Long Wafers Poems
Long Wafers Poems. Below are the most popular long Wafers by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Wafers poems by poem length and keyword.
When I wash dishes
I look out at my bird feeder,
noticing which political species are best at cooperating,
easy democratic process,
remaining focused on collective nutritional energy gains,
"we're all in this together" feathers of kin kind
And, which are more elitist,
not so good with sharing a modestly seeded pot;
blue jays predatively pecking,
crows taking over with raucous self-appointed authority,
ganging up against non-supremacists
preferring win/win democratic health.
But, this morning's meditation
looks over at a nearby large bush,
now January cold barren brown
camouflage, more than shelter,
for local birds of all species
waiting their feeding turn,
frightened by my neighbor's cat
or a hawk flying ominously overhead
or human noises leaking through my windows.
This small bird sanctuary,
Or is it an asylum?...
Perhaps both, depending on the bird,
harbors those waiting,
patiently, impatiently,
How would I know?
for their turn at their nutrition tower,
their seed Commons,
their energy media feeding station,
local source for economic and political exchange,
gossip,
social busyness.
Each bird flies back and forth,
some dressed in drab everyday,
others more business-ready flashy,
but all conjoining waves of flowing energy
in-between asylum bush
and open season feeding sanctuary.
Sometimes listeners and watchers,
and then short-flight toward feeders,
communicants
receiving sacred wafers,
seeds,
investments in cooperative multiculturing futures,
gifts of a generous green Earth.
Then,
suddenly,
they are gone.
The feeder Commons
abandoned.
My meditative hiding
and curiously waiting medicine bush
bereft of waving winged energy
breathing in and out,
feathered wings up and down.
Time to go back home
to more private nests
thoughts
feelings,
or, perhaps
to visit my neighbor's cooperative feeder,
another decaffeinated sanctuary
outside his own warm interior asylum.
I can see it in your eyes
It’s a selfish mans pride
And I can see it in your eyes
You should probably let it die
“Live and let it die”
“Live and let it die”
“Whether aught to us unknown afflicts us thus”
Mood swings and jealousy
Why it contradicts the trust
The same as a man with three fingers
Two blues singers and a tenor
Caught a misdemeanor trying to make an honest living
Doing things the right way, earned me a trip to prison
Putting that Brookshire’s wardrobe on and selling wafers and crèmes
Is no safer than a drug dealers scheme
I call it for a day and live it for the rest of my life
Perhaps this will unselfishly bring rest into my nights
A young man sieged in the endless city lights
I reminisce on better thoughts
Reluctantly I fail to count your pity twice
Your Sympathy was only lively advice
And I can see it in your eyes
It’s a selfish mans pride
But I can see it in your eyes
You should probably let it die
Falling leaves
Wind blown wafers;
Hidden message
~~~~~~~~~
Old tree speaks
Ancient thoughts linger;
Unheard echoes
~~~~~~~~~
Teary rain drops
Earth embraces fall;
Floral blossom chorus
~~~~~~~~~
Small toddler
Walks and stumbles;
Loving hands stand guard
~~~~~~~~~
Old lady struggles
Heavy groceries;
No helping hand
~~~~~~~~~
By this pathway
Fatigue takes a break;
Stone bench lull
~~~~~~~~~
A nasty nightmare
Terrified awakening;
Full bladder calling
~~~~~~~~~
Joy wears a face
Mother and father;
Cute baby bundle
~~~~~~~~~
School boys running
Shouting with glee;
A wild tumbling awaits
~~~~~~~~~
Peace descends
Weathered wooden bench;
Rest between takes
~~~~~~~~~
TV sitcom moment
We speak in silence;
Smiles sweetly punctuate
~~~~~~~~~
Moody Monday
Too much tension;
Dazzling agendas
~~~~~~~~~
Lost in this crowd
Lunchtime congregation;
Food court sermon
~~~~~~~~~
Poster child smiles
Some old time campaign;
Wondering aloud
~~~~~~~~~
Birthday party
A year older;
Not much wiser
~~~~~~~~~
Windy rains come
Wind chimes sing;
Crazy frenzy
~~~~~~~~~
Time after time
Not much time;
Too much work
~~~~~~~~~
Leon Enriquez
17 March 2015
Singapore
While boughs and tinsels glide on trimmings
along a fireplace by the hall, the lemon-drop scent
of pine thrills : the air is cold; hearts are warm.
