Long Drizzly Poems
Long Drizzly Poems. Below are the most popular long Drizzly by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Drizzly poems by poem length and keyword.
Amidst the noisy world,
A unique character is bound,
Every creature has a sound,
A little moment shared, will find.
A day cold and drizzly,
Folks remain warm and sturdy,
Thin icy drops cheer their voice,
A dense squall amplifies the noise.
A rough buzz in the debate ground,
Eyes glued to the stand,
A diverging array of political discourse,
Convincingly, to retire the crowds’ doubts.
Cheers to whoever gifts the gab,
Some fellows are a conviction hub,
From thin air, they weave a narrative,
A magnetic tale, captivates even the brave.
A hard, engaging problem,
A simple mind game,
A peasant knows where to expect the most yield,
Conditions, inputs and efforts revealed.
The clock ticks, the dusk is near,
Eyes aghast, stomach butterflies in fear,
Cheers and jubilations crown the best,
Who knows what’s in mystery chest for the rest.
Leadership isn’t confined to a position,
Inability to win over crowd isn’t the end,
The courage to try is a sip of champagne,
Sit with the kings, wisdom ascends.
The route winds and twists literally forever.
by way of the sea, the farmland, and the sky.
Yet, we triumph simply because we are clever,
If you ask why on a dune I saw you stroll by.
By way of the sea, the landscape, and the sky.
Whether it's a gorgeous day or a rocky path,
If you ask why on a dune I saw you stroll by.
We start our journey on the hand of wrath.
Whether it's a gorgeous day or a rocky path,
As we feel we're pulling toward the cease line.
We start our journey on the hand of wrath.
We're just starting; everything will be fine.
As we feel we're pulling toward the cease line,
Rejoice in the halcyon times that were shared,
We're just starting; everything will be fine,
You earn skills and expertise as you cared.
Rejoice in the halcyon times that were shared,
These are the things that will retain you warm,
You earn skills and expertise as you cared,
During cold, drizzly days or tropical storms.
These are the things that will retain you warm,
Yet, we triumph simply because we are clever,
During cold, drizzly days or tropical storms.
The route winds and twists literally forever.
Written: March 05, 2023
The mountain was wrapped with tall, dark pines
Gloomy, heavy clouds obscured the sky.
Flashes of thunder lit up briefly above.
Timber crackled across the dark slopes.
A ghostly cold wind whirled around the mountain.
Pines swayed against each other.
Then, drizzly rain started to fall.
Birds, small and large, scuttled to find shelter.
We ran together holding wet hands.
Yet we were in love and laughed throughout.
Don’t blame us for getting completely wet.
We danced, slipped onto the wet soil.
I lifted up my head, I kissed the rain.
So did she. We kissed so passionately.
Until we came to the end of the muddy path.
We ran up our new wedded house unto a hot steamy shower.
It was not rain that fell on our faces
But we did not care as we continued our kisses.
Placed 1
I never cease to puzzle over
life's mystery, how on a drizzly morning
I found my long wished for love
crossing the street in opposite direction,
eternal love was conceived in the moment
and she passed by unnoticing my gaze
that could have lasted a century.
There was never a more tender and sweet face
lost quickly in the crowd. Her beauty so
enchanting, eloquent, and divine.
And every morning I cross the same intersection
hoping, praying, for another glimpse
at my true love, months after months,
distracted by nothing, the thought of her
entrenched in my deep sleep, and oh
how sweet it is, the dream of dreams.
The sweet smell of her perfume
still lingers in my mind.
Evil is hopelessness, so I shut it up by
this murmur of love raised by her footsteps.
Alas, years have passed and rain or shine I keep
crossing the street for the sake of a second look
at the girl who once walked past me unnoticing
the hurricane she caused in my soul.
To this austere duty, piously faithful
She will show up one day and ask me
“So what is it you want?” And I will not have an answer.
Too Soon
Do very youthful men and women fret
About the ill success of dreams they’ve dreamt?
They barely have begun to even whet
Their lust for life! I think they are exempt
a mere while yet from lessons to be learnt.
They’ll bill and coo before spring season’s spent.
Then soon, and summer-touched, they will be burnt.
And finally, they’ll look back and lament
how weariness, like fog, has come to fall
upon them from a drizzly sky once gold
with April’s hope and not November’s pall.
Beneath Spring’s gilded skies, their growing old
is but a road stretched far in front of them.
Too soon will come cold winter’s requiem.
(Below is the poem that inspired it)
“Age” by Sara Teasdale
Brooks sing in the spring
And in the summer cease;
I who sang in my youth
Now hold my peace;
Youth is a noisy stream
Chattering over the ground.
But the sad wisdom of age
Wells up without a sound.
She muddles an unusually warm December
dark drooling deep afternoon
Drizzly wait,
not long before her hungry needy kids return from school,
recomposing herself against a grey back porch wall
Knees up,
peering out
listening for wonder
How her life is the same,
and different,
compared to her backyard river
flowing surely and widely
but silently south
while a raucous river of cars in front
shuttle up and down self-stated highway's over-fueled Advent
of relentless unholyday traffic
Punctuated
with rambunctious horn blasts,
or perhaps warmly intended "Hello"s,
"Just passing by...."
