Long Soak Poems
Long Soak Poems. Below are the most popular long Soak by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Soak poems by poem length and keyword.
The ocean's waves, they rush ashore,
With such ferocity, they often roar,
As they crash upon the rocks below,
Their sound is loud like a thunderous show.
The sea salt dashes 'cross my face,
As it hits me with its salty embrace,
I stand here, feeling the rush of waves,
My soul is free, my spirit 'graves.
I feel the water anoint my skin,
As I feel its wetness soak within,
I take a deep breath and feel the ocean's might,
Rushing towards me, so fast and bright.
As the waves recede, to return again,
I hope to feel their power once again,
To stand before the ocean and feel its force,
To ride the waves, with nature as my course.
Oh, the rush of waves, how I love thee,
Your beauty so fierce and wild and free,
I cannot help but stand here and admire,
As the ocean's waves rush higher and higher.
at times the soul gets clenched
in an unspeakable grief
in a demoniac grip, it chokes and wriggles
the pain of being stung by a dozen scorpions
or hacked piece by piece by an axe
tremulous grows the heart, over love that is spent
seeks in vain to revive the joy that is gone
strains to lift the veil that shrouds the soul
wrestles to come out from the desolate cave of black solitude
the more it struggles to wade through the mess
the deeper it plunges into the morass of despair
clung on talons of excruciating pain,
wailing a long wail of never being understood
the mind goes berserk
whirling and churning.
anytime the volcano might erupt,
emitting pyroclastic cloud
with the asphalt lava spilling out,
blowing life with its violent breath.
yet, have succeeded in putting on
a merry visage during day
laughs with the laughing crowd
but retires at night to the solitary cell
to release, in agonized sighs, the stifling anguish
and soak the pillow in a flood of tears
how long can one seek to hide oneself
in the cover of vapid cheerfulness…..?
why try to save the face when there is no face to lose?
sure the fig leaf will one day fall off
to stand in stark nakedness before the world aghast
April.2.2022
This or That, Vol.11.Poetry Contest
Topic-Fig Leaf
Sponsor- Edward Ibeh
My bed is a vintage and very old
I adore the swirled black metal
nice to behold
so delicate each created petal
I inherited it from grandma long ago
and can never let it go
The mattress is not to everyone's taste
perhaps a bit lumpy and soft
with pillows placed
a perfect bed in my open space loft
oh, each night I lay caressed by my vintage bed
under a down bedspread
The bed is close to a window dormer
it looks really beautiful there
nothing warmer
in the sunshine the best bed anywhere
so cozy to just lay and soak up the morn' sun
before day has begun
_________________________
February 28, 2023
Poetry/Ode/Ode to my Bed
Copyright Protected, ID 02-1528-594-28
All Rights Reserved, 2023, Constance La France
Written for the Standard contest, Write An Ode
sponsor, Jeff Kyser. Judged 03/08/2023
Second Place
It takes just one step at a time
moving forward and upward
but not stopping for a laze
making sure you hear every wise word
Wisdom is the true source of knowledge
without it you lag way behind
your brain cells will get weak
if not fed they'll go blind
Feed the mind with good books
let the intellect soak it in
it'll instil strength to the brain
together they'll make you win
The body also needs strengthened
for the rocky road ahead
to make sure you reach the target
sustaining yourself with strong bread
So keep looking upwards
never lose sight of the goal
keep these feet moving
till you hit the winning pole
As the morning breaks and day begins
The sun ascends to the sky
A whole new day is born again
Like the billions that have done gone by
The sea waves crash into the rocks
As they have done since time began
And soak the sand on beaches
And to the sea they’ll return again
Forest covered earth is home
To a million animals and plants
That live and feed off of each other
The circle of life is constant
The sky filled with every kind of bird
A breathtaking view it is.
As life goes about its own way
For millions of years like this.
Then God created a different type
Of animal that came to be
The ruler over all the earth
He would name every plant and tree.
God would call his creation man
He would live in paradise
Then create woman from mans rib
They’d walk side by side.