December night catches a sliver of merriment
from the grace of its jewelled cheer, as the blend
of white and gold weaves the lane of a city
shimmering with joy.
The stage is set for a baby-in –a- manger,
cuddled in thin wafers of hay, more tender
than lambs’ flesh, more bright than Magi star
bathing moist lilies from which they are grazed.
‘Tis a holyday of gratitude, when remnants
of the past are erased to cleanse trespasses,
in the name of mercy. For now, eve’s candles
slowly baptize the miracle of enlightenment
much richly praised.
Christmas Epic Poem, Leonora Galinta
by nette onclaud
I stood before the mirror, one last check,
a quick inspection, then head off to town,
silver kipper tie around the neck,
shirt of green, sports jacket of light brown.
Platform shoes on, I boogie down the street,
a first date to look forward to that night,
flared pants flapped in the breeze around my feet,
and my jacket lapels both jinked like kites.
I patted my breast pocket to make sure
my cheque book was inside there, just in case
the night I had in mind costed more
and ended up leaving me sat red faced.
She met me outside Ramsdens, half past eight,
I kissed her cheek and said how good she looked,
went in the bar, got drinks for the short wait,
eight forty-five I had our table booked.
Melon boat for a starter, prawn cocktail,
then chicken in a basket with some fries,
two ice cream sundaes, wafers stood like sails,
we ate and gazed into each other's eyes.
Once the Mateus Rose wine was downed
the waiter swiftly took our plates away,
I paid the bill, got change from twenty pounds,
the chequebook lived to fight another day.
I saw her on the bus, a brief embrace,
a kiss, for one second did our lips meld,
she smiled goodbye, I tried to read her face,
her eyes gave no clue what the future held.
Though forty years have passed since that one date,
my mind still recalls every detail now,
I was told she'd someone else by my best mate,
I pause and still remember her.
The cow.
22nd February 2018
For contest 'where were you in the 70's ', sponsor Line Gauthier.
I am writing you in purple. Not the word—
the taste: that iron bite of violet petals
crushed between molars, the way they stick
to the roof of the mouth like communion wafers
dipped in wine gone slightly wrong. You understand,
of course, that I can’t help but eat
each sentence as I write it. The ink
bleeds grape-skin bitterness across my tongue,
tannins puckering the soft flesh
where speech should live.
The envelope waits on my desk, fat
with pages I’ve been licking at the edges.
Violet. That’s the specific shade
of metal—not silver, not quite lead—
the taste of costume jewelry warming
against a throat, or blood
when you’ve bitten down too hard inside your cheek
and tried to hide it, swallowing.
I seal this letter with my teeth.
The glue tastes like the end of something:
overripe, about to split, that moment
when a grape becomes obscene
in its sweetness, when fermentation starts
inside the skin and everything turns
to wine or vinegar—there’s hardly
any difference, really, just time
and what you’re willing to call it.
You’ll taste this when you open it.
The paper will dissolve like sugar
steeped too long, and purple
will coat your mouth for days: brutal,
gorgeous, the specific flavor of a color
that exists between a bruise
and a flower, between the blue
of suffocation and the red of wanting.
I’m sorry. I know you asked for yellow.
But yellow tastes like cowardice and butter,
and I have only purple left to give—
this bitter sweetness, medicinal and lush,
the aftertaste of beauty
or of poison. Sometimes
even I can’t tell which
Summer lay lazily over the land.
The languid weight of wind and water
bowing tree limbs, chasing sand
squalls over sidewalks.
Cyclist meander down aisles
of Rose of Sharon shrubbery past
banks of day lilies and Pez-purple
hydrangeas.
Tourist, colorful as the flowers,
buzz through seaside shops in flip flops
the color of Necco wafers.
