Long Wet Poems
Long Wet Poems. Below are the most popular long Wet by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Wet poems by poem length and keyword.
Afrikaaps
Die oggend is nat
hul lop op hul gat skool toe
die klokkie het kla gelui
is omdat hulle nie
tuissie gedoen nie
lag hulle uit
Afrikaans Translation
Dit het gereen
die kinders loop stadig skool toe
alhoewel die skool klok gelui het.
Hulle het nie hul huiswerk gedoen nie.
Ons lag vir hulle.
English Translation
It has rained
the morning is wet
school kids are slowly
trampling to school
though the school bell
has rung.
They have not completed
their homework.
We are laughing at them.
[Poet’s Note : The direct translation of the second line in the Afrikaaps version would be : “They are walking on their buttocks to skool.”
The direct translation of the last line in the Afrikaaps version would be :
“Laugh at them” or “make fun of them” or
“laugh until they leave.”
Notice how more colourful, jiving and idiomatic the Afrikaaps version is. Because of its origin in Cape Slavery lingo, Afrikaaps attempts to make light of daily life.This was a slave coping mechanism. ]
_______________
My mind is a very active place.
Like for all people,
the number of its rooms is limitless,
for the mind travels to many places
as well as traveling via novels and movies,
so those rooms are ever-changing.
They are decorated automatically.
You need not lift a finger to decorate them!
One room different from the ever-changing ones
is my attic. Perhaps for unluckier souls
this room could be a basement or a dungeon!
In my attic are mostly memories which,
for me, are beautifully colored.
Nostalgia floods its very broad expanse
and drips into every nook and cranny.
The main room of my mind
is the living room.
This is like the living room of my friends' minds,
the common room where our thinking dictates
what lies inside it and how those thoughts
are perceived by others.
I like to think my living room is unique,
but also I know it's filled with too much clutter!
The room most interesting of all my rooms
would be the room of my imagination.
In this room are thousands upon thousands
of closets, cabinets, and shelves,
and inside each one are different pieces of
my imagination!
Each cabinet is organized by type.
Some are surreal in color or vivid technicolor!
Those pieces are my dreams.
My fantasies are closeted.
The ones made manifest on paper or computer
are sitting out on shelves!
All the ones which can be seen
are those I call my poems or stories.
Most are not dark in color
but are bright or multi-colored.
I decorate the room of my imagination often.
You may come and see my new shelves
at any time!
Do mind the wet paint.
I'm never finished adding to that room!
Feb. 26, 2018 (my only free verse for this year so far!)
Inspired by another contest but too long for that one.
For John Hamilton's Best Free Verse of 2018 Contest
The cold fog rises from the meadow like smoke from Poppy's pipe...
... ever upward with the sweet savour of meadow grass.
My bare feet, like mortar and pestle, smash out the green scent as I walk through the wet dew, chilled and sprinkled with drops of water.
Goosebumps chase each other up my legs to tender, pebbled breasts. I cross my arms for warmth and blow out a quivering cloud of warm breath.
Revealed now, the rugged brown trunks of the trees surrounding me in the distance.
They wave the fog away, as I've seen Mamaw do with Poppy's pipe smoke...
... with twisting limbs that sway in the breeze.
On mornings as cold inside as out__burr
She knelt__held a match against fat lighterd
For she knew that this was required of her
The fire would smoke, sputter__soon blaze occured
Spreading rapidly engulfing the wood
Seemed like a miracle from where I stood
How she went on from year to year__question
What could she have been in better situation
She would blow the spark that ignited flames
Fire would glow as did her small meager life
But from her life a blaze planted__child tame
Who would write of her hardships being wife
And how she would teach where the Sweet Shurbs grow
Down in the wet land beside the road
(How to appreciate corn bread, buttermilk, and butter cold.)
There is one kind of beauty in a morning walk illuminated by the moon..and yet…there is a different kind of beauty walking after a rain…when all the streets are wet.
The streets take on a glow…one you never see at noon…the shadows seem to shimmer in light reflected from the moon.
There is a freshness in the air…a coolness in the breeze…as it carries with it raindrops it has shaken from the trees.
Still enough raindrops remain upon the trees…those unable to take flight…giving the trees a feeling of Christmas…as they sparkle in the night.
Age seems to fade away…as you breathe the misty air into your lungs…as you splash around in puddles…like you did when you were young.
If you listen to the crickets…the owls…the nightingales…you find it difficult to decide…if you are hearing more sounds than usual…or if they’re just amplified.
You stop a moment…look up…and give thanks…grateful you’ve been allowed…to watch the moon, the stars….the planets…playing hide and seek among the clouds.
And you pause as you’re walk is ending…trying to remember everything because you don’t want to forget…
the sights
the sounds
from your morning walk…
when all the streets are wet.
