Long Sloshes Poems
Long Sloshes Poems. Below are the most popular long Sloshes by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Sloshes poems by poem length and keyword.
Fantasia has fabulous songs
This movie is a novelty
Converts feelings in secrecy
My sad soul feels that she belongs
Sweet musical notes come to life
Fast images that come and go
Chamber of sweetness don’t you know
Eliminating so much strife
Fantasia allows souls to sing
Violins elevate me high
Joyful angels give happy sigh
Imagine on musical wing
A crashing cymbal; things get dark.
Mickey Mouse wizard is asleep.
Bucket sloshes water too deep.
Flute like sound of a meadowlark.
A flower’s whirling petticoat.
Lovely sweet notes given by harp.
Orchestra keeps this music sharp.
Disney’s film, my own antidote.
storm, weight of rain sloshes
o’er the sides of the acrylic tub
thunder of strobe, eyes blinking
slashes of screams, disaster —
utterance of lips, gutteral
door jammed, eye to eye contact
with the lion and lamb; the owl
on heights of despair interrogates,
scrutinizes, eyeballs the blood seas,
sees all, inspects your history,
his and his too, talons tapping.
outside the storm-beset sanctuary
enlightenment, smoky decanter,
revolt against rage, mercy seeks
mercy great, dumbo’s ears all wet,
humbling effect, spirit genuflect
running, running, out of breath
entangled in net, unseen drooling
at achilles tendon, heel’s devotion
genuflection at soaked-white tow’r,
emptied of a mother’s call, deliver’d
a newborn once more — water
breaking, agony of childbirth
the ruination of seeds, road rage
— off course; after impregnation
of tumbling weeds, g.p.s turned off
God is greater than all this. Later
it seems frivolous. Weight was great —
shoulder-pounding, tremulous.
But He comforts us
as if we had a boo-boo —
God, great and wonderful
cleanses the germs
thoroughly, applies bandaid,
kisses the wound; also
the forehead
mother’s heart and stomach
patched; her seething brain
restored to sanity
God moved
the husband’s hand to phone
softened hearts of stone
punishment was puny
Three cords intertwined
A fourth runs through and through
Spirit of release and joy
the Lord allows not
the ruination of a mother’s soul;
pulls her close — nose to nose
with the lion, lamb and owl
she can only smile now
8/12/2020
Brian Strand’s contest
I take a sip of pinkish liquid – White Zin.
Will I be able to drive home now?
The goblet seems much more fun than it should be.
I am horrified by her fullness. It shocks me. Too much liquor!
My brain screams at the young waiter, who is probably new,
Does he think he is helping out an old lady without friends?
Without a home? A crone who lives under a bridge on a storm grate?
The bar and grille’s loud music no longer bothers me.
One sip of White Zin wiped out my irritation station.
Spiders who live in my spinal column scurry away for
An evening of “who cares?” We are unconcerned.
My back cord is relaxing into a pudding pop of herself.
For the first second I realize the music is Country Western
and I am not cringing. I reach for the glass goblet. The
White Zin sloshes into my mouth, with a happy war cry.
I know my mouth is now in her “ugly-fat-protruding mode”
I do not often take this mouth out in public,
But the white zin has convinced me I do not care.
I do not know these people, nor do I want to know them.
A gaggle of gabbing women two tables down are laughing now.
Someone has recently left this earth-plane. They are
celebrating tonight to honor her memory. By the time
my friend arrives, I have used up all three of the dinky
napkins, writing words willy, nilly and yon.
None make sense.
Care I?
No.
We have a lovely time, out-cackling and out-laughing
the grieving table, my friend and I. She has a liquor drink
too so she is insanely silly.
Some old geezer wanders over and says he is sitting down.
We hold firm and he falls off the seat onto the floor.
Oops. Maybe I was the one who held firm.
We promptly leave. Hug goodbye. No kissing.
I let her pull out first. She can barely see. She has
hit lots of cars. I wait for a bit.
White Zin and I are not the friends we once were.
I throw up promptly when I arrive home.
Second or third reminder to me that I should not drink alcohol.
"It's raining, it's pouring, the old man is snoring" ~ myself, today, as SoCal gets its first rain of the season, and Anonymous, to give credit where it is due
Little tyke,
hold on, before you ride off on your bike.
If you'd like,
I will explain something insane.
It's called rain.
You are young and I am old,
and so, you must do what you are told.
Yes, that's what I say.
You think it's the other way?
It's just that you were born right here,
in Los Angeles or very near,
in Southern California.
That is why I warn ya,
there's something you've not yet seen,
a liquid like what's in the washing machine,
something that should make you think,
something a kid like you would never drink.
We covered that already - I'm not insane.
You can Google it. It's called rain.
It falls from the sky in a vertical path.
Gravity's involved. There's lots of math,
and often when the wind is blowing,
and along a slanted path it's going,
you must ditch your bike and then start rowing,
as rivulets of water flowing,
send you sailing. There's no way of knowing,
which way the current may be going,
due in part to reasons owing
to nature's special gift bestowing,
which plants use to do their growing,
unless it freezes. Then it's snowing.
But in L.A. we don't believe in snow.
It's just a myth - just so you know.
It's something they use in corny Christmas tales.
So, don't bother with those details.
Back to rainwater, which disappears, like magic, into the earth,
that ball we live on of massive girth...
When rain rises up and puddles,
it invariably befuddles
little creatures known to squirm.
Of course, by that, I mean worms,
which come floating up in sorrow,
because they'll be dry and dead tomorrow.
One good thing about rain - it sloshes.
As your mother advises, wear your galoshes.
I'd like to thank you for your attention, son.
