Long Sluicing Poems
Long Sluicing Poems. Below are the most popular long Sluicing by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Sluicing poems by poem length and keyword.
Twilight whispers behind the blinds;
I barely see, but I believe,
In the ruby and orange rinds,
Moon blossoms of midsummer eve.
I barely see, but I believe
In the twinkling star diamonds,
Moon blossoms of midsummer eve.
Romantic ebon-sky widens.
In the twinkling star diamonds,
Circling like a halo above,
Romantic ebon sky widens;
Where there’s darkness, a lunar dove.
Circling like a halo above,
Juiciness of sluicing hues, wet.
Where there’s darkness, a lunar dove.
Pearly gates preserve the sunset.
Juiciness of sluicing hues, wet,
In the ruby and orange rinds.
Pearly gates preserve the sunset;
Twilight whispers behind the blinds.
"canon service"
“We follow the rules here”, he said incorruptibly
like he was untainted as holy water
from the incorruptible font,
he had an upward inflection in his voice
at the end of every punctuated point,
delivered like a canon service
his gun and bullets were larger
apparently...he was high, the pulpit lofty
far above the soaped-up sinners
some of us inside were grinning
too much alter wine
he was probably juiced,
then unctuously he shared his fat sermon
as if to convey to the congregated
a good and proper sluicing,
the service was poetic
no hymns in this church
salvation tamborines
to beat the devils out,
some of us inside were grinning
Candide Diderot. ‘23
canon.
cannon.
We drive home in the rain -
a hectoring spray.
The car is preoccupied;
four significands -
a dog,
an ex-wife,
a son
and a prevailing spouse.
There are gossiping ghosts also;
past memories too damp now to be defined.
Some link arms and whisper together.
Some stare at the back of my head.
The living and dead
bunch together in the Chevy
as pale as marshmallows
in this grey and sluicing light.
Ex-wife and new wife don’t like the way I drive,
apparently I have aged terribly.
The dog loves me,
but is a moody and wants out.
My son twiddles with his phone,
deleting yesterday’s play list,
probably also deleting Mom and Dad
at least until the end of the ride.
I think we are all in love with someone here.
I think the rain and the road are in love.
They splash over each other
as if they will never part.
When it pours like this
A car has to know how to see
beyond its lights.
The wipers must know how to
clean up each moment
before it becomes momentous.
There are doubts about the present,
it is not as concrete
as the highway a few a years back.
There are patched up potholes,
but the rain is eating its way
into the run-down earth.
The visibility is not as clear
as those trips we took
when we were much fewer.
My circle of askew relationships
is mushrooming.
Grandchildren, even great grand-children,
squeezed up to my past and present hauntings.
The Malibu is getting old.
I may have to get a big rig and trailer
just to carry the personal luggage
of all of us peeps.