Long Humid Poems
Long Humid Poems. Below are the most popular long Humid by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Humid poems by poem length and keyword.
They had measured on close counts,
Before they began his dismount,
All flowers and scents were left behind,
It was only mud that came to mind,
He was a log of wood that had no use,
They were about to consign him as refuse,
They had measured on close counts,
And now had finished his dismount,
They all glumly looked at the innards of earth,
Dug apart so as to be his home and hearth,
They lowered him with care,
Some cried and other shed tears,
Such care they had never shown,
When he was alive full blown,
They left him but he could not,
In years that followed he thought,
And all thoughts were about and their's,
But he lay still there,
Not able to do much,
While lower insects ate him as such,
Twenty yards under the surface,
The earth weighed on him like a mace,
He had volumes to carry,
Every moment without delay or tarry,
In peace he had the quiet,
Under the forceful mud of his burial site,
He was largely unattended,
Only heard anniversary footsteps,
When his thought subject came tending,
There was lot of din,
As one day woke abruptly in,
He could hear the rattling and banging of hammer,
His peace was disturbed and began to stammer,
It was furious and fast,
He presumed it could not be just his nest,
But also his neighbors from first to last,
It was familiar yes very much so,
All the sound and racket on the go,
It was regular and incessant,
As if it was rain rampant,
Yes, clouds up there from above,
Were pouring over his grave,
They sounded angry and irate,
And were determined to drown all gates,
He felt secure under mud,
And there suddenly was a seeping thud,
It was really bad and water had come in tones,
His grave was all definitely drowned,
Now the water had bossed over the earth,
Pressing it hard for the inner most berth,
It was invading the twenty yards,
And approaching him fast,
And he thought will the dead also meet the flood,
The seeping thud was on the first drop,
That fell on his stomach,
He churned as eating insects scurried,
Soon train followed thud after thud,
And then it was a volley of scuds,
His cavity was being filled,
And bones getting viscid and humid,
A coolness spread through rotten carrion,
And went on to turn into a bath for the skeleton,
It bathed him till it was just soaking,
Was it he who had ascended to heaven,
Or the heavens came pouring down to meet him even.
Why can I not write?
I am overwhelmed
By the minutiae of everyday life!
Dawn comes, and I awake, but no!
I pull the covers over my head
And close my eyes tightly
Against the coming day.
I am not ready yet!
When I can avoid it no longer
I sit up and dress, reluctantly,
Take the dog out, bring
Him in and feed him,
Give him fresh water.
Give him his pills and
Spray his poor shaven rat tail
With anti-itch lotion,
(He has a hot spot!)
And put some ointment on it.
I fix some breakfast,
Wash it down with yesterday’s coffee.
Take the cats some fresh water,
Get them their breakfast,
And clean the litter,
Wipe Sweetie Pie’s eyes
And put drops in them.
I’ll comb out both Sophie
And Sweetie Pie later on.
I make my bed and
Clean up the dishes,
Get out my big green backpack
And put Doug’s clean clothes in it.
Oops! I forgot to start the laundry
I brought home yesterday!
It’s already 10:30, and I
Have to leave by five to eleven!
Spray on the sun lotion,
Check that I have my Patriot ferry
Pass and the SPF 50 lip balm
Doug asked me to get.
It’s hot and humid, but I trudge
Twenty minutes to the ferry
For the half-hour boat ride
That I actually enjoy!
Just me, the water, sun and breeze
For 30 minutes of quiet
For my not-so-peaceful mind.
Three hours to have lunch with Doug,
Bring him up-to-date with
All the news of friends and family,
Watch him in physical therapy
And learn what I will have to do
In a few weeks when he gets home!
Back to the van, back to the Patriot ferry,
And another brief time for myself.
I walk home, hot and tired.
Take Andy out, finish the laundry
And hang it out on the line.
I think it won’t rain tonight.
Run to the store for some
Necessities, cat food in particular,
Check the e-mail, answer some notes,
Water the parched garden
Take Andy for a walk, and
Then feed him his dinner.