Their gummy soles making sucking
sounds upon the linoleum.
In gingerbread slumber like fairy-tale children,
they gather in pink, lime-green, and purple houses.
The poor of a Christian God have become
the rich of a capitalist nation.
They hoard their paper-lantern dream.
I write upon ethereal silicon wafers of time,
pressing words into the computerized clay of today,
stored in a cloud immune to time.
And like dust drifting with the wind,
my thoughts float freely from one cloud to another,
not stagnating inside a box in someone's attic.
I give the reader a glimpse of my heart
and a peek at my soul between each line,
as I explore feelings we all share.
I write of pain, hopes, dreams, and fears,
evoking a plethora of emotions
that are a shared part of life,
innate to the human heart and soul—
whispers in the wind, silent screams, and cries of joy.
I express human feelings in verse and rhyme,
as relevant today as they were yesterday
and will be tomorrow,
for feelings outlast time.
I believe that forgiveness and unconditional love exist,
and I carry that thought like a surrogate mother,
giving birth to a new understanding of self.
Herd-mongers, schoolmarms and glorious twats
Piloting leased arks through drenched parking lots
Cadillacs cleansed of a fine week’s debris
Just in time for the polish of sanctimony
A river of swine, like the Jordan, it crosses
Over deserts of disheartened workers and bosses
The fracas of worshippers, beanied and veiled –
In the Third World, could pass for a fish market sale
There are loaves, there are nets – there’s nothing to eat
There’s so little legroom; there are beads on my seat!
There’s a mountain of missals, there’s a tower of babblers
And a nice hidden room for perpetual hagglers
There’s prime VIP seating, a great view of a tomb
Completely adjacent to the activities room
There’s most anything anyone could need or want,
So long as it comes from a baptismal font
When in walks a figure, so stiff and ordained,
You know in a moment he must be a saint
He’ll heal a few cripples, a Lazarus or two
And distribute those wafers that keep us renewed
Then we offer up thanks to some white-beard in the ether
With all of the joy of a rheumatic fever
And spill from the pews, lemmings on marble tile
And back onto the ark for brunches-du-style
‘cause the deluge has cornered-down many a mile
And sacrificed many a kind word and smile
Tolerance chiseled, evolution defiled –
Maybe let’s keep its hooks off the last decent child
Tolerance chiseled, evolution defiled –
Maybe let’s keep its hooks off the last decent child.
The Translucent Loft
The girls choir at St. Mary’s still sings there.
Shh, be quiet as we step inside
through these green rectangular doors,
Shh! Listen...
We can hear them up there,
in the translucent loft.
They are still cloistered upstairs in the saintly glow,
of stained glass fortissimos, and bare knees,
dressed in blue sweaters with plaid beanies doffed
upon the three dozen crowns of the virgin sainted;
And now before us, the majesty of the holy sanctuary,
the deep eternity of ever-swallowing horizontal constictions,
upon which the devout might meditate the spirit mysteries,
with blessed rosaries, scapulars, and communion wafers,
bristling miraculously upon flaming tongues of fire.
“Shh! Be quiet here in the church, it is a sin to talk!”
We must fold our hands in silent contrition to an invisible God.
We must say our prayers, memorized from old missals.
We must genuflect on bended leg, making the sign of the cross.
But still, a likeness of our creator, dead and naked,
Nailed and bloody, with sickening thorns and gushing crimson,
hangs before us most ignominiously, a dead creator.
How can this be, Father Flanagan?
Why are we being reminded of this, Monsignor Molthen?
Why dear saints?, all ye there, encrusted immaculately,
in stone cold tableaux, absorbed forever and today,
in emerald stained glass transfigurations, way up there,
high on the upper reaches of this long heavenly nave,
that stretches out like long arms wearing bracelets of infinity.
Why are we to be reminded of this?
The girls choir at St. Mary’s still sings there.
Shh, be quiet as we step outside
through these green rectangular doors.
Shh! Listen...
We can still hear them up there,
in the translucent loft.