Long Wolfed Poems
Long Wolfed Poems. Below are the most popular long Wolfed by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Wolfed poems by poem length and keyword.
It is not often realized
that between two opposite things
lies a razor's edge.
It could be love and hate,
faith and unbelief,
or happiness and sadness.
I was sick for a long time
thinking of your departure.
Sadness is a disease,
it leaves a bad taste,
a despair for better things.
A fever that burns the soul.
Then I decided to take a different path.
I found myself afar from lands forlorn
into a sunlit sacred valley.
I felt irrational happiness,
don't ask me why
it could have been
the sun coming out suddenly
out of dark rain filled clouds.
Or the smell of freshly baked
Italian lasagne my mother had prepared,
to be wolfed up
with a ruby spring scented wine.
In the end who cares why?
I am so happy now.
soak up the side streets of Montmartre,
Paris, Pigalle on Boulevard de Clichy
class less art combusts then drips
- street beggars & tourists cant
writer Rubbish pastes lace traceries
ala mode decoupaging decay
his cut-paper layers grace anoint
no longer anonymous walls
stencilist C215’s “simply a cat”
defies sourpusses not to smile—see
heaven art yes art with style
the banality of poverty held at bay
pureed souffléd life wolfed-down
colors synced
spray-cannoned Lothario’s like David Walker
entrance Picasso’s on the brink,
Romani-hearted paint peddlers
of the Republique
- street beggars & tourists cant
Thom Thom’s décollage rip-cuts
the billboard scene titillates the unseen
—culture-lovers—can-canned Lautrec’s
bedded with Che Guevara politics
come tilt with the masse
come play your part
in Montmartre
near Pigalle on Boulevard de Clichy
where wicked pissers defy
cliché
First Published in Clockwise Cat January 2015
Trouble was caused by love of sausage,
Summer sausage by strict definition,
Which is any sausage loved by masses
That can be kept without refrigeration.
Until a day when a man arrives
Walking into a home, his destination,
The sausage was waiting, calling
His name, how could he avoid the temptation?
He lost his vision of all other tasks
In a quest for this pork perfection.
Who is to say it wasn’t true love?
Who can resist the salty pig parts?
The slender casing surrounding the
Tube of leftover scraps, like hearts.
The exact ingredients are makers secrets,
No recipes, or measuring, or charts.
The love in the hands of the artist
Who takes the whole pig, and some parts.
Often mixed with beef or venison
In secret combinations, takes smarts.
The magic of putting it all together,
Mixing and cooking and chopping,
Is wasted on a young man’s greed,
Who never even did the shopping.
Lost in the quest for food and drink
Shoving food in, there’s no stopping.
Heartless abandon to those around
Staying for free, just flopping.
Sausage created a wall for him
Between starving and groc shopping.
Did he even taste the subtle tang
Of a creation with just the right fat?
Does he even know the time it took
To get the ingredients where they’re at?
Did he miss the testament to the hog,
The life of the pig for just that?
Does he even have a clue that all meat,
Fat, salt and herbs, must be so exact?
He couldn’t have wolfed down a log
Of chorizo, for it would be too hot.
He couldn’t have handled the extra
Garlic in one, he’d faint right on the spot.
The mustard seed, black pepper
And salt gave it just the right shot,
Of spices, then add in a grace
Of sugar, to make it the best he got.
Dried or smoked, he grunted right through
Gone in a whisper, it was not.
[For those of you unfamiliar with the Ice Cream Gran saga,
Ice Cream Gran or Turbo Gran is a crime fighting granny.
Guess what she drives…..]
****
Ice Cream Gran, in her ice cream van
Turned on her cheerful tune
Today she’s free to serve ice cream…
No crime this afternoon
Her new Black Forest ice cream
Which would normally have cherries
Is now her new best seller
Since she changed them for strawberries
A lady, large and very brash
Said, ‘Large with chocolate chips,
not in a cone but in a dish,
those cones sit on my hips.’
