Long Whey Poems
Long Whey Poems. Below are the most popular long Whey by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Whey poems by poem length and keyword.
Walking along the oceans sand, in the crisp evening air
He happened upon a sand castle built by a child’s, tiny hand
It's delicate, virginal beauty, a short time it would last
Much too soon the waves of the sea would wash it to a distant past.
Those little footprints, ingrained on some land
Where a sweet, small child had carefully planned
A beautiful, fragile castle in sand
He was painting a picture in his mind of those little hands and feet.
The nocturne of a symphony with children directing the beat.
The rolling motions of the sea kept a rhythmic roar with the waves
They rolled to the shore in syncopated lyrics making wet, sandy graves.
His hope he carried in his heart
As he walked quietly along the sea
He wanted to make everything right
But he was doubting his ability
A silent cantata of a discordant roar of time,
Was singing a haunting melody in voice A-cappella
Chanting audible chords of memories in his mind
His thoughts went back to the little child, building a dream carved in sand
A a child who was thoughtfully shaping their future on land.
As he sat on the shore in pensive thought,
His own child came to his mind.
A sweet little girl, not a care in her world
Singing her innocent, happy rhymes
He’d come home from work, needing time to unwind
Too busy and tired to give his child enough time
She learned to walk and talk all while he was gone
While her mommy taught her all those cute, little songs
"Little Miss Muffet sat on a tuffett
Eating her curds and whey
The little spider that sat down beside her
Until she shooed him away"
His wife, the apple of his eye, a woman who stood by his side
He wrote her name inside his heart, always wanted her as his bride.
They fell in love, prayed for a sweet, little child to share all their love.
The Lord in Heaven heard their prayers and sent them a little girl from above.
His memories led him back to home
Knowing he made those vows without end
Finally knowing what he must do..
He’d take his wife and child by their hands
To make their lovely, delicate castles in sand
*~*
Miss Muffet was a girl of thirteen, filled with youth's beauty and charm;
And a love of vibrant life zealous, like eager, vivid thunder of blue alarm.
She was a fine student, pert and popular; like the primrose popularity;
Or stars appearing at the designated hour, sparkling like crystal clarity.
Mary Muffet lived in a small town, with loving parents and her siblings,
Who sympathized with her fear of spiders; like colorful, fall misgivings.
Friends flanked their white picket fence, in fall days of glamour, striking;
And wove fanciful tales with flourish, like flowering genesis, so enticing!
Far off family ofttimes visited Fernglen, with its farms, rich with future;
For fishing and other rollicking fun, staying on 'til varicolored, fall rumor.
They lived in the house of quaint beauty, like charming red, berry sun;
Fondly gazing on pearly moon twice daily, the ritual begun on day one.
Songs sunrise to sunset serenaded, on dappled, silent, Sowerby Street;
But, a scorching summer bled scarlet roses, at the red butterfly retreat.
Near neighbors stayed on a first name basis, in unending, plum seasons;
Of days and nights of green nature; like teal surf, which never weakens.
Summer's glory was in the tiny details, like prayer plants, giving praise;
When sun face orchids, wore sunny smiles, in colored fields of noon haze.
And jade baby toes plants were crawling, through hours of soon history;
In honey days of bicolored hibiscus, filled with heady scents of mystery.
Mary attended a church celebration one day, along with her whole family;
And food was served indoors and out, as pink robin sang of gold, happily.
Mary had such fun playing games! There was much laughter and talking.
Then Mary had a craving for cheese, so like shadows, inside went walking.
Once inside, 'Little Miss Muffet sat on a tuffet, eating her curds and whey;
There came a big spider, who sat down beside her, And frightened Miss Muffet away.'
As Mary screamed and ran, causing a rumpus, she drew a lot of attention;
But, was suddenly embarrassed by her overreaction, like fall's suspension.
Little Miss Muffet was thence more mature, a natural result of getting older,
And fear of spiders was left behind, like summer blossoming, grown bolder.
Rear view mirror
Objects, objectively put, are closer
than they appear. But it doesn’t say it all.
With the fair signs that spewed forth once turning to
a slew of pre-twitter pseudo- tweets since.
I once put it down In form Octa-Tri :
In rhyme scheme: aab, bb, ccc .
(“ At the wheel
At night. Uneasy feel.
Narrow misses, though, in nobody’s midst.
Rows of reflectors mark lanes glaring through the mist,
Comforting coolness and sultry night coexist .
Cell service zones change, ding-dongs the phone
Heart fluttering alone
Night unknown”.)
A row of earthy images it failed
rather than showed ,images with eerie
librations and weary nutations .Which
was not Physics, but physiognomy of life.
