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Dante Rocío Aug 25
Él,
Que se lo cruza, que se lo llama,
del mar que viene pero él
que se queda,
y forma todas las playas
de verdades, turbulencias,
¡que sólo los barcos de dignidad
alcáncenlo, ellas!

Yes, surely I am deplored by
the beauty of destructions’ marking, holding dear
what’s longingly perverted
through the lost.
Ravens’ repulsing cries
are the needed on the shores,
not just on the autumn,
the rotting of the sea tales
their voices hold,
the selection of exquisite
that my preference twisted wants.
And so much else I daze over,
that overlay of the Emerald Land’s
waves and beats that
my distant to the south shore pleads,
that jade,
that shock,
that valiancy of the Scots
which in our sands
and crashing skies
should be,
lusts
to be.

The awaiting
for that dripping glory
in a mellowed casing of a wrecking ship,
it’s in a waiting room
made from a lone standing rock
that carries myths and ventures
to fulfill,
the Young Verter’s
everlasting,
tinting
moment.

Show up on our silver days
at the bays,
El Acantilado,
del Norte, caro,
The Cliff, The Cliff,
Ese Acantilado!
Presenting the longing yet sensing a fulfilment
At a sanded scorched but finally in the mist beach
Where I started calling for the British shores
To come to us,
To fill the southern water lands
With a valiant storytelling, storms and grandiosity
Ours seem to have not in calm relax.
Envisioning it.
island poet Jul 10
morning first poem: tropical storm coming north

two days of rain, with a first appetizer of
***** white clouds falling to earth where
renamed, fog, a wonderful guttural word

fog

a curse, a wonder, a summary, an exclamation,
later the rain and the wind will visit to remind
us who’s the boss, if the  blackout whiteness
was insufficient to mind mortals ro their proper
places, basements, closets, and  under the  covers,
thinking of Dorothy, visiting Oz, going home to that imaginary,
wherever it really be, if there is such a place

the avians coat the lawn, camouflaged in brown grass,
and climb the house as an animals-only observation deck,
a big buffet breakfast ordered, (possible delays for a civilized
lunch and a roast beef sup) in anticipation of the change in
atmospheric pressure, which is far more accurate than
the goofy looking weatherman on channel 61, who announces
disasters approaches with exactly the same unwavering, unnatural
damnastic enthusiasm as a gorgeous July Fourth weekend

and here I am watching, observing, thinking
maybe I’ll move the chairs and umbrella into
the garage, you know, be responsible for once,
instead of a lazy whatever pretend poet writer,
but the coffee is warm and fulfilling, the music
randomly licking, hitting my mental G spot,
this creamy easy poesy coming so pleasy so
being responsible just too damnistic boring,
and why start now?

Robert F. and Walt W. wave by, on their way to someone
better, it’s ok, they gave me the old college try,
and the ground is more fertile up North and
tropical storms are not of much interest when
the world is burning itself up and history is
being revised by rose colored glasses to make us forget,
if we clean up ancestral blackness evility incivility

then Jude Johnstone one of America's finest
songwriters sings her Wounded Heart, and I
hear it solo on piano, hear it break my heart,

”Wounded heart I cannot save,
You from yourself.
Though I wanted to be brave,
It never helps.
Cause your trouble's like a flood,
Raging through your veins.
No amount of loves enough
To end the pain.
Tenderness and time can heal,
A right gone wrong.
But the anger that you feel,
Goes on and on.
And it's not enough to know,
That I love you so.
So, I take my heart and go,
For I've had my fill.
If you listen you can hear,
The angels wings.
Up above our heads so near,
They are hovering.
Waiting to reach out for love,
When it falls apart.
When it cannot rise above
A wounded heart.
When it cannot rise above
A wounded heart...”

