Best Moistening Poems
Around since 1885,
These playing cards contain
A fascinating history
That Google helped obtain.
My favorite fact’s from World War II.
(It’s more than rumored lore.)
Some special decks were sent as gifts
To prisoners of war.
These U.S. soldiers, held in camps
In Germany, did learn
That moistening the cards would yield
A map for their return.
Escape routes cleverly concealed
Within the layered cards
Would likely not be noticed by
The German soldier guards.
In Vietnam, as well, some decks
With only Ace of Spades,
Were sent to the Americans
To use in jungle raids.
The Viet Cong were so afraid
Of how this Ace appeared,
Just seeing one would make them flee
So villages were cleared.
While we are playing Solitaire,
Casino, War or Spit,
We should remember how those cards
Helped troops, if just a whit.
RAINDROPS
Small
raindrops
drizzling from
cluster of cloud
holding deep dolor
releasing pain
moistening
grass in
mass.
08/06/2019
First Place
'August Ninnette Poetry Contest' by Caren Krutsinger
Tired of talking too much
I wish to rest my rhymes.
Now is time to give ears
To your titanic tale of tears.
The heart that was under constraint
Needs to be unburdened.
My grief-stricken lap waits for
Your grieving grievances.
You, the only speaker and I, a patient listener,
Numb but nod at your each nuance.
Let my heart beat for last
To eternalise our momentary meeting,
I with my muteness
And you with your long-awaited lyrics.
Dew drops fall from your dark eyes
Moistening your rose petaled lips
That sometimes part in a smile.
I, a tragedian of your tale,
A respondent to your reactions
With a heavy heart wipe my wet eyelashes.
Like a pair of love birds
We look lovingly at each other,
Pine over the pains of the past
And fear of the fruitless future.
Little choice we are left with
But to flow like two rivers
Yearning to meet but to end in the ocean,
Our destination, mingling together.
My heart,
An arid land was
Unamble a single feeling to produce
Till that Valentine's day
When
Into my life, she walked,
And
With her kind words
Her soft caresses
Her moistening kisses,
Succeded in turning it
Into a plentiful orchard of
Love!
© Demetrios Trifiatis
11 FEBRUARY 2015
Blue evening dress
Topographical cleavage
Nurturing mother
Father Sky reigns high
Soft touch on her horizon
Her head covered with
A wintery Arctic scarf
With white pumps to match
He caresses her
His radiant passion flames
Heating up her womb
Encompassing her with love
Warm and cold climatic touch
His breath cools her skin
Tenderly moistening earth
Life springs from within
Cum to me my lovely, do you want to play
Whisper your dirty secrets
I want to bite down with my hollow teeth, Lick your Pearlie
On that milk white neck, her scent is alluring
I crave a carnal kiss from those succulent lips
She begins to coy when the salty sweat drips from her breast
Moistening down her thighs
My hand running down her smooth back
Let her stroll on romance
Tie me down to your chain, I want to serve you
Crawling on my hands and knees
Entice her like an incubus
I love her exoticness, it’s such an erotic flame haze
I’m breathless by those burning eyes and that dazed face
She castes a spellbound moment to my mind
Her complexion is memorizing as her attire drops
Flattery makes her turn and blush, she has an a winsome stature
Don’t you know I’m a Libra. Ruled by Venus
So I will seduce you
Look into my horoscope, you will know I want to take this slow
Aren’t you affectionate
Turn this into a fairytale
Now be mine
Girlie
It was the feathered purple of a blossoming iris,
kissing the laden air
with trembling lips.
I was awakened by its fragrance,
the newness of its ancient story,
told yet again by a moistening earth
in silvery birdsong.
Sometimes,
I have missed the turning from gelid and motionless
to the softening sway that unerringly follows.
I have been embittered—
brittle and bare as a crooked branch,
scraping a vacuous sky—
but not this time.
