Long Wetly Poems
Long Wetly Poems. Below are the most popular long Wetly by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Wetly poems by poem length and keyword.
It rained for 3 days,
drenching torrents plunged down
as if a dam had breached.
There was some local flooding
but by and large only minor damage
a lot of litter and flotsam though
‘sky wreckage’ some called it.
The butterfly house was swamped,
its netted walls were ripped ragged
by broken tree limbs,
the seams in the wooden roof
split apart and a wild,
wind-riding rain rode in.
Purple Admirals were beaten down
by the gusting blows,
then drowned.
Painted Ladies were murdered
their mangled decorative forms
no longer cosmetics.
Longwings no longer flew
but in death, swam limply
in the splashing puddles.
A disarray of broken wings
carpeted the deluged floor.
Somewhere in this caged house
sodden chrysalids sway upon fractured twigs;
eventually there will be fluttering wings,
but not here in this ruined shelter
were the air still drips wetly
onto unreceiving
and unmoving antennae.
Here, Kitty! Come...
Outdoors all is pandemonium!
Lashing wind and driving rain--
You're too young to be slain!
Does she cling wetly to a rock?
Can she survive this shock?
Tiny kitten, third month of life,
Whose eyes have never seen strife.
I hear you, but cannot see you...
Please come in 'til skies are blue?
Yet, you're in search of the unknown;
One day you'll come home fully grown.
Here, Kitty! Return to me...
Never dreamed from safety you'd flee!
Is it that you've places yet to be,
And myriad faces yet to see?
So lovely how the garden grows...
When summer's habitual beauty shows.
And after the stormy night has gone,
Comes the sunny, rosy dawn.
I daub the dewy strings with tickles, soft,
Thus, angels such as I make dance, the rain ...
For heaven's weep is joyous, shed aloft,
Our harps, the dulcet pardon to your pain.
As every drop that tumbles from our strings,
Holds all that life requires to abound ...
How wondrous that each tremble wetly sings,
Of every hope a cloudburst can resound.
~ 1st Place ~ in the "Strand Choice W, Any Theme, Any Form" Poetry Contest, Brian Strand, Judge & Sponsor.
~ 5th Place ~ in the "Angels In the Rain" Poetry Contest, Vermillion Scythe, Judge & Sponsor.
A knock, knock from the shadow box
rattles raw-boned words that collapse and flail
in another scribbled knot that snags in
straining throat and slackened mouth.
I have lost my train crash of thought in that
desolate transmission so many times my
faltering breath simply rolls over and plays dead
like an obedient and desperate puppy.
On hidden shelves they wetly sit in their thousands,
those interrupted ruminations, my aborted utterances
as they tap out their sloppy, forgotten code and
plead for the key to the door.
They were once nestled deep in my flesh where
they gestated, fattened, and rapidly struggled for
an early delivery that would ultimately see them
born cold, grey and premature.
So they wait and ripen in that cramped little cupboard,
relegated to the dark and left neatly in line until inspiration
once more arrives to release them back into the already
crowded world of interminable prattle.
Splashing, thrashing, wetly crashing
rages the rolling sea,
like a dying serpent swirled
in waves of misery!
Through stormy gales and black of night,
these sailors from afar
seek out the dim, faint, speckled glow
of heaven's Compass Star.
But howling, howling, madly scowling
swells the deadly squall
with spite and ire in its briny veins
to damn them—damn them all!
So far away from home and hearth
their ship has sailed the seas;
its men seen sights of boon wonders
with deft and seafaring ease.
Trapped by the foaming, deadly squall;
the wrath of the ocean
rocks their masts and strikes at their hull
like Neptune’s winged griffon.
Gnarling, gnarling, viciously snarling
the squall’s stormy tempests
strike and savagely beat at the
ship’s wooden bow and breasts.
Alas! Alas! All is now lost
as soul after drowning soul
lose hope, panic, and then perish
with HMS The Merry Troll!
The stormy tempests of the squall
sink, swallow, and devour
up all without rue or ruth: so scorn
not the squall's wrathful power!
Form:
South West monsoon starts early Our village gets more rainfall Oh , the streets are full of lovely puddles We jump into the puddles joyfully Rain water splash on the ground heavily
Our dresses have wet fully
Even the big school bags are too Our intention is to enjoy the rain
We never think about the consequence Our bodies say enough but not the mind
Our mother sees us playing
Shout for playing in the rain
She has gone into the house instantly Our lovely grandma appears from the house
She calls us to come inside politely.
