Long Spattering Poems
Long Spattering Poems. Below are the most popular long Spattering by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Spattering poems by poem length and keyword.
In the roaring
White pounding cascade
I feel the love
It flows over me, with me, through me
It is me
Wordsworth's "transparent eyeball" *
Like the bare roots of ancient trees that
cover the trail like cobble stones I'm
Integral--I belong
When the bracing water embraces me
I don't shudder--I stroke it gently
Glide out into it's energy
Feel revived, renewed, invigorated
Refreshment not known
Since covid
I'm hers
She wraps me in her bosom
Of snow-melt run-off
And I am warm
Not trudging from
A cup of coffee to an unmade bed
Day after day
I am alive
As wild, and free
Timeless and deep
Young, old, and wise
As she
The city beats
I connect with kindred
In the bars, in the streets
In the faces that I meet
But plunging into this heaven
Swimming out to these rocks
Where she reaches down from above
Massages my back and shoulders
With her strong gentle hands
I feel like I'm her only child
So much love she bestows
Hikers climb down these steep rocks
To see her glorious splendor. They line her banks
But won't brave her icy hug
Won't get in her
And realize
We are her
Conquer and subdue
Post an Instagram selfie for some likes
Have a beer
I hear her in the spray
Spattering the rocks
She's laughing
And I'm laughing, too.
* From "Nature" by Ralph Waldo Emerson
Heart filled with happiness, eyes much merry; cheeks color strawberry,
just running through fields of ripe huckleberry,
keeping away from the buzzing, restless bees...
going to a from their sweet hives hanging from massive apple trees.
More than childhood memories, such are these...
a reflection of youth that removes them from nostalgia; husky peasants
shaking off the husks from the golden corn;
a tasty, hot corn meal for those winter's dinners drooling on my tongue.
And approaching a torrent, I threw pebbles found on its almost barren banks
back into the spattering water that I drank sporadically until I was full,
to indulge in its freshness...squashing tiny daisies
that seemed too afraid to squabble with a giant and fight for their survival.
The southern landscape with its mild climate, was rich and fragrant,
inviting hands to pluck the delicious, tempting fruits
off their branches, scattering the thrushes engaged in musical tones;
and I tongue-tied hurried along cogitating an instant.
Would it be too childish to ask for a come-back,
to relive the cheerfulness of the oldest days, ceased by time and age;
to observe a reflection of youth take shape...
and embed, in a secret, a conversation regardless of present knowledge?
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci
Ecstatic, electrifying, exhilaration ignites inside,
Inspiring my soul to capture the hope,
Songs echoing on the coast where there is light,
Silent light tossing, trembling, tempting my thoughts,
Into the night where pieces of my heart reflect the music
Playing in the waves, blending with the sea in stardust dreams,
Awakening the need for the hurling of my past,
Away from these tears – images of fears, lost years
When my heart couldn’t escape the ache, shadows break,
Feeding my dreams doubt and confusion I could never escape,
Echoing in the moments just before dusk, moments alive
With hasty alibis, burning away the sunset – a moon so alive,
Bright as the night who beckons, healing, protecting –
While stars glisten like fireflies in the dark sky, dazzling with songs,
Ballads from seas who remember me through the splashing,
Never ending sprays, spattering the dreams,
Tasting of saltlike peace – serenity persuading me to believe,
Just believe in the sea’s tranquility, nestled beneath the waves,
Bringing so much relief, releasing me – teasing me,
Suggesting grace has its place in my prayers, my faith, forever,
Tasting like praise, floating in the seafoam truths,
Testing me for the spirit who colors me in hues so beautiful,
Azure and cobalt soothing, gentling my unsteady nerves –
Filling my sand castle thoughts with a sense of what it means
To believe in His embrace, melting away every doubt
Silencing the fears and relieving all my tears, shielding me
From the loosely secreted memories, the oceanic winds
Who caress the waves with prayers who abide inside those who…
Know the sea, the eventual peace, the waves concede…
To just believe, believe in the sweetness of grace that completes.
Forever, I believe… as the sea startles me with its endless screams,
Its reflection dampens the dread and restores my thinking –
As the waves tremble, tantalizing – I am grateful to feel the water’s swells.
Forever, I believe … forever, I am thrilled to be gazing at the reef, sea’s migrating!
