Saturating Poems | Examples

SOIL SOAKER

SOIL SOAKER*
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
rain
weighty, intense
piercing, soaking, saturating
refreshing earth’s firmament
soil soaker

*Note:This poem was first published at Poetry Soup in June 2025 then deleted (poetrysoup.com › poem › soil_soaker_1738878) This is my original poem.

fine

a cold fine mist drips
with east wind saturating all.... 
bed of zinnias pop

bon apetit

“taste” …

she whispered
making sure the “s” lingered on her
tongue like syrup …
I needed no instruction,
but her plea was proper music, nonetheless
prelude to pleasurable murmurings from
both our gullets,
though I put the vibrations of my low,
rumbling moan to good use
(as any obsequious scoundrel should)
her squeaky sigh wrapping
my core like a vine,
saturating my extremities …
another whisper - “tell me … pleeease”
I knew exactly what
and she knew I couldn’t speak,
my mouth being otherwise engaged,
so I sounded the syllables
letting them rumble slowly … again
and that …
brought the bloom -
both her hands weaving their way
through my hair
pulling me tightly to her
holding …
crying out -
the sounds of bliss that I lived to hear
the sultry song that slayed me …
and I?
an enormous smile on my face that
she couldn’t see, of course
but I think, perhaps,
she could tell …

all the same.

quenched

oh ...

let me ...
I thirst for you
like the desert for rain
the thoughts of your warm places
dance on my tongue like tangy candy
saturating my palate and
my imagination …
I have no reward without your plea
I am pliable clay in silence
but when your need moans my name
I am made steel, unceasing …
tell me what you want -
your crave and your cry are my only cares
desire has but to trickle off your
lips to make it so,
but please, make it so ...
for I am moonstruck and madness
until I partake of the sweet, tart ambrosia
that steams and stirs
deep inside ...

you.

Pop Can

Like a can of pop overflowing,
Pent up emotions in me overtaking,
Old feelings saturating the newest feeling,
Afraid of when the table will start turning.

Like the cola soda covering
A table in which I am patiently waiting,
I am as usual finding my feelings confusing,
This metaphor is staining my well-being.

Like the cold hard thin metal lining,
I am lost again in my own mindscaping,
Chill to the core despite my inner shining,
Thanks to the sacred herb I was smoking.

Like my favourite drinks I'm always drinking,
Always recycling every thought and feeling,
Just so I can avoid telling everything,
Yet still hoping someone sees I need saving.

OF POETIC PROSE AND RHYME IN TRYING TIMES

I’m not whom
You may think 
I am
But am the who
That I am
And the coming
To being more
As the belly
Of my soul                                                   
Craves 
In hunger 
For divine
Wisdom
And guidance
Poured from
God’s overflowing
Cistern spilling
Out onto 
The dry sponge 
Of my soul
Awaiting hydration
Of awareness
And inspiration
To be likewise 
Squeezed out
Onto other 
Dehydrated sponges
Of spiritual souls 
Needing
Flowing prose
And wetting rhymes
Saturating healing grace
During all needed times:

Grief and despair
We’re not to harbor
For to do so
Is to jam-jar horror
Always remember
On the way
We go
Spiritually bound sailors 
Sailing waves
To the shores of life
Frothing away failed
Behaviors
So in keloid memory
Of this little prose
Flowing rhyme
From me
In every moment of 
A trying time
Keep this little flow
In mind 
And enjoy from
The Cistern above
Healing peace and love:-

Temptation

Temptation 

Foundation.

In such a fluid interconnected world, are long-term relationships dwindling in numbers?

Is temptation saturating society, and creating an influx of such communications, subtly asking for a second chance?

The Email to Monique 

Whenever I think of you,
I always feel a familiar calling

A soft echo which rhythmically whispers before morning

I can still feel you

And it carries such magnificent tales of us slipping and sliding

Entwined together spiritually 
As a new world was dawning

But like all things borne into the bright lights

There are things lurking in the night

Things we failed to see 
To pray against and fight

And so now we both live alone

Me in bondage to time and memories 

And you
A sentinel in the in-between spaces

Who I still see

A serene face reflected in random windows

“Perdóname mi amor
La oscuridad vino por mi

Y en ese único momento 
Olvidé tu nombre"

(C) Copyright John Duffy 

Translation:

Forgive me my love
The darkness came for me

And in that one moment 
I forgot your name

Image shared under fair usage policy.

.

Dear Old Friend

When death comes,
He will find me with a cup of tea,
Enjoying the summer evening rains.
He will find me with my favourite book,
Turned to the page I like the most.
He will find me with the radio on,
Playing a song very well a retro now.
He will find me in my mother's dress,
Draped clumsily on a whim.
He will find me with my father's pen,
And a blank notebook in the lap.
He will find me with our wedding photos by the bedside table,
And his cologne still saturating the sheets decades later.
He will find me with the memories of our children,
And the last conversation we had a month ago.

He will find me with anticipation and relief,
With a smile and perhaps a tear or two.
Death will find me willing and ready,
And a little nervous to meet the familiar 'ol friend.

