led astray ourselves.
We leave to let more unenlightened in.
That day, I left forever past free throws
To win erstwhile girlfriends
By shooting hoops too narrow to be made. (4/4/21)