Best Famous Sloshing Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Sloshing poems. This is a select list of the best famous Sloshing poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Sloshing poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of sloshing poems.

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• All Famous Sloshing Poems

Written by Billy Collins | Silence Now it is time to say what you have to say. The room is quiet. The whirring fan has been unplugged, and the girl who was tapping a pencil on her desktop has been removed. So tell us what is on your mind. We want to hear the sound of your foliage, the unraveling of your tool kit, your songs of loneliness, your songs of hurt. The trains are motionless on the tracks, the ships are at restn the harbor. The dogs are cocking their heads and the gods are peering down from their balloons. The town is hushed, and everyone here has a copy. So tell us about your parents— your father behind the steering wheel, your cruel mother at the sink. Let's hear about all the clouds you saw, all the trees. Read the poem you brought with you tonight. The ocean has stopped sloshing around, and even Beethoven is sitting up in his deathbed, his cold hearing horn inserted in one ear.

Written by George Herbert | The Storm 1 Against the stone breakwater, Only an ominous lapping, While the wind whines overhead, Coming down from the mountain, Whistling between the arbors, the winding terraces; A thin whine of wires, a rattling and flapping of leaves, And the small street-lamp swinging and slamming against the lamp pole. Where have the people gone? There is one light on the mountain. 2 Along the sea-wall, a steady sloshing of the swell, The waves not yet high, but even, Coming closer and closer upon each other; A fine fume of rain driving in from the sea, Riddling the sand, like a wide spray of buckshot, The wind from the sea and the wind from the mountain contending, Flicking the foam from the whitecaps straight upward into the darkness. A time to go home!-- And a child's dirty shift billows upward out of an alley, A cat runs from the wind as we do, Between the whitening trees, up Santa Lucia, Where the heavy door unlocks, And our breath comes more easy-- Then a crack of thunder, and the black rain runs over us, over The flat-roofed houses, coming down in gusts, beating The walls, the slatted windows, driving The last watcher indoors, moving the cardplayers closer To their cards, their anisette. 3 We creep to our bed, and its straw mattress. We wait; we listen. The storm lulls off, then redoubles, Bending the trees half-way down to the ground, Shaking loose the last wizened oranges in the orchard, Flattening the limber carnations. A spider eases himself down from a swaying light-bulb, Running over the coverlet, down under the iron bedstead. Water roars into the cistern. We lie closer on the gritty pillow, Breathing heavily, hoping-- For the great last leap of the wave over the breakwater, The flat boom on the beach of the towering sea-swell, The sudden shudder as the jutting sea-cliff collapses, And the hurricane drives the dead straw into the living pine-tree.

Written by Rg Gregory | bird of fire - a caution the dream of the white bird flying offers a freedom as tasty as nectar how our lips purse to the goddess’s pap at the want of such swoops through the air to be rid of the drag on our legs the sloshing through drudgery and mire the daily entangling with bramble the hurt of our hair caught in barbs when there in the bowl of our eye that milky-white shaft through the sun pierces old canopies revealing heights that have never been deemed then to be up and away forgetting icarus has been there before us white heat is the worst of all fires we’re dust before the dream’s gone cold there’s no bird doesn’t need its tree with its leaden roots buried in earth and the earth needs its water - all things that fly with their fine-pointed rage must have cool fruits to come down to before ecstasy and soaring can yield the unimaginable answers sustaining the longings all born are bequeathed

Written by Carl Sandburg | Near Keokuk THIRTY-TWO Greeks are dipping their feet in a creek. Sloshing their bare feet in a cool flow of clear water. All one midsummer day ten hours the Greeks stand in leather shoes shoveling gravel. Now they hold their toes and ankles to the drift of running water. Then they go to the bunk cars and eat mulligan and prune sauce, Smoke one or two pipefuls, look at the stars, tell smutty stories About men and women they have known, countries they have seen, Railroads they have built— and then the deep sleep of children.