Long Splats Poems
Long Splats Poems. Below are the most popular long Splats by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Splats poems by poem length and keyword.
May showers come and go, not loitering,
not lolling about long, to drench and drown
the seedlings you planted, hoping for rain.
Hand watering hydrates, but not like rain;
It's the slow steady sprinkling that matters,
which no hose spray, can ever duplicate.
The pitter patter of raindrops in May
caresses the leaves with moist love kisses,
leaving droplets sprinkled on dampened leaves,
to soak in, like perfume droplets on skin.
The soil below embraces the rain spots
falling gently in splits and splats in May,
drawing the water below to the roots,
to be absorbed, nourishing the dry plants.
The May rain's gentle and gossamer veil
drops like silken shroud on the garden bed
A loving sustaining warm covering.
A moist blanket to tuck the seedlings in.
Showers in May are Bliss!
In dark rock-cleft with guano splats,
There dangle many thousand bats.
A lowly worm evolves therein
And in bat flesh begins thriving.
Now man arrives for bats to eat,
For hungry poor, some tasty meat.
And so our worm transfers to man,
Thus species barrier now it span.
For little worm this is good news,
As further afield then it moves.
Now clever worm it gets a ride
When in long-haul man it does hide
To depart from the Orient
And widely spread in Occident,
Then many folk start feeling ill,
As lowly worm begins to kill.
Perhaps a lesson man now learn.
Don’t underestimate that worm,
For sometimes it will disappear
To change its guise and reappear.
Water, water, dear water, Mater Mare.
Where would I be without you, my wet, wet milieu?
Water is the medium that bathes my cells, my blood, my fluid within,
derived from the primordial ocean, aeons ago, still tasting of its salt.
I live bedside the sea, no other place would I, or could I be, born a Piscean.
For the ocean, river, lake, pond, drip and drop, even tiny pitter patter splats
sustains me in body and soul.
If I was dragged away from the sea, dripping wet, and I would die.
I willed my ashes to be tossed upon the sea when I pass away. From Water to Water, I be.
Daily I make my pilgrimage to walk along the beach and swim in the ocean waves.
To imbibe the meditative rhythm of the tides and surge of the waves,
to and fro, in and out, surging splashing on the shore around my body.
I walk along the strip of sand washed between tide in and out,
so that I leave no footprints to desecrate the beach shore, so perfect.
I love the wedding gown train crescents left
on the smooth glistening wet sand with each wave as it surges up the beach.
At night, I hear the sea shanties sung by waves lapping on the shore, moody and reflective.
I hear the sounds of waves whooshing and hissing, splashing and dashing,
surging up the shore and back.
This performance is so calming and charming to me and the bird flocks.
Unlike a forest or a park, every day the sea is different, never the same.
Yet like an old friend, forever familiar to seafarer me as the sea and shore.
The rhythm of the sound, and visual surge of images are my meditation,
I come daily to the shore to be refreshed, adorned and pray homage,
to 'Mater Mare', the mother and matrix,
and womb of all life, here, on Planet Water.
On a calm day you can hear
all the seashell choir stranded on the beach,
sighing sea shanties under their breath.
I am one of them, now and forever.
Mr McCheesy has large feet
wears size 40 shoes, no simple feat
plip! plop! thud! phud!
was all you could hear
miles before he would appear
Many would hide to hold themselves safe
not wanting his cheesy feet near their face
many scorned, poked fun, gave retreat
all ran and hide, but never to seek
Mr McCheesy felt alone in despair
for he truly felt no one did care
mock him, tease him, laugh did they
each time he passed anytime of the day
One darkened morning
a fierce storm came calling
torrential rain lashed heavily down
ground gurgling, mud pouring
all ran, found cover, all prayed
When all was calm was plain to see
the devastation they did not forsee
disbelief, shock an all forlorn
wheat and corn was all gone
sodden wet mud laid bare openly
mangled limbs from drowned trees
Roads now broken, buried in ground
how was they going to travel around?
stuck, cut off from outside life
they knew to be in heavy strife
In distance a familiar sound echoed flew
splish splosh splush vibrated through
Mr McCheesy the man with large feet
pounding down the ground skillfully neat
Creating a road solid and sound
for everyone to convey around
feet echoing sounds they once did fear
now welcomed with loud roaring cheers
Lone warrior working his large feet
In rhythms of phuds and splats
Mr McCheesy on hearing their claps
spurred on reclaim land to reap
Added cheers erupted, boomed loud and clear
"you've made the horror disappear
Mr McCheesy you've saved the day
hip! hip! hooray! hooray!"
