Long Rinsed Poems
Long Rinsed Poems. Below are the most popular long Rinsed by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Rinsed poems by poem length and keyword.
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.
The dispersed grains of darkness drizzle down silently
from the cauldron of boundless blankness of timeless infinity
that the sky starts to shape at the edge of dwindling dusk,
its condensed remnant configures the nebulous night.
The silken tapestry of the black blanket spreads slowly
as the twilight dissolves at the hinge of the hazy horizon,
like the rinsed rainbow melting upon the skyline clouds,
from where satin darkness flows with untamed fluid night.
Sonorous sound of silence echoing in the esoteric night sky
wakes up the sleeping stars one by one to sparkle entangled
on the bejeweled crown adorning the ardent ambiance,
as moonbeam strands weave for me the sequestered dream of you.
In stardust surged desolate nocturnal niche I wait mystified
for you to emerge out of my dream with seraphic feral flair,
walk in the squally craving corridor of my mesmerized mind,
where bracing amorous allure my longing feels wild is the night.
Some places you don’t write about. You survive them.
Frost on the telly, piss on the stairs,
Smells like bleach, burnt foil, and prayers.
Boiler’s gone. Sockets dead.
Someone’s screaming. Someone bled.
Tinfoil wings fill every bin,
Ashtrays stacked with yesterday’s sin.
Fridge blows air. The kitchen’s grave—
Nothing left, and none to save.
Upstairs she rocks a silent kid,
Eyes like glass, ribs half-hid.
Skin all wire, voice all gone—
“He screams less when I use alone.”
Three doors down, a bloke named Rick
Dealt ten bags to fund his fix.
Found his brother stiff and blue—
Took his coat, then shot up too.
They found her curled behind the bins,
Legs like rope, cuts on her shins.
Said she slipped.
Said it was rain.
But silence screams
when soaked in shame.
Kid got stabbed by the corner shop—
Twelve years old, still learning to chop.
Mum lit candles. No one came.
Council rinsed, but the stain remained.
Still—
still—
Through all the filth and smashed-out glass,
a streak of sun begins to pass.
It cuts across the piss and pain,
slides through blinds, through cracked windowpane.
It brushes past the silent kid,
Eyes like glass, ribs half-hid.
No cries now, just the ticking room—
Still rocked gently in her gloom.
It lingers at Rick’s old front door,
His coat long gone, his name no more.
His ghost still trapped where the rot runs deep—
No peace, no fix, no final sleep.
It finds the girl still by the bins,
Track marks raw on paper skin.
She doesn’t move, just lets it burn—
“Smoke still holds me. Wait your turn.”
The sun don’t ask what you’ve done wrong.
It just turns up. Don’t stay too long.
Don’t save the good. Don’t curse the bad.
It lights the wreckage, leaves you mad.
And while it’s here, we breathe. We fight.
We crawl one inch. We steal some light.
A thread of gold. A breath. A flame.
On streets they curse but still proclaim.
So write it raw. Don’t make it sweet.
Don’t bleach the blood. Don’t clean the street.
We ain’t saints. We ain’t pure.
But we’re still here.
And we endure.
This is the sound of neglected Britain—
forgotten, boarded, pissed-on, driven.
A country that don’t fix, just shame.
And sun that shines on piss and pain.
when last rays of autumn - tip toe along to sunset streaked reveries
listen to the crisp breeze of fallen fairies - truth floats through tawny tunes
whilst crickets chirp - lulling grieving trees - silhouette of sky bursts in gold
a crumpled haven of seraphic swings - whistling wind-swept dreams of brown
as twilight bleeds merlot red runes - shifting shades of coral pink clouds weep
flurry flakes curve - amidst a deep labyrinth of chamomile silence
butterflies rest upon rain rinsed roses - exhaling brisk balmy blues
timeless tales of forgotten tulips - yet between dusk and dawn faith thrives
and frost-kissed hope - swiftly turns a new leaf - feathered with crystal belief
but - if to love your moon is madness - let stars fade into cosmic dust
To build a house out in the wood?
We had the feeling that we could,
But one thing’s clear, we understood
It’s water first, or all in vain.
We hired a crew to drill a well;
They gave it what they had.
But when they left, the hole was dry;
Our eyes were wet and sad.
And even though we had no luck,
Were in an awful plight,
Before they loaded up the truck,
We had a check to write.
Three hundred feet and not a drop;
With no more pipe, they had to stop.
It’s fair to say it was a flop,
And no way yet to take a bath.
We went back down into that hole
And there we went for broke.
For seven hundred feet, we drilled;
I kid you not, no joke!
At last, we hit a pocket but
It mostly was the dregs.
The water, full of calcium;
It smelled like rotten eggs.
Seems halfway down to Middle Earth
And spending down on one’s net worth
And still we ended with a dearth
Of water for a nice warm bath.
So I devised another plan:
Collecting off the roof.
There was a certain risk in this,
’Twas far from weatherproof.
And so we bought some great big tanks
For downpours, when they come.
And strainers, screens, and UV lights
To filter out the scum.
I had a certain fear, you see;
You might call it anxiety
That it might rain enough for me
Despite my having done the math.
The clouds blew in, the water fell,
It landed on the roof.
I figured it would work this way,
But now I had my proof.
The gutters then directed it
To those collection tanks
And as I saw the levels rise,
I raised a voice in thanks.
So now the Lord has set us free;
His grace pours out; it washes me.