Time for MY dinner, but what?
Let’s see. I sauté a couple of
Chicken tenders in the small pan,
Slice up a whole tomato,
Add some cantaloupe and cottage cheese,
Eat some of it and fall asleep
In the chair in front of the
Fan on its highest setting.
I wake up with a start and make
Myself get up and clean up the kitchen,
Afterwards, I watch a couple
Of mindless television shows
While I make mental lists
Of what I have to do tomorrow.
For many days, I am yearning with my pastime longing to bargain for a mountain
Even though I am not knowledgeable about that marchant, for a dealer of that, then.
I long , I wish I could meet
A payment payable for the price, never could cease any upcoming, though hitchhike
I have a river of my own.
I would exchange that for the mountain
Who else is there, not knowing that the mountain costs less than the river
A mountain static, a river enchanting undercurrent for evermore, meandering trail
Yet, I will prefer the mountain in lieu of the river
I would buy
As I will be the thug, trying to be an equitable mug end, a moron.
Even Though the river, bought earlier was possible for a deltaic plain
During my childhood days, I had a brief, accountable memory
of the deltaic plane, free from any obesity
Enriched with the fullest swings of Butterflies, innumerable
When I reached my adolescence, the deltaic plane turned a misfit
Not one size fits all as the demand shows. Rather I loved the running undercurrent of the river.
Friends said, “In exchange for that small delta, this big river!
A deed, indeed!”
With full churns, I used to feel sheer Joy! Then!
Then I loved the river, with all my truth.
The river used to answer many questions of mine,
Such as, “Please inform about the weather forecast of this evening,
Will it rain today?”
Regarding that, the river replied, “Today, here it is a hot and humid northern breeze, passing through."
Only there is incessant down pouring rain over a small delta
What a rain it is! Seems like a festive eve!
I am no longer able to return to that delta.
He knew that! Everyone knows that.
No one is able to return to childhood days.
Now I yearn to buy a mountain.
The foothill of the mountain will be about dense forestry
I will travel along the forest, and then
This will all be all hard mountain trail
To the top, up close
The sky, hung, close, the lowly world underneath
An agonizingly ruthless silence, with no one nearby.
My voice will not be heard there, audible to no one.
Facing the world with the happening entity, I shall speak
Everyone is here for boasting, here I am a loner in my perceiving try
Instead of a victory, here, I beseech in mercy.
O my world! I am not sinful
Have mercy on me!
