Long Wetter Poems
Long Wetter Poems. Below are the most popular long Wetter by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Wetter poems by poem length and keyword.
To come and go
and not be afraid of the light.
Again I'm a child and my secrets
I have chosen can you love me?
Death will come this I know
slowly I grow you remember.
The bottles were colored when first I arrived.
Hairy eyes hiding tremors pass.
I agonize once again arsenic moons.
A man makes his bed yet a child and his maid.
Starched white shirts in the closet I hide
from the church.
Mary wept but the nuns make me weep even more.
Loneliness is a face never seen.
I drink it all as a child what they allow.
Buds and bells heaven is not full of metaphors
I can change but I won't.
When I write best this way unlike you.
Your will I don't want just my cat.
Coming back here your heart once mine was too heavy.
Wide and straight the road.
Narrow paths for dark horses the moon the clouds
they pass by me lost without you my bed wetter.
God help me I can once again hear loud sucking noises
soft whimpers and quite cries for a price.
Mummy the bottle on the floor it is empty.
She comes in a double glass, blood red dress.
I did not write this because of the hairy eye hiding.
But children and their secret lips confessed.
James McLain Thursday, August 11, 2011
What‘s better than a biscuit?
Hard to debunk
Treasure trunk funk
Should you let
It get wetter
Would you dare risk it?
The trick a quick dunk
Or could flunk..flick..kerplunk..
Mushy chunk sunk..messy junk
Slushy slunk..in the tea you drunk
So at your leisure
Pleasure one’s self
Don’t regret your stealth
Forget your health
Wealth beset on the shelf
So feeling restive?
Yearn for a digestive?
Appealing…suggestive
No shock..dark choc
What else will cut the mustard
With a brew…for a few bob
Recurring theme..does seem
Will always dream
About a custard cream
Almost sob…as I Lob
A hob-nob in me gob
Ta pour more cha
In fine fettle
Be a slob
Turn on the kettle
Bickies in the jar
On the sofa settle
Sins within tins
Spurn concern
Ignore the racket
As
Hats do doff
Knew from the off
On a roll
The sole goal
Quaff another cuppa
Down your cake hole
Scoff the whole packet!
(Re tiny box-like homes lining the west side of
South Bundy Drive, north of Nebraska Street, in West LA)
The soiled feeling comes not
From the indignant paradise
Scurrying past their frontal lobes
It arrived in silence
Borne of being first to the party
And the ensuing, deafening wars
With the partycrashers
With their cranes
Their progress
Their eclectic sense of
Civilized degradation
Squeezing the life from
The Boxes Before Nebraska
That modest set of
Stoic pre-war cookie-cutter domiciles
Perfectly groomed
Impeccably aligned
For Ozzie and Harriet, and
Their silent parade of nasty
The Boxes, they struggle
To remain relevant in the haze of
Modernity's hammer and
Banality's autoimmune disease
To avoid temptation as
The developer's succulent lips and larceny
Get wider and wetter
To simply let be amidst the swollen busy
Not to mention a new cast of characters to contend with:
- The brackish bendejo careening in stride, unaffected by the Boxes' sidewalk's ill-timed permanence and oblique conundrums, left from quakes and lashings of yore
- The livid madman embracing his next lethal dose of humanity as he marches, barks and feuds with phantom nemeses camped out at the Boxes' doorstep
- The ragged cougar across the street, squeamish exterior gone bad, pounded into Angelino submission by the tricks and spells she conjures and endures
- The dual threat of LA Fitness night trolls, basking in cardio vampire glow, while the next morning's brew of rainbow children percolates into G-d's bitter latte, sipped cupless on fresh asphalt.
And yet...they stand
Together as one
By accident
By stupor of justice
By de jure
By no better place to go
Testament to legacies
Begging to remain
Living proof that
Bounty, modesty and sanctity
Can be achieved
When you stop thinking outside of the box.
(4/11/15)
Getting Over
There ain't no getting over
doing what you gotta do.
There ain't no getting over,
the things that you go through.
You can try when loved ones die
but tears are gonna fall.
No one learns to walk or run
until they learn to crawl.
Memories of yesterday
the horrors that you faced.
Innocence it took away
and nightmares are replaced.
Waiting for the rain to stop,
while you keep getting wetter.
It's only getting different,
it's not getting any better.
Things that were, no longer are.
And yet, they seem to be.