Art And Loving

Tendency is, to apportion 
Love:

like slices of iced sweet
at a party

braying festive, 2 playful swipes 
at a swinging, loaded donkey

(not the husband this time)

toffee for the dear loyal mate -- 

allotment of love, for precious children;

for all our Prayer-family, appealed
a canopy of blessed shade, like that 
bible gourd,

cat and dog needing, also,
some petting reward – no special
reason...just because -- 

to the poet, as with painter,
superseding costume body of flesh, 
art is voice-echo and representative
image

one's deeper beating sentient part

ventricle tools, the writing pad, the brush...

more poignant the words,
broader the expansive, lyrical stroke:
ruled paper or mystifying canvas~ the soul,
       a bottomless well from which to
                                     creatively 
                                        draw
fluid destinies

for controlled dabbing

abundant dashing-splashing

spirit-inspired

awesomely appealing
          
saturating pour --

A Walk in Sunrise

Dawn creeps above the dark horizon.
Am I locked in a hazy dream?
An icy chill grips my whole body,
My legs falter in their purpose,
Can I turn back? Can I delete
This horrendous nightmarish dream?
 
And then, as suddenly as it all began
I see a single moonlight ray
That filtered through the trees above.
The rivers beckon still, but you are here
And sobbing, I fall into your most tender arms.
Your fragrant perfume is like honeydew,
Like a scented breeze that permeates my breath,
Saturating my lost mad soul with sanity.
 
Suddenly, a warm dulcet haze enveloped me.
Slowly, slowly I turn back,
Slowly, I re-enter my cold bed,
And all my nightmares are dispersed.
At last, I rest in peace.

Perfect rouge

If red is your favourite colour,
Then let there be blood in the sky,
Bleed out would I,
Just to appease your preferences,
Plant one million roses,
As the lavender decomposes,
Just to indulge your eyes.

Ruby rivers cover silver streams,
I could not comprehend even in dreams,
What I would do for that scarlet shade,
Saturating my days, it is not afraid,
To discolour my vision,
‘Twas a lie of omission,
To make you my perfect rouge.

balls of lightning

balls of lightning 
scrape the darkness
off my bedroom window
desert hills illuminated
thundering growls 
of a grumpy giant 
rumble through the night
while my pillow squishes
against my chest
like you
loud huffs and puffs
scatter twigs, leaves and dust
across the concrete
sky's all swollen up
and the earth pants
in anticipation
bucking
to meet the clouds
ravished trees rustle
thirsty for so long
dry blades of grass 
stand so soo straight
straining to be engulfed 
a pregnant pause
while sheets of silent light
splinter into x-rays 
of desperation
and fertile longing
she holds her breath
quivering 
and the universe explodes
smashing, crashing 
stabbing the ground
splitting it wide open
to swallow torrents
descending drenching
tearing and rending
filling and drilling
penetrating
saturating
soaking and drowning
gasping for air
mad rushing recedes
into the lulling drizzle
she absorbs
until the moon is gone
and mouth so dry
I wake face buried
in the soft folds 
of what comforts me
these days
and you're waiting
for the wake up call
you never wake up to
(you know)
rid of thoughts
washed away
evaporated 
it's a new day
love

Follow The Setting Sun

I had lost my way and felt all alone.
On a delivery mission near the end of my route,
some 25 to 30 miles from the shop, but it felt farther.
Every part of my being was being tossed about.
No phone, GPS, or internet; nor did I have a map.
I was lost, and there wasn't a soul in sight.
I parked and sat; thought and worried for a spell.
The 'feel of lostness' was saturating my soul.
I knew that my destination was West, but I had
lost my bearings and did not know what to do.
It was approaching late afternoon, and the sun
came to mind. So, I looked toward the fiery star
and followed the setting sun until I was reassured
that I was headed home. I had found my way.

Raindrops

Ah, how invigorating to body, soul, and spirit.
Ah, how soothing, especially after a long dry spell.
All of nature pauses to inhale the awesome fragrance.
Whether a hot August night or late in the month of May,
It makes you want to stand still and absorb every drop.
How refreshing on a long hot and sunny day.
Every living thing bows to the one who loves us so.
There's nothing like raindrops falling on our heads,
soothing and saturating us right down to our toes.
Even with oceans full, or backyards filled with swimming
pools, there's no substitute for raindrops embracing us.
We love the early morning dews, sunrises, and sunsets too.
And whether we are stoic or socialites, country or city folk,
mountain or valley dwellers, we all adore the raindrops.

bon appetit -

“taste” …

she whispered
making sure the “s” lingered on her
tongue like syrup …
I needed no instruction,
but her plea was proper music, nonetheless
prelude to pleasurable murmurings from
both our gullets,
though I put the vibrations of my low,
rumbling moan to good use
(as any obsequious scoundrel should)
her squeaky sigh wrapping
my core like a vine,
saturating my extremities …
another whisper - “tell me … pleeease”
I knew exactly what
and she knew I couldn’t speak,
my mouth being otherwise engaged,
so I sounded the syllables
letting them rumble slowly … again
and that …
brought the bloom -
both her hands weaving their way
through my hair
pulling me tightly to her
holding …
crying out -
the sounds of bliss that I lived to hear
the sultry song that slayed me …
and I?
an enormous smile on my face that
she couldn’t see, of course
but I think, perhaps,
she could tell …

all the same.

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