(in memory of my maternal grandmother)
Your house huddled under low, mauve December dusk.
Negotiating the five ice-glazed steps, cautiously quiet,
silently twisting the key in the lock,
stealthy as a thief at midnight.
Invading your personal domain,
helpless secret-stealer, what other could I do?
A cold dissolution hung in the air,
a dead dust-light on once familiar belongings.
Switched to auto, my lonely hands
sorted a secret stair cupboard stash:
Lavender Spode and serpent-swirly Cloisonné.
Your must-speckled books had opened like orchids
but your ghost-gloves lay lifeless,
bereft of the blunt, practical hands.
Desolation looked out on the garden,
frost-frozen: the crumbling corpse wall,
the raspberry leaves clamped in their little ice-shells,
waiting for their summertime rubies, those jewels of July,
and waiting for you, your deft, natural touch.
Silence laid a stilling hand on quotidian objects
as I laid your life away in boxes.
I didn't hear your loneliness
when it pushed at the door, insistently.
Seroxat and Liebfraumilch kept you company.
Why didn't you persist?
What triggered the retreat back into yourself?
All through the hushed dusk of December and sleet storms of January
I lay with your loss, under spattering rain,
my winter fragmented, its ice-prism shattered -
my actions mere string-jerkings of the puppeteer Grief.
One of the wonders of the memories which flow beneath the surface of our minds…nonstop…is that we never know what random act will bring them to the top.
It happens all of a sudden…out of the blue…and it’s not easy to explain…like this morning halfway through my walk when it began to rain.
It was more like a drizzle…a sprinkle…it certainly was raining…yet…it was the kind of rain you can walk in without ever getting wet.
It was a cloudless and clear morning…where this rain came from…I don’t know….but immediately amidst this drizzle memories began to flow.
These memories did not burst from the water…frantic…unrestrained…no, they floated to the surface softly…gently…kind of like the rain.
I remember playing in the rain as children…with nothing covering our feet…meticulously creating mud pies…we were never going to eat.
I remember there was nothing quite as thrilling (although our parents were not as entertained) as they watched us from the dryness of the house…ride bikes…with no hands…in the rain.
I remember the wonderful feeling of mud spattering on my back…as my back became a blotter when we road our bikes through the ditches as they filled up with muddy water.
I remember when our children were children, unlike our parents, who would graciously abstain…We would take off our shoes and socks…and join them in the rain.
The drizzle stopped and I continued walking…and the memories that had emerged….lingered with me a little longer before they faded and submerged.
It was a wonderful feeling…one I hope I never will forget…
The day the rain allowed me to dip into the waters of my memory…
without ever getting wet.
Looming ...
The possibility of crisis
Life-as-you-now-know-it-ending crisis
From a crystal azure sky, shining ...
The ominously dark anvil of disgrace and horror
Like the knurled hand of karma
Crashing through a sunny window
And washing you pale and empty with oily blackness
A diabolical knot in the stomach ...
That has no ease or definition or finality
Riding you like the horsemen into hellish oblivion
A cold finger on blue steel, squeezing
Bound for naught but ruin ...
And the spalted spattering of gray matter
Vitality and brilliance and talent of a rare ilk
Turned to stains and puddles and clots
By their own ... inane ...
Ignorance.
~ 6th Place ~ in the "Contest Number 440 Any Form" Poetry Contest, Brian Strand, Sponsor.
(alternately titled: excuse me while aye...
touch the sky, hen derrick lee
and pull lightly gag.)
September third tooth house sand
and eighteen didst find me
to awaken with a start
during the wee
(Willy Paine Weber) re
duck tee yo absurdum painful hour
of predawn this morning
with an experience
nada so grew vee -
feeling (the unstoppable) tree
men diss urge (lance
sing arm) strong
sensation to regurgitate,
which tum me,
(and ma tummy)
prima facie (pre
mud Donna Brownian
bow will Movement)
processing) ranks as
the moost unpleasant –
basic bodily condition,
(hence disqualifying this former
anorexic tib bee ya
bulimic), which nauseous repulsion
to stomach tomb muss elf
(yea - pertaining to
yours truly: Ma
Thee You Scott) a tinny
brass, heartless, and
dis straw hit cow
word lee lion
dew wing ever re:
thing in my "FAKE" NON GMO
gluten, lactose (i.e.
