Short Ladle Poems
Short Ladle Poems. Below are examples of the most popular short poems about Ladle by PoetrySoup poets. Search short poems about Ladle by length and keyword.
sleeping under the stars big dipper serving up heaven
01/26/19
For Heavenly Monoku Poetry Contest
By Kim Rodrigues
A love that:
Flows so sweet as
ambrosia from Hebe’s
ladle to the cup of
Heracles
or nectar saccharine as
Apollo’s lyre,
carried by doves!
to the heavenly feast
Campbell's 'Soup' is no more, with its name change usurp,
Eating soup without a label, makes me a twerp,
I’ve sipped every bowl,
Now it’s taking a toll,
If I ladle soup, with no soup label, I’ll burp!
Bear
A pair of bears together
Gather in for a cuddle
A bear with a pear
And a bear with a ladle
One real and one not
One eats and one not
A still life and a life, the pair
Both giving a bear hug forever.
Fate held, unkind to breast
amnesty's heart, thine to rest
tomorrow, unknown chattel
hope, stands alone in battle
forgiveness, yours
from love's ladle, pours
another stolen day, borrows
eyes keen, our tomorrows
When quenching
the silence
alone at the well
One ladle
awaits me
and loneliness quelled
Tomorrow resurgent
all thirst
fading fast
My shadow
refilling
— the emptiness past
(Dreamsleep: September, 2024)
To drink
from my well
you
first must believe
Each cup
that I proffer
permission
received
The fuller
your bucket
the stronger
your vow
Each word
that you ladle
rebaptized
— aloud
(The Radnor House: January, 2024)
a ladle of love at twilight can ease a troubled mind,
so cradle me above stars and passion we shall find-
you'll be the moon and I'll be the spoon...two bodies intertwined.
Moon Spoon Contest
December 22, 2016
To paint I do so adore..
Four cans of paint are waiting to be poured...
I hear you say "What for?"
Let's use a ladle we have in store.
Are you sure?
Let's fill a super-soaker...
On a tilt-a-door?
One,two,three,four..
your action painting is now drying
on the rumpus-room floor.
Poetry’s for me
Don’t need Plot
Character
or Theme
Nor Beginning
Middle
or Ending
Activate the senses
Stir up an emotion
or two
Slip in a Mickey Finn
POW!
Dip the ladle in the punch
Invite the world to try it
(A Tribute to the Poetry Soup Staff)
A table
A soul
With cups of alphabet soup-
A ladle
A bowl
Is what's needed to scoop
Portions from the bottom,
The pot keeps getting better,
Sipping words and phrases
From spoonfuls of letters.
(Thanks to the Staff for bringing this Community together.)
mr. rumble went to
the cumble
sat there and had a cafe
with MR.and MRS.rafe
saw the sun set up down
and went to home with crukkle brown
lived in buffer with ladle moffer
to see the cauther ruffer
mr . rumble went to shopper
to buy lill toffer
had a lost journey with cumble curney
oh ! mr rumble
Words of a song.
The sound of wind all along.
In the vase by the door,
the petal of a flower
on the floor.
Letters of a word.
The carvings on a board.
In the vase on the table,
a drop of water
in the ladle.
Write a song,
forever belong.
The words of many,
to earn a penny.
In the vase by the door,
The flower fell on the floor.
