"inundation" poems
A strange weather pattern
Appears up in the sky,
And a strange sludge splatters
Into onlooking eyes.
Menstrual matter falls
From the great godless clouds,
The people struck with awe
As they run, scream alloud.
A trickle turned downpour
Of radiated blood,
Now drowning in a storm
That yields a *** flood.
Dropping violently in pints, gallons, and leagues
We become fossils under a ************ sea.
Jul 3, 2010
Jul 3, 2010 at 6:50 PM UTC
By the sill sit still;
Listen to the wash on the roof;
Specks and sheets form a symphony
so complete to hush you quiet,
Even still.
An inundation.
This libation to parched earth has
been a meditation since birth;
to ponder under the pitter-patter
hiss and swish of exponential scales
At the wrongness of raindrops in a sunbeam.
Sit still, brood like the clouds that came
to darken a June day, so silent they gathered
over a land hard with memory,
With fear for passing years and
worries that grew like weeds in summer showers.
Brief as thought these drops like jewels
are set ablaze then strike the dirt; done.
They flash for an instant in time,
with no way back to an azure sky.
There is no telling the distance,
How high these clouds climb.
Just the sound of falling rain,
Listen.
Nov 5, 2017
Nov 5, 2017 at 11:35 AM UTC
In the deep of time indigenous tribes
surfaced a red earth with protruding plateaus
and burnt canyons along the Cimarron River.
The ancient Anasazi settled
at the core of this mesa.
Scattered ponderosa pine.
Yet, their sudden demise echoed curiosity.
Navajo sensed a struggle of two infinite worlds,
a quivering inundation.
Circling its haunted ominous shape,
a skull with one eye, the apparition of light
rose into a blue desert sky.
Violent storms crackle hot lightning
strikes in a sulfurous summer-
an oracular hothouse.
Navajo talk of spirits or the gateway
to fire. Heaps of iron and lodestone
lodged in the cap. Only two
brazen, cat totem poles guarding its passage.
Standing among the mesa
to feel the verve of the earth.
A New Mexico sun beats down
burning the drowsed terrain.
To see the legendary shaman glow
in his ephemeral blue nimbus.
Bathed in gaudy turquoise.
Sensing the dark encroachment
of a ghost. Near the bony hills, soared
a turbulent black bird in full flight,
upward.
Apr 11, 2013
Apr 11, 2013 at 7:43 PM UTC
The once timid
Shores of my resistance.
Fearing an inundation of the sorts
of Flotsam and Jetsam that can cure a man of loneliness,
Were trampled like soccer fans in Venezuela, when you appeared on my shore.
Certain that the fraughting souls within, were to cover me in stinking pitch.
I retreated to the hills and played the wait and see.
Waiting and watching and hoping to pray.
And when you legged your way
onto my beach,
I cried like a gangster on new years eve
Sep 14, 2012
Sep 14, 2012 at 12:48 AM UTC
Hymn to an Art-o-matic Laundromat
by Michael R. Burch
after Richard Thomas Moore’s “Hymn to an Automatic Washer”
O, terrible-immaculate
ALL-cleansing godly Laundromat,
where cleanliness is next to Art
—a bright Kinkade (bought at K-Mart),
a Persian rug (made in Taiwan),
a Royal Bonn Clock (time zone Guam)—
embrace my *** in cushioned vinyl,
erase all marks: **** vaginal,
****** inkspot, red wine, dirt.
O, sterilize her skirt, my shirt,
my skidmarked briefs, her padded bra;
suds-away in your white maw
all filth, the day’s accumulation.
Make us pure by INUNDATION.
