Best Wetly Poems
THE MEADOW
Spread
Neath umbilical sky
On nutrient Earth
She stands alone this noon
Surrounding woods
Mountains
Distant structures
Seem to encase the lush green plot
Have taken on a sunny sheen
Then there is this peaceful babbling brook
running through
sparkling
wetly whispering
GOD!
What an ecstatic vision!
But wait!
Come
Lie down on fairy moment’s colorful hay
Smell the wild flowers
Hum a happy tune
Then Listen!
Oh!
Below!
A wild bacchanal defames all empyrean image
Slither-slide –
Bunnies mice POP!
Bees dragonflies
Winged squadrons buzzing BANZAI!
A billion glassy eyes of every size
Looking for kill
Or pre-empting demise
Shiny black bugs on nature’s green rug
Distant
The sound a staccato wheeze
A high wire din
Like one hundred tortured violins
Then rise
Return to that simpler view
Smile in wonder
That nothing in nature is static
And wonder what’s going on inside of you?
Dave Austin
Martin came to a cleft in the rocks
The oriole must have gone this way
It was narrow and curving
A sudden turn, and everything seemed to change.
Shrill, reedy music of pipes filled the heavy air,
A smell of musk of goats and their dung.
Invisible cicadas sustained the piper's lament.
Suddenly, he found himself in front of a small but deep lake.
Weeping willows, large copper-coloured beeches
Surrounded by a large pool of azure water.
There was a calm tranquillity about the place
Whilst the air was saturated with a fragrance
Of exotic flowering lavender-like trees.
He heard a splash, and out stepped a young woman.
Her canary yellow elegant swimsuit
Clung wetly to her honey-coloured body.
Damp citrine hair formed a frame around an oval face
That was highlighted by an upturned, pointed nose.
He did not move but stood mesmerized,
Looking into her blue, limpid eyes.
A sweet smile shimmered on her lips.
"Hello," she said in a mellifluous voice.
Her smile was inviting. "My name is Goldie Oriole.
Come, sit near me
And tell me how you found this place."
To be concluded in Part 3
Breathing wind
across ocean currents
Waves of a sea murmur
under tides turn over emotions awakening
Satin white washed surf
Beholding
upon the rocks
Beloved apex
a sunbeams brilliance
Wetly kissed
under a rainbow arch
Throwing light
of the moon spotlighting
dancing with the shadows
Crouching where the sun rests
Twilight fires burn amber
within clouds shooting gunbarrel grey
Ashes adrift in cold breezy whispers
Mesmerized Monday finally seen
So I sat here/there fingers achingly tapless over blurred keys.
Wetly wondering in salted moving air...
Clouds huddle together crowding for position-
avoiding the ever sinking sun
Welcoming darkness impatient in the wings....
Soon .....well soon enough words would dribble-
dropping double entendres in croissant swirls.
Darting and daring to form movements
creating caresses to shiver-
shudder tingle spine touches...
tuning vibrating space in distant time
timely distance
springing to spark the awe of appreciation
begging for light to guide them
would you say a day ending dreary,
cast in a gray of which we all grow weary,
looms sublime in its overcast fray?
earth meeting sky in flat light,
over echoed night birds reflected in white,
as april clouds wait impatient to wash it away;
but do flakes smother hope like dew
or wetly hide spring’s silent green clue?
while under black ice lurks warm summer days…
Poem by: Piet Mashele
2sides
Title: she said....
She directly said, protect me
Like how wetly you get for your Bentley
Hold me so gently
For when you accept me
It will exactly be about
How you met me...
And she said let me
Let the blessed me
Empty the belly of your worries
So do not be in a hurry
To sing to how sexy I'm
Especially when you
Expect me not to be attached
To this strange feeling
That fairly kept me
On my toes
For this heart knows how to bulldoze
These shadows that are there to slow down
My heart beat
My blood knows its own flows
It allows me to grow to another direction
With total perfection
She sat and said...
