"blustering" poems
White-furred hill flowers bow
Gust-bent,
Wet in April snow,
Lavender beneath their
Downy coats.
Tender soldiers of spring
Grasp wind-blown gravel steeps,
Stand to beckon brown grass,
Soft-call the life in sapless trees
To ring with green again
Against Old Bully Winter’s
Blustering.
Quaking aspens,
Earliest to leaf in yellow-green,
Curling grama grasses,
Tough food for buffalo,
Cannot boast first life each Montana spring;
Only zombie-lichens,
Rock-fast mosses
Throw off winter’s death
Before the crocus' rise.
On eastern Montana hills
No street-hemmed dandelions
Colonize in chute-dropped ranks;
No time-tamed tulips
Live on wind-round knolls.
Here, the yucca’s bayonet-sharp ******
Here, the wild onions’ scent-strong hold;
But these arrive after early chill,
Following the purple crocus on the hill.
Jan 4, 2012
Jan 4, 2012 at 8:36 AM UTC
She builds a nest, builds a home
Out of twine and twigs and love
Day and night, dawn and gloam,
She works in trees above.
All to prepare for her offspring
To give them the chance to fly
Only the best for her children
These are the words to her cry
A fortnight her eyes are skinned
She is sentinel over her eggs
Come storm, gale, blustering wind
Her treasures safe under her legs
At last she meets her brood
Hungry and unrefined
She tirelessly gathers food
Their lives now intertwined
She kisses the food into their beaks
She cares for their every need
She answers their every screak
To love, to tend, to feed.
She watches them grow new feathers,
And reach out to the beckoning sky
They want to see other weathers
So she teaches them how to fly
They soar higher and higher
She watches from below
It makes her smile and smile
To see her babies go
As they climb and tumble
She makes sure to let them know
They are always welcome to return
To the home built long ago
The love she gave her young ones
Gave them the strength to fly
The strength to build their own nests
High up in the sky.
Aug 17, 2018
Aug 17, 2018 at 7:09 PM UTC
A bag of potatoes and a baseball bat.
Is merely a sack of starchy vegetables and a sculpted metal stick.
But on this blustering evening a bag of potatoes and a baseball bat meant an infinity more than that.
In this fleeting moment, I felt solidarity with the fact that life doesn't make sense.
I looked at you in your adjacent flesh ridden essence and smiled at this opportunity to connect.
The bat clashing with the pock eyed potato skin.
Our existences colliding with ebb and flow of a maniac pulsation.
This is not merely a hackneyed show of baseball bat on a bag of potatoes.
This is a boy and a girl realizing that this ever sacred moment holds more gravity than merely a bag of potatoes and a baseball bat.
It's just that we can't conjure what makes it so rich and ever splendid... so thus it must be
rich and ever splendid as the potato is launched into flight igniting the curiously enraptured mind of boy and girl witnessing baseball bat on potato
Dec 17, 2016
Dec 17, 2016 at 2:28 AM UTC
Drifting like a feather in the wind,
Being carried here and there,
In love's windstorm, around I'm spun,
Just a prisoner of the air
Floating and tumbling in turbulence,
Once more being turned around,
At any time expecting love
To cruelly dash me to the ground
Dancing like a feather in the wind
With no solid ground to tread;
While floating over restless waves,
It's the cross current that I dread
A feather.... just floating.... in the wind,
How I fear the hurricane!
The raging winds of love's deceit
That would see my hopes and dreams slain
Twisting and turning, out of control,
Surrender the sole recourse;
Let the winds of love have their way,
Blustering with their awesome force!
Just a feather carried by the wind,
Sanity becomes a blur;
I rise, then I fall helplessly
While begging the wind not to stir!
Mar 23, 2017
Mar 23, 2017 at 12:58 PM UTC
the cosmos exudes from between our toes
trails of nebula and spiral arm galaxies
burden the floor with their scented residue
of caramel complexion on mint cream -
expectations fall to the wayside
as the wayside falls to expectations
trust in the infallible,
if the world ( is to me )
saved from the virtuous vindication's of a pacifier society
run to the nearest tree and sway with the blustering breeze !
for the cosmos exudes between our toes
trails of nebula and spiral arm galaxies litter the floor
tell me a tale of who i am ,
yet i know i have not felt myself in my fullness.
for i was born before the cosmos could take her first steps
or the sparkling sun stars could take their first light
i am neither the mountain nor the valley in depth
but within both i am sure to reside ~
out of my womb cascades a waterfall of pixie dust to the glee of several a man .
yet i always had wondered why none stuck around to hear from the well versed band.