EarthJustice passing
water toward southerly Sound,
carbon-eaters to her back
across a dusky front yard Advent
of early evening's commercial family business,
industry,
institutions for competing corporate commodification
flowing toward stealthy syncopated impatience,
and then by-passing away.
By-passing,
messiah's mass faltering
to sing in her faithful
but worn thin heart and hair,
hoping her river loves co-redemptive Sounding ocean
even more than busy motor air
surging through more urgent toxic time
investment to completely commercialize
UnBirthing Wonder's purgative sacred flow
into therapeutic nature.
Flow,
transubstantiating home and families
into consumer markets
floating down her river of mid-December's discontent
with waiting.
Discontent,
gloaming river fog
Spreading miraculously radiant
around one uninvited yellow street light
waiting for her family's magic blue bus
delivering this December night's
transforming rebirth.
She was on her way to work
A sixty-minute drive she made every day
It was a rainy day, drizzly, a Monday
Her car flipped in every conceivable way
Her children were at school not knowing
That their lives were being turned upside down
The five-year-old was coloring and laughing.
The six-teen-year-old was with friends, hanging around.
The first responders knew they had a Mom,
From the coloring pages in the back seat,
She was non-responsive, already gone.
They tucked the sheet over her body, nice and neat.
There was a hushed silence for the loss of life.
Some said prayers, some cried tears for the unknown mom,
For somebody’s mother, somebody’s wife,
A young woman who was gone too early in years.
All of us in shock, no one felt exactly like another,
As we watched twenty-four sixteen-year-old girls
Attend a funeral for one of their friend’s mother
And we all saw a small motherless five-year-old boy.
It was one of the saddest funerals I have ever attended.
Everyone seemed to be in shock, consumed by grief.
Taught to all by an ordinary Monday with a bit of rain,
Live every day your best living, because life can be brief.
One misty morning Grace came to my little house,
The drizzling clouds had soaked her purple blouse
And her rounded eyes sparkled with rain and lust;
I kissed her dewy lips as any savvy gentleman must.
“Life is dreary without your warmth”, she said
As she threw her handbag on the rumpled bed;
I removed her shoes and her sopping attire
And at her behest quenched her restless fire.
“Let’s go see my parents “, she begged with care,
“Promise you’ll marry me”, she stroked my hair,
I squinted into her eyes and with the last kiss
Accepted her requests in the scintillating bliss.
We trekked till our feet were sore
From ten in the morning to nearly four,
But when we reached their estate
She went in fast and locked the gate.
Alone I considered my fate in the lonely dark,
The dogs punctuated my thoughts with a kindly bark,
The sporadic owl hooted to signal the inevitable menace
And the few stars overhead smiled to lighten my face.
What was my mistake, Grace?
I have been asking myself all the days
The wrong I did you on that drizzly day
That love with hate you chose to pay.
If the Rainman would concur, I would take all my days cloudy and
all my moments as this sodden one, but to my chagrin he does not.
Things come upon me near the moistened river. The water in the air
takes me back to a Styrofoam cup of juicy minnow bait on a drizzly day.
Countless coconuts swirl down this smelly tributary. They don’t
about each other or about why the tide takes them there it pleases.
You can’t tell me that they do not think like us, or maybe they don’t.
Either way they cannot know the sacredness of watching a ballet
of synchronized raindrops from beneath the water’s surface.
Submitted by Gary Baldwin (Jan 21, 2026)
for the Let it Rain Poetry Contest
...A big log bounced from way up top,
and before Guy could react
It struck his square across the chest,
up rose a sickening crack.
We sprinted quickly to our friend,
who lay helpless in the snow,
he struggled to draw a ragged breath,
ribs crushed from the blow.
I bent low besides my friend,
saw the haze come to his eyes,
the last words that he said, in French:
“Please…don’t let me die…”
But there was nothing to be done,
the damage was far too vast,
so we gathered round, stayed with Guy,
and in a few minutes he passed.
We stood there in stunned silence
then up came a painful yell,
the teamster dropped down to his knees,
clearly blaming himself.
But he was not at fault for it,
and a horse cannot be blamed,
so we picked Guy up and headed back
amidst a drizzly, freezing rain.
Back at camp we hacked away
at the hard and frozen ground,
we dug a pit just big enough
and laid our poor friend down.
A sky-pilot came out with a bible,
and he spoke his holy words,
we buried Guy and set up a cross,
into it his name we burned.
There was no more logging that day,
most just tried to hold back tears,
the company had not lost a man
going on back thirteen years.
And I stayed up too late that night,
troubled, unable to sleep,
wondering if I should even bother to
ask the Lord my soul to keep.
But sorrow will not turn back time,
nor will angry, vengeful moods,
so I had a drink and passed right out,
it would do no good to brood.
And the next morning we ate breakfast,
told the bull-cook he’d done good,
then grabbed our axes, our crosscut saws,
and headed back into the woods.