Let me grow inside of you
So that when u breath for both us
You will know that I said let m be yours
So she said...
in the cage of shadows
by the birches cast
your red raincoat
wetly shines
Papers and clouds of dreams are stuck to the
benches and the iron railings
awasy in the fading sky,
I look at you
the way a child
sees the circus
for the first time
the window where we meet
tries to steal the candy colors
of your coat
but it can/t
You're nothing special, though
a normal heart
filled with the ocean and
a million golden clocks,
amethysts and
a harvest moon.
Just an ordinary Goddess,
swirling, among the world
with unmuted plumage
when you kiss my cheek and leave
it burns and lingers like
a hot shell casing
among the smoke and noise
inside of me.
Posted by p.love at 3:17 PM No comments: Links to this post
FRIDAY, MARCH 16, 2018
He died one day
For three minutes
Not days
A machine was
Prepared,
But not ready
For a while it
Was winter light
Through an oceanic window
The loud congress of
Birds’ Shadows and
Velvet black indigo
The surprising cast
Of their kind, amber eyes
Welcome back
Sputtering and
Cut
Where everything hurts
And nothing
Makes sense
He cries
Like a child
Missing
Christmas
Splashing, thrashing, wetly crashing
rages the rolling sea,
like a dying serpent swirled
in waves of misery!
Through stormy gales and black of night,
these sailors from afar
seek out the dim, faint, speckled glow
of heaven's Compass Star.
But howling, howling, madly scowling
swells the deadly squall
with spite and ire in its briny veins
to damn them—damn them all!
So far away from home and hearth
their ship has sailed the seas;
its men seen sights of boon wonders
with deft and seafaring ease.
Trapped by the foaming, deadly squall;
the wrath of the ocean
rocks their masts and strikes at their hull
like Neptune’s winged griffon.
Gnarling, gnarling, viciously snarling
the squall’s stormy tempests
strike and savagely beat at the
ship’s wooden bow and breasts.
Alas! Alas! All is now lost
as soul after drowning soul
lose hope, panic, and then perish
with HMS The Merry Troll!
The stormy tempests of the squall
sink, swallow, and devour
up all without rue or ruth: so scorn
not the squall's wrathful power!
I daub the dewy strings with tickles, soft,
Thus, angels such as I make dance, the rain ...
For heaven's weep is joyous, shed aloft,
Our harps, the dulcet pardon to your pain.
As every drop that tumbles from our strings,
Holds all that life requires to abound ...
How wondrous that each tremble wetly sings,
Of every hope a cloudburst can resound.
~ 1st Place ~ in the "Strand Choice W, Any Theme, Any Form" Poetry Contest, Brian Strand, Judge & Sponsor.
~ 5th Place ~ in the "Angels In the Rain" Poetry Contest, Vermillion Scythe, Judge & Sponsor.
Clay turns round and round,
Upon a spinning table,
A Potter shapes the pile with his hands,
The masterpiece is finally taking shape,
His skin grey,
Glistening wetly in the light,
He feels so hollow inside,
The room spins around him,
Slowly he stops,
In front of him sits a chair,
His soul as dry as his now stone-like skin,
A woman walks in,
Taking him off the table,
Carrying him to her station,
She sits facing him with brush in hand,
She hums to herself as the she paints,
The colors of her soul pouring onto him,
Man and woman bonded,
Together forever,
Their love as beautiful as their creation.
I awake, dull crusted in shadows,
to the swelling roar of hard rain on shingles
wetly dripp'd down rusted gutters,
air thick with cool moisture,
ozone sharp razor clean,
somehow, the sod grew a deep green coat in one night
as dogwoods shed blossoms like fragrant dandruff,
when did spring arrive?
my mind still bundled in deep winter time,
ghosts of snowfields, untouched by sun,
blanket my mood in a stiller time
now shattered by detonations of life
melted by pollen infused with wind
scintillate bands of light burn laser bright
through pregnant clouds rain gray
beams play like shining faeries on the sill
as a weird biology compels me to arise
rush headlong onto verdant lea
dervish twirl'd and humid breathed
but lightswitched it's gone
thunderheads roll like playground bullies
smearing runnels on the window
dogwood prism'd to a streak
as I shrink back to a pillow
smelling faintly of grass.
