Long Thickened Poems
Long Thickened Poems. Below are the most popular long Thickened by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Thickened poems by poem length and keyword.
Under her magic, honeyed words poured forth
filling his fervent verse with rhyme and wit
for suitors to woo and doxies commit
to carnal indulgence and thus henceforth
as topmost poetaster of the north
his purse was filled with gold and silver bit.
But at autumn's end, away he would split
to rest in warm climes until May the fourth.
Then an El Nino year, when she stayed south
his verse thickened, treacle in climate's scold
his sharp pen, now dull, only rent the page
full of awkward phrases, crude and uncouth
his once bright parlance now tattered and old
as her light shifted to another stage.
The educational forest has thickened
I can't see the forest from the trees,
are they Republican or Democrat?
voices once spoke out without a doubt
a lost message loud and clear for change,
those voices have since been silenced
by the onslaught of time and age, untempered truths.
Who speaks now?
Is it only the loudest voices
shouting bullies and the braggarts
who wave and aggrandized their failures as achievements,
the gray men staunch in their self-centered ways
unwinding progress and holding time hostage
to the dreams and successes of yesterday,
the future of possibilities.
These are the times that try men's souls
looking back and tossing out the compromise
of a warring world seeking peace and conjoined hands
where power-hungry individuals take charge not to lead
but to satisfy, enrich and praise themselves above all others;
one giant step for the political bureaucracy
no small steps for the average man.
America is better than this.
Soft-shell steamers (pissers) are best prepared by steaming with aromatic liquids like white wine, garlic, and herbs, cooking for 5-10 minutes until shells open. Clean them thoroughly in salted water, then steam and serve with melted butter and the broth, discarding any unopened clams.
often she'd serve pissers fried but today she served them pissers in soup form with two loaves of garlic bread and a greek salad.
2 cups of shucked steamers
1/2 cup of shredded cooked chicken meat
2 cups of white wine
2 cups of whole milk
1 stick of butter
1 cup of grated parmesan
2 tablespoons of flour for roux
4 Tablespoons of fresh tarragon
1 teaspoon of cayenne pepper
1/2 cup of cooked chopped bacon
2 egg yolks
2 talbe spoons of lemon juice
1/2 cup of heavycream
2 cups of boiled soft parsnips
1 tablespoon of minced garlic
1/4 cup of minced onions
1/4 celery
1/4 cup red bell peppers
1 cup of sliced mushrooms
a two pot soup
pot number one
add steamers and wine bring to a boil
cover with a lid and remove from heat.
set aside.
pot number two
melt five tablespoons of buttter
with five tablespoons of flour make a roux
remove the roux and set aside.
sauté mushrooms , celery
add garlic and onions and red bell pepper
and add roux
. stir in in 2 cups of
Veggie stock and 2 cups of whole milk
in a bowl whisk egg yolks
whisk in heavy cream
cayenne , lemon juice and
pour wine from steamers
add to pot
add steamers
bacon chicken and parsnips
on a low heat cook until the sauce has
thickened add a slurry of corn starch and water add tarragon and chives
or serve with a dollop of sour cream topped with chives and tarragon
to thicken soup more
if you desire such.
serve warm or hot
( Steamer soup can be jazzed-up with four tablespoons of crushed flaming hot cheetos crushed and sprinkled on top of hot soup)
gallic bread and a greek salad a fresh salad from Greece
traditionally made with tomatoes, cucumbers, red onion,
Kalamata olives, and a block of feta cheese
, dressed simply with olive oil, oregano, salt,
and sometimes vinegar or lemon juice
Albarino, or Cava wine or a sparling drink!
Enjoy!
The snow was as light as dust in the wind
The air a steady thirty-three, my breath slightly visible
My nose, ears and cheeks reddened and wet
Whilst staring into the bliss with watery eyes, they dripped
Thoughts of my father
Thoughts of my mother
Thoughts of my brother, Joseph
I cried so nice... remembering them
Four and Twenty blackbirds...
Not yet baked, sailed onto my lawn
I heard my mom singing me that song again
A hidden from the clouds jet- roared
I saw my dad in the window- waving
When a somehow not-frozen worm wiggled in the grass
I saw my brother Joe- fishing
With the snow now thickened and the air dropping
A steady stream of mist exhausts from my mouth
But... I felt warmth
I felt comfort
I felt my loved ones presence all around
I felt like... Like it was a good day to cry
With ten more miles of wire,
my horse wants to turn back
There’s dark clouds over the mountain,
just a small tent in my sack
The fence line sits all busted,
from two bulls that went astray
They both missed being neutered,
last year on roundup day
My hands are cold and blistered,
that salve jar all but gone
Two wolves begin to howling,
that lonesome prairie song
The storm clouds all have thickened,
light pulls its covers back
Just one more night on the western slope
—with eight miles left to track
‘From The ‘Searching For Crazy Horse Collection’
‘Read In Elko Nevada Years Ago’
A lonesome magpie~
perching on a forlorn wooden stairs
on a snowcapped mountain side
spells serenity in the day light.