MAKING THE ANGELS WET
WITHIN a heart resides unborn seeds
like a boy and girl several ages ago
if she falls he will save her if he falls she will eat him
...so serve the nature of life so we serve the nature of death
and ooooooh!
IF my balls choke your throat
if my heart is bigger than
your **** i say i'm okay and we both decay with time
so serve nature and so serve death and what is left is
all you knew I held a balloon as a child
and the wind tried to take it away
when i grew up i held two breasts
and she bounced up and down
but felt a magnet of love called
nature -- which is the biggest whore
and busted memories into her --
so serve crayons and lunches
inside our minds; so i chew bubble
gum and went to concerts and we
chewed each others nipples - she
scratched my back and i ate her
kitty and so sowed memories for
God and the Angels became wet.
:: 11.12.2020 ::
Pictures of life are so blurry looking through the lens of a wet pane
Wind fills it with all its fury heavy; driving me today a cold rain
It howls with a strength; if only I could use the screen as a harnessing strain
But instead, I run from it just as a minnow swims towards a seine
It's tailwinds inflicted untold fear as they razed the central plane
There's life in this sky, elixir; as the Tulips push out of the soil this week, they can not restrain
Sunshine will fall again just as water always finds a way to drain
Such guilt seeing all the colors of the world unfold, it hurts so badly that it was expensed by others' pain
I hate wet socks.
I'm knee-deep with diapers floating by.
The steel stairs steps (that go up!)
Just 10 feet from me.
Seawater pouring in from every orifice.
I'd be dead already if I had not bribed the head caterer.
Snagged me a spot 2 levels up
From what is now completely submerged.
I start breast-stroking it through the brackish,
Freezing water.
If I had kids I'd be out of my mind right now.
Tilt! We're tilting!
Arm-straining though sideways-ing water now.
Made it to the steel bars but
Awkward as all heck making any progress.
Scaling Shroeder's stairs,
I hear sounds of mayhem above the open square
The steel stairs lead me.
Shouts of "3 boats left! 3 boats left!"
I emerge onto the upper level
And onto a sliding ballroom.
Hoisting my rump onto the dancefloor
I was met instantly by a wheeled baby carriage
Zooming into my face. No baby.
Black sea water was rushing through the windows
on the lower side of the flickeringly lit ballroom.
A martini glass, magically half-full, swerves into my sliding lap.
A pick it up and slug it back as I brace for
The ocean water I'm rushing towards.
I was 2nd place in breast stroke in the state.
I never thought it would come in handy.
That night I got 5 kids into the last few boats
And then went down with the ship.
Just before losing consciousness,
Descending into the dark oceanic abyss
I could still feel my dreadful socks.
My last thought, still,
Hating wet socks.
In my mind are many rooms,
but the one most interesting of all my rooms
would be the room of my imagination.
In this room are thousands upon thousands
of closets, cabinets, and shelves,
and inside each one are different pieces of
my imagination!
Each cabinet is organized by type.
Some are surreal in color or vivid technicolor!
Those pieces are my dreams.
My fantasies are closeted.
The ones made manifest on paper or computer
are sitting out on shelves!
All the ones which can be seen
are those I call my poems or stories.
Most are not dark in color
but are bright or multi-colored.
I decorate the room of my imagination often.
You may come and see my new shelves
at any time!
Do mind the wet paint.
March 20, 2018
For Viv Wigley's "Mind the Wet Paint" Poetry Contest
(this is a shortened version revised from the one I posted
earlier this month, not realizing there was a line limit!)
Cackle like hens
might the fox
find you
he spoke.
that those who
feedest thee sowest not
but sprinkle grains to fatten
might the fox
spoil the harvest
there labors shall be in vain!
Nyx raised stranger people
with the teachings of the night
she offered them suggestions
how to use and make poorish
troublings barable: so we thought
make way that the ballet shall
never be written and the song
never sung.
Hera over hearing Nyx, interuped
and cursed Nyx who told the women
to have there men save there money
and buy expensive things
and tell these men that you will marry them
and when all the women shall meet
together
they shall agree then not to marry
and the men shall be emotional and uncaring
and the Followers of Dolus
will be able to trick them of there
tresures by making them
assocate there wealth with there enablity to
gain the hand of those they had loved.
Hera cursed them with words of division
and spoke there ills before the other Gods.
Dolus sought Nyx and stood beside her
as to the honor they had developed.
Chorest thee might
others might prosper.
that chariots might make strong men weak
and then the women who act as they adore him
might become wealthy from being deceptive.
Might the the horses make dust
that they might not see
and the noise of
the wheels
might distort there decision making
spoke Dolus. Again Hera herd these words and said.
Might the consortment of deception
be your own undoing.
Three hundred nights mights might these
women barest.
that those who chore
to aquire there hands in marrage
might chore no more said Hera!
A the tricks of whorish women
shall be story's of
trustest persons warnings to all against
the devlsh ways of whoring folk.