Long Utensil Poems
Long Utensil Poems. Below are the most popular long Utensil by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Utensil poems by poem length and keyword.
When I jot down the words that I
Have forming in my head,
The only tool required is
A pencil filled with lead.
A pen won’t do the trick for me;
A keyboard holds no lure.
It’s only with a number 2
That I feel most secure.
The yellow ones I like the best,
Though I get out of joint
If I’m not near a sharpener
And I’ve worn down the point.
The plastic ones with lead inside
Work well when on the road;
But I prefer the pencils that
One doesn’t have to load.
Of course my pencils must possess
Erasers at the end.
A pencil lacking such a tool
I wouldn’t recommend.
I’m writing this right now to praise
My very best utensil –
And naturally, my fingers grasp
A number 2 lead pencil!
My First Computer
By: Tom Wright
11-7-2019
My first home computer,
Was a number two lead pencil.
It’s only function,
Was as a writing utensil.
It could refresh, or delete,
and would even print.
But when applying too little pressure,
It prompted my eyes to squint.
It had sharpened graphite on one end,
And was abrasive on the other.
When it became to short,
I just asked for another.
It made its mark,
In the “Big Chief Tablet“ time.
When paper was cheap,
And computers, two for a dime.
But it faces extinction,
In our modern day.
Technology is slowly,
Driving this computer away.
Inspired by an email I received today.
Tom
so some wooden spoons and a potato masher
with a spaghetti spoon and some other utensils
being what they are every day, stoically on duty
crammed into the unremarkable utensil holder
but one particular day when they and the light
decided to converse secretly with the universe
over an unknown coffee among chatter and din
bereft of sticky fingers, cast a phoenix in flight
majestically across the kitchen wall, the meal
was several seconds later that magical evening
and by another incredible zing, a conspiring
of the universe and other distant table waited
secret evening suppers, the bedroom pointed
to the lampshade upon a low lit ceiling behind
it became a robot warlord’s head ripped from
its body, circuitry dangling like vein and sinew
and then – hey look at this, said the universe
I wondered how many times the universe had
reached out but I was in too much of a hurry
and sleep was several seconds later that night
A feint attempt to stab myself...
quickly found the missus ready to faint
Like a madman possessed
by mailer daemon lemme acquaint
ye with the following verse, I will bepaint
momentary horror, where yours truly
entered momentary third eye blind rage
loosing violent constraint
nearly thrust knife
into right leg without restraint,
which curtailed prospective martyrdom,
thus scotching, nullifying, denying...
me anointed apostolic saint
plus stripping christened name,
one Matthew Scott,
cuz he threatened to harm himself
invariably with permanent
leg a see did taint
moment of spontaneity
instantaneously vanished without a trace
when irrational brandished
white as a ghostly corpse petrified wife,
who merely felt playfully frisky
I haint kitten,
yours truly reflexively reached
for paring, quartering,
halving deboning, cutting...
said kitchen utensil
nearly sabotaged marriage
finding zee spouse suddenly widowed
(never writing last will and testament,
nor in fact ever drafting first)
as husband almost pitched himself
into wuz bin realm
courtesy short nasty brute
mine generic doppelganger
harkening back to dem good ole days,
when regular altercations occurred
heralding grab regarding lovely bag of bones
birds of prey didst carrion and buzzfeed
scavenging any shred of wedded bliss
which auld lang syne times
well nigh witnessed fisticuff strife,
though these previous half dozen years
considerably less rife and riddled
with expletive strewn epithets
that cut sharper than a dull knife.
Momentary loss of reason
every now and again
finds me skull comfortably numb
just another brick in the wall
reckoning, we don't need no education
acquiring diploma courtesy
hard skool of knocks alumnus
attests he experienced
arduous, horrendous, opprobrious, and venomous
environment pinterest tingly linkedin
with congenital predisposition to anxiety/
panic attacks in toto
enroute visiting Wizard of Ozzy Osbourne.
When the Lord gives His bountiful blessings, the least one can do is be grateful..
An afterlife in heavenly abode awarded
Based on Biblical born-again experience
Christian choruses in choral cadence
Days of delight by delving deep in doctrines
Enriching encounters that encourage me
Friends forever and familial functions
Godly guidance and grand gestures of grace
Helpful homely ambience that holds me up
Insightful intelligent interpretation of images
Joyfulness found with a Just Judge
Keen kinship with the King of Kings
Limitless love of the Lion and the Lamb
Matchless Master's mystical mercies on me
New life necessarily found on the narrow road
Oasis of overflowing opportunities
Pleasant promises on this pilgrimage path
Quiver of qualitative quiescence
Remembrance of Royal righteousness
Succour in the Saviour's sweet snuggles
Tireless teamwork and thankful testimonies
Unswerving unblemished utensil of usefulness
Victorious vessel of value and valour
Watchful warrior with the Word as a weapon
Xtremely xenial with xpectation of xquisiteness
Yearnings of yesterdays and Yuletides
Zealous zest to reach Zion's zenith.
