Long Tins Poems
Long Tins Poems. Below are the most popular long Tins by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Tins poems by poem length and keyword.
the square
was packed
& the high street full
meat&veg seemed plentiful
market barkers
drew the queues
with jokes
impromptu
shoppers filed
neat& formal
in sainsburys greggs
& home colonial
the bacon slicer
shuttled back& forth
rashers scaled
in halves&fourths
bread mealed smooth&strong
butter patted shaped oblong
cheese cut with twangy wire
toasted later on an open fire
ham sliced from the bone
spuds bagged weighed in stones
tea from open square tins
packet-served with a welcome grin
'woollies' snackbar smells
'elevenses' hunger time to quell
one mug of ovaltine must'nt dally
so shortcut thru' market alley
where auctioneers tones rise&fall
above the sheep&cattle stalls
then off homewards at a trot
last pennies spent in feaseys sweetshop
on the train bridge 'spotted' numbers new
waited whilst the 'cutler' raced thru'
along pebble brook time to climb a tree
on this day shopping was made coupon-free
When you have a thin identical twin
And you are the heavy one,
on your way to the largest weight number of your life,
it makes you want to eat.
I am an emotional eater;
thus I stay away from my twin
Who has my face, and my mannerisms
but is fifty pounds heavier.
I am a lifetime member of Weight Watchers.
I lost sixty-four pounds once and kept them off
For two or three years.
Then one day I knew I wanted my chocolate.
And my sugar, and my peanut butter.
That was sixty-seven pounds ago.
I was exercising like mad during my two year healthy regime.
Not so much anymore. I sit in a chair now.
I ate six tins of cookies over Christmas break.
My dogs love me fat and sassy. I sit and think about food.
I am the mashed potato queen.
I dare not tell you how many of these I have eaten lately.
I know I am not healthy. But I am not ready to give up
My sugar, my potatoes, my beef and noodles, my breads,
My emotional eating is at an all-time high.
I know what I have to do. I am not there yet.
Shopping alone
It was raining, she didn't want to go out
watching the funeral of a famous singer
the mourning took all day, playing him
singing when he had hair and was youngish
I drove to the supermarket that had
indoor parking.
the car found its own way to the spot
reserved for the invalids, put her
walking stick near the car window, so
everyone could see the person's car
was legally parked, and in case someone
watched me, I and walked unsteadily
to the entrance of the market
On my list, was a tin of peas, I found the shelf
grabbed a tin, and by doing so three more tins
fell to the floor, I pretended it had nothing
to do with me and walked to the fruit
section looked at my note 5 bananas
There is a cluster of bananas, to get five
I had to wrestle them loose damaged
two bananas I also forgot to weigh the fruit
and put the price on a plastic bag
I picked up a sweet bucket of low-fat yogurt
it had a plastic handle when lifting it
the handle broke.
Among many things, she had wanted a bottle
of beer, there were many bottles on a shelf
to be safe I picked the first bottle in
the line, the one alone to avoid knocking down
other bottles
By now I was low on blood sugar, nerves and
diabetes go hand in hand
At the til I paid with cash, a card was out I would
forget the code monetarily
I have four pockets in my trousers, two side
pocket, two in the back
My wallet is always in the last pocket I try
Finally, I put my shopping in a new paper bag
by opened too abruptly it broke, but they kindly
gave me another bag
In the car, I was safe, ate some sweets and
drove out with alacrity
Mottled bodies inside and out
Needled veins black and about
Eyes dark through unsleepened nights
Lying in door ways that's about right.
Bottles and tins surround my life
Once i was married, no longer have wife
Kids disown me as i lie there spent
Confused they are where the family has went.
The above is not me, if you don't mind me saying
Its a vision of life, for the ones who start playing
Who take that fork they meet on the road
Again the doorways no family abode.
Many a home in this modern world
Hit by life's Tornado's in never ending twirls
Some see the light at the end of the tunnel
Some down the drain, in a spiralling funnel.
Society seems to breed the above
Are they really the clever, who absorb that first shove
To be an Addict as you walk down that road
Be ever so brave, ignore that goad.
