Long Waterlogged Poems
Long Waterlogged Poems. Below are the most popular long Waterlogged by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Waterlogged poems by poem length and keyword.
Without miniscule inkling,
a violent thunderclap,
was ferociously unleashed,
torrid rain in iron rust buckets,
ensued devoid of clemency,
callous gusts growl,
sleek human impuissant,
shaken bone rattler,
deep shudder quagmire,
post murky midnight.
nocturnal deluge horror,
akin to hair-raising thriller,
why oh why,
blind doggedness of purlieu,
imposing heart of steel,
bludgeoned garment etchings,
on cavalier perambulator,
whose one meek transgression,
adventitious lapse in memory,
my usual weather alert,
I count on, that towering rock,
warding off gauche impulse,
ample pointer to habitual,
rambler’s urgent schedule,
and pitfalls perilous,
one bound to shun,
now torrential streams that,
wild disdained toxic lodger,
in my squelch and squeak,
boots of swim rush burden,
for off focus dereliction,
slips, omissions, oversights,
to compound matters,
my smart phone access code,
vanished in the ether,
momentarily I wish,
and my umbrella had wings,
if only it could transport me,
down a mud strewn lane,
in nocturnal time zone,
lightning zig zagged,
in menacing black ink sky,
home a swoosh-induced,
ominous trek,
four miles leg numb length,
an episode that splatters,
and sprays beyond remorse,
the elements a conqueror,
king of terrors,
nature’s beelzebub scourge,
ears soaked, hair doused,
damp clothes wring,
rogue rabid moon smirk,
as I topple over,
foot caught in sharp,
briar spike entanglement,
liquid frieze nightmare,
green plant pool blobs,
treacherous masked hazard,
by clumps of soggy moss,
rigged whirlwind trial by ordeal,
suspended sentence,
in torrential downpour,
waterlogged marsh prison,
a tyrant one can,
dream of ousting,
one vacuous dream inane,
in course of nightmares
...the word sorry
is a piece of driftwood I keep chewing—
my mouth full of splinters,
empty of apologies
I'm still swallowing.
I love you
like a door I can’t close,
a bruise
I keep pressing just to see
if it still hurts.
If I’m being honest—
I practice leaving you every day,
hold my breath for a dress
rehearsal of living
without the rhythm of our shared air.
Every time I get almost good at it
I choke, crawl back to the phone,
I'm a house half-burned,
telling strangers
I’ve got good bones.
I promised us peace,
but these ceilings leak with memories
of infidelity and its wallowing
companion named grief,
the floorboards are waterlogged
with it. They keep whispering—
if I’m being honest,
I'm not interested in forgiveness—
neither giving nor getting it.
I just need a song that lets me sleep.
Something I can sing back to the You,
out of tune,
out of time.
at the doctor's
There are days when I feel bereft of the people I knew
are all dead and no one is coming to take their place
there is a sense that I'm a waterlogged tree floating
in a sullied inland lake where bathing is prohibited
my nights are full of ghosts from the past visiting
when not awakened by nerve pains traveling up and
down my legs and the burning sensation telling of
the eternal flames of hell
I'm sitting at the diabetic doctor's office complaining
about the depression of pain I suffer at night
the man has an ascetic face, a real doctor, not a product
of a mother's wish to have a son with the title DR
You are keeping your sugar level well-balanced
which is good, your weight is right! (at this point
I pull my stomach in
As for your discomfort, you have to see this as a part
of your illness, I think he calls my pain DISCOMFORT!
He prescribes prescription for Insulin pens and tells
me my blood pressure is perfect, with that he sends
me away with a friendly slap on my sagging shoulder
Down in the willow tree grove where the blossoms grow
there lived a fancy-shmancy lawyer
When she cried, she cried tears of soil
and shaved away at what branches coiled
She climbed mount everest to look for a friend
but found the snow the same as the sand
She worked her way through the weeds
looking for sunlight, like everyone needs
The tears bled through the ground like glass
flooded and waiting for the storm to pass
She cried and she cried and she waterlogged her home
No more wooden floors for a place meant for stone
Down in the river there lived an employer
Charting a course to find a reputable name
When there was nothing there that she could find
That whole river, it was all but drained
The tears bled through the ground like glass
Flooded and waiting for the storm to pass
She cried and she cried, and she waterlogged her home
No more wooden floors for a place meant for stone
No more wooden floors for a place meant for stone
She read Molière and listened to Swift
and let her mind wander and drift
What do lawyers do when they retire?
Do they part ways with society and extinguish their fire?
But in the city, there were no trees
And isn’t that also what everyone needs?
