Long Salty Poems
Long Salty Poems. Below are the most popular long Salty by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Salty poems by poem length and keyword.
"A Mother"
An angel planted itself
in the womb of the world
for a short while
a mother carries humanity
trying to heal her wounds
the chalice of her ocean earthed
bleeds life for all it is worth
Gaia cries but she is so much stronger
vibrating dimensions higher
uncut in the heart
solid and so much stronger
than any god
a mother
ascending
dimensions higher
(LadyLabyrinth / 2022)
gvlm
"Viðrar vel til loftárása" / Sigur Ros
https://youtu.be/gwkcdRE6JEY
“I sink down into my body as into a swamp, fenland, where only I know the footing…. I’m a cloud, congealed around a central object, the shape of a pear, which is hard and more real than I am and glows red within its translucent wrapping. Inside it is a space, huge as the sky at night and dark and curved like that, though black-red rather than black.”
“The tulips along the border are redder than ever, opening, no longer wine cups but chalices; thrusting themselves up, to what end? They are, after all, empty. When they are old they turn themselves inside out, explode slowly, the petals thrown like shards.”
“Here and there are worms, evidence of the fertility of the soil, caught by the sun, half dead; flexible and pink, like lips.”
“Every month there is a moon, gigantic, round, heavy, an omen. IT transits, pauses, continues on and passes out of sight, and I see despair coming towards me like famine. To feel that empty, again, again. I listen to my heart, wave upon wave, salty and red, continuing on and on, marking time.
“I think that this is what God must look like: an egg. The life of the moon may not be on the surface, but inside."
“I used to think of my body as an instrument, of pleasure, or a means of transportation, or an implement for the accomplishment of my will.”
“We have learned to see the world in gasps.”
“...like a pathway through a forest, like a carpet for royalty, it shows me the way”.
“And so I step up, into the darkness within; or else the light.”
(The Handmaid's Tale/Margaret Atwood)
Viðrar vel til loftárása (Alternative Ending)/ Sigur Ros
https://youtu.be/re999Tgj3ns
Once again he climbs the hills above the salty bay
and walks along the path through fields where she used to play.
His silver hair and tattered clothes blowing in the wind,
that whispers the name of his sweet darling Carolynn.
He sits upon a rock and looks out to the water,
and once again she comes to him, his precious daughter;
through the ghostly floating mist, he sees her smiling eyes,
those eyes where forever more, his heart and soul reside.
She takes his hand and leads him to the fields of clover;
to that place on the cliff that the old tree grows over;
and he sees the rope tied 'round the bough of that old tree,
and feels the sunshine on his face, hears the humming bees.
His heart begins to pound, like a hammer in his chest,
as she runs with glee towards the overhanging crest;
he tries to stop her, but his feet stay froze to the ground;
he screams to no avail, being deaf she hears no sound.
She laughs and waves goodbye as she grabs the braided rope
and runs with all her might and swings out above the slope
and in that moment, he hears the snapping of the bough,
and he sees her dangling there, high above the brow.
He sees her startled eyes and he hears her helpless cries,
just before she falls on to the rocks below and dies.
He falls to his knees screaming and crawls out to the edge,
and when he looks below, he knows that he too is dead.
And they find him forty years from that fateful day,
Hanging from the old oak tree, where she used to play.
we’d not many luxuries in life
the one I remember most
was sitting by the fire
turning bread into toast
not the homogenised
standardised loaf of today
but Granny Barker’s bread
made the old fashioned way
each slice slathered with butter
which I may have seen turned
bobbing and thickening
as Mrs Bulson churned
nice salty country butter
running from the heat
and to top it off
my very special treat
gobs of brown sauce
to make the taste divine
not to everybody’s fancy
but very much to mine
lots of love but no money
lots of warm sensible care
hordes of toast and brown sauce
a mam and dad always there
the wife says I’m just a peasant
and I must say that I agree]
as I eat my special treat
somewhere where she can’t see
To my dear daughter...
I loved you, in your sweet Mary Janes.
In all our travels that were fine and plane.
You cannot remember how I pulled your hair.
Those braids,so tangled yet shiny and brunette fair.
You won’t have the pride, I did.
Watching you from the audience at Fairmont, you on stage,
You were just a kid!
Nor, how I hurt inside, when children called you terrible names.
Those brats with no hearts and no shame!