07.15.2020
"The blessing of the Lord, it maketh rich, and He addeth no sorrow with it." - Proverbs 10:22
"Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, who hath blessed us with all spiritual blessings in heavenly places in Christ." - Ephesians 1:3
Obsidian and flint is what started it all
Before them life was a ball
Boys grew up, and turned into men
Until metals came, life would not be the same
Primarily a utensil, to be used to cut meat
Now a weapon to cut meat on the street
Many a person cut down in their prime
To this modern cowardice, i call knife crime
To stand tall, and fight with your fist
Nowadays, they stick it in and they twist
They have the gall, to laugh as they flee
These cowardly scum, never men will they see
No age is protected, if its where your to be
In the right city, or any country
A knife is a knife, where ever you are
If you live or die, it will always scar
This darned weapon can be used for the right
Protecting yourself in an unwanted fight
But to pick it up, you become one of them
No longer a boy, that will turn into men
To all out there who have suffered this way
I pray the killers will have their day
Not to rejoice, but to repent
If it was not for those knives, no lives would be spent
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/life.php
Jodie Foster is frying peppers and eggs ~ it is late and her legs ache
as she scrambles the yokes, sautés jalapenos.
Today a jerk again compared her to the movie star ~a life she
never wanted keeps invading her reality, even though she was
born earlier, people consider her the fraud; the fake, the
'knock-off.'
Not for the first time she imagines changing her name, but always
there is a fear of not being compared to anything at all.
There is a loud noise upstairs. She freezes, she recalls
the movie -`Panic Room.' She runs to her downstairs closet,
bolting the door behind her. Footsteps descend - it is Jodie Foster
in her role as Agent Starling. Jodie has a gun and is seeking
her rapist from a previous movie.
Scripts are merging. The Jodi who cooks peppers and eggs
understands why she has always avoided cliffhangers - suspense
thrillers. She cries softly in the dark as she clutches
a Dollar Store spatula, a utensil that will never work
as well as a weapon, than a real branded one.
Brain strain – A kitchen adventure
Broken ladles scattered about the new granite countertops
Veins of years gone by, prehistoric earth tremblings, spotted composites
in a vast array of colors, wickedly smooth and hard as rock (go figure)
Silverware sings like wind chimes on the tile floor,
cast aside in frantic search…long drawers, endlessly hiding that utensil,
somewhere behind the egg slicer, yellow plastic (what would I do without it?)
Meat thermometer (that sounds nasty) Tupperware tops for what?
Plastic reminders of meals past, no longer fitting their
spaghetti sauce discolored partners, in assorted sizes (used now as makeshift cat food bowls)
Pots and pans, why is it always pots and pans, never pans and pots,
hell in alphabetical order it would be, who thinks up this stuff?
And then those damn lids that never stack (handles, who needs them?)
A blender, a mixer, a dicer, a juicer, a toaster and an apple peeler. An apple peeler?
Brownie tins shaped like a labyrinth, but look at all of those corners…chewy
Not good for the diet but make the perfect Christmas gift. (much more than an apple peeler)
There it is, finally, behind a 5 lb. bag of potatoes and the old Mr. Coffee machine,
tarnished silver, at least a hundred star patterned holes, three little worthless feet…my colander
The one I use to strain my brain, removing all of the bad stuff (so the only thought left is you)
4/6/17
Written for the Go Ahead…I Dare Ya!!! poetry contest
Sponsored by John Lawless
Drinking tea (cha)mate (herb mate) in the bombilla, is a tradition in the south of America, mainly among the gauchos (Argentine, Brazilians, etc)
The bombilla is filled with the herb mate heated in temperature palatable and each person sucks the infusion little by little and passes it on to someone else... In this case, my girlfriend took her mate and
passed me first the bombilla, (so called utensil )
then I sucked
tea mate with some of the taste
from her mouth... That's how I created
my little poem...
PS Each bombilla contains an infusion for 10 sips, so it passes to 10 people at a time, then it is filled again and the passage from mouth to mouth repeating again...
Worry wonders and doubts
It speculates on the hopes and habits
It ponders all the thoughts and misgivings
It deliberates on the joy and kindness
It even questions the peace and serenity
Worry seeks a heart to attack
A calm to disturb with turbulence
A happiness to disappoint with sorrow
A light to snuff out with a dark thought
Worry drains souls of their pleasure
Pierces the dreams with murky shadows
Destroys the embrace of sweet grace
And sends discouragement into the spirit
Worry is a tool of the devil
Who came to seek whom he might destroy
With his lies and his doom and his despair
Worry is his device, his utensil
The instrument he uses to bring us down
So that we can’t find the faith to reach out
Toward the One who knows all about our worries
And brings us encouragement and reassurance
The inspiration and enthusiasm to refocus
On the promises He gives with His mercy and compassion
The love that arises out of the darkest moments
Love that assures us He will restore and rebuild
Despite whatever the worries might foresee
Worry is blind to the fact that
His love can diminish every doubt
Relieve every pain, erase every cloud
With the rising of His Son, His light
The One who will always work things out
Matthew 6:26 (KJV) Behold the fowls of the air: for they sow not, neither do they reap, nor gather into barns; yet your heavenly Father feedeth them. Are ye not much better than they?