Like when bashed by kiddy badasses and
basic arithmetic, or when up higher ,
combative but math a behemoth
all the same, and guided perfunctorily
often, and rarely with the right intent.
In the peccadilloes- round, the Tintern
Abbey Sycamore also loomed dour sans
creativity , but the three trees on
the low sky made sense , and then on to
T.ds. equations and tedious times
soured by sleep and steep sloth.
Ingenious in fair measure , now turning
ingenuous on the proving grounds , after,
in the space of a couple of cusps of
light and sound mom was no more and we
whimpered and simpered under a dad who cared
but did not seem to, in his straight-faced mode
Then came falsely flashing , faintly fuming ,
slapdash years of machines and mega hertz,
eggs and vegs, sex and senescence to remain
for ever weighed down by the wayside whey.
Bringing-up-kids-banality apart
( fed mainly on meds for just cough that recurred);
preferring palm-frond’s loftiness cum
deprivation to urban up-for-grabs
benefaction; and the mess of docs, deaths
and a mossy crock of living pain since.
And all the dicey way , never patted
but p(f)anned; tweaked , untweaked ; harmed, ex-harmed;
banked on , debunked ; short-changed, sort-of-changed ;
lumbering on , alive and a-slumbering
and if anything wondering if it’s
not all the mirror’s prim fault
which never once showed my face.
There was a poetry slam the Sunday after 9/11/01..my whatever she still is to me,
….she said “well free, did you write something about 9/11. She’s a very good poet
as well, so I responded by saying, “Why, did you?” my she whatever replied, “of
course I did” and that’s precisely whey I didn’t. Because it is not Mother’s Day yet,
I’ll share this, it’s very personal, but I hope you can all relate
ALWAYS AN ALLY IN ALL WAYS
Oh God, I’ll miss her laughter
Forever after
Oh Lord, I’ll miss her smile
Mile after mile
There are no words deep enough or powerful enough to describe this anguish
The severity of my sentimental remorse and recollections of her cooking in the
kitchen
Remorse because of every time I went off course
Led astray because I did not heed what Mother had to say
And now she’s being spirited away
To a place so many religions argue about
While I remain awash in doubt
Right now, in this microcosm of a minute how is she feeling and what is she seeing?
Are angels like her urging my Mom to fly?
Is she seeing stars that aren’t really in the sky?
This anguish is too burdensome for a weak man such as myself to defy
And a pain my consistent tears cannot deny
As she sleeps
Or sleeps not
According to this, the Lord’s most pain laden plot
DaIly I am awakened by the realization that she may not be that which means so
much to me
And arise to an ache so piercingly too persistent to conjugate into words
Mom’s quite old and admittedly this should have been expected
But perhaps that’s a fact I’ve intentionally neglected
Because she remains so beautiful to me
Always was
always shall be
IF ONLY IN THE MIDDLE OF A MEMORY
Oh God to keep her spirit there
In my grin made so obviously clear
To soothe a son’s ample and every fear
Oh to keep my beautiful mom right here
© 2011.…Jeffry Cohan (Rita Cohan’s son)((mom wouldn’t mind if I used the name
she would never call me, free cee!))
NO MATTER HOW BADLY I HAD SCREWED UP,
ONCE AGAIN, MY MOM’S FRONT DOOR AND
HEART WERE ALWAYS OPENED FOR ME.
Mrs. Stanley J. Cohan
Always my strength
Always an ally
We all meet Friends like these and sometimes we keep them!!
Written with a bit of Jamaican Patois thrown in.
Chatterbox
Some people when them when they start chat
Just cant stop at all
Not a word in edgeways
You are a fly on the wall
Just like a runaway train
You wish their mouth would stall
All the world revolve round them
And the echoes from their eardrums
Don't resonate, to their braincells at all
Impervious to the voice of reason
Tougher than a granite wall
Do they ever stop to think for a moment
That for every problem they got
There are many a solutions
But they never give you a chance
To answer them back.
Last time you were telling me
How you fall out with your friend
Instead of complaining to me
Why not talk to him
Continue with your chatter
Then tell me 'bout his mother
Sister, and a brother called Glen
But you wearing me down
With all your problems
I have my Water Rates
Gas and electricity to pay
Already got the final letter
And tomorrow is cut off day!
Not too bothered 'bout the cooking
Cornmeal mi know to turn
But if mi have no drinking water
Mi have no where to turn.
Cleanliness is next to godliness
ChikV on the rise
And keep spreading
Without water to keep clean
Pickney them will get sick
And Catch germ
Mi know Mass Bertie
Is a good and honest man.
He is not a borrower
But he will lend
So if its money you want from me
Don't look in my direction
Go and borrow from him.