I’m rinsed with joy; I splash in glee,
And everything is right as rain.
An unreflective Bodhisattva
nods to the unwashed dishes.
Once again I seek my morning
liberation by ways of a dark libation
Next a phlegmy mantra
gummed through spongy lips.
“I sleep, I wake. I sleep, I wake”
The mug is perfunctorily rinsed,
the stains of past desires
ring the rim like hungry ghosts.
I am aware of not being aware.
Ipso facto: I am aware,
but only in the cracks
between random thoughts.
Sweetness comes in pink packets.
The sacraments are torn open
two at a time with habitual practice.
A Zen-like work,
by rote and thought-free.
The percolator bubbles a last breath.
Like the Tathagata, I am truly gone.
An arm pours black oozing bliss
Into my mug.
A beatific smile
escapes from grungy features.
Tranquil air trembles,
a soft shimmer rising through the chaos
as thunder blooms like a distant memory
I’m only now remembering.
Lightning unfurls in slow, impossible arcs,
buzzing with a language older than breath—
a whisper of light tasting the edges of my skin,
tingling like a secret waking up.
Ionized molecules drift toward me,
metallic, fresh, impossibly clean,
as if the world has been rinsed
in some celestial river.
The scent vibrates through my body,
a quiet acceleration,
energy gathering in spirals,
lifting me into a place
where nature feels sentient
and I feel seen.
The storm humbles me—
not with force,
but with its strange intimacy,
its dreamlike certainty
that everything is connected
in ways I can’t quite name.
Anticipation curls with uncertainty,
a beautiful madness,
a sensory tide rising higher
than thought can follow.
Passion sharpens,
focus deepens,
power moves through me
like a benevolent phantom.
Joy becomes a luminous pulse,
a euphoric high that feels
half-spiritual, half-imagined,
as if the sky itself
has leaned down to touch me
with affection made of thunder.
And when the crash finally comes,
it doesn’t break the dream—
it completes it,
a cosmic heartbeat
echoing through my own.
Caroline foister 1/19/2026
Robert James Liguon Tempest contest
Why sit with a frown is there a need?
Yes she whispered in my ear, I think I peed.
My knickers are wet, I dare not move at all
If I stand up, down they will surely fall
Your knickers are wet, ha I did scoff
But I made sure I did, no laugh or a cough
For under my seat I would then have to peer
As there may be a puddle just under here
Went shopping before we met for lunch
Hoped lollies would stay frozen, so I could crunch
Put it in my handbag, sat upon my lap
Decided to eat quickly, so no mishap.
But lunch took quite a while
We had a laugh and a smile.
The lollies got hot, and then they did melt
I felt a cold patch sneak under my belt.
I swept off the table cloth wrapped it round like a toga
To everyone watching I said ‘it’s a new move in yoga’
To the bathroom I ran and locked the door
I dropped my wet undergarments, onto the floor
Knickers now down, I could see the stain
Was orange not pee and that I still maintain
I sniffed at my undies and then I did think
They smell of oranges, as I rinsed in the sink
I hadn’t peed at all, twas not a mishap
My ice lollies had melted, wetting my lap
Next time you see an old dear with a wet patch on her frock
Remember it might be a lolly, so you better not mock
One day you know that old dear will be you
So to yourself and to others you must always be true
A wet patch you may see, but no lollies are there
So offer her some wipes, but don’t sit on her chair
© 2013
Collaboration between Seren Roberts and Mandy Tams
Rain has rinsed the night of color
and falls with some restraint
A day designed to say goodbye
cannot deny the scent of grief
It's no wonder sleepless nights prevail
upon the hint of a summer storms
as if to keep the heart alive
and smooth the day before our eyes
Just slight enough to temper dark
To let us swim into the night
with something new that isn't yet
quite defined to understand
Enough to litter sidewalks,
gutters, eaves. To leave a trace
of sailing leaves, confetti trails
To veil the past and distant hills
beneath the somber sky
Slanted silver catches light
washing tremors from the wind
A petrichor of sweet perfume
blooms again to sweeten earth
and birth a stream of memories
As we woke to dread the day,
somehow, we were not surprised,
to hear the sound of rain again
She always said, a gentle rain
will come to soothe the earth and sky
to quench the soul, restore the heart
with colors of the afterlife
________________________________________________________
6/7/16
For "Contest: Rain, Rain Come My Way"
Sponsored by binibining P.INk
I made sure
I've done alot
Made mistakes
Took on more
Than I should take
Cleaned my plate
Washed it off
Rinsed it
Put it away
Took it back down
This go round
Started to smile
Instead of frown
I made sure
That
I didn't back track
I made sure to
Forgive too
Everyday it's changing
Tired of the same sayings
Ive been misunderstood
People outweighed my bad
Saw the good
They saw it
Through their own eyes
No longer had to be a disguise
I could feel
Time would heal
Heal the wounds the hurt
Put a bandage on it
Make it work
How could I loose
If I choose
To Grow
Be like Elsa and let it go
But don't run
From your problems
Strategize them
Go and solve them
And you will see there is a cure
When you make sure
I made sure
That
I didn't back track
I made sure to
Forgive too
As you see in this verse
Nothing wrong with putting yourself first
Know your value
Know your worth
Make sure you always come first
I made sure
That
I didn't back track
I made sure to
Forgive too
Written by:Concetta Hardnett
04/27/2022