dairy substitute), and
monosodiumglutimate free,
wand door full
wizard ding once fore mid
able superman, (and now fee
bull powerless reign jars
ipso fact-so) dee
did immediately whee
kin n ding excess see
ville lee more, dee
pull lore rib hill
den das bloviation
spattering, Obi
Wan Kenobi, Casanova,
(Don Quixote) key
ping figurative lid, prithee
a boot mine gag reflex
within very limited nee
zero printed edition on reek
quest not to
publish very disagree
hubble reader's un
digest tib bill
(authored by this atheistic
secular humanist gib
brush gabbling, (sans
reincarnated doubting Thomas pre
lapse Aryan) Unitarian scree
ming cowabunga herbivorous
droning baby bee
nix nox zippity doo dada
lix lox nicks nox hip pea.
High up amidst a forest slope,
in bedding grounds where whitetails lope,
by ledges hidden from our eyes,
a quirky outcropping does lie.
Breaking a broadleaf canopy,
the scree-slope of an old quarry,
long ago Dibble cut blue-stone,
must be a century ago,
slab-sheets cut out with sweat and pain,
so much abandoned still remains…
But the hikers have had their fun,
make use of the work that was done,
First they built half-a-dozen walls,
some of them damn near six-feet tall,
like some medival castle large
once stood on this small mountain-scar.
Up above flat-stones circle ’round,
a spiral built into the ground,
like Celts got lost, ended up here,
or icy foes wished us to fear…
A little below sit four thrones,
tall, and built of stack-up stones,
from the top of the old quarry,
you perch, and many miles see:
Black vultures soar, looking to eat,
sniffing the winds for rotting meant,
a hawk flies by on thermal rise,
with sharp eyes rodents he espies.
To the east, the sheer gash of Platte Clove,
spattering of vacation homes,
a cliffside road, somewhat scary,
no guard-rails and turns quite hairy.
Some small meadows that once were farmed,
they still retain their rustic charm,
rounding form of the Catskill Peaks,
where vacationers long have seeked
a place to play and remain sane,
so what’s a better place to reign
then stone thrones under brilliant sun,
high up in our Catskill Kingdom.
Waves on the rocks
a'crashing
In it human feet go
splashing
And elsewhere in the
swollen river
'gator tails go thrashing
Water may be stagnant
or it may be thus moving
Sometimes softly
dripping
at times forcefully
gushing
In brooks babbling
In streams gurgling
In springs bubbling
In rivers running
From faucets freely
flowing
or from pipes coercingly
spurting
At times noisily sloshing
But in lakes musically
rippling
In it diving and wading
In it refreshing bathing
Or spic and span
cleansing, rinsing
In it slow sailing or
speedy surfing
Fishermen fishing or
busy boating
Ah water, through cracks
seeping
From waterfalls
cascading
As rainwater splattering
From sprinklers
sprinkling.
From hoses spattering
From rooftops streaming.
In whirlpools swiftly
swirling
From taps simply trickling
Elsewhere rushing,
whooshing
Ah yes water is life,
water tis a böon
except when it goes
flooding, drowning
or tsunami sea-quaking!
Then only it becomes a
bane
as it drags dreams and
dreamers
down the drain!
But oughtn't we be
preserving
instead of forever
polluting
This precious liquid so
valuable to life
Oughtn't we be saving?
Instead of negligent
wasting?
It often trickles slowly, timid and shy
From the inner eyelid of a song
Or down the cheek of a distant mountain
A sunset rising beyond the hill, or moonlight on the window sill
A rose in bloom…a drop of dew…so tiny, sweet and beautiful
It fills a cup with voiceless wonder, and deep affection
It languishes softly…with wild abandonment
And will not be tamed
But, another kind is rooted deep
Buried where the light can’t reach
The anguish of the world falls on it’s cheek
It dwells beside the hopeless shore
Until thundering waves can't be ignored
The first single tear drifts down the walls
Into the shadowy tide of a river, longing
Bleeding old wounds, through all the old hurts
Looking for a place to hide
The sky above the earth will darken
Behind a leaden, lumpy cloud bank
Now the day has puckered up a bottom lip
Round spattering tears are warm
Prelude to the storm
The day will weep
Until it falls asleep
.....................
For the One Silver Tear Contest: 7/26/12