Copyright © Tamanna Ferdous | Year Posted 2024
Loving life hid beneath rim of cool ceramic bowl
Tree frog claimed proud place, toilet's homely hole
Enamoured by his simple palace making stance
I bend to peer at his green grip toe stick, entranced
My ordinary admonished by gaze from onxyx eyes
Quick reflex and instinct, skills by which Frog relies
Shine of black marble smartness lures me nearer
Knowing even with my bulk, I'm somehow inferior
Rubber eyelid winks, peels open again enlarged
Eye wrinkles droop to hammock, I'm encouraged
To nestle within humid folds, shrunk human glued
Oscillated in his lid lures languishing duly procured
Spun suddenly, rubbery cocoon cosy lurches erratic
Some worry occurs I'll drown outside skin hammock
Prior to paranoia taking over, thrown from dizzying ride
Launched into stark big bowl with steep slippery sides
Swim in cistern spew strangely renders me cleansed
Lap in lurid blue sends me to inevitably to S bends
Whooshed and flushed with refreshed perspective
Dark harassed by diffused hues tug seductive
Dolphin derived, my smooth unphased by spiralling
Saturated zones, ease honed, enamour never tiring
Snorkel hole snorts water, puffs readily on its purification
Imbibing combines giddy with clarity, senses' temptation
My forehead flicked flirtatiously by wide flamingo flippers
Splayed feathers fan surface, showcase dance floor shimmer
Cabaret her costume, shakes crystal bead rainbow release
Ravishing precise pirouettes prim pink princess completes
Her curved beak caresses my porthole brain, rubs insistantly
Into warm walnut shell weapon I'm swallowed quite quickly
I spy through pomegranate seed eye, mirror lake unswayed
Stilled kindly by wind's nonexistance, decision to travel made
Climbed to bird's tiny tiara topped crest, covered in feathers
Graceful lace tu- tu floats my aquatic future endeavour
Bouyed weightless and grateful, flip draws no resistance
Swim in S bend treasure, trip of sight resumed brilliance
*** Spring has sprung!!
- in Australia
My branch beyond
The tired pond
of Earth, awakes
Imminent Heaven
(perhaps)
*** A collapse of facts
Flight of flamingo regalia
Revel in place of waste
- Mystery flush takes
on its S bend
1st September 2020
During a thunderstorm at the midnight hour
I wrote you a letter that I'll never send
I wrote it when I was alone
so unless I give it to you
those words will always be mine
I might not keep them
but they are valuable
because I thought them
I wrote them and said them and read them
I said that I've see you around town
and I hope things are looking up for you
I said that I hope you're getting the help that you need
and I said nice things about your family
because they are such lovely people
and I said that you are too, really
I tried to keep it nice
but then I got brutal and blunt
and said that you can't heal on your own
because you keep your addiction so close
I said that you keep your addiction in first place
which keeps you from handling reality
because it throws off your perspective and light of life
and in my letter I told you how I waited on a guitar player at the cafe today
and he said that his favorite audience has become the young and the old
because of the way they take interest and inquire
and I didn't say this in my letter, but I wish that you would enjoy an audience like that
because that is a wholesome audience
I said that your thoughts, mistakes, and feelings are worth acknowledging
because they are honest and real
and they provide perspective and help you prosper
I was very frank when I said that you've been blessed
with talents and charm
and it was really harsh when I said that it's selfish
to keep them all to yourself
because you have a gift to connect with people and help them grow
and I said that you have so much potential
but you're trashing it
and good things aren't supposed to go to waste
I'm thinking that the thunder storm will fuel my poem
because the wind blows my curtains around
like I saw on Mickey Mouse once when I was little
while the rain hits my deck like a hundreds of marbles
dumped from an economy sized coffee can
and the lightning stabs and cracks flashes in the black humid breeze
several seconds before the thunder barrels at the silence I like for writing
but my lyrics are so raw that they don't need fuel
because I have the ruthless heart of an objective friend
who believes in you
because good things
aren't
supposed
to go
to waste
Strong like the waves that crash upon the shore
Deep as the river beneath a tossing barge
Long like the nights as we wait out the storms
And true as the love we have for the babes in our arms
The spirit of a warrior standing ready in his armor
The faith of a Pastor while comforting congregation members
The eyes of a mother that chooses to see only hope
And the strength of a father protecting his family's home
Louisiana's children, up until the end---
Prove over and over that our Faith won't be bent
We've adapted and created our ways of living
Picking up the pieces when Mother Nature comes at us again
We hurt when she hurts and bare the brunt
Of the forces she spews and the courses she runs
Her anger we feel in the gusts of wind
Her joy we receive during those summer's that won't end
Bliss she shows us on the perfect spring days
Just as we catch her tears when she lets go the rain