Her snottty son who seemed quite young
Said, ‘Give me ice cream now!’
He then got let down by his tongue
which said, ‘You daft old cow.’
‘Of course, young man,’ said Ice cream Gran
‘Is chocolate sauce all right?’
He grabbed the cone and wolfed it down
And whimpered, ‘Gaaaaarrrrhhh…. Marmite!
But when her secret phone announced
That crime was now occurring
Gran said you’d best be on your way
There’s crime to be deterring
So Turbo Gran sped up the street
Her turbo van high-tailing
Its sirens like that rude young man
We’re positively wailing
22 June 2022
Contest: Ice Cream Poetry
Sponsor: Julia Ward
Alone and hungry
left leg aches like a broken peg
in the mugginess of its left slipper.
Not a good day for fixing anything
but the sealed and over salted,
the quickly warmed and spooned
that can be mixed into a taste-less medley
with other sundry comestibles.
The pantry,
(a recessed place with shelf-space),
is a dimly lit store for long kept canned products,
a once carelessly gathered and undated harvest,,
a compulsive cartload
that should never have been bought
opened, and cooked
in any company but strictly my own.
In that larder molders a canned fodder;
here anemic asparagus stalks wrapped in tin
are jammed together with diced jalapenos,
or glossily illustrated kidney beans.
Tomato and noodle soups are haphazardly piled
atop of various loosely defined
stewed meat offerings, including canned Spam
naturally.
After the so-called cooking
(more a revealing of a much mushed-up
mixture of misnamed contents),
I sit down with the steaming plate
allowing the metallic aroma to entice
peckish yet suspicious taste buds.
Fed now with the quickly chewed-over
I’m both glad and grateful
that this ten minute feast
can be wolfed down in so much less time.
In the dog-days of summer of so long ago
there were bear-hugging moments I like to recall
Like leafing through pages of ram-shackle books,
that are dog-eared, and faded, wearing hound-tooth worn seams
I had a bull's-eye encounter with puppy-tail schemes
There are cat-walks through memories, over turkey-trot trails
wearing pigtails, and Mother Goose, and laughter would peal
Where pony-tailed hairdos would swing like a bell,
and where kids could play leap-frog, and happiness dwells
We would run like the roosters and bull-doze the grass,
picking puffed dandelions, to blow with our breaths
Spreading the catnip and watching it gasp
Grasping the wind, while it wolfed-down the rest
Blooming sweet dogwood would bend in the breeze
Elephant-ears would line every path
With cattails and polly-wogs, we would bunny-hop home
for chickpeas, and monkey bread, and gooseberry creams
Then hug little teddy-bear, in our goose-down reclines
while dog-days of summer would live for all time
the upshot constituted a figurative straw
that broke the virtual camels back
where yours truly fingered as scape goat,
who meekly, passively, and subserviently
felt the stinging crack
of wooden, smooth,
and oblong paddle and stands pat,
asper innocence, though now
(myself more than two score years
orbitz around sun) remains more defiant
for purportedly causing Roberta -
not her real name flack
and clears that blot (now a composite
of petrified spitballs) as a hack
writer of poetry, feels jilted like Jack
donning many major protagonistic ruffian knack
nursery rhyme roles, which fables never didst lack
for upstart precocious, kickstarters impish grin,
as if he just wolfed down a swiped Bic Mac
and goose that laid more than one golden egg
McMuffin running from the Giant,
with spindle shank for each leg,
and sliding down the beanstalk, which didst peg
world wide web Marathon record
suddenly the envy of Queequeg,
which way word ness
far off course from the theme of this work,
hence hold tight
to hazmat bag of poop pin jay dreck,
while poetic license allows me to twerk
intended story aye (captain...
oh captain) moost not shirk,
lemme reel yar attention
back to the classroom of missus Labosh,
hood didst whistle and perk
unbeknownst to me, my scrawny derriere
unaware what quaint, hence danger didst lurk
for letting passivity
find me singled out as the bona fide jerk
wishing Moby Dick could swallow
hook, line and sinker
with a slight even Steven crane
of his neck, every mother plucking bird brain classmate
deemed Scott free, and Chutzpah didst gain
while this smart ass wannabe took a crash course,
sans weltanschauung "Artful Dodging
Spitball Shooting Maven" in the main
quite heavy on Physics and Trigonometry as became plane.
