Foaming Poems | Examples

The Silence Before The Flame

Clutched jaw, grinding teeth against pulp,
until ash and blood coat a deadened tongue.
The nightsong quiets—a pulsating silence encapsulates the land
as I walk up to a pyre built of withering dreams and deadly nightshade.

The cold, bitter air brushes against protruding flesh.
Looking toward the skies, faith stripped and shamed,
I climb and take my place among my ancestral spirits.

The silence of the night breaks, with chants of *Burn the witch* filling the void.
Leering eyes and foaming mouths scream obscenities my way.
But even among this fanatic freakshow, I hold on to my dignity.

I do not let them see the fear festering beneath my eyes,
nor does my lip quiver.
With insurmountable strength, I hold my head high
as I watch the torches preparing to set me ablaze.

Closing my eyes one final time, I breathe in everything I have ever held dear.
Memories flood—of loves lost and gained,
of the changing seasons,
of my connection to this glorious earth.

I can feel the flames licking at my feet now.
But I will not scream,
for my resurrection will come soon enough.

The Silent Kiss

Enticed, seduced, and speedily distilled,
stumbling dumbly, she trips into the arms
of decadence—(such hedonistic charms!)
—and finds her stubborn inhibitions spilled

in a puddle around her thoughts—and, stilled, 
her mind is free (of any and all alarms (!) )
of worry, fear, and doubt—beyond all harms
she thunders for a fresh martini, chilled. 

Teetering at the brink of another drink
she’s helpless against gravity’s stout
strength—down(and further still)into its wink
sinks the hopeless dupe into the abyss;
with more and more foaming from the spout,
she slips into a lethal, silent kiss—

Harmony and Disharmony

The rhythmic waves roll,
Barely foaming as they gently sweep up the shore
And lightly brush my toes
Before retreating as another wave approaches.

Distant swallows chatter like a choir out of tune,
Tossing a scattered melody — yet strangely harmonious.

The coconut leaves above me whisper
As the soft breeze drifts past.

The cold of the damp sand where I sit, legs outstretched,
Has crept up into my chest.
I scoop the damp sand at my side
And press it slowly between my fingers.

My chest tightens as a chorus of voices shriek in my skull.

Kristina Lim
August 17, 2025
Daanbantayan, Cebu, Philippines

What Makes My Soul Roar

NOT BASELESS IS 

Not baseless is the ocean’s roar, the build up to that bass before 
it all comes crashing into shore, foaming it draws back for more
I’m sure that there are high notes too, perhaps too high for our purview
but to the sound of rock and roll, I find that sea has taken soul

By Aaron Davis 

Not voiceless is the ocean's roar, crescendo notes rise off the floor  
it all comes waving on the shore, rising up to meet me at the door   
I'm sure that there are treble clefs and flats but heh! what I adore,  
is when Maestro strikes a pose, it makes my soul, begin to roar. 

By Mystic Rose

Water Margins

Dawn, a bed comes ashore,
dripping and fog laden.

Tuna sandwiches float
on foaming waves of nausea,
aqueous globs of salty oils,
surface.  Punctured sea-dreams
float; flabby and flatulent.

The day paddles around aimlessly,
tides, rather than wait,
slosh about spongy ankles.

A rubber flipper mislaid
off the Normandy coast,
slipstreams through time,
one lost sand-encrusted flip-flop
bobs on by.

May have to snorkel longer
if there is any hope of seeing
the sun sink.

Eventually aquatic ghosts
depart for a younger past.

Back on the swaying deck
of a queasy reality
a fresh wind dries sheets.

Footprints in the sand
are spied through a fisheye lens.
A shipwrecked yesterday
is waving,
glad to be finally rescued.

It Lifts, Defies Gravity

It Lifts, Defies Gravity 

That great curving line
made of countless droplets
in shades of aquamarine
to showers of foaming white

it creates an opening
a cave where light can spin
then plummets down again
its passion has been spent

rolling gently to the shore
tumbling sand and shells
small remnant lives
then going back for more.

The Day I Found A Shiny Button At The Beach

A lovely button pops out in the summer sun 
pick her up and she will bring you luck 
Walks along the beach, a seashell spun 
by the silk of the ocean, a little red truck 

Coconut sensation a radio pinned upon the ear    
the sky is blue, the sea is foaming 
Snapshot  memories, eating lobster on the peer 
bathing suit strap lowered, barefoot roaming

The day after, seagull dreams ocean connections
I stitch her to my heart and she feels just right 
Clothed in her light she is a special recollection  
of me finding a shiny button,  ... at the beach.

Bed257

I am a lone foreigner alocated 
in an exotic landscape with 
nothing but the foaming blue tides of duvet 
that I rythmically sway with like 
the sweet branches of spring. 
I stand, bend, sit on the salty 
lips of that ocean. 

however the shallow has never 
been my comfort zone so 
I fling myself into the belly of my bed 
and find my head in the jaws of a soft
pillow chewing my skull at snail pace. 
slowly, a heavy weight of 
sleep drowns my lifeless limbs 
and sedates my consciousness with a lullaby. 
"you're free! 
free from labour, free from you, free from everything besides me", sings Lady Lazy. 

suddenly
dawn breaks with orange permeable heat, 
she is Bed 257. 
she is not a root, she is a seed. 
keeping me from work,
I pull myself out of 
the vast roaring sheets and tidal duvet, 
I'm gratefully unappreciative 
and so the cycle continues.