Published by The Oldie, where it was the winner of a poetry contest. This poem was inspired by the incongruence of discovering "works of art" while doing laundry at a laundromat with coin-operated washers and dryers. I was reminded of the experience while reading Richard Moore’s “Hymn to an Automatic Washer.” Keywords/Tags: hymn, art, America, Americana, laundry, laundromat, washer, dryer, appliances, clean, cleaning, cleanliness, clothes, clothing, underwear, god, godly, godliness, water, baptism, inundation, sonnet, analogy, humor
Nov 28, 2021
Nov 28, 2021 at 11:50 PM UTC
1425
The inundation of the Spring
Enlarges every soul—
It sweeps the tenement away
But leaves the Water whole—
In which the soul at first estranged—
Seeks faintly for its shore
But acclimated—pines no more
For that Peninsula—
3.1k
Thy summer voice, Musketaquit,
Repeats the music of the rain;
But sweeter rivers pulsing flit
Through thee, as thou through the Concord Plain.
Thou in thy narrow banks art pent:
The stream I love unbounded goes
Through flood and sea and firmament;
Through light, through life, it forward flows.
I see the inundation sweet,
I hear the spending of the steam
Through years, through men, through Nature fleet,
Through love and thought, through power and dream.
Musketaquit, a goblin strong,
Of shard and flint makes jewels gay;
They lose their grief who hear his song,
And where he winds is the day of day.
So forth and brighter fares my stream,--
Who drink it shall not thirst again;
No darkness taints its equal gleam,
And ages drop in it like rain.
3k
an incomplete conundrum
a fixed and failed philosophy
a neverending neurotic nightmare
god can’t help you now
so do you go back to what you know best?
the enigma of unfinished cocktails at empty tables
you look to see what else there is
try to be hopeful, though you know the truth
answer questions with a smile
don’t forget to brush your teeth
and never let them know
Do you like music?
yeah.
That’s fantastic, so do I.
yeah.
you’ve never been to venezuela
you heard it’s nice.
thank god for our freedom, am I right?
I wouldnt go no place else
incomprehensible
you walk sometimes
just to be alone and think
why not more
infatuation
with the
permutation
of the
inundation
of the
conflagration
how do you suppose
it all works?
I mean, everything.
the plants told me
the stars are alive
but how does it work?
and what do you do?
and why?
you go back
things come up, and you forget about the magic
the point is to remember
so write it down
read it often
and never forget
Nov 6, 2012
Nov 6, 2012 at 10:26 AM UTC
1434
Go not too near a House of Rose—
The depredation of a Breeze—
Or inundation of a Dew
Alarms its walls away—
Nor try to tie the Butterfly,
Nor climb the Bars of Ecstasy,
In insecurity to lie
Is Joy’s insuring quality.
2.1k
stunted
short
visionary dwarf
****** level
too much too much
***** panorama
cut the crap
lay on your back
change of venue
blue blue
dark clouds too
****** of black cotton
100% ******
feminine products need not apply
c’mon
but wait
no more ****
but where’s our precious depths
lost our thoughts
consciousness raised
to new depths
then lost
as if ******* weren’t enough
but hey
look
just drop it
no asking for a hand now the clap is extinct
****** fungus a dinosaur
what we’ve all been working for, right
the liberated ****
without love
without guilt
sure, but meantime it’ll **** you
homicidal inundation
or better yet
you’ll go blind looking for it
2k
The level of betrayal
Hit me on multiple levels
Beyond the shadows,
Was it the Devils kiss
Those moonlit craters,
in the gallows,
That created those layers
In the mountains of the Himalayas,
Will they ever tell us,
The secrets lost within those meadows
Flourishing down at base camp.
Flying those false flags in eminence,
whilst were sentenced in the highlands.
Hidden haters,
Camouflaged in winter colours,
the mesa range
a inhabited massif,
A hint of frostbite,
That in hindsight could cost lives,
of those trapped beneath the icy nights.
The snowfall is just drop of ice,
Stinging the eyes of those blinded
by the shards of glass icicles in the avalanche.
A ridge away from the mountain range safety nets.
Disrespected tor of mother natures indignation.
Only the indigenous survive.
Yet in the flames of exasperation,
In the footsteps of evanesce,
A liquesce renders the snow storm useless,
as the sun melts the inundation of the snow slide.
An aubade ray takes over the landscape,
oxidating snowflakes one by one like a machine guns wake.
