Long Mud Poems
Long Mud Poems. Below are the most popular long Mud by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Mud poems by poem length and keyword.
Would like to turn back time to
jump in the puddles and make mud cakes
Extensive gray clouds of rain follow the horizon
day out and day in
Percussion drums quietly on the window
I'm waiting for the perfect time of day
to stretch my butterfly wings
Perhaps tomorrow
Paint me a picture
sing me a song
of soft heartbeats in the summer wind
Color me a sky with shades of pink
before I go back down into my rabbit hole
and listens to the rain
08/07/2021
Sun :) - A-L Andresen :)
Copyright © All Rights Reserved
Mud flows, it oozes, down the wall,
Leaving each moment of pain,
Leaving thoughts of a raging mad,
The memories of demented insane
Over each perfect white tile,
A million small white tiles that gleam,
Holding the truth that was this room,
The truth in each little white scream
And the noise in those thoughts,
Scatters silence to pieces on the floor,
The noise that destroyed the joy of,
What could have been before
The hurt that occurred, the muck, the pain,
The ache, burn, and crush of obscene,
It shatters, every day, the perfect idea,
The idea that we should have been.
I am flailing in the mud.
At last, it seems I am crawling out.
Yet someone pauses
To watch me.
The sun.
But it watches me far too deeply.
It grows hotter and hotter.
At the very moment I am about to emerge from that mire,
I end up turning into a statue.
Someone passing by wonders,
"Why is something sticking out here?"
That something was me,
Yet they step right over it,
And the mud
Grows only harder.
I am no longer even the presence of a statue;
Now invisible,
I have become the very earth itself.
When spring comes, flowers bloom,
But when winter arrives,
The flowers of spring inevitably fall.
Sanctuary at Dawn
by Michael R. Burch
I have walked these thirteen miles
just to stand outside your door.
The rain has dogged my footsteps
for thirteen miles, for thirty years,
through the monsoon seasons ...
and now my tears
have all been washed away.
Through thirteen miles of rain I slogged,
I stumbled and I climbed
rainslickened slopes
that led me home
to the hope that I might find
a life I lived before.
The door is wet; my cheeks are wet,
but not with rain or tears ...
as I knock I sweat
and the raining seems
the rhythm of the years.
Now you stand outlined in the doorway
—a man as large as I left—
and with bated breath
I take a step
into the accusing light.
Your eyes are grayer
than I remembered;
your hair is grayer, too.
As the red rust runs
down the dripping drains,
our voices exclaim—
"My father!"
"My son!"
NOTE: “Sanctuary at Dawn” was written either in high school or during my first two years of college. Keywords/Tags: father, son, conflict, relationship, reconciliation, storm, rain, tears, sweat, mud, slog, downpour, flood, sunshine, rainbow
In its place, not on a cart,
rutted and mixed with dung;
consistent too, in its purpose
as it was when the world was young.
No shame attached that from it came
fell man who disobeyed.
Man, who needed an ark and law;
who brought the curse and strayed.
The ox had stumbled in the mud;
the ox who pulled the cart,
which, though brand new and garlanded,
should not have played a part
in returning the holy object;
and as it slid to fall to the road,
Uzzah thought his hand more pure
and reached to steady the load.
Profane flesh touched pure gold
instead of wet chaste earth;
when a man thought too much of himself;
too much of his own worth.
He died right there with good intent,
and cheering turned to mourning
when mud was better than man
and God gave us His warning.