She's made our skin tough through the breath she shares
Humid and dense in our heavy air
Just as she can let go the wrath of a jilted Queen
We use the lessons she's instilled in us to conquer defeat
She may send down the rains and conjure lightening to match
And we may hear her anger in her thunderous clap
She may push through a wind to show us once more
And let loose all her might with a powerful storm
But she forgets, Mother Nature, you see
That her past runs through you and it runs through me
A direct line has been made, like the Mississippi to the Gulf
Her ways have led us to know just what we're made of
For through the years and down the lines
Cajun Country's people have risen each time
Our defenses may be a direct result of her hands
But our spirit we derive from our place on this land
And Mother Nature may be an ever present influence
But we're children of Louisiana and that means we'll always come through it
Rooted in this soil, in the heritage it holds
Grateful and honored for the blessings we've been bestowed
Generations as far back as one could see
Our ties are just as bound as these ancient Cypress trees
Rise up Louisiana with the dawning of new light
May your pain be healed and hearts filled with might
And as the last bit of dew dries up with the sun
Feel the embrace of your family in this rooted home you stem from
Form:
i want to freeze this moment
to paste all this feelings
into one moment in time
these smells
theses thoughts
these sounds around me
the tuk tuk i am in reaches town
and from the mosque nearby
the mwadhini calls out loud
"Allah Akbar"
the faithfuls;
men in stark white robes
and women in shimmering black buibuis
hurry on
to the dome roofed mosque
for their evening swala
the tuk tuk
comes to a halt
infront of the booking office
of the bus i shall travel with
there are many other travelers
like i
i alight the tuk tuk
pay the driver
and tell him asante
after he carries my suitcases
to the place i shall sit
to wait for the bus
he drives off
rickety and noisy
like all tuk tuks are
and i think nostalgically
that that's the last tuk tuk ride
i shall have
in a long long time to come
i doubt if they have them in Nairobi
at least not as many as here, in Kilifi
neither is the air as warm as this one
i know Nairobi will be cold
and i know i shall miss this humid air
so warm
like a lover's breath on the neck
and so teasing with scents of this and that
all of them elusive
one time there is a tinge
of the murky salty sea scent
the next
there hangs in the air
a sweet scent of feminine Arabic perfume
and then later
that of frying garlic;
somebody's cooking pilau somewhere
i feel hungry already
i shall have to buy some fries
to eat on the way
matatus pass by me
the conductors asking me if i would like to get on
i smile and shake my head
i have somewhere else to go
they speed past me
sighing, i look above
the street lights glow lemon yellow
they light the town
in a golden hue
and up above still
God's light bulbs
light up the clear coastal sky
in tiny fluorescent spots
like diamonds on a black dinner dress
and i wonder
is it possible
to touch them stars up there?
they look so far up high!
a bright one stands out
like Venus at twilight
it winks down at me
and makes me smile
they may be far
but one journey then the next
may take us closer
and closer to them
i have my own stars to touch
and my journey tonight
is another one
to take me closer to them
who knows if humans can ever touch stars?
only time will tell
i guess
*asante- swahili word for "thank you"
*mwadhini- the person who calls to Muslims at certain intervals to go to pray at the mosque
*swala- prayer
Deep pain bores into scalp as eyelids struggle to open;
Glaring sun menaces eyes as they face the sky boldly.
First thought dawns on me like elixir; I'm alive!
The vast blue sky seems to smile upon my spirit holy.
Hands try to grasp hot sand as I wade to turn on stomach.
Pitiless grains escape between my fingers, mockingly.
In tremendous effort, I crawl to nearest patch of shade.
My heart pumps heavily while sweat oozes out profusely.
Images flash; I'm pushed off yacht by lover unfaithful.
Mock inability to swim; I acted it wisely.
His satisfied grin is all I could see before diving.
Skills of past champion revived, I swam courageously.
This virgin island, is haven to me now;
Life's strong in me! Branches I shove away, decisively.
Cautious exploration; Travelers trees welcome me.
With stick sharp I poke at it, water flows abundantly!
I do drink to my content and refresh myself while hares
jump around; I whisper to them and one stops daringly.
"Angel" I mumble as I follow it; on water melon I stumble.
Food! Hit with stone; humid sweet red flesh to wolf greedily.
Twigs, I gather and "SOS" I draw on the white expanse.
Angel from hole, under branched tree, beckons me temptingly.
A red bird hovers; branches dry and green, some Ravenala leaves,
enough to give me most desired tree lodge, marvelously.
"Now, some thorough exploration." Angel nods approval.
Disgust filled heart softens and I long to hug her fondly.
On other side of island, I land in a rocky area.
Good heaven! Rainwater is trapped in a pond; so lovely.
The sun sets the direction and I venture inland.
Swarm of mosquitoes invade my burnt skin, voraciously.
