Long Thermos Poems
Long Thermos Poems. Below are the most popular long Thermos by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Thermos poems by poem length and keyword.
I shall read you a poem in my drunken state,
if my speech is slurred, forgive me mate,
it is a cocktail of rum, vodka and cognac,
if boss finds out I will surely get the sack!
so am i drinking at work? you may ask,
yes, my mate, from my steel thermos flask,
I bring in to work each morning with me,
everyone thinks it is my Yorkshire tea,
but I need a bit more to help me work here,
we haven’t had a pay rise in full ten years,
I sit around and look busy at work all day,
but just do enough to justify my pay,
boss is a bully who always gets the praise,
when company makes profit, he gets a raise,
all our hard work, and boss gets the cream,
morale is pretty low in the whole office team!
today unfortunately i have had too many,
i meant to kiss Isabel, but I kissed old Danny!
I am sitting stiff in my chair, so I do not fall off,
beginning to see double, now and then laugh!
friends around me know what I am up to,
if boss walks in I will rush to the loo!
Meanwhile my mate, I read you this verse,
if you like it, then raise your glass! Cheers!
Beyond the wave-sacked,
lie the pockmarked dunes, heaps dug
by the claws of scaly thrashers.
Here they huddle, my blood kin
flogging grim pleasures,
wolfing eggy sandwiches,
dipping tea-stained teeth into beakers.
By a shoaling shale and monochrome spray
one brine-splattered small fry.
A boyhood caught in a swirling freshet,
he whales barefoot in the flounder,
skimming the slimy kelp, stalking
a slippage of tugging surf.
Her demeanor soggy at last, mother
goads to be led to the creaking camper.
Father smokes a plug of leathery shag,
grunts upright, walks toward the sea.
A toppled thermos and leftovers
scooped up and lugged away.
Windswept, the lingerers
trudge from the chilly churn,
while a soused and hectoring bay
records a working-class holiday.
Epiphany
1950, there had been a war, but things were going back to normal.
My mother had a new boyfriend who also had a small cabin on an island
and a rowing boat.
On a nice Sunday, we rowed out, mother had made sandwiches mostly filled with jam,
a thermos of coffee and a bottle of soft drink.
Her boyfriend gave me a line with a hook and a sinker and told me
to go to the shallow and catch something.
I did as he said, but must add I do not take kindly being “told.”
There were many tiny fishes that looked like swimming rainbows
I was enthralled by them; in the crystal-clear water, it was like looking into heaven.
I must have been in a dreamlike state of mind, took a step forward and fell into the water.
The boyfriend came running, mother too, she was worried about my health,
we returned back to town, so I could get dry clothing and cacao drink.
The boyfriend was grumpy, suggested I had fallen into the water
to attract attention.
I didn´t try to explain that for a moment I had seen the wonder and understood everything.
Mind, he could have been right, what does a boy know of life.
I found my tartan Thermos flask,
not used it for some time,
the faded squares still visible
beneath a film of grime.
A bit or rust around the base,
the side a dent or two,
the top that doubles for a cup
has split, so that won't do.
But all the same it does it's job
for when one's on the go,
keeps hot things hot and cold things cold
quite how, I do not know.
At least we share a common bond,
our outer shells are battered,
somewhat pasty, worn with time
but none of that stuff matters.
Inside of me my hopes kept warm,
some of my dreams are cool,
contents kept fresh regardless of
the state of this old fool.
When God calls me, takes off my lid
to see what life I've had,
I hope that then, unlike my flask-
I don't smell quite that bad.
From start to finish
today my sister and I walked the woods.
We mimicked the wildlife and crossed the creek.
We told stories in the sunlight and shade
and peeped at the birds.
Thirty years ago
these same birds' ancestors ate from our hands.
Today we scattered seeds on the bare ground
and watched the bickering birds convening
with one track minds.
We walked back in time
and shared giggles at things we'd fought over -
like the biggest piece of pie and who sat
next to dad in the car, important things
like George Waldencott.
Tears flowed from our eyes
recalling a chipped tooth and broken arm,
burns from cigarettes we'd hid in these woods -
a few of the scars from fights for the rights,
rights of the other.
Our lunches eaten,
our lemonade thermos emptied too fast,
still hungry for mem'ries of days long past.
She sneaked a cookie from its hiding place
in her shirt pocket.
She took off running,
holding it high in the air, looking back
and yelling her dare, "Nana, nana, na - na!"
Racing t'wards home we climbed the garden wall
and split the cookie.
And at last she spoke
words I had ached to hear since their wedding -
"Thank you, Cissy, for letting me have George."
She went home with hubby and three children.
I went home, just me.
6/10/13
Forever Swansea...
Bright blue skies in the summer sun,
The birds among the trees.
The golden sands of Swansea Bay,
The calmness of the seas.
As I walk along these golden sands,
I watch each breaking wave.
The inshore lifeboat comes along,
But there's no-one here to save.
Hundreds of bathers on the beach,
In the water having fun.
Surfers, men with fishing rods,
All basking in the sun.
Barbecues and fizzy drinks,
Thermos flasks with tea.
Families sat eating lunch,
Just lazing by the sea.
The sounds of laughter fill the air,
Seeing lovers hand in hand.
Walking down to Swansea Docks,
Leaving footprints in the sand.
My memories of years gone by,
Of my walks along the shore.
Such times I hold within my heart,
And I will for ever-more........
Take it Black
The warm welcome smell of coffee.
It talks to me. Tells me things I need to know,
like what time it is, and “Good morning.”
It is in fact very cheerful.
Whole beans or ground dust,
every lovely flavor, I trust.