This time, the tenderest breeze,
prodded by the fingers of a spreading sun,
finds me waiting—
eyes closed, smile turned eagerly upwards
to greet the renewal
of creation.
Il Pleut
It rains torrentially
after long drought and disorder;
it rains drenching the empathetic
scraggy soil of the heart
it rains moistening the rocks of anger
crags of revenge and cracks of depravity
it rains covering the jealous holes with purity
healing the undesirable crevices of the being
it pours incessantly to cover and clean
the gaps of deceptive caves of life
it rains inside me constantly
stretching the cramped limbs
softening the being;
it skits with a susurrus
leading me to the lee
when all on a sudden
something goes wrong
influenced by someone’s lewd smile
or a serein’s half-hearted dampening.
Rain of grace falls and falls
to soothe my ruffled feelings;
it corrects, it helps, it leads me
always to the right way.
When it rains in the forest of my being
where the tallest trees touch the sky
and the moon shines bright on the leaves
through the gnarled branches
lighting the dark parts of existence,
life becomes wholesome
peaceful and serene.
Removing the dryness and darkness of life
rain of grace falls and falls
perpetually to revive.
Maddening thought to process such a word
Mad definition defining more than anger
Mad upset feeling fever flushed climatic danger
Mad mangled minor class offense verse major
Madly suggestive messages a madden proclaimer
Mad made digestive mental notes selective
Madder matters making moves motioning more
Minds mad capacities hijacking brains plane
Mad makers massive maze uncontained
Moistening our various vented veins change
Mad to be or not to be?
Crazy…
Guarded by towering hills on the East
And flanked by the Arabian Sea on the West
With its easterly shore of stretching sandy swell
That lulls the restless waves to sleep,
There is a land, my land of green vegetation
Nestled among palm trees and paddy fields.
Oh! I am in love with this narrow strip of land
Of rugged hills and meandering rivers
Of placid backwaters and blue skies
Of gibbering monkeys and singing cuckoos
What rich diversity you graciously provide
A land dotted with temples, churches and mosques
Where Hindus, Christians and Muslims cohabit
Where diversity flows through her arteries
And unity beats through her throbbing heart
Here souls dance to the timeless rhythm of music
Of diverse genres, vocal and instrumental
Classical and folk, sung either as solo or in groups
With the accompaniment of (2) 'veena',(3) 'tanpura' and violin
Their varying pitches beautifully synchronized!
In the serene dawns and dusky evenings
The atmosphere gets abuzz with the soft strains
Of (1) ‘Sopana Sangeetham’, the ethnic music of Kerala,
It comes floating from inside the Hindu shrines
Flooding soul’s enchanted shores,
And opening the floodgates of piety
In healing murmurs and throbbing notes,
As the symphony builds up its circuitous round
It descends down as a stream of blessing
Drenching devotees in its moistening sweetness
Like the drizzle of dew drops from heaven
Making hearts ride in the palanquin of joy!
May.21.2023
If your Birthplace- Country was a Poem Poetry Contest
Sponsor - Anoucheka Gangabissoon
This poem is about Kerala, a small state in India, which is my birthplace and its geography and culture.
1.Sopana Sangeetham is a form of Indian Classical music, developed in the temples of Kerala. It is sung, sitting by the holy steps leading to the sanctum sanctorum of a shrine.
2.Veena- a stringed musical instrument, one of the oldest of Indian musical tradition, played sitting cross legged, capable of producing all oscillations of Carnatic music
3. Tanpura- a drone instrument of Indian origin used mainly in a concert of classical music, creating a melodic background, but not a melody.
