Measure Out Poems | Examples

sewing something Sally

sewing something Sally is on the trail of a pin
she saw it yesterday, and can match it with its twin
slides her tape measure out of the way
and yells hip hip hip hip hip hooray

is this how I’ll act if I take up sewing? I wonder.
Sewing something Sally is always full of blunder.
She speaks of pin cushions, zippers, buttons and such.
I am not sure I would like this hobby very much.

The Art of Baking

I measure out the flour and yeast,
And knead the dough until it's creased,
I add some sugar, salt, and butter,
And let the mixture rest to flutter.

The oven preheats, my hands are set,
I shape the dough with no regret,
Into a loaf, a roll, or bun,
My expert hands get the job done.

The aroma fills the room with bliss,
And soon the bread will feel the kiss,
Of heat that transforms dough to gold,
A feast for all, both young and old.

The art of baking, like poetry,
Requires precision, creativity,
A skill that's honed with every bake,
And each success, another notch to make.

So come and taste my expert bread,
The fruits of my labor, my heart and head,
And let this lesson be well learned,
In every craft, expertise is earned.

Better Than Coffee

Microwave a mug of water with 
        A bag of Orange Spice herb tea ...
	Long enough to make it hot,

	But not burn your tongue – about 85 seconds.

	Toss the tea bag and stir in two packets of Stevia, then
	Choose today’s cocoa and measure out two rounded teaspoons.

Will it be Hershey’s,
Hershey’s Special Dark,
Trader Joe’s,
	Or something more exotic?   
                   Live a little – make a hybrid.

Stir and sip.
	Don’t forget to wipe off the mustache.
		Dunk in some Biscotti, or if you can afford it, Belgian Speculoos.

Old-Fashioned

I perk my Joe old-fashioned style
In a pot atop the stove,
My percolator ancient, 
Like a pirate’s treasure trove.

I measure out the coffee
And a timer lets me know
When 8 minutes have elapsed and then
My brew’s all set to go.

It’s French roast, strong and most important,
It is really hot,
The only way that it should be
So it will hit the spot.

I toyed with going modern – 
The Nespresso had appeal,
But to change what’s tried and true seemed
Like too much of a big deal.

So I’ll stick with perking coffee
Like the dinosaur I am
For each morning sip allows me
To be happy as a clam.

Cynical Post Modern Poets

Post Modern Cynical Poets.

To count upon line
Life would be just fine
Find my way through time
To measure out rhyme
That’s what sound is for

Hexaverse— terse
One can rehearse
The sing song rhyme
That is so sublime


It was best
I should guess
Meter stressed

Left with two
What to do?

Laugh.

Christmas Greetings

C	Christmas greetings to my friends
H	Here and far away
R	Rejoice with young and old
I	In a happy way
S	Share yourself and your time
T	Top your classes up
M	Measure out some wine
A	And don’t forget the reason for the joy 
S	Some years ago, there came a baby boy.

The Storm

When I'm alone I reminisce
And measure out the damage done
I watch my thoughts play back to me
In my theater of one
Like a crippled man without his cane
Or a king without his crown
The passion that once consumed me
Has turned to ashes on the ground
I'm drawn to the sound of silence
Drawn to this cold and empty space
Where I don't have to confront my fears
Where I can hide my face
But the darkness only hides so much
And others start to see
The turmoil that I suffer through
The storm inside of me
Angel of death and mercy
Please come take me from this cage
Before these iron bars become me
And these four walls become my rage
Will you be my savior
Save my life before it slips
And is carried away by the hurricanes 
Blown straight from Poseidon's lips
I might have hit rock bottom
But it's the perfect place to start
Where the only thing that I can hear
Is the beating of my own heart
I screamed my name to pierce the silence
But I've been gone too long to hear
Caught somewhere between being noticed
And wanting to disappear.

Black Crows

I watched as they flew home this night 
Impoverished as the ground below them
Like an armada dark-sailed, secret, 
mysterious, focused and grim
Full stops on the landscape outside
Dark, as if comma'd winged exclamation, 
Ripping skies like black crepe paper
Opportunists painted in grey concentration.
taunting the sky with raggedy fingers
Crows draw heavy their charcoal line,
then a moment stop still, to swoop
Never resting before its wail and cry, 
Hundred louvres to measure out time
Like doors on their back galling
Glimpses that revealed nothing  
Dark demons soar high, then falling