Maybe the machine is truly broken
Maybe this is the true lucky token
The tears bled through the ground like glass
Flooded and waiting for the storm to pass
She cried and she cried, and she waterlogged her home
No more wooden floors for a place meant for stone
Down on the ground there lives a person
Laying there because she comes from the sky
But when she cries, she cries tears of soil
Reluctantly grateful that her plans were foiled
As the sun sets on a distant horizon
Hues of red and gold turn gray and black
A waking storm seizes the tranquil sea
Fearless mariners face nature’s attack
Consumed by a plethora of violent waves
The storm tattered sail was ripped from the mast
Wind driven rain pelted the steadfast sailors
Their diminishing hope was unsurpassed
Unable to detect the course of his ship
A call of distress descends on the night
The summons is heard by Juliet
The Angels keeper and mistress of light
The temperamental fog bell has failed again
With hammer in hand from the gallery she fled
Perched on a stool for hours she sat
Striking the bell till her fragile hands bled
The unabated echo rang out through the night
Desperately seeking the ill-fated crew
Her gallant efforts did not go unheard
With mornings light the ship was in view
The waterlogged vessel passed through the gate
Docking safely within San Francisco Bay
Poised on the catwalk she smiled and waved
“Ahoy there Captain” he heard her say
Juliet Nichols, lighthouse keeper at Point Knox
An unsung heroine known by so few
Her memory is etched within the hearts
Of a most grateful Captain and Crew
Sun, a flaming ball in the sky
Waterlogged lands have long gone dry
The soil of the land, turned crusty
Oh God, on us, have some mercy!
Scorched in the fury of the sun,
Are hot humid days, with no fun
In sultry heat, men go crazy
Oh God, on us, have some mercy!
Thirst is the only thing we feel
Under torrid heat our heads reel
Without water, we feel dizzy
Oh God, on us, have some mercy!
Just as water saves life on land
Your grace is needed for our mind
Don’t leave our souls dry and hazy
Oh God, on us, have some mercy!
August.9.2022
A Kyrielle about Water Poetry Contest
Sponsor- Kim Rodrigues
A week away from Ground Hog Day
And my water heater’s sore.
It spat at my clumsy plumbing,
Took a leak on the basement floor.
That triggered my elderly sump pump
To noisily heave up its guts.
My cat on the workbench watched me endure
The death of a thousand cuts.
I loaded my Remington 12 gauge,
Thirteen rounds, counting one in the hole.
I returned to my waterlogged basement
And said “Darlin’, let’s rock and roll!”
I pumped the rack like a madman,
Drawing lines between the dots.
My neighbor had a heart attack
When he counted thirteen shots.
Then I ponied up and loosened my grip,
Put the Remington down, wiped the sweat from my lip.
I find no game in a proctored arena.
My demeanor is salty and gruff.
And it makes me laugh like a tickled hyena
When I’ve proven enough is enough.
And I celebrate the damage with an innkeeper’s perk,
Appreciating vengeance drinking whiskey after work.
P.S., I've got a Weil-McLain on order.
grass slick slippery
garlanded with dew's glint beads
taunts weary sleepers
to reach out without thinking
beyond sinking stepping stones
dawn light ogles through
a grey, hopscotch-scattered sky
crunching clouds aside
to find a way through chaos
beyond sinking stepping stones
treetops break the skin
of bedraggled drowned-out mists
frogs croak waterlogged—
no shores for sleepwalking gulls
beyond sinking stepping stones
horizon dissolves
unhitched from any compass
worn edges are blurred—
direction is strewn with ash
beyond sinking stepping stones
echoes lose their source,
I am confused, miasmal
moored meanings unspooled—
I grab for something solid,
beyond sinking stepping stones
in off-ramp byways
of shiftless realities
I crawl through muddles
clambering to find a way
beyond sinking stepping stones
So will Ben be back to lead his men?
Stacks of hacks chiding with their pen
Question all asking time & time again!
Key and Baz hiding in their ECB den
Riled echo chamber dialled up to ten
Let us know and if not now then when!
Fall of Bazball no longer a verdant glen
Now bogged down in a waterlogged fen
Astounds as Baz all about pounds or yen
Folks a coup by you know who should ken
Stokes came first not the egg but’s the hen
Spicier than wasabi with his kemosabe zen
ECB on their tod as it all crumbles yet again
So odd sod the fans & their God called Ben
If is the end than ECB to hell we send Amen
Steady rain swirled, pooled,
and eddied around rolled
up pant legs skinny ankles, which
immediately felt cold
before undertow willingly
steadily, and nimbly pulled this former
ace swimmer into watery fold
quelling, relinquishing, and taking
my hard won mettle of gold
earned early in primetime, now
at last...preemptive quiescent salvation
sluiced into unbarred
Davy Jones's locker hold
all me eager life possessions
long since donated and/or sold,
thus the final countdown
found yours truly submerged
for no rhyme, nor reason told
as I blissfully headed into the webbed
wide woebegone watery wold,
of course said dreamy forevermore
hoary idyll mere
reverie of this stevedore
"FAKE," & figuratively, hypothetically,
and imaginatively furthermore,
yaws true well lee washed away
in briny deep pull lore
ably tipped, gypped,
and drowned ma poor
body electric far from shore,
soaking wet tha top n bot hum
'o me soggy mossy noggin,
wharf fanta seas no longer
will eyes explore
waterlogged optima gills, this papa
wet tin his every pore,
this March 21st, 2019
(ewe could Hermes faintly
bleating after mighty roar)
of ocean riptide off back
offload mein kampf bon jure,
buffer dis future
papa gets tubby old,
and senile, who would
bean imposing chore,
asper deux marriageable
daughters tubby saddled,
reined in upon, and
bridled to endure
caretaking role asper,
this former stevedore
whose existence also spent
teaching many a bore from Bangalore!