From that day forward none laughed at him again
ashamed and guilty of their bullying and pain
for he was their hero he saved the day
a statue was erected in his grand name
We are all unique with qualities of difference
some dont see, only show of their ignorance
god gave to us for reasons unknown
were all different it is often shown
but the devil he teases and tempts with his sin
turns us into imbeciles and cruelty sets in
If ever your teased to having cheesy feet
remember the tale wrote above
cheesy feet who saved that day
gave so much and forever his love
26.08.20
A frame in the hall
scans every face it passes;
backed with silver skin
nothing lingers long enough
to show, what's best forgotten.
A transparent film
holds a blue wren on a wire,
clouds over a hill,
a view of reality
sharp, stark, crisp, and suspended.
Mist gathers as drips
specked on cold surfaces,
for fingers to trace
the dots of obscurity
into pathways through the blur.
Rain pitter-pats, splats
to streak, slowly down as tears
running through the pane,
each scene being rearranged
drop by drop, one at a time.
Panes defamed as stained
are brightened with light's spectrum,
revealing colors
ruby, green, gold and amber
spilled as shimmers on the floor.
A mirrored ball spins,
shedding bright colored spots,
on smiling faces,
dazzling bright in crowd eyes
with stars that can't forget why.
Beyond the breakers
one white sail slips from the day
into folded haze
an old brass tube gathers
what the horizon lets loose.
A fortune-teller
with a crystal sphere held tight
in hands cupped with hope-
watches as misty clouds swirl
to penny farthing fortunes.
These twain eyes of glass
show fragments of perception
none are wholly true-
yet, we reach for our glasses
to reshape our perspective.
Straining to see stars
we bring a dark tube to eyes
between bare branches
to reveal some more of what,
the glass wants to give, our way.
Plunk plick plat splat
The drip of faucet compels me to
Throw down a few notes
Words I had not thought of six seconds before
Cardinals and sparrows
Twittering and chittering
I listen hard, capturing nothing
Yet inspired by everything.
My subconscious grabs these sounds
Work on them as I slumber
Astral travel my go-to-place
As my muse sings what she finds funny
We wake up suddenly
A helicopter of a mosquito
Dive bombs me
Urging me to write of my killing ways
I pick up a pen
Dashing down an inky path
in a notebook full of everything
and nothing, twisting me with crazy ideas
Shiny thoughts, dark ideas,
Whimsical dragons, laughing at my silliness
Leading me down paths with their plunks plicks plats and splats
That first cup of coffee, what could be sweeter
It's starts the day right, it's a sadness defeater
We wake up all groggy and stumble over things
Into walls and doorways as to the table we cling
Lucky if we make it to the kitchen in one piece
Hopefully we won't get splattered with grease
While cooking up bacon and eggs and some taters
I'm wondering the cost of a live-in baker
Okay back to the brew that revives us once more
Without it we're zombies with blood splats galore
If the girls at the office could see me like this
There'd be no more begging for a passionate kiss
Pretend not to see me, avoid me like the plague
They'd make up excuses no matter how vague
So you see the importance of our morning brew
It starts the day off with a bright howdy do
That first cup of coffee, what could be sweeter
It's yummy in the tummy and a sadness defeater
© Jack Ellison 2015
12/26/21
Time I make a splash
Got to fulfill important tasks
Can't rely on hiding behind masks
It won't always be what you asked
Staying intact or full of bug splats
Broken and cracked windshield glass
The wings of bats
Continuing to flap
Before returning to the cave for a nap
Out to get snacks
Packs of rats
Eating trash
Watching their backs
Looking out for cats
And traps
In a flash
Another clash
On train tracks
Or in the grass
Followed by maggots and gnats
It had nothing to do with cash