The barn house reflects
the pale lavender shadows~
a soft blend of chiaroscuro;
The thickened snow in impasto
reminds me of winter daydreams
of my love so far away.
The hanging frosty pearls
on dancing dainty twigs~
sparkling like chandeliers
in ancient sanctuaries;
Like the diamonds I keep
as a symbol of his promise
that one day soon~
he will come back to me.
3 February 2021
Notes: The Magpie (French: La Pie) is an oil-on-canvas landscape painting by the French Impressionist Claude Monet, created during the winter of 1868–1869 near the commune of Étretat in Normand.
(Photo and info credits to Wikipedia)
Hearty haiku pumpkin squash comforts
Flowery senryus fill my prism bowl perennially
For poets' hungry hearts who crave and share,
It’s creamy chowder congenially
Addictive from the first taste with inspirational flavor,
Aspirations of desire, longing colorful bites, I savor
Romantic rich bisques have me sighing with the saucy sonnet
Bursting is a cheesy limerick, with Blue Bonnet on it
Buttermilk noodles tossed and soupy
Diverse free verse, I’m a groupie
But as you know there is no such thing as a free meal
What’s stressed musters up expressions I feel
When metaphors thickened, stirred in, I'll pour
I loved, I lived, I sipped lyrics with many
Favorites and treasures plenty in the soup d’ jour
Let the wild mustard and tansy grow
both tall and prolific, spreading freely
along the edges of the garden, seedlings from the wood.
Beneath the plum and pear, near the sycamore and cherry,
allegheny spurge known as pachysandra spread with runner vines
here and there along and up the fence in shade or sun.
Lily of the valley, once only six small plants
take over like a wave of rushing green oceans
that scents the thickened air with dainty delights and fragrance.
So much grows wild, free and un-contained
held back only barely by mason stone, brick and brush
intended to set the separation of garden and drive or walkway.
After years of carefully imagined plant and cultivation
this garden is no longer mine taking on life all its own
to grow rampant and wild, bold and beautiful despite my every effort.
It is surviving, living, growing, a picture perfect painting
envious lush greenery waiting for the proper moment
in which to flower and bloom beneath the summer sun.
It’s such season. Even during those long and gray rainy days,
in the drought under the scorching sun, and in the storm that visited with the great flood; the bad seed sown in the springtime holds out till his hour has come with teeth clenched, it took the root in the ground deeply and clutched the high wind with its body, limbs, and twigs. But now, time has grown, and it has turned into red to ripen. And fallen onto earth with decay.
It’s the time of end with so much in need of need. For a flag of evil
torn by an abandoned wind has lost its way, and importunate vindictiveness
fades with the fallen leaves which were writhing on earth that grows harder
with the last breath to find a place to dig, nevertheless, there is not even
a drop of water to wet the chapped lips; nevertheless, no one comes
to help close the eyes which are out of focus.
It’s the wretchedness in the rain. In such a solitary hour that even
the setting sun lost its glory. The torn evil flag was going with reciting dirge
to blaspheme God, demolishes the thickened clay wall, struggles desperately,
and set down the coffin of the sorrowful vindictiveness.
It’s the season of tragic Hellenic mythology. There is no way to fill up
the space between wall and wall, and sick fallen leaves tramps through
the other fallen sick leaves, and the sorrowful maternity has to strangle
her own born child to death.
Nibbling a displeased fruit the rain is falling
and the fallen leaves under the foot are collapsing.
by Robert (Bob) Moore © 2016
For all who suffer Arthritic pain
they know when it’s going to rain
aches in joints, won’t go away
just got to get through another day
We all have it to some degree
I know you feel it more than me
I try to support you when I can
and do some jobs, but I’m just a man
Can’t do the wash the way you like
I think it’s only in your psych
blacks and whites don’t wash together
hang things out, but watch the weather
That can fade, hang inside out
that will need three pegs no doubt
hang by the top, to keep it straight
coat hanger there, to take the weight
cooking needs a whole new plan
I used to cook as a single man
but eggs and bacon wont suit her needs
something fancy, full of seeds
Steak Dianne, that sounds real nice
Worcester sauce and oven fries
thickened cream and parsley fine
a dash of Brandy, or maybe wine
I really wish that I could do it
people say there’s nothing to it
if that’s what she wants, then all I say
you can make it, when your better eh.
Housekeeping is where I really shine
vacuum, dusting, it all looks fine
don’t move the armchairs, don’t look behind
‘cause if you do, then dust you’ll find
Then into the bathroom, that’s a lovely place
scrub the grout and tiles, till you can see your face
all the glass and mirrors, must be bright and clean
and finish with the toilet bowl, polished to a sparkling sheen.
I proudly say “I’m Finished” (it’s taken me 2 days)
and now comes the inspection, to learn the error of my ways
that’s nice she says, its saved me time, and I’m feeling better too
and the rain may clear tomorrow, so thanks a lot to you.
(she’s nice)