Unicorn of the Sea - Oh My

{{{{{{{{{{{{            }}}}}}}}}}}} 
{{{{{{{{{{{{{      }}}}}}}}}}}}}
Strange Unicorn of the Sea,
we solved your mystery.
Of Arctic Ocean fame
you are Narwhal
as named. 
Unicorn 
of Sea,  
our fascination
crept for secrets 
you had kept about
tusk's outside nerves;
what uses do they serve?
{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{{ 
Allows you to communicate. 
A great aid to seek a mate. 
The perfect sword to joust; 
the feared enemies to oust. 
Safest water space ensures
by measuring temperatures
and the water pressure too,
gauges spaces to get thru. 
Long pick to break the ice; 
an excellent, sharp device. 
Pinpoint your hidden prey-
use a sensory-based way. 
You measure out at sea; 
saline levels guarantee. 
Survival tools evolved, 
so the puzzle's solved. 
}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}}} 
Deep ocean mystery 
our Unicorn of Sea, 
you are Narwhal  
by name with
firm Arctic
Ocean 
fame.
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N
A
R
W
H
A
L
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A Bit More Time

I don’t need to reach the age
When I must use a walker.
That would be hard, anyway,
Since I am a New Yorker.

Ninety candles on my cake
I never planned to see;
And neither did I think there’d be
An eighty year old me.

My parents both died rather young;
I thought I’d follow suit.
Genetics may not matter, though;
The verdict still is moot.

But I would like a bit more time
To see my grandson grow.
I’m sure most people feel the same
When they’ve been called to go.

We can’t control our date of death
Or measure out our years;
And as we age, we find ourselves
Succumbing to our fears.

Though what I’m feeling strongly
May be looked upon as greed,
A bit more time upon this earth
Is what I want and need.

Fete

Into the lane
come wind, impetuous rain.
Trees are now a threat,
gesturing wildly, angry,
promising to snap,
eager to pounce,
to crush in an embrace
of leaf and crusty bark.

The village fête, though,
is like the show:
it must go on,
it must go on.
It’s fixed in time,
it’s preordained.

Brave souls
staff the stalls and serve,
to raise the funds
to fix the roof.

Spattered souls – pulling
their cardigans closed, tugging
their knitted hats further down their heads –
bravely measure out the day
in collected coinage
dropped into biscuit tins:
the target must be reached.

Cricket’s off – rain stopped play;
back to the crease another day.
But the ladies of the Guild
fête the thinning punters
with bric-a-brac and homemades,
with orange juice and lemonade.

It’s a parallel world –
the other one’s not here today.
This is all there is.
For this day only,
this is our fête.

Rochester Discourse - Federick Douglas

Wind, word, sail
The helm is turned
On the oar of the tongue
Against the tide of laws
The righteous cause
Will its litany and prevail
O could the dock
Materialize again
Out of the euphoria of the brain
O could not relay of metered sound
Measure out spoon by empty spoon
The empty wait
And the immediacy of the state
You were a tower
Better than Babel or rainless flower
You were answerer and caller
With exact mimetic
Of the horrific hour
That children go round and round
Sunless in the shadow
I never let the moon get into my blood
The universe is just a batch of mud.

Love and Becoming

The sun-stream floods
the two lovers

In their golden raputre
they make love and death

And so all life 
Reaches up to becoming

Waxing gently and strongly
In ritual forms

Moving always moving
Towards its end and back again

This swinging branch that 
Laps the air in rythmic lashes

To measure out this
Endless dripping of time

Each moment passing
With love and becoming

That binds us to Life
In a frayed and twisted knot

Like the long-legged lover
Beguiling with her black eyes

She must satisfy herself
With all her victims

In the practiced dance
Of love and beccoming

This eternal marching 
To its end and back again

Back and to its end again…

Anticipation

Moon, Moon, see what I give you, moon.
an offering, as images
Hitherto quiescent in their primal darkness
Writhe upward from the writhing mind
Like sacrificial smoke.
For now my mind avid for the sea
Destined to replace it surges like that surface
Under the cool frenzy of your midnight glow
And unsettles to the point where I
Rehearse the end pursued: first,
My tossing on reflected horns; then after, sunk
In lucent ambiences where your pull
Unfurls the seaweed's banner from my spine
And where my vacant skull can measure out
Eternity in grains of sand.
Wholly dissolved, draw me up loosely
Till poised in an exquisite crest
I indicate the centre where your forces gather.
Moon, moon, see what I give you, moon.
To little purpose is the blood I offer: 
Burdened with a death still unachieved,
I sometimes tremble when my diapason swells,
Being inwardly aware that I
But reinforce its absence by these words
Restored again by your affective light.
But I approach the headlong fall, the pitch
Which happens as the dream exhausts its depths.
Meantime I keep on waiting unfulfilled,
A rotten fruit that moulders from the core.
Moon, moon, what more can I give you, moon?

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