I was quite sure the depths that i knew how to love
would create a whirlwind of sorts
enhanced by the glow of a dark purple blue rose , i’m not quite the type for rose quartz
to spend my love ***** nilly , a silly endeavor indeed
not all can handle the burn as i am
Light Sky ,
a fire filled sky ,
i am the sunrise dripping from the heavens in mellow tones of yellow and pink , i am the solar eclipse, sacred geometry in motion
and by association
i am the high tide moon shine get you drunk off one look sunset in the desert , dark purple blue rose kinda lady.
and you ,
my earth breeze , can whistle up a tune to jam with me , like no one would ever believe..
The cosmos that exudes between our toes
stacked layer upon layer
like a pancake tower
are the places we go to when the world
closes it’s eyes.
Mar 5, 2014
Mar 5, 2014 at 12:46 AM UTC
Betrayed
Belittled
Baking, burning between battles.
Blundering, blustering
Begging by bribing.
Bribing by begging.
Best?
Bottom.
Boastful, bragging baboon.
Bye.
Jun 17, 2010
Jun 17, 2010 at 9:15 AM UTC
Most late summer days fade into night holding a tepid dreariness in their breath, beating away with the tedium of the sun from late July through early September.
Yet ephemeral as it may be, the life of early summer is purely sanguine in the face of its oncoming age, as willowy saplings sway in the blustering breezes of June, and sprouts of vivid animation appear all around.
This is when the soul heals, and out of the mulch rises new beginnings and the ripening fruit of various works.
In this early season of summer, many taciturn inhabitants of the flourishing earth made their home, and among them, Lily: a creature of reticence and intricacy.
She burgeoned in attitude and character as days crept forward, extending her limbs upwards in an eternal paean to the heavens― as such was her sinecure and quiet delight.
In this, she stood insular to her ubiquitous family, an outsider to the sisters who flitted about carelessly on the wind, satiny gowns of pink and yellow billowing as they twirled.
Always invited into the fray, Lily was evermore stalwart in her choice to keep out of their plainly sordid affairs.
Yet in her isolation, the night whispered to her many a berceuse.
The sleepy stars implored of Lily’s indolent nature as she gazed into their eyes, trailing across eternity into peaceful slumber.
The night sky held wonders and questions that filled her paltry existence but placed her in stasis with the decorated heavens of her dying season,
Left to wither away with the insidious heat and vibrant splendor of late summer evenings.
Aug 11, 2018
Aug 11, 2018 at 2:45 PM UTC
precipitation's anticipation of change
diffused morning light
the mustiness of first rain
a misty visibility hiding distant hills
a graying of the cityscape
skyscrapers in clouds
construction's crane quieted
in the mix of old and new
a slow rush hour
washing the street's grime
a coolness to my eyes
a slight chill in my bones
Autumn colored leaves swaying with breeze
on half empty trees
slanted raindrops incessantly blustering
a beautiful day
where only seagulls dare to fly
eight peeping eyes with healing hands
too good to help her to the restroom
"I'll call a nurse"
they just poked in to take a peek
feel her leg's edema
and inform me of possibility's progress
a colonoscopy?
a transfusion?
time keeps asking for more time
morning meds
an IV
a blood draw
a blood test strip
another trip to the restroom
a kind older gentleman's help
he thought I was her father
it's raining hard again
gutters like rivers
storm drains splashing white water
more skyline has gone missing
umbrellas wrestling wind
raindrops rilling down a picture window
as afternoon sheds it's light
as I watch sleep's breaths
her hunger awakens and feistiness returns
"Don't they feed their patients here?"
they never told us to call food services
another blood pressure reading
another blood draw
another trip to the restroom
and it's all good
a colonoscopy evaluation
maybe Thursday or Friday...
looks like time got her wish
Oct 9, 2011
Oct 9, 2011 at 5:53 PM UTC
Everything is such fun in the beginning,
when it’s new and undiscovered.
i’ll try almost anything.
What is meant by almost?
