Short Stoves Poems
Short Stoves Poems. Below are examples of the most popular short poems about Stoves by PoetrySoup poets. Search short poems about Stoves by length and keyword.
Three Vegans went to church today
Lighting candles along the way
For garlic cloves
Cooking on stoves
That never once heard, "lettuce pray"
I fell asleep in a bread box
filled with musty, fusty rocks
rye and wheat
whole-grained loaves
pumpernickel
from the village stoves
once hot;
now cold
the Baker's life untold.
Form:
. for public domain
Once treasure stored in sacred troves,
now ashes in abandoned stoves,
and yet we look for Phoenix rising,
renew a flame uncompromising,
so we may seek in storm and rain,
to gather treasure once again.
Narrow cobblestone lanes
The clop-clop of horse-drawn buggies
The crack of the whip...
Pots of Steam on blackened stoves
Whooping cough, scarlet fever
Stale bread, castor oil...
Two new stoves off-
set fifty woven ivy
nests of seven even
fewer snotty soft wet
toes than any iffy
stiff event could ever
hold a torch to
touch the blight that
grits into your
ayes and
all-enclosing rap-
id vapid wire
minds.
Water wives live sheltered lives
Amongst the coves where pirates rove
Daily catch is makers match
Where red hot stoves hide fresh baked loaves
Water men are thick and thin
So often strove where shipmates hove
Water child is often wild
The treasure trove where pirates roved
19Mar14
Memories
of Formica
kitchens
And 2-burner
Hotpoint
stoves
Lipstick on
a menthol
butt
Costume
pearls
in rows
Perfume
from the
five and dime
Drive In’s
on the
field
A promise
made
a promise kept
And
love
— that time can’t steal
(Listening To Patsy Cline: July 4th, 2025)
As fall turns, chill leans in
gently pressing warmth away
aging leaves reach a riotous peak
punching pigments everywhere.
Savory smells linger in comfort
busy stoves and fireplaces are lit
little ones dream of costumes
orange and black hues abound
until crimson leaves
break free.
Written on 10/3/2019
Two Days Later
Silent Sunday beckons
No traffic noises railing.
Only silence speaking
Of the need for human exhaling.
Stoves are spookily still,
Leftovers quietly cold for lunch,
Far away from this neighborhood
Is the frantic shopping bunch.
Straw hat on my head,
Book in my mumuu lap,
Silent Sunday closes my eyes,
And I nap, I nap.
The sword of hunger
snips the squeak
of the intestine,
which is like a cry
of a new born baby,
from my stomach.
Chop! Chop!
All chefs!
To cook! To cook!
You must go!
Cutlery jumps,
stoves burn,
veggies fear.
I open the cupboard
with the strength
of an elephant
as I inspected
what will be on the menu,
and flipped the recipe book
like a pastor
who just lost his verse.
Stove is a device used for heating or
cooking food.
There are wood, coal, electric and
gas stoves.
Oven is a part of the stove used for
baking cakes and other recipes.
Stofa is an old english word used
in the antiquity.
The first stoves were used in Rome.
Modern stoves has a glass top.
Stoves come in many sizes and colors.
An appliance that has been very beneficial
to modern kitchens.
The Oak Tree
The master of forests
gives the shade we desire.
The mighty oak towers
over the trilliums flowers.
Acorns deliver,
lands precious devour,
for blue jays and squirrels
and all plants and soils.
Broad leaves transpire
earths cycles untired.
Suns shade and shadows made
from edges of towers.
Through stoves it warms,
on cold days,
the small cold feet of children
after hours of smiles.
2000
Form:
Poetry Knows
Where poet goes
when poet needs
A line of prose
Which word comes best
on top of rest
before its born
in womb of next
Where uncooked prose
in little groves
sits in wait
by little stoves
Poetry screams
in pains of birth
For now as words
it now has worth
it likes
it would
it rather be
before its time
not known to me
Where life songs sing in melody
and pollinate the what will be
WOOD BURNING STOVES
hybrid kitchen
shapes and purposes
connecting
corrections
and
addictions
in one industrial
cooking pot
where organs turn to
jelly
and flavours run riot
her fireside
immortal active verb
in motions slow decline
another day goes down
too many ways to drown
twittering anxieties
freed in
hybrid kitchen
of gas not wood
her suicide
(a tribute to Sylvia Plath)
© Kim van Breda—11 September 2015
Looking out from inside, the sun's rays are deceiving. Upon stepping outdoors, one sees themselves breathing.
A cool crisp air clings to everything around. Shedding trees dead red leaves dance the hardening ground.
There's a scent in the air; a musk of earth's decaying attire. It Brings to mind thoughts of wood stoves, hot cocoa, and cider.
Autumn has taken hold, its colors so beautiful and bright. But nipping right at its heels is winter's steely bite.
THE AWAKENING
It was midnight that I laid still
and breath had filtered down
An open book - a nagging fly
will wait for me until
bestirred at morning’s knock
when stoves excite a brew
and housewives stir a door
toward sunrise bursting through -
to heaven like a broom
sweeping eyelids like a fan
and chattel and dust balls
like billiards across the room -
that wake the inner chambers
of my brain i separate stalls
that conjure up my daily tasks
within these slumbered walls