The fear I felt, when your face was split.
I stood outside the hospital, crying salty tears, that stung and bit.
And oh, the Christmases, when I could not provide you the best!
You went without plenty, and yet you turned out to be a far more than
cut above all the rest!
You told me once, when I was hopeless and crying.
That God was always with us, to keep on trusting Him and smiling.
Each summer, without you, I was so lost.
You flew to Chicago to be with your grandparents,
Life without you, seemed hardly worth the cost!
My pride in you, like a colored sunset that never ends.
Or perhaps a gorgeous rainbow and it’s colorful, shiny trends!
You grew to be one glorious soul!
Your contributions to this society simply grow and glows!
As a wife, you are unsurpassed!
Thank you for my grandson, Edward,
I shall call him, “outstanding”and like
his Mom, cannot be outclassed.
My life, I see, comes to its close.
Thus, I leave you my poetry, I hope some with bless you,
like the dew on a summer rose.
That is my everlasting gift to you.
Just simple words and phrases, that
when I am gone, sing to you forever!
That, my daughter, I will love you, is
my lifelong treasure!
Love,
Mommy
1-26-2022
Screaming Guillotines
I.
I sit on the wide veranda of this house called America,
And I can see the Beast Boys coming our jungled way,
Coming like wild torrents of lapping flames over the astonished landscape,
Coming with black eyes squinting and staring for a feast of blood.
I sit trembling with mouth wide open, waiting for the whistling hearses to come,
And the inevitable silent tap upon my evading shoulder.
And far far away into the green enveloping expanse,
Of consuming trees and obliterating American skies,
I can hear the screaming guillotines serenading the ghost dancers.
I can see the whistling hearses bringing in the crimson nightmares.
II.
Time to take my knife again and lacerate the flesh of this dead thing,
This once-breathing creature that felt nothing but the slash of profit.
Time to spit out the long thin hairs entwined around my teeth.
Time to wonder whose hair this belongs to, as I pull out the long strands slowly,
Like pulling out long segmented worms from beneath the dirt of a rock.
“Ah, do you know the time? Is your sister coming by today?
She knows my name, and she can hear the screaming guillotines when they drop.
Will she spend some time with me here on my soft bumpy sofa?
Will she at last listen, at last hear, my remonstrances of lost love,
As we devour this dead, unbreathing thing,
Inside this salty steaming stew?"
III.
The Profit Boys are back in town,
And Jess and Jim are drunk on whiskey.
John Jupiter and his new bride, Isabel,
Are eating chicken and dumplings without a frown.
His new suit, in whisky-laden tatters, is
Hanging propped on a sweat-stained hall tree.
“Lordy those two are riling me; but shucks, it’s my wedding day!”
Then into town rides the Domino Kid from Abilene;
He’s looking to escape the screaming guillotines at Lansing.
John Jupiter and Isabel drink a toast to the future,
Their happy hearts pounding with hopeful glee;
Then he bashfully presents a wedding ring to his dimpled bride,
And kisses her sweetly under the tall Dragon tree.
But now, inside their barn, with soft lamplight aglowing,
Amidst the rambling rawhide, and a cracked cowbell,
Jess and Jim Profit set fire to the hayloft, a fire that is still growing;
The Domino Kid lies asleep, eternally dreaming of Isabel.
Why is it that when we are so hurt
we when can create the most beautiful masterpieces?
How we dream of being happy
but find complacencies and deny,
even ignore a need for an outlet?
Perhaps, I have never experienced a true level of pure bliss
A level where talent streams out of me
birthing a prized gem
I am so thankful for my creative escape, away from suffering
But I must admit it is ironic;
that it pours out of me in my most emotionally agonizing moments
I can only imagine, the amazing days when joy can have a volcanic effect
of bubbling and oozing
shooting up with a delight that streams off my pen to the paper
To physically be beaming as I create and compose my inner euphoria
in a paradisiacal state of mind
What heavenly words would my lips express through the incandescent smile fixed upon my overjoyed face?
With tears of elation gushing down my cheeks, splattering on my paper,
in place of the too familiar brokenhearted current ones
Would they taste different?
Perhaps my taste buds would savor the flavor of prosperity
So much sweeter than the salty ones I'm used to
One day I hope to know
I long to know how a full, adored heart feels in my chest as it beats
I bet it is much different than the empty, shallow flicker
I wonder if a rhythm of the pulse, with a healed heart sounds cheerful?