My parents all use to tell me
Life is not an easy ride
As fast as you fall down
So you must try to rise
Same thing the elders told me
Same thing has just arrived
Same thing I experience
Same way you must learn
Once you suffer from laziness
Dollars you cease to earn
If you continue with your foolishness
And don't move up a gear
Same thing whey happen last year
Same thing will happen this year
Working hard is no science
Its brings its reward
Food on the table
And forges self-reliance
So if you have nothing further to say
Please get out of my way
I have a pressing day
While I bid you farewell
And wish you good day.
For P.D's "Going Haiku Crazy" Contest
How Many?
going to St. Ives
met folks on that smelly bus
more than I could count
Just Sleep Walking?
Wee Willy Winky
caught outside a boy’s window
in a night garment
Got Wool?
naked in the lane
three bags-full of wool sheared off
baa baa black sheep fleeced
She Didn’t Know What to Do!
Kids’ cries from inside -
outside an old woman’s shoe
child welfare people
Clean Your Plate!
Licking their plates clean
Jack Sprat and wife do their part. . .
kids starve in China
The Treacherous Hill
pail of spilled water
Jill’s body sprawled over Jack’s
one big bloody mess
What a Ding Dong
good deed for the day
boy scout Tommy Stout by well. . .
scratches on his arm
Not Even a Bone
old Mother Hubbard
Social Security cut
dog needs a new home
Yellow Georgie
victims of Porgie
confront him in the playground
his true color shows
The Original Blonde
Bo peep loses sheep
birth of a new tradition. . .
blonde jokes being told
The Schemer
some spilled curds and whey
spider near a fallen chair
supping happily
Making the Best. . .
Humpty takes a spill
the whole army can’t fix him
omelets for lunch
Baby Catches On
the church and steeple
and now you show me people?
those are just fingers!
They Say He Couldn’t Keep Her!
gossip in the town
pumpkin shell big as a house. .
where is Peter’s wife?
Bye, Hushed Baby
the sound of wind’s rush
baby’s cries abruptly hushed
broken branch on ground
*I'm choosing this series of haiku for several reasons.
First, it's the only post I made named "Twisted" so it
is an obvious choice. Second, I do have other poems
I consider a bit twisted, but, I simply cannot
remember the titles of some of these really old poems
to look for them. Finally, this series was inspired by
a long ago contest of PD's in which I got the idea
to take nursery rhymes and twist them, and so
I'm reviving this series which can no longer be
viewed by anybody here unless it's in a contest!
I once wrote about fear and sorrow being that which kills us in prison
I was wrong and I was right about both,
They do kill us
They do ruin us,
They do give birth to despair for now I know
That before everything there is loneliness born of isolation
And it is this loneliness that kills us
For loneliness is the worst enemy to fight because it hides in plain sight
Shouting with every movement,
Shrieking,
Crying out in the crowd
Of loss,
Of abandonment,
Of the past
Always whispering too it does of yesterday,
The day before
Whey you laughed among friends,
When you could touch her face
When life . . didn’t abandon you and from the corner of your eyes it dances
Dances like a marionette,
A sickly ballerina with smiles so knowing
That you,
That I,
That they could not see it,
Do not see it
The cold chill of decaying souls lies everywhere around me waiting
The walls are painted thick with desolation deeply layered and sown of old
The floor cries out with a million gibbering mouths all starved of light
The sounds of heavy steel doors clang shut to smash the weeping spirits
And the air is thick and is heavy with broken muffled sobs for
This soulless shell of a building hungers for the lives of men
And it holds me and I am bereft of hope,
Full of malignant lamentations plenty
Cut to ribbons within the depths of my soul for no one knows
The eviscerating torment it takes to breathe,
For no one knows
The fight it is to open your eyes each morning,
For no one knows
The city of isolation will burn my spirit to dust,
For no one knows
The city of despair is alive and it wants to feed,
For no one knows
This city of desolation is consuming me whole
As I lay here I know that in the darkness to come I will be alone
I am alone,
‘Beware the loneliness,
Remember those who care about you
Hold them close in your mind,
In you heart
Keep them as a shield against the loneliness,
Against despair
I’m holding my friends close with all my heart
I’m holding on . . .
Holding on’
Second Quiz with even broader hints for blind poets
The Princess Anna stood
arms half-akimbo
at the scrawny edge of the receding bank
her Polonaise pollarded down
to her exposed tarsus heels
A wilting comb of fern and shrivelled grass
still clinging to her rump
mud trailing in crusty clumps around the soles
half exposed at the base of the trunk
A soft curling gust about her waist
shook the panticles of her bells
light translucent purple corolla
peeling tinnitus at her lobes
out of the gathering Siberian clouds
sounded like her father calling:
“ Pavlovnia! Pavlovnia! My Darling!