A simple recipe of water, silt, soil and clay
Nature's potion; so powerful, so useful, so dangerous
Uncontrollable and untethered is this egalitarian mixture
Loved and loathed by human and animal
Low tide, the muddy shores of the Victorian Thames beckoned
The ragged-clothed mudlark scavenged for anything he could sell
Scrap iron, animal fat, coal, pieces of rope and canvas - the daily fayre
Few pennies for bread and beer, so cruel for the young, orphaned, homeless child
They came to Woodstock and Glastonbury with a light heart
Tens of thousands flocked to share music and the experience
Rain-turned fields of mud bound them together
They freely left muddied, smiling and uplifted
Yet, in another time the mudscape of the battlefield was the real enemy
The toxic mix of natural mud contaminated with human bi-products
Was the welcome each new trench soldier received
It oozed into the very soul of every pawn on both sides
In another place, Musgum people are at one with the earth
The simple beauty of their mud huts lingers on
Tall conical form cools the summer heat
Outside, geometrical patterns channel the monsoon rains
Elsewhere, acrid black smoke hangs over the valley like a spectre
Families live and work in squalor, slaves in all but name
A child finishes a mud brick her father moulded and her mother will bake
India’s economic miracle built in the mud hell of the poor
Strong, viscous, colourfully rich
Powerful images of mud stencils of the street
Dramatic forms of the land artist’s river mud
Subtle negative spaces in mud cloth designs
Yet in one moment, nature's art supersedes
The deadly ride of everything in the mudflow’s path
The open wound of a hillside landslide
The jigsaw pattern in sun-baked mud of a riverbed
The figurative use of mud exudes negative undertones
Worthless and polluting, it described sixteenth century people and things
Mixed with a sense of extreme, an insult it soon became
Dragged through the mud by mudslinging of others, your name becomes mud
Mud, O glorious mud
You take no sides, you give no quarter
Fluid in your journey, solid in your destiny
Eternal existence assured
Mud of the Mind
Thousands of years of mud
Wrapped around my legs
Struggling to reach my mind
To force me to see a reality I didn’t create
Others decided what I should see
What I should hear
And what I should believe
I want to be free of their mud
The ideas they approve of
The thoughts they want me to have
I do not believe their visions
That Cinderella was a good girl
The Wicked Witch was evil
They may have been right
They may have been wrong
Once the mud they created is gone
My mind will tell me the truth
And I will see a reality
Maybe one they cannot accept
But for me it will be true
And that will be all that matters
I can still hear her boots
hit the pavement as she walks
away. Her sanguine footsteps
swallowed up by the greedy
black night, feasting on
her departure. Waning
moonlight silhouettes every
lithe movement, the winter air
highlighting every hot breath.
I fill my lungs with air,
its cold fingers tear at my lungs
and sink into my chest as I watch
her disappear into the concrete ocean.
The leaves walk down the street
holding hands with the wind,
casting worried looks my way,
laughing, but lack the courage
to look me in the eye.
Their judgment ignites my
tinderbox of rage, and the fear
and longing and despair and grief
and loss and regret and guilt and
loneliness
come alive in a conflagration
of purple and green and yellow and
orange and red and blue and pink and
black.
It burns fast and bright as
it wrestles with the cold inside me,
breaking its fingers to loosen the icy
grip on my lungs and I send
a desperate prayer to her,
reaching for her, pleading for her to
turn around and come back to me.
She escapes my grasp,
like pulling heavy footfall
out of freshly watered mud,
when the muck only lets go
reluctantly, and she wipes her shoes
on the doormat as she
walks inside, alone.
In old London
the Thames used to be muddy,
not muddy like the Mississippi,
but the mud of the drowned,
murdered, and of long lost dreams.
On gray dawns
scrawny kids would sift through
the detritus that washed up
on its stony riverbank,
small objects that belonged
to the once living.
Sometimes a good ring or wristwatch
would be fished out of the effluvium,
more often rags,
chicken or rat bones.
Those who once stood beside
these dark waters
may have looked deeply into them
as if despairingly predicting
cold malnourished hands
scooping up their dreams
to be sold for pennies.
when he spoke
words broke like glass between his teeth
14 minutes past 8PM 7 weeks after the red river
in his brain ran almost dry
he the acidic and sullen shadow of his youth
turned to me
(one side of his face a landslide of flesh
frozen into freefall
thus i won't mimic the inarticulate sound of it)
look after your mother
and my ten year old self nodding
wishing i were not there
then she who had married this man to protect her
plus one boychild from a condemning Catholic family
and a rabid priesthood
having thus become a widow at 37
being only 5 feet high in her pumps
also as slim as a whippet
turned to drink dying quickly of a gastric ulcer
never mind her failing liver
no wonder
i turned out more angular then an open razor
biting every hand that fed body and mind
thinking that same hand would one day turn against me
as it usually did
but i unable to stop my breakneck race to personal destruction
until poetry found me wandering a bitter earth
it entering my soul one turbulent night wailing like
a hungry infant which i fed and carried for years
not knowing i needed it much more than it needed me
and so
we ate broken glass together until
words bled into red flowers floating upon a river
that flowed through my brain