putting and pasting
glow in the dark stars
i'm finally seeing
my ceiling
once
again
for if it was only once
and not again then
that would mean
i'm a virgin
all over
again
we make soup together
her poetry pot is on
top so she puts
my ladle
in
again
and
again
so i must
say its good
to be back
on my back
again
Form:
OH MAIDEN FAIR
Oh Maiden Fair
On the yard in the moonlit night
Ah! Fair maiden, playing the ladle
Crossing lefts while going right
Canvas curtain covers while your bathen
Oh Maiden Fair
Under light
In the night
Beautiful maiden music you're playing
You have princes and kings falling
7/24/18
written words by James Edward Lee Sr.©2018
Worried for the day
I sit at the table, too nervous to say
I must write a fable
With my pens in array
I look for my ladle
My hunger I must slay
My thoughts in disarray
Worried my hunger could be fatal
I forget my paper, in my bed I lay
My stomach tied knots
If I was understood i’d earn my spot
For now they look at me like an empty lot
watered down soup has lost its flavor ~ the broth is not one to savor
it's over peppered and there's too much garlic ~ sometimes vitriolic
nothing wrong with a little pinch of salt ~ but don't use words to assault
those who post AI should be put in detention ~ maybe suspension
don't ladle me a bowl of soup ~ if it's been tainted, and that's the scoop
VICTOR HAILS FROM MALTA
I picture you on your island of Malta,
fine treasures you mete with nature
and lovelorn memories. My mind’s eye
froths with imageries and portraitures.
You stir the sea of Poetry Soup’s lot,
ladle out friendship and kind words.
Halfway around the world, the sun
And moon shine with blessings stirred.
12/11/2019
Tribute to Victor Buhagiar
I gaze a stalky single-helix cradle,
Squished so in seemingly hydrous blue cover,
Attracts square substantial planes in a bundle.
I embrace now feather's mass helve to ladle
Psychic portraits siphon to it in wander.
My fist fiddles as it scribbles on oodles.
Cuts of a suckling tree, soil, river fondle
Paper, pen, poet in cahoots as lovers
Rupture of a skeptic smug gnostic noodle
Form:
An abacus arriving ate apples and so articulate were the sonnets delivered. So brave a bead. Pass pass passing. 5million mules delivering bread. Grabbing a gatepost. Steadily surfing a silvery wired wave. Whilst juggling 863 cows. Hahahaha mystified mood swings hahahaha and a peach coloured bucket carrying a ladle. Marketing strategy. 1 2 3 and a curried curriculum climbing. Xxxx evaporation z
Form:
I soar from the embers of the life
coincidences
grasping the ladle of passion
in my exact part
a butterfly roosts to my left
ponder on the shrubs
that lives in me
what do they ever emulate
lost paired on havoc, they
keep me mellow
nagging sensations
traverse the deepness
of love and pain
fantastic mates
life dwells below
your carapace quality
Written: September 28, 2022
Confession
Author: Runping Chen
From the peak of soul
I carry a handful of clean soil;
From the rapids of life
I scoop up a ladle of clear water,
And mix them up together.
I searched and fetched the bricks of affection
To build up a kitchen range.
I burn my life as igniting the firewood
To heat the pot of faith
So as to stew leisurely
Gurgles of the poetic thinking,
In silence.
You can sip the broth,
but never really taste the burn
that lingers on the pot’s edges.
It holds the stories of everything it devoured —
what lingered too long, what wandered too close.
They say wisdom grows with time,
but what good are minutes
piled like pennies in a jar,
if you’ve never invested a single one
in something that could leave a mark?
Take the ladle, scrape the bottom.
Embrace the bitterness.
The wild turkeys disappeared
just before Thanksgiving.
But the flickers are back. I haven’t seen
the phoebe since last summer.
The nesting hawk is gone.
Searching through the cupboard
for a ladle, I find
a rolling pin that wasn’t mine.
I wonder if the former
lady of the house baked pumpkin pie.
She didn’t leave so much
as her reflection
in a mirror, on a window pane.
We live like birds here
in our seasons.
Planets churn around the sun
spinning on gravity wands
like campfire marshmallows
and only one is perfectly bronzed.
A ladle of life pouring into a blue pond
overflowing onto the emerald land
petaled paths guiding the footfall of man.
Other orbs burning to hot or to cold
but may yet have their day in the sun,
be perfectly bronzed like a king's battle crown
lying on a crystal blessed beach in the Goldilocks zone.