"blust" poems
Snowflakes hum inside my head,
bumping to and fro.
Stinging sky meets soggy ground and nothing seems to stick.
Each flake is different, so I'm told--
each unknowable and cold, they vanish when you try to grasp them--
fleeting, fragile wisps.
I've spun no story strong enough
to stake my ship upon.
My tears dry up before they're spilled for little lasts for long.
Blankets white I find here not--
that, nor green-clad earth--
only harried solitude inside these biting mists.
Perhaps my blust'ring mind is not
leading me to tread my sought-for courses; I fear I've forgot them
yearning for the drifts.
But elsewhere 'neath the firmament, there are other skies.
There are other thoughts in other hearts apart from mine.
From over where the snow falls
and beneath the bedrock's roots
flames unflinching flicker still through height and depth and width.
Mar 1, 2021
Mar 1, 2021 at 12:25 PM UTC
We were walking in the park
I got scared it was starting to get dark
Anyways he touched my cheek
And got on his knees
All I could think is ''Thank God this is happening''
He gave his speech, I didn't say a word
I just gave him the longest kiss
He aimed the gun and didn't miss
You know what? I'm happy with blust
On the big day I walked down the isle
Daddy held my hand... And kissed me on my cheek
I saw him in the front line
He smiled, as his tear dropped
I swear my heart stopped
My mother didn't do my hair
Or pick out my dress
She just wasn't there to see where I was
And how far I came
To see me change my last name
To see my pull up my vale
Dec 6, 2016
Dec 6, 2016 at 4:21 AM UTC
Reality ceases to be
Reality,
This flesh and blood,
The rough of the splintering wood
Beneath the cheap crumbling paint
Of a number two pencil.
Reality ceases to be
The softness,
Too soft,
Of this grey jacket
With the fuzzy innards.
It ceases to be
The leathery feel
Of my blackened wrist-band
For my banged-up wrist-watch,
The smooth hard of the
Desk upon which I oft
Have laid my head.
It ceases to be
The cold of the blust'ry wind
Howling 'cross the trees,
The dark, damp, dismal grey
O'th clouds that crest our sky.
It ceases to be
All that I can see
Nigh on all I can hear,
For in this half-dreaméd state
In which I wake,
The intermittent sounds of life
Pertrueb upon the louder music
That permeates my dreams.
It remains solely
That which I can feel
Yet I feel numb,
Alone,
Cold and deadnéd as I ride
This night of death
Throughout the day,
Touch alone
The sense that grounds me,
Makes me see, if you will,
The great golden good
Of this here wood,
And by a wood to say
A world.
Oct 5, 2015
Oct 5, 2015 at 2:22 PM UTC