Bound to God and Gods rules
And never to eat from the forbidden tree
But man being man being tempted
His desires would be set free
As they ate the forbidden fruit
Their minds began to see
Their innocence had disappeared
Their lives changed dramatically
Cast out from the Garden Of Eden
Man and woman had to make their own way
They were given a shot at paradise
But like man they threw it away.
I soak in his charcoal fingers drenching my buds
when nightfall rips the hem of my skin,
a coral fire glazes upon our mouths
and the lion in him kneads flammable
grinds: that the soaring heat in lilac glare,
in fragrant sweat of navajo curves;
ripen the mounds along a bodice trembling …
Once, twice, thrice with gentle fondness
crawling on outstretched harlequin dome--
in the lure of amber moon dipping—we
could not speak beyond walls in ash etches …
and like hungry souls let loose by sapphire mist,
the ginger sweetness of craving
finally explodes on hammock’s ruby-like gyre.
Silent One’s United Colors: Colourfication
................
Charcoal, coral, lilac navajo, harlequin,
amber, ash, sapphire, ginger, ruby
3/16/2016
distant train whistle – long, spread out,
gray moth flies up, lands on my porch railing
a lazy not quite fall day, first of September.
Not too hot yet, but will be nineties at four o’clock.
Enjoying the seventy-three of this second.
I soak up the quiet and the sun’s Vitamin D.
Bird tweeting gets louder.
Three short toots of a train whistle.
Probably at a railroad crossing.
I know of no crossings around here.
A squirrel races between two walnut trees
dog does not notice, growling at the road.
Rooster’s crow comes again, long and drawn out this time.
I wonder if he is mimicking the train’s whistle?
Amazingly quiet day. All calm here, and at peace in Kansas.
I am Nobody:
no name on my grave
in the Veterans’ Cemetery --
not even certain if all parts
match – those bombs really
had no personal objective when
targeting and dispatched –
Their bull’s eyes~ all Enemy.
I am Nobody; don’t earn
a lot, after your release from
the hospital, once healed,
you never met the EMT
who feverishly pumped life
into your failing lungs, during your
rushed, siren screaming journey
through unyielding traffic --
probably never thanked the nurse
in the ER, with a name-tag,
often gone unread – Oh, you met
the doctor, who earns all the big
bread – He has a noble title – he
has lauded fame – unlike Nobodies
more or less, diminutive
the same – just Nobody --
the Nobodies who build the bridges
repair the roads
pickup the garbage
often given little more mention
than prince-less pond toads –
when I croak, Just a slimy
soak – in society, most Nobodies
die broke – soggy, irrelevant
pond splashes –
Only rich when considering love...
Transition
There is a small window of time
when September’s sun-fired air
must welcome and share
the apple-crisp breath
of imminent October
we soak up the last of
a summer-season palette
and invite the autumn blend
skin delights under a shawl of
warm, then cool, warm, cool
flirty swimsuits sag sadly
heading back to their winter stations
bright sweaters emerge
flailing their arms in jubilation
perennials get a fresh winter cut
annuals hold on to life as long as possible
the yellow spider spins her web
proudly attaching herself to
everything on the deck.
one can only smile when waking up
to an outrageously gorgeous morning.
It happens
as if stirred by some
deep prompting rising up
out of a common soul,
a voice in search of a language
to write its existence
across the pages
of a passing mind.
The soft morning light
pooling beneath hurrying feet,
the cypress trees
along the foreshore time frozen
in their wind bent posture,
the motion of waves
withering into a slow soak
up the beach -
all seem to have something
to say.
I have felt a pen press
upon my mind, struggle
to find a space free
from the cramp of my own self
on which to record
the shape and sounds
of a joy or give form
to a longing freed
from the grip of shadow.
I have felt the cry
of things trapped
in the hollows of words
like empty sea shells held
to the ear and tried faithfully
to transcribe what was said.
In my solitude I have
called out hoping
for a reply only to hear
the sound of my own pulse
punctuate a terrible silence