the painting of pictures in the minds of readers of words
Needs wetlip brush stroke consonants as complementary colors
Rhythmic connotation rhymed alliteration as wet accentuation
so their lack of concentration will allow initiation
by sleight of hands of invitation to let forgiving magics fluidic
flow in streams of splashing dashing flashing activation
that lets the wetness of the darkness whisper slithery reactive
to the painted light of reason reflecting faintly wetly on the wall
Is it really there at all? A shiver of sensation a tingle in a fingertip
That empty tasteless hollow feeling behind or in the ears
some words are hard to follow and harder yet to find
Using them is easier than leaving them behind
In the walled wet halls of darkness
By the looking glass of fears
Instinctive genuflection
Self reflective tears
Salty recollections
Chill cold years
Sharp honed
A shiver
Pain
It's gone again
Or was it really
There
A demon, you say? A boy with blank
eye sockets and lips of fire-restless
words tumble from his flower of a mouth;
I think Ashbery talked about this in some
helium light manner, and Blake in his
heavy, fleshy way.
See, all the poets warned me
but I used no discretion:
Split up the middle, I ate every seed and became
Persephone. I drank blood oaths,
the sun feeling more empty with each sip-
My tongue flashed wetly across Heaven.
A spectre without punctuation, blue and frozen
in half dead thought-light pours down
through the grave-
the dirt was not packed down tightly as hoped.
On the streets, we blush, squawking awkwardly
of trite matters in public like a mask we take
off in the hours the sky is made of charcoal.
I will shine a dull brass if you will be
Fenrir; promise to devour my small sliver
of daylight? Substitute words for alcohol, I
haven't eaten in days: preoccupation
Chasing Ghosts.
"On Fenrir"
Jenna-Nichole Conrad
Wordsmith
the empty chambers
of a heart buried deep,
low beneath a vibrant earth,
darkly fed by brackish storms
washed into catchbasins
wetly percolate through broken clay
through caverns delved by mineral roots
building languid waves
silent currents pushed upon
borders of an unseen shore
burbled by eyeless minnows
flushed by distant moons
as the weight of earth above
expands the slurried ache
of a lighter place
of a softer face
a notion gentle bumps along
carried on iron platelets
deep past rasping ventricles
contracted
expanded
contracted
through derelict cataracts
rising above to clean artesian
spent in marble fountains
and walking by in swelted heat
startled by the cool curtain
she smiles.
We began our late winter do-over
with a dirty ceramic bowl
during a too-much snowstorm.
Well, no,
obviously that's not where this rebirth story begins
but neither is a cream-colored
and clean
bowl
where this story ends.
Anyway,
I look at Matilda's mac and cheese bowl
from the RaggedyAnn frosty night before
while an early morning April Fool's snow blanket
arises perfectly
peacefully
majestically
and really too wetly
outside our kitchen windows.
I wash his late night
and lunch-time dishes all the time,
with grateful precision.
Not all the time,
but frequently,
poignantly,
yet he washes his dishes
without touching Matilda's or mine.
Why would our Cooperative WinWin Gamer
not see how inappropriately WinLose
this is?
Never mind about disrespectful
and possibly selfish.
How does this lack of awareness
betray us,
a more or less functional
resilient cooperative health service unit?
What does this mean
and what is his message
through medium
of round crusty artifact?
I do his dishes
because I'm washing dirty dishes
so I don't have to look at them,
or smell them,
and so they don't attract pests
when they are not well rinsed
by RaggedyAnn feisty nubian princess.
Is this because I am a responsible adult
and a parent of hurt children?
And he is not?
And, if so,
then why would our WinWin Gamer
assume it's OK
to not act like a responsible young adult
and Cooperative Gaming Sibling?
Facilitator,
both teacher and regenerational student
of healthy resilient life-skills.
Is this message ageist,
and/or anti-parental?
Downsides of Peter Panism,
Eastern Innocence
without strong ecocentrically mature roots,
yet.
So I asked him
about why leaving dirty bowls is OK
for him
regardless of who started it.
And we talked cooperatively WinWin
together
about why they aren't so great for me,
and possibly us.
That helped us
both to see ourselves
and each other
in some ways
newborn clean bowl differently.
It was about then
this magical early spring snowstorm
faded toward partly sunny
and shoulder-warmer.