Long Tartness Poems
Long Tartness Poems. Below are the most popular long Tartness by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Tartness poems by poem length and keyword.
It has death in the title but I can't think of it
It has the glow of the moon but I can't see it
It has the rustle of the leaves but I can't hear it
It has the fragrence of roses but I can't smell it
It has the tartness of green apples but I can't taste it
It has the coldness of ice but I can't touch it
It has life in the name and I can't remember it
It has the shine of the sun and it's blinding me
It has the roaring of the wind, and it's deafening me
It has the scent of rain on the horizon, and it's drowning me
It has the taste of sugar and it's sickening me
It has the heat of fire and it's burning me
It stares me in the face as it runs away
It is burned into my memory as it fades from view
It screams at me as silence overtakes me
It flies through the air as it disapates
It burns and flows as it evaporates
It isn't physical as it leaves me numb
It exists
I see it
I hear it
I smell it
I taste it
I feel it
And I wish it would be reliable
And I wish I could watch it
And I wish I could listen to it
And I wish I could breath it
And I wish I could consume it
And I wish I could sense it
But when I try
It is invisible
It is mute
It is gone
It is tasteless
It is fragile
It is gone and I want it back
It is shadowed and I want it illuminated
It is silent and I want it declared
It is faded and I want it surrounding
It is bland and I want it flavorful
It is aversive and I want to hold it
It is known
But I don't truly know it now
It is...
Entertained by flickers on a screen, cosseted between giants. Suited with slicked-back raven hair, snow-white starched shirt, an innocent tie.
Mother smiles at his sky-blue eyes. Father pats his shoulder, “Good show!”
The nightingale, high in spirits. The tanager beyond the street light.
Chill of the night air, the bravado of a moon flower…
A sudden violent shaking, tremors as he morphs into an orphan, and forever remembers the words shooting at him, whispered in the dark.
borne in shadows
huge fortune, fortuneless child —
criminals will pay
cave of bats sets his destiny
clings to fair tights and blond hair
Like all grown up boys, Bruce Wayne and his secret identity are drawn to the sweetness and tartness of plums. The one meows, enticing him with skin tight glances. But his mother’s eyes are in the courageous and innocent shade of sunshiny hair — he must rescue her; marry her? He has to release her to the day, for he must continually ferret out those who live under the lamplight.
6/22/2019
It is apple pickin' time in Georgia
Come get them while they're crisp and not quite ripe
Bite into apple's delicious tartness
From the tree's garden of Eden a few swipe
Down where the apple blossoms in springtime
Many hearts flourish fulfilling life's fate
And red grapes produce a fine wine sometimes
The apple-grape wine gets sweet with a wait
Come gather in the harvest~apples golden
Clip some stems of the grape chosen
Mix the two in baskets enjoy their delight
Harvest two fruits with their sweet juice swollen
It is apple pickin' time in Georgia
Come get them while they're crisp and not quite ripe
Bite into apple's delicious tartness
From the tree's garden of Eden a few swipe
This short poem like fine apple-grape wine
Will become better if allowed to age
Then drink a swig while on roast chicken dine
If I did this one right, well just you gauge
Sponsor: Isaiah Zerbst
Contest: Apple Pickin' Time
Written: October 18, 2013
THEY RECONFIGURED THE FORMULA
BY MAKING IT MORE FOR A TARGETED AUDEINCE.
TARTNESS AND SWEETNESS GO HAND AND HAND.
SOME PEOLE LIKE THEIR SWEETS THAT WAY.
1/2 CUP OF STRAWBERRY LIQUER
1 AND ONE HALF CUPS OF SUGAR
/3 CUP OF PUREED STARWBERRIES
1/2 RASBERRIES PUREED
1/2 INCH OF GINGEROOT PUREED
1 ROAST BEET PUREED
MIX TOGETHER WITH 2 AND A HALF CUP OF
CREAMCHEESE.
1/2 CUP OF PLAIN YOGURT
CUT A POUNDCAKE INTO LENGTH SIZED SLICES (LONGWAY)
MAKING ABOUT SIX SLICES.
USING A ROLLING PIN FLATTEN
PAINT WITH BUTTER ON BOTH SIDES
IN A OVEN TOAST BOTHSIDE OF THE CAKE
RMOVE FROM THE OVEN AND ALLOW TO COOL
SPREAD ON ONESIDE OF EACH PEICE OF CAKE
STACK AND
DUST WITH CONFECTIONARY SUGAR.
SERVE WITH BLACK AND STRAWBERRIES AND WHIPPED CREAM.
WRITE TO ME
Write to me...
If thoughts of me still linger, write.
We have drifted far apart
along the line of our shared days.
Write to me
of the umbrella we once held beneath the rain,
of the damp fragrance of the storm,
of our feet soaked by the wandering streets.
Tell me—
do your eyes still gather shy silences
behind every glance?
And that apple tree—
the one we planted together
in the little garden...
do you remember?
Do you remember
the very first bite you took
from its fruit,
and the joy that filled your face?
Go back to that garden.
Taste the tartness of the apple
for the sorrow I left behind.
Ask my tree how I have been,
and whatever it tells you—
write it to me.
