"buffeting" poems
O sweet spontaneous
earth how often have
the
doting
fingers of
prurient philosophers pinched
and
poked
thee
,has the naughty thumb
of science prodded
thy
beauty .how
often have religions taken
thee upon their scraggy knees
squeezing and
buffeting thee that thou mightest conceive
gods
(but
true
to the incomparable
couch of death thy
rhythmic
lover
thou answerest
them only with
spring)
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I’m strong, I can stand
against the buffeting winds
that try push me down.
(I’m weak, too easy I fall,
giving in to the pressure
that mounts from within.)
In the face of your discrimination,
I’m courageous
(I fear your abuse)
Yes, I am strong.
Though my gnarled hands
bend with age,
my roots…
(break, there is no
vigor left in me)
Sighing...my mind twists
that which should grow
into a solid foundation,
turning it into
(groans of pain,
mental anguish.
Weakness takes over)
A tired thought dances
through dim light,
bringing some joy
into the
(bleak. All I see are
shadows. Mocking shadows.)
Once I believed I had it,
an inner strength to deal
with anything.
(Like a mirage, my spirit
couldn’t grasp what it needed.)
Now I envision…
no, I see what I truly am.
My hands are wringing,
I’m cold...so cold.
I am
not
strong.
May 22, 2014
May 22, 2014 at 12:45 PM UTC
We'd found an old Boche dug-out, and he knew,
And gave us hell, for shell on frantic shell
Hammered on top, but never quite burst through.
Rain, guttering down in waterfalls of slime,
Kept slush waist-high and rising hour by hour,
And choked the steps too thick with clay to climb.
What murk of air remained stank old, and sour
With fumes of whizz-bangs, and the smell of men
Who'd lived there years, and left their curse in the den,
If not their corpses...
There we herded from the blast
Of whizz-bangs, but one found our door at last,
Buffeting eyes and breath, snuffing the candles,
And thud! flump! thud! down the steep steps came thumping
And sploshing in the flood, deluging muck -
The sentry's body; then his rifle, handles
Of old Boche bombs, and mud in ruck on ruck.
We dredged him up, for killed, until he whined
'O sir, my eyes - I'm blind, - I'm blind, I'm blind!'
Coaxing, I held a flame against his lids
And said if he could see the least blurred light
He was not blind; in time he'd get all right.
'I can't' he sobbed. Eyeballs, huge-bulged like squids',
Watch my dreams still; but I forgot him there
In posting Next for duty, and sending a scout
To beg a stretcher somewhere, and flound'ring about
To other posts under the shrieking air.
* * *
Those other wretches, how they bled and spewed,
And one who would have drowned himself for good, -
I try not to remember these things now.
Let dread hark back for one word only: how
Half-listening to that sentry's moans and jumps,
And the wild chattering of his broken teeth,
Renewed most horribly whenever crumps
Pummelled the roof and slogged the air beneath, -
Through the dense din, I say, we heard him shout
'I see your lights!' But ours had long died out.
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*this poem didn't come easy. written amidst buffeting emo's, V will not be natural flow, probably flawed. You, self-chosen people, will come along, please, to see the process, and the proceeds too.
But as usual, the poem was write before me, needing only human kindness overflowing to guide the way.*
V
V words lord, excluding all others,
phonetic juggernauts,
never met a V word
that had no personality.
victory is the one word that
my/our brains
think of first.
sure there is vortex, victuals, veer
and valor exam,
the latter,
what ever it means is a gift,
curtsy-courtesy of auto-incorrect.
but it is victory
on top,
victorious in its own way.
try it on another if you must...
what is the word that starts with a V
that first comes to mind?*
so let us talk of victories.
so oft, I write in the dark,
even as I do now.
came home soul weary,
face worn-worry,
gotta go out to meet
Peter Bogdanovich later,
to chat about his latest movie.
woman looks me over.
X-ray glance,
an MRI of my heart,
no deductible charged,
but oh yes, a co-pay due, indeed!