Some put cream into the cup.
There they swirl it around.
Bright white,
warm brown,
a lovely shade of perfect.
Some make funny faces,
with the froth, the fluffy white milk.
It is delicious,
to the eyes and the tongue.
Cold or hot, it hits the spot.
If you love it, you do, if you don’t,
there… is nothing to say.
You have tasted heaven in a cup?
had bad moments in the brew,
great moments in the stew…
(the kind of coffee they make when you camp).
All worth a warm up,
if the kind lady comes back by.
Let us speak of sugar.
Yes, so sweet, so loving to the hot steam.
Melt, become one with the drink.
White, brown, flavored or pink?
Yum.
Served in houses, served at home.
Served among friends,
served to bring peace among “unrest”.
Wake up a trucker.
Fill a thermos with fuel.
Thank you Lord, for coffee.
Amen.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The grid failed first~
then the pipes burst their seams,
weeping silver tears down frozen walls.
The night groaned under the weight of frozen sky
a thousand fractures in the power lines~
silent screams of transformers dying.
Darkness engulfed the Lone Star State,
gnawing at the edges of counties and cities.
But the men came anyway,
their gloves split by the cold,
boots cracking ice like thin bones.
No heroics, just work~
Men in orange vests moved like ghosts
through glassy, slick streets
their breath leaving them in ragged clouds,
each one a prayer for warmth.
Linesmen dangled like marionettes
from poles slick with betrayal
fingers numb, breath curling in shattered puffs
stitching light back into the sky
one frayed wire at a time.
Blue lights cut through the sleet~
not for crime, but for warmth
for the woman shaking in her car with a newborn,
engine dead as stone.
The police traversed the streets,
tires spinning on invisible black ice,
their cruisers sliding like doomed ships,
flashlights cutting through the gloom
where families huddled under blankets,
where an old man’s oxygen machine sputtered silent.
The fireman’s axe didn’t care about the cold~
only the door it shattered, the grandmother inside
still clutching her rosary.
Firemen across the state kicked in doors,
their axes swung against ice-clogged hydrants,
each strike ringing hollow in the frozen air.
Somewhere in East Texas,
a lone fireman’s breath hung in the air~
white flag of exhaustion
as he hauled another body
from a house without heat.
The child in his arms didn’t shiver.
Not anymore.
All night, the wind screamed.
All night, these men did not stop.
In the morning, as the thaw crept in,
some slept in trucks,
some drank bad coffee from a thermos,
some stood staring at downed lines~
weary, yes, but still standing.
They were not gods~
just men with wives who texted be safe,
whose children didn’t understand
why they had no heat and why lights stayed off.
No monuments would bear their names,
but for a week,
these men were the only thing
between Texas and the abyss.
As the sun peaks up into the sky
the blue pickup truck goes down the dusty road
to the field that barren laid
and the red tractor waiting there
father and son in blue jeans clad
walked from the truck across the land
to the job are waiting for them there
to begin a new as such in every year
so big the wheels with cleats deep
red painted steel and rubber so black
the scent of grease and of used oil
and dust that tickled and teased the nose
black painted seat with flecks of rust
up so high to be rode
so many petals and levers there
hard black rubber wheel oh so wide
father climbs up and takes his seat
reaches down and lifts up his son
setting him down upon his knee
reaches down and turns the key
a lever is moved a throttle to set
the choke pulled out to just right there
a round pedal then depressed
and with a grind the engine starts
moving levers the plow is raised
with hiss of hydraulics and squeaks of steel
depress the clutch and shift into gear
increase the throttle and ease off the clutch
and with a lurch the tractor moves
heading out into the field
the father steers the boy watches
as they move to where to begin
stopping there lowering the plow
the father says he’ll do the first
then coming back he’ll let his son
plow furrows in the field
back and forth in the rising sun
the scent of soil freshly turned
birds that land where they had been
seeking the worms now exposed
and at noon they take a break
for tuna sandwiches and paper wrapped
a big thermos of still cold milk
and for apples fresh and red
working on in light of sun
through the day both long and hot
till the sun touches again the land
at end of day before work is done
leaving the tractor in the field
walking back into their truck
the first of many days are now done
as they get in and drive away
another day for father and son
as they work in light of sun
sharing together the joy of the land
and the working of it which is their life’s
An unhurried sun slides across the horizon
Preparing for slumber behind distant waves
And daylight’s last seagull rides thermals in search
Of a late night fish supper - the herring he craves
A paint shop explosion enlivens the skies
As the sun doffs its cap to the tail end of day
That silhouette seagull, against crimson, flys
Before finally veering and heading away
As one with the beach and the shoreline beyond
I watch vibrant heavens succumb
To a darkness profound although I stick around
And I wait for tomorrow to come
The night has its chills but no hectic-life ills
As I feed my small campfire with sticks
One deck chair, one fire is all I desire…
And a thermos for my caffeine fix
There’s no moon, no stars and there’s no beachfront bars
The surf is my soundtrack tonight
I’ve seen moons and stars work with Venus and Mars
To set all above me alight
But tonight is unpainted and I get acquainted
With shadows that flicker and prance
As I recline there, amused, I’m aware
That the fire makes my own shadow dance
I don’t truly doze and a distant bell knows
That I count off its chimes in the night
And as the world sleeps, somewhere near, a bird cheeps
And I know that it soon will be light
I’ll witness the day and then scurry away
Through the hustle and bustle, to bed
Inspired, I’m rewired, and yet, rather tired
With my first chapter clear in my head
My thermos delivers one last warming cup
As a new dawn blue-rinses the grey
A seagull, perhaps who went last night unfed
Circles early for breakfast today