The temperate rise coincides with the rise of hope within the atmosphere.
The patterns clear and the same mistakes will be made over and over again
until the atmosphere is damaged so severe;
The sun itself will cry a tear.
Jan 10, 2016
Jan 10, 2016 at 2:05 PM UTC
We live in a small place,
In the midst of river,
Encircled by water
People said that
‘It is a largest river island’.
We call it
‘Majuli’!
Land placed
At centre!
There was a time
When,
Our life were self contain
With nature and culture!
But, almighty probably
Do not like it!
Inundation gradually shifted to floods,
Small strike of water on land
Converted strike of wild waves
Land takes away,
Crops started to damage,
People lost their land,
Water on the ground and beneath decline,
Water in well poisoned,
Our tradition cut loose!
The farmer......
The potter......
The craftsman......
The fisherman........
The weaver...........
The...........
All are migrated
To the island with concrete
and mock matter
In search of livelihood!
Those who are here
Like us,
Still waiting
With a hope, that
Almighty will change its mind,
‘Bless us!’
Again we will
Perform ‘Sinha- Jatra’ of
Post-modern era!
Jun 4, 2014
Jun 4, 2014 at 2:06 AM UTC
Red-stained fingers match the
Taste of rust.
I wipe my mouth again.
The fire rises in my cheekbones
And descends upon my throat;
Lower sanctums, beware—
Forehead ripple lava pits,
Eyes like San Andreas.
The only way out is through
Sky blue inundation.
I drink.
Matron jar, round
And cool to the
Touch
Dripping life
From her hands
To mine.
Embers dwindle.
One last cough to push the
Smoke from my breath—
My ribs are paper bag empty.
Jun 1, 2011
Jun 1, 2011 at 11:19 PM UTC
Nigredo
Crawl to your calignous cave, where
The carbon walls will encroach your gray matter.
Choke on the ebb of your gnarled reason. Left imploring,
You will breathe the expanse, planets will taunt you.
Negligible, your ego will dissipate,
For you do not matter, are not matter, will not matter.
You will take the cathartic dragon,
Purge the soot from its gaping nostrils.
Shadows will multiply and thunder your eyeballs
Quick silver tears will swarm your porcelain peel.
So below, As above.
Albedo
I erupted from my candescent pool, where
The ivory baubles pirouetted in the cerulean sky,
Stimulated faith, insanity, rhapsody.
My unblemished chalk fingertips traced star-letters,
“I do mind, am mind, will mind.”
Bathing in this serene elation,
I released the congested swallows,
Scattered feathers upon the wasteland.
As above, So below.
Rubedo
Soon will be a crippling inundation of crimson diamonds,
That will shred and tear her dusty membrane,
Waning shards will slowly clear and stitches will surface.
Recognition will ignite from her shadows and
Golden love will germinate in the sandy dunes.
Leaves will gather to crunch her toes.
The vitality queen will reign from her throne,
Encrusted with life, stone in hand,
So above, As below.
Jul 13, 2011
Jul 13, 2011 at 4:46 PM UTC
England is waterlogged
becoming submerged
nascent Atlantis
surrendering to the tide
Sink holes in Hemel
sunk homes in Surrey
hanging railways in Devon
****** cafes by the sea
A damp apocalypse beckons
it may get wetter yet
now that rain reigns
Britain is ruled by waves
Cynthia Pauline Jones 15/2/14
Mar 16, 2014
Mar 16, 2014 at 9:06 AM UTC
Mr. Gibson penetrates my poem, my paining senses,
"When raw grief turns into aching music" by witch,
he notates my inundation (1), a summary succinct,
essencing my poem to its bare ***** cri de cœur,
it's comforting to be gotten, grasped, felt & taken,
for ten out of nine, times, when I compose there
is music aching in my muscles and in my perused
words, begging to be read in a thorough, careful way,
and he honors them thusly, and I am deeply touched,
at our conjuring conjunction of connection, a phrase
worthy of a poem in and of itself, but
let someone else,
perhaps him, perhaps you, write it, I am contented:
*to be heard,
to be believed,
to be by, relieved,
to being understood
to be felt, given and +
taken, and given a great
musical measure of comforting…
in summary too,
here is where*,
I thank you.
nml
9/12/25
5:15am
Sep 12, 2025
Sep 12, 2025 at 5:14 AM UTC
for the first time, I have my hands on your hips,
and if I were a betting man I'd say the third shot of gin
is who put them there.