All these stupid sick **** roles we play,
all this pretending, why?
i want to believe there’s something
behind the curtain
besides a windowless stone wall
Something inexplicable
his/her majesty of everything/
living/dead/never existed.
William Blake said, “Either be a poet or a painter.
Being both muddies audiences, and discredits one or the other.”
Actually, Blake didn’t say that. i am lost.
is it possible to love after what has happened?
the rage, hurt, disappointment of betrayal.
my ex still stalks
as recently as two mornings ago,
all her exaggerations, over-reactions, fury.
Why so desperate to return to crime scene?
An admission of her own guilt?
Excessive compulsive wound licking (psychogenic alopecia)?
Another excuse for getting drunk?
When we waited for the elevator going down
You said, “Let’s just get this over with.”
i understood completely.
i, who worships my own death.
i, who ****** on my own grave.
i, who gets bored faster than speed of light.
i, who suspects killing around every corner.
i, who sleeps restless.
i, who worries.
i, who loves women.
i, who does not understand women.
i, who is a woman.
i, who bangs the dude in L.A. to advance my career.
i, who is a nobody.
i, a man with no place to stand.
i, who belongs to a family of
blustering flirts, flatterers,
kidders, thieves.
We sit at the table,
monkey-wrenching hand over fist lives.
Forget about the eyes.
Watch the fingers.
Don’t listen to the speeches.
Words are intentional distractions.
Where’s your wallet?
Gypsies? No, we’re not gypsies,
more upper-crusty, yes, very well-connected secrets.
Do the names Dante, or Cervantes, or Nabokov mean anything to you?
No, none of them are our kin,
but we know people who know people,
infidelities in very high places.
All i’m saying is,
once you reach a certain level,
we’re all family.
i will make success happen,
with or without you.
Mar 10, 2013
Mar 10, 2013 at 12:23 PM UTC
A pair of stays to bind in fashion,
Stiff bodice lift those ample *******
French sophistication and ***** south,
Linen lines taken from the robin's nests.
Once seen in times known to all Baroque,
Steel cages more true to the name,
Renaissance blushed at the very sight,
This hidden and blustering shame.
Georgian era was always that late,
Yet women united to sheer the skin,
Frills and cuffs were the new bloom,
The dowdy apron given to the bin.
Victorian, Edwardian seen a rise of empire,
When romance boasts the whale bone done,
Now scattered in all weddings and burlesque,
Dear Corset is set in memory to run and run.
Jun 8, 2016
Jun 8, 2016 at 7:50 AM UTC
I saw you cowering under the umbrella;
rain dribbling down your pointed nose.
Were those real tears cascading over your lips?
Lips, too full and moist, disgusting lips...
Your long black coat flapping in the wind.
You crossed the street and almost tripped
I held my laughter back...into my vacuous throat.
I **** near laughed and dropped my limp marigolds.
I took the red trolley out to the rugged cliffs.
Caught in the ocean's wind; blinded by a twilight moon.
Blustering, as I think back on your pathetic plight.
Lost in the rain of smelly wet, wool coats at night.
Must I return to a Cornish rainstorm? Just...
to look for your guilty, gaunt face; wet with grief.
Then I will show the pain in my face...hidden.
Yes, I did leave your illness of mind in haste.
I see you running across the wet cliff's edge.
Running towards me as the ocean thunders below.
No, I whisper. A passionate kiss will not do. You wave.
Your face glowed. No! You turned and jumped,
Smashed and dead...was not the way to go...
Jun 30, 2010
Jun 30, 2010 at 6:35 AM UTC
I first saw the wheat in the morning,
smelled the wind blustering forth--
Wondered that it must taste like
that very morning, in what complex way crops do.
And when the bear-locusts eat them,
what they would say
if they bled pans of gold to romance their amber,
if only then
would they be jubilant
if only on their death beds!
"Don't admire the fields," says Agricoltore.
Why?
"Because they like--they don't change."
Aug 3, 2014
Aug 3, 2014 at 6:17 PM UTC
When I die,
bury me under a tree,
large and spreading,
so that I may give again to life
and be a home for breezes
and whatever birds
may please to make their home there.
Then climb the battlements
of my old and crumbling castle
in the air
and appreciate the spectacle
of a speck against infinity.
Go to my oak desk
and burn all love letters,
pure and singing though they are.
Let others learn love for themselves,
as I did. It is best.