Changing rearranging
somewhere deep inside of me.
There ain't no getting over
the things that you go through.
There ain't no getting over.
Do what you gotta do.
Edwin C Hofert
Life is the struggle
The struggle is life
Destination is death
The journey, a knife
Lacerations, sporadic
Quota keeps you afloat
Everyone's an addict
There's no antidote
Each soul has a fire
That burns within
A need to feel higher
Just around the bin
No matter the effort
You'll never quite achieve
Dreams, they flirt
deceiving to believe
Things will be better
Or so you think
You only get wetter
Before long, you've sank
If only we could stop
The train of thought
Precisely crop
The things we've been taught
Easier to swallow
The existence capsule
With expectations low
And a cup, slap full
Overflowing with emptiness
And peace, just being
Imagination at rest
No peripheral seeing
Dreams dismissed
Dreamers banished
No need for a list
The future has vanished
Spring has finally sprung in Oregon
Escaping from the longer winter prison
That has covered the land with snow
They say that this winter
Was a colder than normal winter
Wetter than normal
As the long drought finally ended
As nature resumed its normal spring thaw
I rejoice
Seeing all the signs of spring
Especially the sight of young beautiful women
Shedding their winter clothes
And walking about in the spring sunshine
So wonderfully alive
So beautiful and sexy
As they sashay about
Here and there
It makes me smile
All day long
Yes I love Spring time
Everywhere in the world
But especially in Oregon
My new found second home
August Moods
it's raining again,
been this way for days;
swirls of graying clouds
hiding the blue of skies
and my eyes
my lips
seem wetter
than everything else
that rises
without sun,
the river's rising again,
perhaps higher than my own ego
as i lose myself
in the pockets of current.
current, and past events
build this dam
against what it is
that i love,
damn her
and them the same.
i lay, head down,
drowning
in the only breath i know
your chest
rising
and falling
between the sighs
that bridges
together
reality and dreams,
and i'm not giving up my last breath
through any of these storms
that fall from winded words,
instead, i'll keep breathing
deeper and deeper
attuned with your own breath,
as we make love, reality
from dreams
last night,
i saw a rainbow
through your eyes
and i settled myself
deeper in your heart
long before
you ever drifted off to sleep
this morning,
your gentle touch,
the arousal
of my dreams,
becomes the sun
through rose-colored passion,
and love again blossoms
blending all that is real
from little pockets of rain.
Money is the source of all greed
Something we all cherish and need
Everything we own
Most of us suffer and groan
Money is the source of anxiety
Something that divides every society
From the rich to the poor
Have the basic or grandeur
Money is the source of most stress
Something each month that causes distress
From the poor to the working class
Scrape by or in debt perhaps
Money is the source of moderate happiness
Something that can also cause nastiness
Can make you believe you are better
Reality is your lonely and wetter
Money is the source of all evil
Something the church says to stop you meeting the devil
But they ask for it from you
Drain yourself without question or review
Money is the source of madness
Something that causes arguments and rashness
It causes unrest between two
And can undo the glue between you
She floated down into the meadow quietly, silencing the air, by stilling it.
The surrounding oak trees smiled, recognizing her power, not fully
understanding her majesty, but appreciating it and loving her
capableness.
As she twirled her skirt, which barely touched the ground, the earth began
changing from brown to the most marvelous white. Winter threw her hands
in the air, sending icy fluffs of cotton into the atmosphere. They floated down
softly and quietly at first, but as they fell, they got bigger, and wetter, and
they were no longer dainty.
When winter was finished, the landscape had magically transformed from a
dried dead-looking thing to a gorgeous, alive blanket of pure white
beauty, that seemed to be twinkling with diamond crystals.
She smiled. It was time for her nap. She laid down on the meadow, so gently
she did not put a dent in the snow, instead, she waited, for the first footsteps
which would not come until morning.
We yearned for rain, for spring had been so dry.
We got wet one day. Would things get better?
The sun blazed so intensely in the sky.
Only in the park’s pool could we get wetter.
Then came the time of our celebration.
We’d sweltered until Independence Day.
A pelting rain caused no great elation,
for picnics and fireworks that rain did slay!
But rain it did, and it’s been surprising
for rarely has it stopped! Eight days have passed,
and everyone I know is now surmising
we’ll soon have flooding. How long will this last?
We’d prayed for rain to aid in the crops’ growing,
yet the sound of pounding rain keeps going.