I run like a mad to land among wild peppermint.
No mosquito here…repellent herbs! I deduce quickly.
Handfuls I pluck, to rub on my body at night.
My watermelon shell, now dry, serves me efficiently.
Pipik, my red bird and Angel watch "friends, how to light this tinder nest?"
Eureka! here, my heart shaped glass pendant gleams suddenly.
Settled nearly for a week now, hope never leaves me.. I'm to live!
2/02/17
2nd and 4th line of each quatrain has 14 syllable.
(checked on howmanysyllable.com)
Placed 4th on 6 winners (judged 7/02/17) Tropical Island by Shadow Hamilton
I was alone
Travelling Interstate 80
Following the route of the early Western pioneers
2900 miles across the midsection of America
Stretching from the East Coast to California
In Utah home to The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints
The land becomes flat and straight
Large signs on the edge of the road
Warn drivers about fatigue and drowsiness
Tired and hungry
I drove on
Watching shadows move in the sunlight
Day turning into night
On an empty highway
Finally I stopped at a place off the road.
An old woman showed me around
Small talk
On a warm evening
Life is a delusion she said
Young man
There are terrible people out there
You ought to be careful
Cause you’re young you know.
The room was small
Fan cutting through the humid air
Telephone ringing in an empty room
Lights flickered
In the shadows
She pointed to a spot
Where an old man died
We kept the shabby couch she said
Too expensive to throw out
Out Here
We’re as practical
And frugal as the Mormons
So we kept it.
No sense in thinking about it any more
She whispered
The more you think
The more mixed up you get
Besides it’s wide
A bed for two and very comfortable.
I tried paying for the room
She looked in my face
Searching for something
Then down at the crumpled bills in my hand
Wetting her fingers she counted the money
I don’t know if you kids have everything
Or you have nothing
Time and experience will tell
I guess
Then she handed some of the money back to me
I don’t need that much
Beside it’s only money Son
That’s all it is
Life is short
You hold on to it
You’ll need it later
I looked puzzled
She smiled
We all have our secrets.
I was up early next morning
When the old woman appeared
I figured you’d be leaving soon she said
Heading West?
Yes I replied
Going to look for family out there?
No just myself
Afraid?
A little
Lightly touching my arm she said
Don’t be afraid. You’re young. There’s always been magic in a young heart
The roads are clear this time of morning.
Ride straight and you’ll do fine.
The engine revved up
I was moving at 60, then 70, then 80
Windows wide open
Wind pouring in
Not another car on the road
I was alive
I was free
The morning belonged to me.
It’s in the rows of old oaks
the pothole that was never filled,
the decrepit buildings like time capsules
dark and crumbling, creaking out a song
of far-off secrets, their sagging floors writ with
wood-scars of decades past,
bare feet and spilled lemonade,
pieces of chicken left out for the strays,
quiet evenings curled warm within a hand-sewn quilt
while the crickets and lightning bugs
performed their nightly cabaret just beyond the windowpanes.
It’s in the strained smiles, the folk who settled in,
dug their toenails into the dried earth and stayed put.
Slow, soft-spoken drawls, hugs that squeeze all the truth
from your lungs.
It’s in the same two restaurants,
the same greasy burger, the same
breaded porkchop, the Sunday service,
the ritualistic abuse.
You can cross the county line,
drive on past the swampland and the deer carcasses,
hit the highway pavement and find yourself
far removed from this liminal space.
Chase the skyscrapers and parking garages,
the concrete havens carved out
from the woodland through stubborn sheer will.
It doesn’t matter. There’s always a hollow, a yearning,
this calling back to the inkblot on a withered atlas map,
the lingering sting of sunlight on bare shoulders,
the simple thrill of unloading a clip into a strip-mine bank.
There are wild boars screeching in the forest,
hidden graveyards with finely manicured lawns
though the family line died out years ago.
Even so far away, the sick-sweet perfume of honeysuckles lingers on your tongue.
Come back, the humid wind whispers against the shell of your ear.