We accept her call calmly. Step into the house wetly Our mother comes with a large spoon to beat. The grandma stands before us like a wall
She says they are innocent children too.
We realize our mistake
And say pardon us, mother.
It’s a kind of habituation,?
it’s a kind of a life?
you walk in it, over it?
through it.?
?
What you see or don’t see?
is still all there,?
coming through from the past.?
The future also comes through,?
tomorrow has already painted next steps,?
they are just waiting to be taken?
then hung on a mind gallery.?
?
You can see millions of cells,?
brain cells, dead squamous cells,?
octagonal memory cells?
bee hive stacked.?
Some cells have ruptured,?
tear-drop ghosts spill out drop by drop,?
puddle wetly.?
They all must be reincarnated?
breathed life into.?
?
Now you can look back and see?
if you have cleaned house,?
or just used time to litter?
the temple grounds.?
Wings in puddles.
There must have been a leak,
and in the sky nothing fly’s
but a crippled gale,
it limps now, yet howls still
from the far side of lost town.
Wind-drones moan in bare trees
sky wreckage litters.
Dead Purple Admirals
have gone down in rainy heaps.
Painted Ladies rest forever.
Longwings no longer sail,
for the roaming Yellow Swallow Tail
It is trails end.
Who broke the netting and the roof?
What dashed all
upon a fluttering flood?
Was it the piratical gulls?
No, like this emptying daylight
they have been flung into hiding.
Somewhere in this arboretum
new chrysalids sway on twigs,
soon there will be wings,
but not here in this ruined shelter
wear the air drips wetly
as if with tears.
We began our late winter do-over
with a dirty ceramic bowl
during a too-much snowstorm.
Well, no,
obviously that's not where this rebirth story begins
but neither is a cream-colored
and clean
bowl
where this story ends.
Anyway,
I look at Matilda's mac and cheese bowl
from the RaggedyAnn frosty night before
while an early morning April Fool's snow blanket
arises perfectly
peacefully
majestically
and really too wetly
outside our kitchen windows.
I wash his late night
and lunch-time dishes all the time,
with grateful precision.
Not all the time,
but frequently,
poignantly,
yet he washes his dishes
without touching Matilda's or mine.
Why would our Cooperative WinWin Gamer
not see how inappropriately WinLose
this is?
Never mind about disrespectful
and possibly selfish.
How does this lack of awareness
betray us,
a more or less functional
resilient cooperative health service unit?
What does this mean
and what is his message
through medium
of round crusty artifact?
I do his dishes
because I'm washing dirty dishes
so I don't have to look at them,
or smell them,
and so they don't attract pests
when they are not well rinsed
by RaggedyAnn feisty nubian princess.
Is this because I am a responsible adult
and a parent of hurt children?
And he is not?
And, if so,
then why would our WinWin Gamer
assume it's OK
to not act like a responsible young adult
and Cooperative Gaming Sibling?
Facilitator,
both teacher and regenerational student
of healthy resilient life-skills.
Is this message ageist,
and/or anti-parental?
Downsides of Peter Panism,
Eastern Innocence
without strong ecocentrically mature roots,
yet.
So I asked him
about why leaving dirty bowls is OK
for him
regardless of who started it.
And we talked cooperatively WinWin
together
about why they aren't so great for me,
and possibly us.
That helped us
both to see ourselves
and each other
in some ways
newborn clean bowl differently.
It was about then
this magical early spring snowstorm
faded toward partly sunny
and shoulder-warmer.
Martin came to a cleft in the rocks
The oriole must have gone this way
It was narrow and curving
A sudden turn, and everything seemed to change.
Shrill, reedy music of pipes filled the heavy air,
A smell of musk of goats and their dung.
Invisible cicadas sustained the piper's lament.
Suddenly, he found himself in front of a small but deep lake.
Weeping willows, large copper-coloured beeches
Surrounded by a large pool of azure water.
There was a calm tranquillity about the place
Whilst the air was saturated with a fragrance
Of exotic flowering lavender-like trees.
He heard a splash, and out stepped a young woman.
Her canary yellow elegant swimsuit
Clung wetly to her honey-coloured body.
Damp citrine hair formed a frame around an oval face
That was highlighted by an upturned, pointed nose.
He did not move but stood mesmerized,
Looking into her blue, limpid eyes.
A sweet smile shimmered on her lips.
"Hello," she said in a mellifluous voice.
Her smile was inviting. "My name is Goldie Oriole.
Come, sit near me
And tell me how you found this place."
To be concluded in Part 3