My lecture on precipitation is quite done.
Now, go out and have some fun.
Spring buds
Bursting
Like popcorn stuck on sticks
Raising my perspective to
Gallivant
In knee-high tickle grass
Nested
In the strew of stony rocks
Festooned
With sphagnum and lichen
Frothed with droplets
Of glistening crystal lather
Moored in glade and rill
Plundered in claggy stodge
Boggy green and juicy with rain
The jaunt sloshes with plunger feet
Air raids above
Signal
Whirring wispy winged ghosts
Bombers
Buzzzzzzzzzing
Skitting overhead
Barely black shadow fellows
Intent in reaching their target
Synced and signaled
Like flittering naked poltergeists
Aiming for a sticky sweet meal
Arms, legs ankles and necks
Covered or not
Stabbed with little mercy
In the trove of
Spring Buds
So Alive!
May 16, 2020
Communications among organic creations
of sacred EarthMother
are overwhelmingly rooted
in nonverbal
nonviolent communion
Complex evidence of things
within relationships of feeling
and touch,
creatures seen
and heard,
recreations smelled
and tasted,
cognitive awareness of purpose
and intuitive integrity for meaning
sacred smooth full-wombed
woked mindedness
We are, together,
at our best,
on and in and for and of
Earth's rest
in solidarity play day,
compassionate communion
of verbal humane purposes
and nonverbal divine meaning
unspoken yet repurposing
Compassion's enchanting communion
turns movement into dance,
reincarnates muses into instruments
of recreative music,
covers ecofeminist songs
of indigenous wisdom,
evokes birdsong joy
and pensive grey choired mourning,
shushes ebbing and
sloshes inhaling surf,
murmurs in babbling brooks,
capital infested crooks
speaking suffering sibilant servants.
Nonverbal communion
does not bring roaring evidence
for falsely claimed wealth risks
against universal democratic health.
Sacred integrity
proposes a good faith alternative
to zero-sum
win-lose competitive
compromised organic trust.
Earth's meaningful
richly resonant
robustly resilient Tribes
nonverbally know,
regeneratively believe,
feel with redundant cultural integrity
Our univocally global economic need
to advance ecologically healthy opportunity
While minimizing unwealthy
unwise partisan disempowering risks
to this profoundly communing
politically living
regenerative planet
for verbal and nonverbal persons,
quieter peaceful plants,
and all sentient incorporations
organically communicating,
communing beings
health becoming
True purposive effects
and Beautiful
meaning full yet soundlessly nonverbal
causes felt
as sacred needed
and positively wanted
co-passionate
co-operative
communicating
green EarthMother communion.
The sea is a wild feast -
my heart in breast beating.
The sea, a hungry beast,
tug of war competing.
My feet dissolve in its wake.
I wade out to meet the waves.
Ebb and flow of friendship.
Salty air above my waist.
The wind sloshes my lips.
My cheeks, a blush sunbake.
I dive into the sublime sea.
Turquoise eyes of treachery
allow my vivacity and glee;
kindness swashed with brevity.
Breathless - make no mistake,
I listen to mermaids’ environs,
avoid pitfalls’ overconfidence,
cover ears, stave off sirens,
not greedy for DL opulence.*
Finless and feckless mistake,
if I find myself too far from shore,
arms and foam in dosido,
afraid and pleasured by the roar -
in fearful pretense, I’m paddling slow.
For the dorsal fin of ship, I ache.
Calypso music distracts on deck.
I leave my lover far below unchecked.
Climbing like a pirate to wreck
the captain’s safety, the sea at my neck.
Drowned in seaweed silk; bound and awake.
8/30/2021
*DL - Davy’s Locker
Not enough heat. Snow. Cold. and now rain
on Tuesday morning. traffic sloshes to work.
it is cloudy for the second straight day. the snow
was magical only for an hour. businesses might
have closed. now it's melting in a cold rain.
is the city depressing me? i ride the subway
and the people no longer seem beautiful. the noise
is just noise, no longer the power of God. i sit
slumped, still at ease, but no longer playing
with the eyes of other passengers. glance at the ads
and then go to sleep with my eyes open.
it is winter, and it should have its effect. the
difficult, dangerous season when weak creatures die
and the strong barely survive. why expect
much heat to mitigate it and the happiness of Spring?
accept cold and discomfort and the bad sound made.
it is a poor city, the seasons touch us. there is
not enough heat. snow. cold. and now rain.
Ah, Spring: each laden cloud more rain delivers,
that soaks our clothes and in our new shoes sloshes.
Our streets blockaded thanks to pregnant rivers,
with mud tracked in the house from kids' galoshes.
Ah, weeds: the bane of ev'ry gardener!
Unwanted life that fouls our garden's bliss.
Dear mother nature, we must pardon her
for her green demons turning Spring amiss.
Ah, noise: new Vernal life creates a riot
as crickets, birds, and frogs return to form.
It makes one long for Winter's tranquil quiet -
not all is calm when days grow long and warm.
Come March, not all is magically renewed -
with rain and weeds and noise, Spring's downright rude!
written 30 Jan 2023
The clock is turning forward next week,
as if a man-made rule inaugurates Spring,
or a change in behavior influences nature,
like a bird feeder that makes a warbler sing.
“Spring is in the air,” says my friend
as she sloshes through wet slush and snow
on a gray and windy March morning.
I’m not convinced and want to know
how she can engage and repeat
those thoughts with such determination.
“Perhaps you expect too much of Spring,”
she responds with no hesitation.
“Let Winter be Winter and Spring, Spring,
with mixture of seasons at both ends,
reminding us how nature works,
how each and every season blends.”
Please leave a comment if you like this.