Of course, art is always somewhat
subjective, breaking established rules: the artist
intuitively adding imaginary inches to a canvas;
a work in progress, riding waves, finding depth
both on and off the easel, creatively flowing – a
vision on the loose –
(paused, but never finished...a true birth
having voice and life beyond the parent's release,
like a child going out into the world alone...
a must, for the painter to keep fluid a moistening eye:
that mysterious exorcism by his instruments...a true descriptor
ultimately not bound by the Catechism of Lines nor a Page's
World-edges;
no mural out of the soul, seeking spectacular release
is ever entirely confined to interior walls nor the sides of buildings~
that is why certain poems are read over and over, as if catching up
with an old friend~filled-in on what is new, an evolutionary rapport...
or one revisits The Museum of Modern Art – finding aged modern
in the old modern, the past meeting perhaps a cloudy moment and
today a day of awakening transparency – each vintage, an individualized
spirit-manifest,
a motivating shade of scentful-color~of brightness and overcast,
with searchable, unseen dimensions, the spaces science
has yet to fill,
the private domains of both
experimenting student and seasoned mystic...
the limits of what we
know, transformed by the revelation of what we dream,
the artist, and not the scientist, life's true conjurer of miracles,
only bound, when at all, by his own restricted conceptions of
time transforming space.
In the balcony ,she stood,
strong winds blowing Her way,
as she watched the sun setting in the West.
One sad thought strucking her deepest,
as thunder-light strikes in carcoal black skies.
Would she live to see another sunrise?
Would she still be there?Where will she be?
At that moment the childish gleam, which
florished her face many times,vanished in
cold thin air,It faded away descending in
her inner soul,finding more sorrow there,
and not a glimpse Of smiles...
Void and pain, fed Her tender heart,
tiny crystal drops ran down,wetting,kissing
her cheeks,moistening her lips,those soft pink
lips which once were warm and full of glow.
Those same lips,today, felt lifeless blue and very cold.
She stood still,as time stood still too,She stared
at the Vast Ocean,at the rough waves crushing
on the rocks,She stood there,still searching for an
answer,an answer to Her many questions.
A sudden voice whirled in Her Storm,touching her ear,
as she listened to the sounds,to the words echoing
in distance.Who was he?He was the angel Of Love!
bringing a message of hope to her shattered heart,
He had an aswer to all questions,to her Shadows of doubt.
'Little Child,don't feel troubled,don't feel lost,"He said!
in the sweetest melodic voice ,she'd ever heard.
"Its Cold outside ,and you are shivering!You must not!
From this day on,I willl be with you,I shall never leave
you alone, I shall stay by your side ,forevermore.
Little Child,you are blessed, and wherever you breathe,
the Sun will rise".The young lady smiled to His angelic words,
and as She breathed Softly,a Hot fire ball filled the blue,
and there was Sunshine...............................................
Charma
the porous sand offers the ocean an apology,
for moistening its lips yet reading out no eulogy
Tears are wet to the palate
salty to the taste --
we cannot not live without
the water...nor salt --
and their expulsion associated with
many miseries, many deaths.
My focus though is on joyful tears --
laughter that pains the
ribs in a good way, after a funny story
well told -- a child overwhelmed
by a blessed gift becoming happily
emotional. We are lacrimal in a very
poignant sense~ for what reaches the
surface, through trial and error, while
intense, outwardly drippy, is substance
of a great connecting conduit. And despite
ambient fluctuations of internal springs,
over-all life is devotedly nurtured by a
Maternal Sky~ keeping dear watch,
moistening and drying according to
the ripening needs of her children.
Sophie's sweat
landscapes
the claret red horizon
thick serum
trickles
from a Sickroom -
a death ward
where cracked knuckles
spatter the fjords
moistening the planks;
bathing the laths of anxiety
‘neath
marquis de sade stumps
Norwegian expressions of death -
agoraphobia
murdering actuality;
the Dance of Life
rapidly burns
as a funeral pyre of Ashes are
seized from
your tribe’s headstone
the stench of brother’s legacy
replaces
a protected breath
and a Dead Mother can
descry muted
caterwauls
between
the Clock and the Bed
the two guardians of quietus
merely exit
this clotted bridge
contemptuously -
in soured and
staled
delight