(earlier this January 18th, 2019 belatedly
to acknowledge my LX birthday.)
Mine eldest sister
as I continue in the circle game
of life, (ye dear Amelie
McGeehan) darling dame
a modestly lofty poem I aim
to dash off (while riding away
high in the sky - belay
ying at Macht shnel blazing
saddles laser optic speed
in a white horse open sleigh),
and plaudits of course
without moment's delay,
your husband Richard,
one hunger re
chap, who wolfed
down his entree
(who introduced me
to fictitious song
titled Richard, Cory),
plus Harris patriarch Boyce aye
aver as gregarious soon tub be
a nonagenarian papa,
also one grand dad dee
glad this sole son did see
our father (thou wart tin...)
maintains sharp mental
a cue witty,
which does not mean he
willoughby immortal
till et tern knit tee
since the gradual
onset of death I bee
leave actually begins at
birth, but whee
ving and bobbing
(like a sponge at sea)
waves each person
closer to thee
cosmic creator, or re:
incarnate tid (three
times a day) tis key
unless otherwise specified
(if questionable issue at stake,
sans not so ease zee
as apple pie with gray vee),
hence power of attorney
in demand, cuz
this brother-hood
generated bupkis, and made prithee
coon fuse, nary a whit,
asper executor signed...
yours True Lee!
Look closely, feel the harmless heat
enveloping black-diamond
petals in the glistening
garden of glossy geraniums.
There, sprouts rosemary dreams
from an untouched silhouette,
eager to be seen beyond
her perfumed pigments.
Her universe was sprinkled
with starry streams
of gleaming rays,
as she swayed to symphonic
serenades filled with hazel dust.
They may gawk with greedy
glares as wide as the night sky,
marking her with lecherous
objects that only please
shameless eyes.
She was never
in need of a sixth sense
to understand iron glances
that travel in nefarious packs,
with sugar-burnt hunger
washing all over her
unblistered flesh,
judging her concealer
as a manipulative facade,
seeking uncalled-for affirmations
that she never solicited,
misconceiving her thin lines
of red-river lipstick.
Her summer physique allowed
no consent for invasive intrusion,
yet carnal cravings become
unwelcome toxic trespassers.
Their immoral thoughts
believe shallow words
give them wanderlust wings,
while sinister stars in their sky
label her a soulless mannequin,
objectifying her
cinnamon-glazed skin,
sun-kissed hair,
and pecan-powdered~
caramelized voluptuous flare,
with their vehement
voracious desires.
Swinging penetrative thin blades
of opinions from miles,
oblivious to the fact that
she is the sanguine strength
that strolls in silver silence
across spiky swards,
suppressing the pain her
bones have endured with
every whiskering
whistle they wolfed.
There, if the mauve moon and
crystalline constellations look closely,
they would find versatile
mirrors of meaning
reflecting the times
she parades a smile too
comfortable to wear,
for they have concluded
her bed to be a shrine
of blenders and
overflowing thickened blades,
cursed by the biological
sins of Adam's ancestors.
a sea otter swimming on its back
bangs tightly-clutched mussel shell
against a fist-sized rock
atop its belly in rapid succession.
intense hunger pangs strikes!
on, and on, the sea otter bangs
with sheer determination.
hard work pays off, at last! mussel is wolfed down.
how's that for ingenuity?
a cute marine mammal with a human brain.
Forms I - Imagism- Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Constance La France
Date written: 03/10/2022