I am staring at your lower lip,
and you're staring at my eyes, or something.
the part of my brain that hasn't been inundated by alcohol is begging me to stop,
but the rest of me is begging you to never let go once your cold hands find my burning neck.
Jun 13, 2014
Jun 13, 2014 at 11:45 PM UTC
Talk to me, can you hear me O’ Lord?
Send me something that I can not ignore,
Staring at seas from the cold lonely shore,
What of future?
Can the angels be calling?
I was young when you embraced me,
When you opened my mind to the world’s mystery,
I came home and started a family,
Three bundles of joy near a bountiful sea,
…and this life?
Has the Age begun falling?
Cattle left unattended and the goats without shepherd?
Were sacrifices left for the goat, bull, crab or leopard?
Battened down hatches as rains poured in the cube,
The square in the circle that Saturn had drew,
Eerie creaks, minor leaks, anxiety and the fear,
Prophesied, built as planned, as the waters drew near,
Talk to me, I am struggling O’ Lord,
Is this it? The message that cannot be ignored,
I was young when you embraced me,
When you showed me the wonders of the land and the sea,
I built you this house and filled it with Thee,
Will we make it?
The waves are appalling...
One Man knew where his place was with god, inundation, extirpation, traded hammer for rod.
A Great Bird of Paradise, was beckoning her call, swarms of bats and songbirds ahead of the squall.
Open the porthole; we are saving them all, as the ship sets loose as the giants did fall.
Drop the rope, do it now, so we can, plumb the depth,
She cried out;
“Where to live, who will rule and what shall be left?”
“O’ Noah!”
I’m now old, but will you embrace me?
I now know you’ve been there since the dawning of history,
We’re adrift, all is lost and their drowning in sea,
Nothing’s left, but the gig-an-to-machy,
The reigns of your horse are now pulling us free,
“Release all the doves for I know now that he is with me!”
“O’ Noah!”
They were young, when you embraced us,
You gave us your love and did what you must,
I have given my life, for all that was needed,
Serpent’s mount, where we stood, as the waters receded,
“O’ Lord! Oh…”
Jul 1, 2016
Jul 1, 2016 at 10:31 AM UTC
It's admiration, inundation
A secular or religious nation
A land of automation
Drowning in inflation
***********
And frustration
On each radio station
We claim dedication
But all we need is
Validation
Jun 1, 2015
Jun 1, 2015 at 1:49 PM UTC
Your perfect mouth forms
An inundation of sweet nothings
But your eyes don't echo the words
You hold my face like I mean something
But the reflections in your eyes show only
The ghosts of lovers past
Your body radiates beckoning warmth
I inhale your subtle scent
You're human
You're real
Every sense I possess tells me so
But as I reach for you
All I grasp is air
It slips between my fingers
And sends a chill through my body
Your electricity lingers in my lips, my fingertips, my breath
Raising goosebumps on my arms
Running a current along my spine
I yearn to again
Electrocute myself with your touch
I ache to feel your vitality
I long for a phantom
A man whose thoughts I will never again invade
I long for a memory
May 12, 2013
May 12, 2013 at 10:09 PM UTC
Facade.
