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Pauline Morris Apr 2016
There's a typhoon a monsoon
Of catastrophic misery, agony, and doom
The pain keeps raining down
In my sorrow I will surely drown
An ocean of emotion and I can't swim
My soul's light is growing dim
The sky just keeps bleeding
My tolerance it's exceeding
In this inky blackness I am sinking
My soul keeps on shrinking
From this psychalgia there is no exception
There is no redemption
In this anguish
Is where I'll languish
In this tribulation I will suffer
There is no hope I will ever recover
In this desolation I will moan and wail
This despair is my last coffin nail
drowned the Earth suddenly.

  underneath honest light,
                                  all
   submerged. this cataract of feeling —
waters pursue beginnings. cradling them
to unknown ends, washed by the shore.
        gluttonously the night swallowed
all — parliament of birds warble no longer.
             midnight, the   Moon
claws the supple skin of organized stone
  displaced
               where all the edges bloom
forth torrid froth of dappled light which kills no less than a brief life of matchflame. tenuous spar of wind on
the unserious twilight; bulge of death
in the stream — a body haul, rafting
  in compost; stench of all topple like
resins held loose in vats. rat **** becomes
           as inviting as moulding bread;
tantric music for no instrument, hoarse
cries unbeheld —

            until the flesh no longer flounders
pressed against sleep-shaped youngness
hewn lissome in the hours of no succor,

       modeling silence in the thrill of
this enthusiastic space,
           hands scouring muddied
  obscure, atremble,
      shadowless hours fill stomachs with
the plump word of rescue yet none
  of these fingers unwished the
ingenuity of dull gods — this twilight
  nor twinight could ever grive
in forethought, striking bells to signal birds
         to arrive again so we could feast
in  silver  fish, with bare hands scaled to callouses,
    
      looking at it twice-over, this battered yolk
of whiteness, with deeds of the viridian
   now atrill in new fragile woodworks

       lurching and
         ameliorating as we all
    stutter and sing
       haunts dabbing open
  lips of small wounds that
   wish to shut quietly,   almost
every threat of gray     or pummel of
   wind startles the flyblown ornate,
  
   hurrying us back to cornerless homes
where all photographs washed away,
    very few hang
               swayed by verdure
  of the gradual throne of sea
        curving perpetually the several stars
we have ignored for a while,
     where everything quite begins
    again to enthrall with a melodic
  leitmotif of the most tender of
       instances loose
            in mouths
                 and in endless recall
                  
                                               breathless—
For Tacloban, the derelict of Typhoon Yolanda.

2 years ago, typhoon Haiyan pummeled and ravished the Philippines, leaving Tacloban in complete disarray.
jennee Oct 2015
The wind howls to the craters of the moon, wondering if its lack of breath is another respiratory disease waiting to happen
As bodies crash into the ocean and casualties increase by every bottled up sensibility
The cracks of cardboard doors fill up the voids of emptiness,
Emptiness of washed up filth and five days worth of street toxic meant for the guts too vacant to feel
Their doors quiver to every knock and exhale, families too hungry, awaiting to devour assurance of safety
Just this once, they are asking for a little more
Than numbered days of handfuls of rice and rock salt, enough to feed the mouths of eight
Teeth clicking to every bite, bones clashing together to prolong the food not more than a mouthful
However this time the clicking doesn’t stop
It intensifies as street light poles plummet into windows and shards are washed away, seeping through soaked doors
They are told to leave these places without titles but this unnamed land is their entitlement and home
Their mother whose tongue is a symphony of lullabies remains silent, hoping for the storm to pass
Lips swollen from biting, she looks at her children with fear in her eyes, tears reflecting the shattered bulb that hangs by the kitchen ceiling
She links her arms to her children’s, grips their skin tightly hoping to warm their shivering exterior while whispering the words “they’ll come for us”

Time elapses and the water rises, their properties enveloped by the disease
Their house disappears along with it, in a downward current of pitch black and rotten forestry
What is left is a family of seven, arms linked and accompanied by the howling wind,
Slowly diminishing with its lack of breath, becoming a nationwide debris

n.j.
https://perennialink.wordpress.com/2015/10/18/cardboard-doors-typhoon-koppu/
R Oct 2015
the wind blows like
there is a tremendous fire
it has to put out and it is afraid
not to give its very best

but the problem with the wind
is it doesn't see anything else
except for that raging fire
blindly damaging everything around it

now when I walk the streets I see the wreck
the fallen branches and the leaves
and the uprooted trees that
the furious wind left in its wake

sometimes, people are like the wind
and you are the burning fire
everything around you might vanish
but you will still be there, raging on.*

I hope you will still be there.
Let the wind fuel the fire within you.
be strong. #LandoPH
Earl Jane Jul 2015

                                                If you are a tree,

Bombarded by extreme winds,


                                            In the amidst of a typhoon,


                                                      ­                     I'll sacrifice to be your roots,
                                                          ­       To diminish your agony,



OH, I cannot manage seeing you suffer!

                             In carrying on in a big tragedy,
                                                        ­       With utmost throe alone ,





Let me be torn and broken into fragments,
                 And be cut in combating and holding for you,




That's how much I love and care,

                                          I wish you only knew...



                       © Earl Jane
                         ♥ E.J.C.S.
maggie W Aug 2015
How many is a few? According to an online forum, it means 2-3 .So here I go
Typhoon hits Taiwan today, so I can’t go anywhere but stay at home all day reading and watching movie (Wild Tales). I think should start reading Swann’s Way again. I was quite interested in Proust in my junior year, cause one time my ex said something I called ‘words of wisdom’ ,which echoed with Proust’s words about sleeping. Maybe they are completely unrelated, but while reading Proust I was unconsciously analyzing the reading in Proust’s way: comparing someone I know in real life with the characters in the book; or maybe I was just putting on airs by showing that I know the (far-fetched) relation between what ******* my ex said and Proust’s words… The wind is getting stronger and stronger now and I am wondering where you are. On this lame typhoon day I’m suffocated by the boredom and humidity. I call it poetic nothingness.
sorry not a poem.It's a series of my diaries when Josh tole me he'd"be out of touch for a few days"
Maybe
The falter of her step
Will trigger a
Mini tsunami.
But
There still is
The sound of gravel hitting stone
And
Brick upon brick;
Reconstruction
means
Beautiful noise, too.

She'll cause the world to
Stop and stare
Either way.
I feel so powerless as the news relays its latest story
Of a vicious storm revolving the area you're in
I wish you'd appear on the television,
So I could reach out my arm and drag you to where I am

The storm's been flooding streets and delaying travel
And soon might be wrecking homes and crushing lives
I'm so afraid of you being taken away
It'd **** me to see my beacon lose its light
I just want you to be safe out there. This is also a follow-up to 'Namesake'.
Anna Vigue Nov 2013
wind lashing
rain pouring
typhoon here with
little warning
heaven opens
up it's eye
houses torn
people die
earthquakes rupture
torn apart
family's mourning
breaking hearts
natures wrath
against mankind
lashing out
a monster sky
global warming
oceans death
oh what a world
oh what a mess
As extreme weather hits, I take time to reflect upon my impact on this world, and what I can do to help future generations survive.
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