Quotes about soaked, page 2
Filling Station
Oh, but it is dirty!
--this little filling station,
oil-soaked, oil-permeated
to a disturbing, over-all
black translucency.
Be careful with that match!
Father wears a dirty,
oil-soaked monkey suit
that cuts him under the arms,
and several quick and saucy
and greasy sons assist him
(it's a family filling station),
all quite thoroughly dirty.
Do they live in the station?
It has a cement porch
behind the pumps, and on it
a set of crushed and grease-
impregnated wickerwork;
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poem by Elizabeth Bishop
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Weep Holes
Don't take us for the wall itself
For when the earthen plank behind the wall
Gets soaked through
We'll let the sorrow of burdonsome wetness
Flow through us
The soil sucks the trees' roots till now
Till now the sorrow of waters
hasn't reached the earthen plank behind the walls
Earth has not seen the woebegone face of the sky
The wall hasn't learnt to shed tears
Wind even now expects to blow the leaves away
Empty polythene bags sputter on roads
That never had trees planted on sides
People drink blood of their own climes
And grow like germs
Bonfire conflagrations ignite every where
Smoke has turned the flowers black
Butterflies' wings look ashen
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poem by Naseer Ahmed Nasir
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Unattached to a Dollar Sign
When one has before soaked,
And bathed in flattery...
It is difficult to rekindle,
That first impression given.
The feeling that comes,
When someone likes what another has done...
Is much more rewarding,
Than a packed house of applauding patrons.
Let me reword that.
Because a packed house of applauding patrons...
Is very rewarding.
Especially if they are paying patrons.
And the bows come tremendously deep in gratitude.
However...
When one has before soaked,
And bathed in flattery...
It is difficult to rekindle,
That first impression given.
[...] Read more
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Ghosts
Oh, these Ghosts that haunt me, nightly, tearing at my soul,
These screaming, wailing, moaning ghouls, my senses do appall.
My sleep is wrecked, and torn apart, my silence is undone,
And all I see are shadows, where the nightmares have begun.
Then come, oh come, and do your worst, I will not share your pain,
If I can't rest, then nor should you, bound up within your chain.
You shall not load your guilt on me; your terror is your own,
Though heavy weigh my sorrows, they weigh on me alone.
What dreadful crimes have you committed, to be treated thus?
And who gave you the freedom, now, to visit them on us?
Or are you just reflections of the way we all must end?
A mirror of the harvest reaped, is that what you portend?
So, in my sweat soaked sheets I lay, my Ghosts for company,
The Black Crow on my windowsill, waits patiently for me.
I do not seek redemption, or an Angel's sweetened breath,
I've courted Sin throughout my life, and take it to my Death.
[...] Read more
poem by Owain Glyn
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Hanging from a Blood Soaked Tree
Hanging from a Blood Soaked Tree
By: Adam M. Snow
One morn as under a great tree I lay,
Misery held me in its pain-filled sway.
I dreamt of a life where I wasn't numb,
Sleepwalking my way toward the dusk to come.
I felt sweat drops that I thought were rain,
And opening my eyes, saw a man hung in pain.
His feet were crossed and his arms stretched wide;
I could see no life in this man. Had he died?
Arose a voice from the blood soaked tree,
'I died for you so that you are free.'
I sat there stunned in my ignorant sleep,
My curiosity teased by a tree that speaks.
I lingered in repose, knowing not what was said;
Clinging to the echoing voice in my head-
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poem by Adam M. Snow
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A Visit From Diotima lV
D God, what a mess! Everything's soaked!
MM Diotima, this was predictable.
D I'm so sorry. But, if you hadn't said those awful things. Hey,
I'm REALLY sorry.
MM Well, it's a little late for that.
D Where do you think all the water went?
MM Downhill.
D You mean....
(they look down)
MM Never mind. I'll call the insurance company when it gets light.
D Good thing Louise lives upstairs.
MM You can say that, again.
D Good thing Louise lives up-
MM Diotima! Did you have to wear those heels?
D They go with my outfit.
MM What outfit. You're barely wearing anything!
D It's hot. I dress for the weather.
MM On that premise, you should just go naked.
D So, what's YOUR excuse?
MM (realizes he is naked as Adam)
[...] Read more
poem by Morgan Michaels
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John Betjeman, Poet
Six distinguished men, soaked to the skin,
others with the ladies following,
a coffin, underslung,
a walk of half a mile along a rough churchgoing path,
the coffin swinging like a cradle,
in driving Cornish rain;
an almost merry funeral,
green and flowered with thought,
full of the memory of laughter
There’s a photo – he's
about two or three years old –
this is a child born
with fear on his face
at having been born
to death; (the cradle
swinging like a coffin) :
instead of looking at the
birdie in the camera, it’s the void he sees.
[...] Read more
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Soldier Grey
The young soldier boy stood rain soaked,
In a battle torn, well-worn grey coat.
The coat was drawn at the waist,
With big buckled belt in place.
His coat slashed opened by an enemy's sword,
The result of an attack by the enemy hord.
His boots worn from days of marching to the flute,
They were once a blue coats boot.
He had few treasures the soldier boy,
A small cracked photograph his greatest joy.
He looked at his mother and father with muffled sighs,
And remembered warm pies, and Virginia skies.
His soaked hat and long hair hid a battle worn fear,
As he searched for sight of blue his eye had a tear.
And his thoughts switched from this time of war,
To his hometown girl and farming chores.
[...] Read more
poem by R.K. Hart
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The Ventriloquist
An angry roar from the cheaper seats
Had followed them both outside,
Out of the rear, by the actor’s door
They looked for a place to hide,
Lord Jimmy’s coat had seen better days,
His shoes were muddy and dull,
And Bodger’s hat was crushed and dismayed
As he held it close to his skull!
‘Look what you’ve brought us to, sir, ’ he said,
Flapping his wooden jaw,
‘Out in the cold on a Saturday night;
It never does rain, but it pours! ’
Jimmy had tucked him right under his arm
And kept to the brickworks wall,
The shadows were long on the Old Kent Road
As the rain had begun to fall!
‘Oh Great! ’ the Bodger had spat in the dark,
As he scraped his head on a brick,
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poem by David Lewis Paget
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The Bankrupt Peace-Maker
I opened the ink-well and smoke filled the room.
The smoke formed the giant frog-cat of my doom.
His web feet left dreadful slime tracks on the floor.
He had hammer and nails that he laid by the door.
He sprawled on the table, claw-hands in my hair.
He looked through my heart to the mud that was there.
Like a black-mailer hating his victim he spoke:
"When I see all your squirming I laugh till I choke
Singing of peace. Railing at battle.
Soothing a handful with saccharine prattle.
All the millions of earth have voted for fight.
You are voting for talk, with hands lily white."
He leaped to the floor, then grew seven feet high,
Beautiful, terrible, scorn in his eye:
The Devil Eternal, Apollo grown old,
With beard of bright silver and garments of gold.
"What will you do to end war for good?
Will you stand by the book-case, be nailed to the wood?"
I stretched out my arms. He drove the nails deep,
Silently, coolly. The house was asleep,
[...] Read more
poem by Vachel Lindsay
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