Long Splashy Poems
Long Splashy Poems. Below are the most popular long Splashy by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Splashy poems by poem length and keyword.
What do you do when she’s born two months early?
Nothing in place but cute baby clothes
Wishing we could at least kiss her on her nose
While in the incubator she had us in a scurry
Expecting a boy, peering through the glass was a girl
So my folks asked the two nurses for suggestions
They just smiled and didn’t have any objections
So I ended up as Wilma Nolene in a twirl
Mom and dad were quite happy
Little old me had no say
Only saw mom for the first time on New Year’s Day
My name, I think is quite savvy
I wish I could meet those two ladies
Whose names I now do carry
I would take them out to someplace splashy
Just to say thank you for looking after us babies
Wilma derived from William
Meaning determined keeper
I can be a real teaser
At times a bit fearsome...
*a true story, two nurses named me*
Contest: What's In A Name
3rd Place
Scant animals with their glassy hoped-for eyes
draw near to my crumbling step.
I think they want to sing me something,
carol a Mozart aria perhaps,
but they cannot
so they lift furry eyebrows
shuffle as if to say, ‘we can’t,
but listen to the wind
in the cavities of our bones,
it whistles both merry tunes and dirges,
it echo’s the past and the present
but all our four paws are here in the moment'.
A jowly mouse
with the face of a New Jersey cop
edges closer than most.
“We are not trying to warn you” it says,
expressing its lack of words
in the brisk modality of pigeon-toed dance steps.
“We are not begging for food or love”
It is Spring now and we are out here
happy to have come through.
We are a deputation, a clique, and a clack
calling you out into the bare hedgerows.
There are new threads and tubes
driving upward from the twiggy earth ---
--- you’re acting like a dead man
and so we gather here
to awaken those other little animals
that nest in your fat and fiber.
Lead them out soon or they will eat you
and you will have deserved it -
that is all.”
I nodded respectfully
at the red whiskered rodent.
Leaving the door open a crack
I went to the kitchen
to chop the head off a dead chicken.
It was time to eat and not be eaten.
Spring is whisking its mush.
A dry wine has aged fizzy and fine,
it is already shaking it’s splashy bubbles
ready for the sipping summer suns
to come.
The light outside these walls is porous,
thus I will go
I will go to the hedgerow,
hang a winter scarecrow by its ankles
until it coughs up, a new free range
Spring poem worth the eating
one with garlicy kisses, a round Romaine lettuce,
with a lightly garnished piquant dressing.
One slushy day, a Jolly fisher fishes
a wishing well, where he knows splashy fish is.
For Princess Tricia's favourite dish is,
a plate of little squishy fresh whitefishes;
and Tricia gets all she ever wishes.
Too selfy selfish to accept shellfishes,
Dogfish, Catfish, or even some Swordfishes;
and despite her mother's pushy tisch tisch tisches,
a plate of little squishy fresh whitefishes,
is all that Princes Tricia ever wishes.
The dashing, raffish, jolly fisher's wish is
by fishing for the squishy fresh whitefishes,
surely he should switch Tricia's fishy wishes;
then introduce and show some swisher dishes.
A Jolly Fisherman Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Julia Ward
Date wrote: 8th September 2022
Blue
Waves
usher
ocean dream
enchanting ripples,
whose hypnotic spell oozes charm,
for yellow dawn pearl-eyed first light riser’s coastal fog,
stunned by the heavenly turquoise canvass of tidal moss fleck swoon and swirl gyrations
On
shore
visions
magic sweep
splashy catalyst
at the cusp of exotic veil
uncanny blissful streams tantalising ebb and flow
a lure for august swimmer mesmerised by mammoth currents awash with silver froth
Gust
of
saline
grain torrents
that skim cliff edges
taunt emboldened in situ bard,
where farsighted jostling amid picturesque quaint beach,
spurs bright imaginary floodgates, a deluge of opulent visual fantasm
Two drops of water fell from heaven
Unlike any other, they were in love
Holding each other they stayed together
Dreaming of river and deep blue ocean.
It wasn't easy to skip the flower-garden
And ignore appeal of a thirsty fountain,
But they persevered rushing down street
Being trampled by traffic and splashy feet.
Bouncing, giggling, reaching tributaries
Riding gleefully, foaming, and sprinkling
Jumping in delight, riding wavy vibes
Sensing river was near, rushing with joy.
Panic set in when they got separated
Holding essence of a shattering dream.
Feeling like being abandoned midstream
One drop teared, the other saw cheer.
Drop that teared soon learned to cope
But as the ocean neared, it lost all hope.
Little did it know as it fell into the ocean
Other drop waited to catch it with elation.
March 4, 2018
Oh, how I swoon
in the ruby bliss of your sunset kiss -
your vibrant rays of maturity arouses my fire;
touching me with urgent rapture,
saturating me in sparkles of champagne light, then,
streaming through me in bold shafts of gold.
We embrace
in the broadening bloom of lantana skies -
our burning blend;
your western blaze my prismatic panes
telling biblical stories of love and pain,
bestowing rainbows into depths of dark -
our fervor cast like water-colored sprites
in far-flung illuminations
across dusky medieval arches
enlightening dim granite walls
gracing graceful curves and conscientious columns
in jewel-shades waltzing with your solar pulse.