Our distance is only a dream.
Whenever you write,
I find myself
a little closer
to your tears.
And tell me—
do your tears still travel
through the sleep of a child?
Or, when you remember me,
do your hands become an umbrella
above that child,
so that my memory
will not drift away from his dream?
Write to me.
Write of the child not yet grown,
and of the maturity of your longing.
Far away, there was a mountain.
Turn back and look at it.
Is its gaze still cold?
I remember one day
you laughed into the depth of its silence.
Tell me—
why, after that laughter,
did you tremble in the embrace of my imagination?
And night came,
and I fell asleep.
I dreamed of a window
opening onto a pond,
filled with my loneliness.
I looked,
and there you were
standing in the middle of the water,
sorrowful.
The moonlight laid you bare.
Above the apple tree,
it remained beside you,
and then, a moment later,
it lost itself
in the depth of the mountain’s gaze.
I remember the pond.
I remember how you moved away.
Write to me.
Tell me—
why were you afraid that night?
Was it the window
I opened toward you?
Or the moonlight
that disappeared behind the mountain?
Tell me truly:
were you afraid that night?
And truly—
did you sleep that night?
Write to me.
The task begins with awareness, and freedom without it is harmful. So let us not look back in fury or forward in panic, but rather around in awareness. By Poet
Let me tell you a story.
Can you Imagine a harsh quiet? Jeers sneer idleness,
or scoff to classify the ultimate sinful act of sadness;
or quashing irk for an eternal colossus of havoc,
perhaps the planet was spaed and will be ruined here.
Cynical scorn asphyxiates, cauterizing all life on Earth;
who can imagine how vile days linger eerie memories?
how often tongues are swelled with astringent tartness?
those with acidic sadness tease with a biting reply.
Soul was sunk on all live paws to quell a herd of verrucae,
could you kindly scan feeble shapes on a pealing day?
how would you handle a splenic tongue with an awful zest?
or apply on a scorching sting a horrible sneering welt.
Mortal musings slay my sight while roaming ruins,
I feel the pain, frocking seconds ripen fruitful minutes;
none to stop him, acidulous hours burn a swollen body,
did you honor your vow not to view your tears in public?
Or, to win, they select the nuclear light to avow the day,
scavengers swarming forbidden self-destruction zones;
where the war had started, it was awarded might;
whenever beguiling eyes and spite the sight,
I hate lethal viruses as much as a police car passing by;
I hate falling asleep at night as well as not falling asleep,
I hate the doorbell at night and massive storms,
I hate going broke or having too much money.
I fear being late and fear being the first to come;
I fear that all I yearn for might jeopardize others I love;
I fear death or a miserable existence for a long time,
I fear not adoring enough and being confused.
Slow slurps, wearing vengeful speeches bleary;
on stage atomic bombs were used to turn the sky purple;
Insouciance fosters the dreadful pulverization,
I should have dropped my Kyiv pass.
wabbling world......
2ND PLACE CONTEST WINNER
Written: April 17, 2022
Theme: War
Form N - Narrative - New Poems Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Constance La France
Summertime, a wonderful time full of nostalgic teenage memories
I spent many weekends with my best friend Tina at Bear Pond Park
Memories of packing our swimsuits, towels, music and bagged lunches
And We always brought our spending money for the snack shack
We chewed grape bubble gum in the car and gossiped on the way
It was a fun time and I always looked forward to those special days
At the park, we swam, worked on our tans and went on the slides
Laughing, flirting with the boys while racing down the rainbow rides
In the late afternoon We had our deep dish ice cream sundaes
Memories of my tongue tickled by the tartness of the strawberries,
while soothed by frozen vanilla custard with layers of whipped cream
We ate at the picnic table while sweet dribbles landed on our swimsuits
We had to wait a while before we could go back and swim in the lake
We went back to the rainbow slides, laughing and chewing bubble gum
Our swimsuits dotted with ice cream and berry stains, soon to be washed away
We had one last afternoon swim, our suits washed clean until the next weekend.
6/26/22
Contest: Ice Cream Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Julia Ward
N/A Judged 7/15/22
Option #5 Poem Written for “Half Past Summer, Two Months 'Till Fall Poetry Contest,” Andrea Dietrich, sponsor.
SUMMER'S PROMISSORY NOTE
Summer: I relish its tastes, smells, and sounds:
the sweet tartness of wild plums,
the intoxicating fragrance of honeysuckle, and
the smell of freshly mowed grass.
I am content, almost complacent with the abundance of summer days.
Urgency soon replaces my complacency,
*for summer seems like a promissory note—signed in June
those long days quickly spent—due to be repaid come September.
*Hal Borland originally coined the phrase “summer is a promissory note.” He was one of my father’s favorite authors. Pop introduced me to Hal’s books and writing during the summer of my 11th year. I found Borland's books rich with wisdom and imagery and, as such, still remember many of Hal’s words and phrases, sometimes thinking they are my own.
Hal was an American writer, journalist, and naturalist. In addition to writing many non-fiction and fiction books about the outdoors, Hal was a staff writer and editorialist for The New York Times. (source: Wikipedia)