Just the way of the animal world, real facts
No cap
Comprehend and imagine that
A lot comes with a catch
It goes by fast
The good things in life rarely last
Live a life full of laughs
And have a blast
Close and far from flax
Just about everything getting a tax
Whether or not in burlap sacks
Often outmatched
Souls being snatched
By the batch
Evidence buried underneath a hatch
With a locked latch
Hundreds of feet below a vegetable patch
Never went to mass
Pushed it to the max
Then ran out of gas
So I ate some bass
Then took a dab of wax
Back to work on this obstacle I slash
And smash
I'm causing cracks
From swinging my pickaxe
Originally, I was barely making a scratch
For the last time I'll rehash
It was slapdash
So there was backlash
Wrote about it in my raps
Often I'd relapse
Perhaps
It's time I detach from all this crap
Too many chaps
Obsessed over apps
And others fighting over scraps
The curtains getting pulled back
Not going to keep it under wraps
Before it all turns to ash
Learn from the past
And other despicable acts
As time continues to pass
What's the haps
Do you truly have a clue?
Do you know the half
Or are you an ignorant ass?
People harass
Cause others to feel like an outcast
No wonder they eventually snap
And are full of wrath
Causing bloodbaths
This is turning into a plague, not a rash
Why are we going down this path
Where most burn and crash
Jazz piano scale skip quick notes implore me
Siphon symphony verve blurred by saxophone sass
Floated lilly pad leap frog spring legged surety
Splats on brass buttoned soldiers dedicated amass
Bulbous glass swirl burgundy grape stem bitter
Absorbs oak barrel sentiment, forested persuasion
Ace praise expires, a swiftly swallowed splinter
Comical dive antics of cork fragmenting abrasion
Dissolving Elizabeth, shabbily written character
Simmered limply submissive, a nouveau improvisation
Vat of pursuit poured by Stu picks a passenger
Chords hover mahogany piano cascade syncopation
Composition three minute summit misconstrue
Violins textured crescendo vibrates bow tight strings
Apron strewn, Libby leaves her rolling pin askew
Butter heart hails harmony a true companion brings
22nd January
Stu calls me Jasmine
Bare feet find the leaves
before the eyes claim the trees—
dawn knows its place here.
its wingbeats spring from branches
humming to stir the still air.
A bell from nowhere
criss-crosses the foggy dell.
cows lift their slow heads.
The gate lies open halfway
yet no one passes through.
At the meander,
a child dips bare hands in shade.
ripples tilt the reeds.
sky slips between small fingers,
borrowing water's blue hue.
In the market crush,
oranges ooze citrus zest.
a woman coughs once.
all the stalls lean towards her
spilling spice, dust and sunlight.
An old man pauses
where weeds have cracked the pavement.
rain gathers in pools.
he grabs at his suit coat sleeve
as if greeting someone there.
Under chapel eaves
swallows stitch the afternoon.
wax melts into bowls.
A moth circles the altar—
where no flame admits to call.
By the empty pier
salt dries white on sleeping nets.
the tide has gone out.
a shiny bead drops from hand,
splats on dried seaweed.
In the dank garden,
leaves reveal their undersides.
someone shuts a book.
the scent of rain arrives first
to find glass panes streaming tears.
Mists lift from the pond
a heron stands where reeds part—
a flash of silver;
water, wing, and rippling rings—
the eye cannot keep them all.
Last train has long gone.
A station clock ticks alone
on the waiting bench.
someone folds their train ticket
into a paper airplane
Dawn on empty fields.
dew hangs from a spider's web,
gone seconds later.
the spider missed the quiver
of footsteps bound for elsewhere.
Dipping into swim,
coolness finds my wrist at first.
waves slap at my face.
ripples echo on the bank
saying they arrived here first.
Leaving the water,
I watch where eddies linger.
their shapes reforming,
the stones beneath the surface,
revealing, hiding, being.