Our vivacious union reflects our Gothic romance
in mirrored mirages dyeing the staid floor
with painted riches that richly rejoice
in plashes of splashy
orgies of light and glory
the appetite of holy ambiance whet
by warm and cool tones
pregnant with passions of the heart
and imbued with torments and ecstasies
of the soul -
cleaving humanity and divinity
in flaring flair; emerald, sapphire, citrine and garnet,
amid our spellbinding moments
of tantric twilight magic.
Our synergy electrifies
the night-falling quietude of this sacred space
before our enchanted euphoria
begins to wane… and as your dying flame
gives way to the rise of the shy crescent moon
I lose my orgasmic zest
to the evening’s ebon hue.
"What are you all quacking about?" squawked Reginald Cluck,
Peering from his coop, quite out of luck.
A drizzle had started, a timid, soft weep,
While others still snoozed in feathery sleep.
"A little rain never hurt anyone!" chirped Pip,
Whose splash-prone spirit rarely would slip.
He’d eye every puddle, a shimmering pond,
With a gleam in his eye, quite remarkably fond.
Reginald scoffed, adjusted his comb,
"Such soggy affairs! I prefer my dry home."
He’d seen the contest poster, a splashy delight,
But preferred his reflections, all polished and bright.
Then a gust, unexpected, a mischievous sigh,
Tumbled Reginald forward, right under the sky.
He landed with grace, in a puddle so grand,
A most dignified splish across the wet land.
His feathers, now plastered, his dignity skewed,
He blinked at his image, delightfully new.
"Let's do the chicken splash!" he suddenly cried,
As the "Mystic Rose" whispered, "Don't hide your wet side!"
And so Reginald Cluck, once a skeptic so stiff,
Discovered true joy in that watery whiff.
He kicked up a fountain, a most glorious spray,
Proof that a puddle can brighten your day.
Those were times when I believed everything.
You seemed to me a treasure of delight.
Your presence, for me, was a blissful spring
Often amidst rainbow clouds, I took flight.
I said I'd bring you the sun, moon, and stars.
You said you'd lull me in your long love waves
Your fancies filled my passion's empty jars
To our mirages had we become slaves?
Were your toothpaste smiles splashy soap bubbles?
Were those goody-goody words bright balloons?
Did you think too that I'd end your troubles?
We couldn't dance to each other's tunes.
Our promises had been castles on sand.
Realizing, let's now walk hand in hand.
When urinating into the toilet bowl...
yours truly (me) could not help but notice
while living social at various residences
within Montgomery County, Pennsylvania
the following described phenomena
actually observed quite some time ago
maybe back during
my carefree boyhood days of yore
that the uncontrollable spurt
analogous to a golden arch
of micturition arcing
toward parts unknown
(frequently missing the target altogether,
and wetting the seat
subsequently displeasing the next person
more often than not the missus,
who sits upon wet porcelain goddess)
initially issuing from out
my diminutive male member,
(even when fully erect,
no longer than
a small walking stick
for a lucky leprechaun),
when said jet stream
makes splashy contact
affecting fountainhead into pissoir,
whereby a bathroom
tchotchke of Atlas shrugged,
which non verbal reaction spoke volumes,
the direction water got flushed within potty
subsequently clearly described
a clockwise pattern
whooshing within the labyrinth
eventually getting routed
to wastewater treatment plant
at least here within the bowels
of Schwenksville, Pennsylvania.
Actually even after flushing,
or using the sink to wash hands,
the water also drained
mimicking rotation of second
or minute hands of analog time pieces.
After finding myself
flush with excitement
presuming I discovered
some great earth shaking revelation,
a Google search quickly
and immediately chastened
premature ejaculation of excitement
that yours truly stumbled
upon magnificent phenomena
and matter of factly explained
the direction a toilet flushes,
whether clockwise or counterclockwise,
primarily determined
by the design of the toilet bowl
and the water jet's direction,
not by the Earth's rotation
(Coriolis force), which often mistakenly
believed to be the cause;
meaning the flush direction
can vary even within the same hemisphere
due to different toilet designs,
not necessarily consistent
with the "clockwise
in the Northern Hemisphere" myth.
(tongue-in-cheek humor)
I understand there is a lawsuit, doc # 666, Neptune vs. Jersey. Apparently, windmills being put in the ocean off the Jersey coast was all done without consultation and approval by the Sea Council – who clam (ocean slang for claim) guardians of the sea coast, Loan Sharks, were paid by politicians to keep usually open mouths shut, and therefore the project went forward without public digest (a form of shoreline debate). Salacia, Poseidon, Neptune, and other overlords have their fins in a tizzy, equally upset about gender changing surgery being suggested to school fish pupils by gender fluid teachers also causing quite an uproar within the shallows and depths – stay tuned to the Splashy, your Prime Time Ocean News Network. This is written tongue-in-cheek, and any resemblance to real people or places is accidental and unintended. No truth in any of this to my knowledge.