May the forest be with you

May you remember the sail ship
white wake behind, seabirds about
When the bedrock begins to slip
When life's purpose is in doubt

May you remember every friend
When enemies surround
When only on few can you depend
And harshness is the only sound.

**(Chorus)**
May the mountains come in waves
That lift you up from under.
like desert rain that saves.
Like a cavalry's thunder. 

When there's no arrow in your quiver
And when they say you did betray
Think of rafting that foaming river
To wash the bitterness away.

When they hem in your universe
Hold fast to what is true
When life goes from bad to worse
May the forest be with you.

So Long! - Apr 26

Your needs unmet and, too, mine equally
fulfilled,—I s’pose it’s best to leave this where
it stands.—what other course could feel as fair?
But deep disturbances in mon esprit,

increasingly violent unto me,
(as roaring winds and foaming omens) stir
tidal wave emotions without compare;—
breaking—in terrific fatality. 

My heart adrift,—stranded soon on your shore,—
beats weak, throbs sad sobs, sniffles back such tears
of torrential regret...—and for what? 
								                       you? 
Really, need I lament—this dullest score—
the abandon of your tempestuous fears?
No.,—if I capsize now, I never flew.—

Memento On The Moon

A tsunami of black ash blankets half a world
Trash toadstool hoodoos, wastelandic pillage
and pollutant mucus ravishes lava villages
Draining is the amalgam mass at the end of the spectrum
Stone environs shock, unnatural landscapes 
Polyethylene islands flushing the canvas
Carbon contaminant fumes flair in mid drift air
Virtually no place on Earth is free of the polymer fog
Foaming magma cascades over metallic mushroom roots
Spiny shoots sprout tentacles from rubber trees
Mercury and cadmium toxin leeches' groundwater
Above the quicksand are flying objects that pass as vultures 
For a million magarican dollars I was greeted by a masked spacebot
Left on moonlit Luna's Lot are my collection of yin-yang art articles

Memento on the Moon

The Sea of Tranquility gives rise to a parasitic plague,  
Colonizing mechanical machines grinding,  
Robotic arms frantically fabricating an inhospitable habitat.  
Plumes of blackened smoke drift off into zero gravity—  
A profuse profanity birthing intergalactic implosions.  
Forfeited steel domes replace a once-pristine satellite,  
Whilst humanity, like vultures, journeys to their new paradise,  
Foaming at the mouth to exploit the dark side of the moon.  
Looking outside the frosted rocket's windows,  
Earth's decaying corpse is nothing but a mere memento mori in the rearview window.

The Smut - Mar 25,26

I sense here some things sinister—a scent
of sulphur, sulking in a sultry pit;
a serpent’s hiss, expressed from space unlit; 
a warm spell spilling from some seething vent;

I find now some things filthy—foul ferment
foaming, frothing; a gaseous, gurgling slit
discharging fetid, festering, sour spit; 
malignant mold in cold, cracking cement;

So languid, loath, obtuse I trepidate
on into the black bowels of my home.
Gagging back a nausea’s tepid bubble,
shivering a shudder that won’t abate,
discover I a gory catacomb.—
Woah… I see well now how bad my trouble!

Dawning

No greater gift do I have than me.
To give all that I be, weakness and steel,
Handed unafraid, exuberantly tossed,
Into union where none became one.
~~
Innocence dares not question
The mating, as fear slinks away, premonitions abound.
Requited concubine hybrid, happiness,
Relishes its renewed tug-o-war with joy.
~~
To the birth. Beyond life.
Gossamer emotions cancel idiot notions
Categorizing songs as just notations,
Crimson rosebuds as just flora.
~~
Unscheduled, my realm shatters it’s cocoon.
Aromas from nascent recipes
Tease ravishing appetites that crave a tasting
Of essences sneering at mere existence.
~~
Forming a queue, foaming at the prospect,
Of satiating hungers awakening from
Pre-eternal shackled hibernations.
And at first bite…
~~
The soul’s pre-natal starvation
Is erased by eucharistic intimacy
Of the infant us.
“Mornin’, Eve…”
~~~~~~~~~
(dawning)

Organic

If love were 'dark matter'
it would be the size
of a small kidney stone.

Hate is
an intestinal tapeworm
that gnaws at our vitals,
though most folks
remain unsure just what 'vitals' are.

The human brain
does not write poetry,
it merely crouches inside one ear,
while shouting into the other.

Poetry abides at the center
of an ever-expanding constellation
deep within the pineal gland -

that physical presence
manipulates, as many as
ten fingertips or toes
plus, a sloshed Calliope
swinging back and forth,
as she clings precariously
to chandelier-like Adam's apple.

Lips learn to think for themselves,
with the help of undocumented
angels.

Thus, naturally
organically produced poetry
can easily be manifest
while a nose dips deep
into a foaming glass of beer.

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