Like a favorite song that happily gets stuck in your head
I think it must sound loud and proud
as if it wanted to show off how whole,
completely filled with enthusiasm for daily life it is!
Yet for now, I can only pretend to know
I will keep imagining, trying to harness it
Until I am there
Then I will know with out question
From his bottle, Grandpa took a sip.
I gazed sleepily at his bottle ship.
Grandpa said that life could be so cruel.
Grandma said, your grandpa is a fool.
Grandpa ran his mouth from his chair and
Grandma said he always runs a fool's errand.
Grandpa said he sought the Holy Grail,
but he came up empty without fail.
Grandpa's poured out tales, an ocean deep.
The bottle ship, soon gone, and I, asleep.
Soon, I was a fisherman in a dream,
fishing for happiness in a saltwater bream,
The bream said, "I'll give you a little tip -
happiness, through your hands, will always slip".
I tried to catch freedom in a sailing fish,
but he flew away, along with that futile wish.
So, I tried to catch tuna, the fish of truth,
and came up with just a fallacy of youth.
Next, I looked for beauty in the marlin,
but she put me down, "Take a hike, darlin".
The fish of justice, my next angling goal,
took money while reading from a scroll.
Ah, so money must be the fish to grab -
but, sick and unloved, I picked up the tab.
Every fish and thing I strived for was a joke,
and one by one they all went up in smoke.
All the fish in my dream were just a school
to teach that searching is the errand of a fool.
When I awoke, Grandpa, too, was snoring,
Grandma said, "to himself, he's even boring".
I decided then, I would make my life at sea -
to catch anything, there'd be no guarantee.
I don't know anything worth anything anyway,
except the ocean's sand and salty spray.
FOOD FOR THOUGHT
Staple food for thought caught in brain
are feelings oozing from emotive urge at ease or at strain.
Several food items are continuously available
at random in several spectrums of life
whether distasteful or palatable.
Thoughts are nourished by human senses as visualization,
Smell, hearing, taste or touch, less or much.
Realization or beyond perception, action, reaction, interaction,
creation or recreation are all food -suppliers of thought.
Food for thought to relish and rejoice are;
Love, compassion, care, sympathy, inspiration, success, happiness
Food for thought sought though unwanted are:
Hatred, malice, betrayal, ingratitude, pain, dismay, distress, danger.
Thoughts never starve but survive on continuous supply of food,
whether sour, bitter, salty or sweet.
One can’t quit from food for thought.
Abundant, limit less supply on compulsion,
till brain be alive, it can’t be deprived from food for thought.
01/03/19
Third Place
'food For Thought' Contest by Silent One
[super sonnet]
My folks are from Magilligan, it's said—
a stretch of windy green beside the sea,
where, from the rocky bluffs, a quilt is spread
of emerald grass, where trolls and faeries be.
I almost smell the bracing, salty air
and feel the breath of ocean on my face.
I hear the call of sea birds flying there,
as if to beckon me to find this place.
My ancestors would listen for the sound
of fiddling tunes that carried on a breeze.
A Celtic reel would have them spinning 'round
and toasting Irish beer to take their ease.
And yet I know they worked an endless day
with callused, hearty hands in dauntless toil.
They had the Irish grit to make their way,
and sturdy backs to turn the hardened soil.
While I may never see this Isle of green—
adrift in daydreams, Ireland I have seen.
The birds that had soared to the south
Catching salty raindrops in their mouth
Have flown back to where the flower grows
But I'll miss the snowflakes on my nose
As I watch them fly in rows and rows
Melt away the frost that glitters
On fir tree branches full of critters
The lake will change it's solid matter
Thawing to water in ice's shatter
Sly fox emerges from her den
Pups following and frolicking again
Squirrels fly from top to forest floor
Gather acorns two by two, four by four
A spring chore for a feast galore
Melt away the frost that glitters
On fir tree branches full of critters
The lake will change it's solid matter
Thawing to water in ice's shatter
Little bear wakes up from hibernation
Still hazy yawns from dream vacation
Stretching limbs after a winters sleep
Lying in the vines where ivy's creep
The sun's lost warmth now felt so deep
July 7, 2022
The time between seasons Poetry contest
Sponsored by Kim Rodrigues