Shake! Shake! Your ample locks!
And let your capsicles pop and drop
Your myriad minute pods
Wafting towards Tsarist towers
Tintinnabulating on troikas and travois! ”
“ Hélas! Hélas! My Royal Pa!
I’m wed for life to nether water-logged land
See how the wind furrows the leathery waters
Licking and tickling my bared soles!
Here with one sawn shoulder and one twisted arm
My hip sags with each dastardly axe-raised slap
Leaning onto the other talus’s side
They say it’s for my own own good
My head was severed at the start
My heart-shaped tresses thick in the heat
Now float on the faint muddy bank tide!
I dream of the day
My Phoenix tubers will climb
And seek the sunrise over the Eastern divide
In lands where the waters drain
Whole crowns of dark-green broccoli buds
Before the sun goes down in the Taiga! “
“ O! I’ll tell your whey-faced mother, My Dear!
Her eyes look long past the Western Gate!
Till your timbers all grow strong with sheen
And we’ll look for a handsome Prince, My Dear!
Sturdy as oak-bound sails on brine!
O! We’ll cut and soothe the grainy boards
Till the dressing-chest’s adorned
With trefoil liana round mirrors and knobs
On the day of your dowry’s prize
For you! For you alone! My Dear!
Down in the lowlands shut in fear! “
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2014
Woke up this morning
With news headlines spawning
I do not know if it's winter yet
Because of old age I often forget
Got to realise how weird it is
When I can brush my teeth
And scratch my nose
But try as I might
I just can't touch my toes
Wasn't too bothered when
Often times back ache set in
And even when Viagra
Didn't give me the desired vim
But this is not a funny joke
The morning when I woke
And begin to realize
That I could twist my hip
Do a jig
But try as I might ,
I just can't tough my toes.
Pinocchio was a lier
Kristine Keeler was a hooker
And Lord Lampton got exposed
But trouble comes in different parcels
But where mine is heading
God only knows
When my wallet drop on the floor
Bend down to pick it up
Like brass monkey in winter
The entire lumber vertebrae, froze
Often times mi get a pain in the neck
When it comes, I can deal with it
Sometimes mi love to dance
Do a foxtrot and even a quickstep
But that is no compensation
When mi toe nail look like talon
And size ten no longer fit mi
But try as I might to cover them
With knitted socks, mi get since when
Its a doomed attempt
Flexibility is now a distant memory
And back ache now my closest friend
Mi know young people
Will laugh at old people's talk
But it only seems like yesterday
When I too was laughing
But today , I am walking the walk.
The same thing whey a reach mi
Is the same thing a happen to mi friend
But if you think it can't reach you
You better think again
Mi used to be a little sprite
Do head spins and bouncing somersaults
Do some boxing, and throw down a fight
But time travels faster than lightening
And my black hair overdosed on whitening
So before you reach my milestone
Heed my warning, get enlighten
That one day, not so far away
Things are going to be past memories
Because try as you might
You may bend your knees ,
Scratch your nose
Try as you might
You just can't touch your toes.
It would be disingenuous to say that Ingenium did not have a bacon, egg and cheese sandwich for breakfast. It would boarder a lie to claim the same deity did not begin their morning exercise with a job through the unexplored corridors of the memory and imagery. The halls of memory are charted to an extent, but the cathedrals hidden down the vast tunnels of imagery seem always foreign and new. There Ingenium stopped to smoke a cigarette, leaning against a door marked "wooden". Neighboring this door were others, each with a replaceable placard screwed into the hard-wood. "Plastics" one read. "Trees" read another to Ingenium's left.
Propped up by the "wooden" door, they watched blurred figures move behind the tinted glass window of the door before them. Dark letters were craft-fully painted onto the glass: "Office Furniture". There seemed to be an argument over vague physics terminology being held between two shadowy characters in the office space beyond the tinted glass. The abstract entity could only make out a few mumbled words, something about work force equaling applied pressure divided by ambition over availability. The banter failed to impress Ingenium, and the muse snuffed its cigarette against the oak molding of the "wooden" door before continuing its job.
They passed other more decorative doors like "religion" or the red-white and blue striped door labeled "politics". It wasn't until Ingenium reached the door to the self that they stopped and released a sigh. Reaching down with unfathomable presence, Ingenium turned the red glass door knob and opened the door before it. A world of light and darkness poured out, flowing through the deity like whey through a screen. The curds that collected there were the substance of the soul. The cheeses that we ate that night were the mana of life, to be consumed today and gathered again on the morrow.