Live strong, live free
An Addicts life is what you don't want to be
Sometimes, don't think of you, think of others
Or they remember you under an earthly cover.
The rain came down suddenly like madman beating on the roof, knocking on doors and spilling its vengeance on the floor.
I couldn’t stand to see the water digging out the wounds in the tree running in the valley with a message for thee. The gulley filled up in a jiffy and tins bottles and all forms of garbage came up instantly .The rain came on time to justify what is mine.
The valley is deep and you have to meet me on the street, the Hedgehog with its stiff spines lurks in the bushes with its nocturnal eyes anointing the animals as they come by. Its movement is sharp, its body is dark and it never misses a prey so stay out of its way.
Water is gushing from the stream interrupting my dreams soaking up the thirsty land and depositing a pile of sand on the road. You can see the mountain crashing down throwing rocks and mud all over the Town.
The streets are flooded and the cars are floating on their backs .The house has washed away too and the old village ends up on the rock with all the old garbage scattered on the house top. The bath tub is stucked on the narrow path and blocks the flow sending the tree trunks on the go.
Everything came to a standstill and the only movement was a little dove floating on a tree limb and a pot of daffodil stuck in between. It must have come from someone’s garden and washed downstream .
As I was about to reach for it a body of water parachuting from the ground spraying mud and dirt all over the earth. The water is receding.
The forest man
He had bought a cabin in the woods near a lake
he planned to go there after his divorce
with no demand on his time, life would be simpler
first of all, he needed a dog, the one he had
was a poodle, his ex-wife could take the mooch
he needed a strong dog that could feed itself
catching rabbits in the glen
The cabin only had one room, a big room he could
make a kitchen in a corner, for the he needed
a hand pump and dig a Hole for a cisterna.
bedroom and living room together was ok, he had
a sofa bed but needed a couple of chairs
He also had to build a shed, an empty plastic
drum to sit on and empty his own effluence twice
a week
So much to do!
perhaps he should get one more dog, the one
offered him by a farmer, had a white snout liked
to sit on the sunny side and snooze
he had to remember to buy tins of dry dog food
to buy provision, he needed transport, a mule
would do, so he had to build a stable
No electricity, so he had to buy batteries and candles
so much to do!
I met a forest man in a tavern he had a cabin in
the woods, near a lake, for sale.
Invincible craving for the relish from home,
Laughter in deep dimples sets as lava, seats silently with desires.
Mother’s medicines rejuvenate,
Food, Bring them from Africa.
Especially from Mami’s kitchen,
Where the aroma helps develops patience,
The taste of unblemished earthenware,
Unsoiled by the greed of GMO
Unfrozen fresh, unpolluted with preservatives.
Bring me Egusi, laden with numerous healthy proteins,
Amala enflamed with circling of igbako,
Ewedu must never be ignored, where gbegiri sets the suiting taste
Where is Iyan which I savour with fish,
Ikokore that suiting tase that ask for more.
Efo riro , the delicious taste that brings all to the table,
Fed by nature with organic uniqueness
Meal onioned and appetite salivating,
Take me to Africa, where meals are freshly cooked
Away from these Tins and cans
Where Fish is fish indeed,
Vegetables are grown with nature’s lushness.
I starve in far off climes,
Away from Nature’s table
Supported by Poison from laboratories
Silently ebbing out by supplement, weakening the immunity.
Pharmacist turning healthy bodies to experiments,
With concoctions of fabricated medicines.
Vaccines and jab as alternatives,
First Jab, Second Jab leading all to their graves.
Far away from natures herbs
Take me to Africa,
Where tables are set to heal the frame
The careful selection of True Mothers.
Come to the Banquet of untainted Nature.
I do so love harvest thanksgiving,
That time of year which celebrates agriculture,
When church flips from being god-centred,
To remembering farmers and good food manufacture.
It’s not an Armenian or Amish allusion,
‘Cos tins are given no problem;
Natural remedies aren’t primed as better,
Than medicines, to the mind and body superior.