~
and now a tropical storm seems like no big deal,
and maybe someday
I’ll write so sad n’ soft, good
and
be at last
heart-satisfied,
no longer afraid of the tropical storms
that live within...
ahead, red eyes glare through the dark
as overhead, bulbs burn brighter than any star.
great wheels roll and rumble, beneath and behind
and the rattle and scrape of a hundred gears pulses away,
relentless; unaware and unmoved
by your restless writhing.

behind your eyes, that broken mind
and bleeding heart beat on and on
in stubborn time with some pretense of strength,
but that's gone too, you fear.

outside, the frozen tundra sifts
from white, to blue, to grey,
until the austere sky reflects
and swallows whole its solid self,
leaving wisps of winter dancing in its wake.

how long now til familiarity fades
and you might breathe some novel air and smile
at the shapes and sounds of things you've never seen?
those echoes everlasting might soon die,
if only you could feel some promise below your feet;
the world with all its weightlessness pushing back
from underneath.
How can I escape this whirlwind of monotony? How do I become a better person?
A squall is howling, bouncing off my tin roof
Amplifying drones throughout my corridors
In foul squall, I've walked twenty miles or more
Down diamond mountains to flooding sea plains
Where small stones are strewn liberally
Gray-blue waves settle as the ripple to shore
Below my ankles are numb with frigid pangs
But I don't resist the frigid, I invite it
raindrops tap on my bedroom window
i peer outside, my neighbor, a lonely widow
walks on the sidewalk with an umbrella at hand
i wish to see ocean, i wish to see sand
instead of this dreary neighborhood i live in
i wonder how my life would've been
if my family moved to California
or Florida, Carolina, Georgia...
warmth will envelope me in her embrace
i will never see the face
of New Jersey again.
I love New Jersey. It's where I live. But sometimes, moving South is a lingering thought.
How Long the Night
anonymous Middle English lyric, circa early 13th century AD
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

It is pleasant, indeed, while the summer lasts
with the mild pheasants' song ...
but now I feel the northern wind's blast—
its severe weather strong.
Alas! Alas! This night seems so long!
And I, because of my momentous wrong,
now grieve, mourn and fast.

Originally published by Measure

Original text:

Myrie it is while sumer
ylast with fugheles song.
Oc nu neheth windes blast
and weder strong. Ei, ei!
what this nicht is long.  And
ich with wel michel wrong
soregh and murne and
fast.

Keywords/Tags: Old English, Middle English, Medieval English, long night, lament, complaint, alas, summer, pleasant, winter, north wind, northern wind, severe weather, storm, bird, birds, birdsong, sin, crime, fast, fasting, repentance, dark night of the soul, sackcloth and ashes, regret, repentance, remonstrance
Mark Parker Feb 13
They say all is fair
    In the chase after the wind.
        As it blows to the North bringing frost
                Snow falls upon my love as war and lust
                                          become bed mates.
All is fair in love and war.
Sharon Talbot Dec 2019
Two men from the city are lost
In the northern woods,
on Christmas Eve.
Fear has not set in yet
and they wonder at
the paper-thin trees,
that seem painted on parchment
in the mist and moonlight.
One absorbs it in silence
while the other sings as he walks:
“Jul, jul strålande jul.”
"It's a Christmas song,"
he tells his companion,
who tries to shut him up.
How differently two people can react
to magic and moonlight,
to loneliness and mist.
One sings on in silence:
“***** över vita skogar,”
While the other’s head is filled
With numbers and plans
and dreams of saving of the world!
But little does the singer know
how much the redeemer wants
to know that streaming light,
that unfettered joy.
That comes with a struggle,
Not just to survive,
But to right the world for all.
Inspired by an episode ("404 Lost") of the program, Mr. Robot, in which two cyber-activists are lost in the snowy, moonlit woods of Upstate NY. The images of the forest and the two (actually 3) men walking in the moonlight was riveting!
Druzzayne Rika Nov 2019
Venture to the north
The peace in the east
The land in pieces
Going to small places
The pink and blue town
huge marvelous palaces
On foot for days
The sand and mud stays
at the back of shoes
The path left ahead is beautiful
But am I ready to face the shine
Where to draw the fine line
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