hide the face that shows the state
don’t let it humiliate,
everyday put on the hidden facade
and pray to god,
that they don’t shout
and let it get all out,
i never forget the words they said
let my mind erupt until someones dead
i wonder if that’s their goal
to crush every soul
and the victims they seek
seem happy never leak
a cent of depression
warning viewer discretion
is advised
events resized
forget the scripts i read
follow me, i’ll lead
but if you agree to follow
you just drop down below
clear your own path
don’t sit and suffer their wrath
devastation
annililation
inundation
continuation
repitition
intermission
lost nation
misinterpretation
to conclude; i’m dead inside
from everytime they lied
selfdestruction
internal eruption…
- JacobDexterCoffey--
Nov 22, 2013
Nov 22, 2013 at 7:58 AM UTC
the edge of green,
egress — conscious permission
of some inundation or cataract
and the raucous facelessness
of passing figures. army melancholia
in situ — past greens of dread
and red, some blue of course (in
dapple of sunlight bordering
sublimities)
i submit to its silence and no longer
ponder its requisites. draped
by fog, helm of pines. the zigzag of
deliverance swindling the disposable
line of fast-paced time-hover.
there's no god here. only the
wind, the trellis surmising a component
of nothing and happening,
and all ephemera cycling across
seasons forever changing and their
obsolescence of ways to retain their
positions until air frizzles
no
longer
than a bated breath.
Nov 6, 2015
Nov 6, 2015 at 10:31 AM UTC
~
where’s the rain
to save the day?
the silo empty,
the barn no hay.
the only pouring
we have seen
is from the counter
down the street.
gin and beer and
old Jim Beam,
the bar is full,
but glass is empty.
our men are weeping,
children hungry!
these fields that yielded
harvest plenty
under sweat of
daddy's brow,
now they’ll try’n
take my home;
state moves in
to steal our peace,
won’t leave us ’lone,
till we’ve been fleeced.
send a draught to
quench our pain;
end this drought with
drenching rain!
this to you we pray...
*“pour from heaven’s door,
indulge us with an inundation;
from the bounty of your store
deluge us with a liquidation”*
oh, keeper of
these cloudless skies,
send sweet rain
to wet these eyes!
for the lost ones
in this town,
to save this family,
save this farm,
from heartless souls
who mean us harm.
i am just a poor boy
whose cup has all run dry
no where else to turn,
nothing left to try.
flow in torrents,
pour in sheets,
send libations,
bring relief;
send the rain to
flood the street.
oh master of
the ocean deep,
pour your liquid,
pour your gold,
a’fore our children
grow too old.
no more saving
for some rainy day,
this to you we pray...
*“pour from heaven’s door,
indulge us with an inundation;
with bounty from your store
deluge us with a liquidation”*
~
*post script
the Western US is experiencing a four-year drought of
epic proportions and with water in such short supply,
family farms are burning up in the heat
with grave consequences looming large
on the not-so-distant horizon.
we witnessed this arid devestation
first hand a week ago traveling through
North and Central California, and
felt in just the tiniest way the crush
of water shortages at all her state
campgrounds. beautiful Shasta Lake
was dry except for a small stream
running through the lake bed...
how very sad; she is not the California
i remember in our last visit.*
Oct 22, 2015
Oct 22, 2015 at 12:19 AM UTC
I have not tried to see
Through the eyes of a refugee
I am aware of them
Here and there
And in between
But I have not seen
Through their eyes
I have not measured
I have not weighed
The worlds they leave
Nor the worlds they imagine
Across the sea
I know one of them
Through a friend
When her journey ended
She said she started off
In a wave
Of many hopeful souls
She has now arrived
In her new world
Has a husband
And a child
And a house
And a new tongue to talk in
Though introduced
We never met
Her wounded way
From there to here
Was flooded in tears
An inundation
An escape
An emigration
Of desperation
Manipulation
By a gauntlet of men
A bartering of copulation
Then,
Immigration
“The rest died
Only I survived”
She said
Sean Hunt Jan 2 2017
Jan 2, 2017
Jan 2, 2017 at 4:01 PM UTC
the wind that once
ripped root and rock from bare earth
has settled to a gentle whisper
the waves that once
crashed down upon my tiny island
threatening my world with inundation
are now a placid pale blue mirror
finally a spare moment to think
finally enough room to breathe
i can't help but wonder
is the storm finally over
or am I only in the center?
Jun 8, 2016
Jun 8, 2016 at 4:47 PM UTC