As a child who regretfully attended church,
I thought on that day of poverty and Christian giving:
That their offer was kind of a respectable food bank,
A silent redistribution of wealth, income and living.
No food bank is respectable, of course,
But they can channel wealth efficiently and appropriately;
And that the Church offers such for just one day,
Should be celebrated as a positive sign most definitely.
God is sometimes just such an abstraction,
Academically, he’s for the objective mind;
He’s not comforting when your needs are just so real:
Physical, emotional, psychological: he can be so unkind.
When you just need a meal on the table,
And need it supplied by someone else,
Whether by government, food bank or church,
It’s a person that's there, not divine impulse.
I thought it was moral to impose that on believers,
As a kid who just so wanted to talk and shoot,
About real mechanisms, real structures and methods,
Which made life’s systems, dynamics, art and roots.
Being grateful for food, diet and health,
Eclipses salvation humility and responce;
Eternal purpose lays as distant and non-tangible,
To people and belongings which have an unimpeachable force.
Farmers need to be remembered, given relevance,
For their labour, dedication and sheer love of the job;
It’s that occupation and training which ensures,
Our basic daily needs are met not just with contours.
The harvest basket every year means to me hope,
Nourishment for those who starve and scrape;
Church wealth rides so high and mighty on average,
That this real examination is something to advocate.
What‘s better than a biscuit?
Hard to debunk
Treasure trunk funk
Should you let
It get wetter
Would you dare risk it?
The trick a quick dunk
Or could flunk..flick..kerplunk..
Mushy chunk sunk..messy junk
Slushy slunk..in the tea you drunk
So at your leisure
Pleasure one’s self
Don’t regret your stealth
Forget your health
Wealth beset on the shelf
So feeling restive?
Yearn for a digestive?
Appealing…suggestive
No shock..dark choc
What else will cut the mustard
With a brew…for a few bob
Recurring theme..does seem
Will always dream
About a custard cream
Almost sob…as I Lob
A hob-nob in me gob
Ta pour more cha
In fine fettle
Be a slob
Turn on the kettle
Bickies in the jar
On the sofa settle
Sins within tins
Spurn concern
Ignore the racket
As
Hats do doff
Knew from the off
On a roll
The sole goal
Quaff another cuppa
Down your cake hole
Scoff the whole packet!
I push the tall-legged hard thing next to the water thing, and pick up the blue thing.
It’s sticky, and sudsy, and fun. I pour it all on the dishrag on the counter, over the carefully washed bottles, over shiny hard things, and some soft squishy yellow things. Bubbles are coming off the counters now, and they are pretty.
WHAT ARE YOU DOING? Uh-oh. I jump down and the chase is on. Nona is old. She probably can’t catch me. I lead her up stairs, and dive into a pile of laundry, where she does not find me until I laugh.
Being twenty-two months, means I am muscular, strong-willed, fast, and determined to make at least five more messes before Nona forces me into the room full of pillows, and we both pretend I’m going to close my eyes.
In the time it takes Nona to put these pieces of cloth back into the clothesbasket, I have wormed my way out from under her legs, and I’m poking Mommy’s make up out of their little metal tins.
Nona glares at me when she discovers this, wraps all the make up in a plastic sack, and tosses it into the garbage. I know Mommy would be angry about this, if she knew, but I don’t have words yet. And I doubt Nona is going to tell how she’s failing as a volunteer.
By the time Nona catches up with me, I have slid down the stairs on my bottom, dumped the Monopoly game on my way through the living room, and smacked my three-year-old brother with an orange plastic bat. Together in temporary solidarity, we are both now smashing marshmallows and Lucky Charms into a big plate of sticky gooey brown stuff we found on the counter. It is cold, and squishy, and the Lucky Charms look funny in it.
Uh-oh. Here comes Nona. She’s on the phone now, saying something about her meatloaf.
In a red minute my brother and I are behind the couch, crouched low, hiding.
This drives her crazy when she lets it.
That stupid giggle gives us away, and we get dragged out.
We can’t go to bed yet!
Who will teach Nona how to open every child-proof lid and lock she’s put around this messy house?