Then celebrate, inebriate.
Divide up my possessions
and sell a few to buy fireworks that burn
brilliantly and fast.
Raid my cellar, eat, drink, make merry and enjoy,
for tomorrow is unknown.
And when the revelers stagger home,
remember only that I loved incandescently and enjoyed.
Yes, there were futile crusades, furious fusillades and
wild charges against the windmills,
but I did love. Yes, desperately.
That's all.
So goodbye, my friends. Don't grieve.
Please believe that
the gift of love and
this scatter of words
is all I want to leave behind.
See - they flutter from that great tree
that stands against the blustering sky
out there, beyond the mist,
along the pathway to
forever.
Oct 30, 2012
Oct 30, 2012 at 7:24 AM UTC
That Ghastly Star,
Leagues away stretched
Unique in sky, hovering etched.
Haze of gas
Infested by bacilli
Shrouded by countless specks.
Dull and Dying,
Consumed by time, hollowed by bore;
That blustering light shone no more.
Sep 26, 2014
Sep 26, 2014 at 1:07 PM UTC
Condensation left, the window blind
smudging with a bare hand
the panes allow sight, to
the restlessness of the trees
and the blustering leaves
rain forming puddles
Seeing him wave, from across
the street with, board in hand
smiling upwards, glancing
the butterflies kick and twist
"Meadow, Meadow.."
"Shush, I know, he's outside!"
Her little sister was always
part of, the games too
she knew their ma, would
never allow Meadow out
barely allowed, away from sight,
overprotective eyes
Cady patiently waited, beside
the park gate, as always
as he watched his girl, run
freedom and beauty in her
eyes, a manifestation of
the name she was graced with
Indigo jeans, bleeding
into the rain, as she splashes
through, puddles reflecting
her love, as he smiles with
bright eyes, embracing her
sweet sixteen kisses, connect
Racing through the field, kids
crazy in love, sketching names
into hollowed out trees,
drinking beer, sparking a
doobie, last nights skater
smoking session, come undone
Hours pass, dark skies blacken
street lights lead, a pathway
home, laughter echoes
she's to climb the tree, crawl
in through the window
slightly parted for her return
Great escapes, all well and good,
falling drunk and high, left
her misunderstood, no way
back in home, she calls
"Skylar, can you let me in!"
"Coming now.."
Their kiss lingered, Cady pulled
away, and waved looking back
as his skate board took him
back down the street, home
"You love him Meadow!"
"Skylar, I really do."
© Sia Jane
Feb 8, 2014
Feb 8, 2014 at 4:26 PM UTC
will some letters ever find their way to you?
impeccably yours from dawn to dusk
I bring forth the unlikely
with dreams cut cleverly from the cloth of space
and sprinkled with stardust stolen from god's lonely sky
it's a pity you can't stand my edgy fire
and I cherish this somewhat many sided love
like a mammal bright, a whale at karmic sea
harpooned and tried for strength and tested endless
how easily you flick the ashes of your blustering efforts
into the dustbin of my mind
begging this wild heartbeat to roost in your care
and for this restless pining to migrate to rest
eagerly pick my locks for the contradiction I am
to find your heart inside the confusion of this mainstay
Jan 4, 2014
Jan 4, 2014 at 11:43 AM UTC
On xanax, I want to
save the world. See it,
save it, savour the lady
who tells me it's 'jargon,'
the newspaper. It's 'jargon,'
all those books you don't
understand and thus return
to the library. 'Jargon, jargon.
All-right, fair enough, have a
good night.' A blustering, fat
-bodied strangeman, walks in,
talks of homeless hairies who
cut in front of him at McDonald's,
rudely assert their desperation
with greasy foreign hair basing
down the nape of their neck,
beseech the poor fat ******* to
his last-straw tossed toward a
health minister who won't 'speak
for himself' but has his secretary
'speak for him.' what the hell is
that? he asserts, face in a squeeze-
pause and a left-side lazy eye bowing offward, 'ridiculous, disgusting.'
'well, I hope you have a good
night, take care,
sir.'
May 3, 2014
May 3, 2014 at 11:18 PM UTC
When daybreak gilds the sky with rose
She wakens, her glad heart afire
Yearning in poems dreams to disclose.
Sighing she lays such dreams away
To give housecats their morning food,
Hoping to write another day.
And though the morning brief may be,
She helps her children with homeschool
Bridging lives for eternity.
Three miles trudging to stay all noon
Helping a crippled neighbor friend,
Then sighs to see the day die soon.
Homeward she steals 'neath setting rays.
On battered Steinway plays a hymn
Blending with softly gloaming dim.
She feeds the frightened strays so thin
Shiv'ring in blustering wind and cold,
Doleful as night comes howling in.
The clock strikes two, she falls asleep
Too weary to pen dying dreams,
Trusts someday glad harvest to reap.
~Hilda~
Dec 7, 2012
Dec 7, 2012 at 1:24 PM UTC
My soul rests within the
tranquility of the empty valley
I nestle in a beautiful space
a carved out place,
As I lie between
two proud mountains
Open to the sky
I make a restful sigh
As I enjoy this giant
emptiness
Blustering winds pass through
as the valleys edges are
brushed by busy grasses
And tickled by the
Sweeping clouds
While many cattle graze
a silent centre has a
grateful gaze
As eons pass the empty
center sits to watch seasons
spiral past.
With her rolling mountains
and rotating valley
she see her endless time
And drinks it slowly
Like a delicious wine
How I enjoy the sweet open valley
Jan 31, 2015
Jan 31, 2015 at 5:07 PM UTC
Sleepless nights when I was young,
fond times - I reminisce;
though many I cannot recall,
there is one I truly miss:
Midnight mass at the cathedral,
the echo of sung hymns;
growing restless in the pew,
as the candles all burned dim.
Still of the night - heavy silence,
white flake now falling swift;
plumes of smoke from chimneys,
and in windows stood trees lit.
Waiting in suspense - so eager,
in my bed under the sheets;
hearing the howl of a winter's gale
blustering against the eaves.
Old Saint Nick would soon arrive,
with his sleigh and sack of gifts;
bringing joy to all boys and girls,
and crossing names off His list.
But now I have aged and withered,
and so Christmas has lost its glow;
on its Eve I still remain awake,
and watch the falling snow.
Aug 31, 2020
Aug 31, 2020 at 10:45 AM UTC
#You were telling him about Buddha,
you were telling him about Mohammed in the same breath
You never mentioned one time the Man who came
and died a criminal’s death. [Bob Dylan: Precious Angel]
If Christ and His Gospel are offered you
you squirm—then dredge up the gods of the East.
Your act of avoidance is nothing new—
salvation proposed: evasion increased.
Waxing socialistic – as if on cue
your blustering is consistent, at least.
you brandish your anti-Christ point of view.
Descending like Darwin: angel to beast.
In Babylon’s gardens you disembark
to deconstruct Noah, the flood, the ark.
On Gilgamesh, Enkidu, in madness
you ramble—and it fills me with sadness.
There is one truth, undiscerned, unadored.
Be still. In silence, acknowledge your Lord.
Sep 9, 2015
Sep 9, 2015 at 9:15 PM UTC
If, whenever out, maybe driving about,
On encountering road-rage, never worry,
Claim that you are, Ronnie Pickering,
They should drive off, as if in a hurry.
Although, if they ask, Ronnie Pickering?
Looking bewildered, unsure who you are,
Do a convincing, Pickering impression,
An apoplectic beetroot escaping its jar.
Start ranting and raving, making threats,
No need to reveal, considered, justification,
Rage like a gargantuan, ignorant, imbecile,
Before storming off, in bitter frustration.
Remember, while out, always take care,
If encountering, squabbling or bickering,
If the people resemble blustering bullies,
One, could possibly be, Ronnie Pickering.
Oct 1, 2015
Oct 1, 2015 at 6:00 PM UTC
A pair of stays to bind in fashion,
Stiff bodice lift those ample *******
French sophistication and ***** south,
Linen lines taken from the robin's nests.
Once seen in times known to all Baroque,
Steel cages more true to the name,
Renaissance blushed at the very sight,
This hidden and blustering shame.
Georgian era was always that late,
Yet women united to sheer the skin,
Frills and cuffs were the new bloom,
The dowdy apron given to the bin.
Victorian, Edwardian seen a rise of empire,
When romance boasts the whale bone done,
Now scattered in all weddings and burlesque,
Dear Corset is set in memory to run and run.
Jul 12, 2016
Jul 12, 2016 at 9:18 AM UTC