Peter will keep,
tonight you're-mine,
to bed I send,
right after we consume
Large Thin Mush,
cause pizza with shrooms contains
mood serotonins,
that erase the
"pain of the day"
that be a victory nonpareil.
a Waterloo, a Normandy landing,
that be a victory where
both sides hug and kiss,
and make with their long,
stubby Churchillian fingers,
V's all night long
with goofy grins,
cigars and bowler hats,
just to go along.
so here I am in the dark,
having been "put" to bed,
one mo' time,
slicing and dicing letters
into a word-salade,
instead of resting.
dreaming of the day
when I can no longer need to
pretend to be a Seuss, but truly,
can be writing poems for all my
children~friends.
one for each letter
of the alphabet,
teaching us to write
upon our faces
laugh lines thin and fine,
mine, ours, yours.
product of pizza poems,
some that come not circular,
but tonite shaped
just like a woman,
just like a
V.
Nov 7, 2013
Nov 7, 2013 at 8:34 PM UTC
I tell my secret? No indeed, not I:
Perhaps some day, who knows?
But not to-day; it froze, and blows, and snows,
And you're too curious: fie!
You want to hear it? well:
Only, my secret's mine, and I won't tell.
Or, after all, perhaps there's none:
Suppose there is no secret after all,
But only just my fun.
To-day's a nipping day, a biting day;
In which one wants a shawl,
A veil, a cloak, and other wraps:
I cannot ope to every one who taps,
And let the draughts come whistling through my hall;
Come bounding and surrounding me,
Come buffeting, astounding me,
Nipping and clipping through my wraps and all.
I wear my mask for warmth: who ever shows
His nose to Russian snows
To be pecked at by every wind that blows?
You would not peck? I thank you for good-will,
Believe, but leave that truth untested still.
Spring's an expansive time: yet I don't trust
March with its peck of dust,
Nor April with its rainbow-crowned brief showers,
Nor even May, whose flowers
One frost may wither through the sunless hours.
Perhaps some languid summer day,
When drowsy birds sing less and less,
And golden fruit is ripening to excess,
If there's not too much sun nor too much cloud,
And the warm wind is neither still nor loud,
Perhaps my secret I may say,
Or you may guess.
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See the colours moving, watch them taking shape
Translucent green against florescent yellow, peeling away to red and then back again.
Imagination takes it's toll where comprehension comes unglued and realism takes passenger on our journey down and into the unknown
Linking arms and taking the plunge. Delving further then our fore-fathers ever dared to enter
A prisoner of your own mind -- Lost in oblivion
Thoughts dribble into nonsense and mind transferal begins...
Quiet like a shelter but buffeting as a torrent of emotion, colour and sound; raging like tides but fragile as candles light
The mind flickers with life but is lost in the breeze, leaving only a trail of smoke to follow...
Higher they climb until they're swallowed up by the sky and they learn to glow outwardly for all to see
Only then they may come down
"...and have a hangover"
Sep 22, 2012
Sep 22, 2012 at 5:21 PM UTC
If one word was to define who you were -
Not what you were like or how you come across -
But what and who you are,
I would strive for sincerity.
Capturing the nuance of being counter-cultural
(stark against the world we live in);
Honest to the point of perfect precision in what I say and mean;
Genuine in openness and lacking deceit;
Firm and unmoving against the tide;
Secure in the validity of that on which I stand;
Disciplined for integrity and truth;
Heartfelt and reliable (despite frequent shortcomings);
Prepared not only to go the distance but to run it,
To invest and care through thick and thin,
Not to forgo earnest in the buffering and buffeting;
Wholeheartedly honourable, the man others would wish to be;
Virtuous and steadfast in quality and character,
A rock to hold onto, a solid foundation,
A dedication to being authentic and true.
No false wax to the visage you see,
An artistic and inhuman ideal.
-
Sincerity has been under attack, besieged as an unachievable goal
In a world focused on the self - to be selfless seems foolishness.
Attention in this life lasts the sum amount of difficulties;
We flee from the floodplains when the river comes
Rather than endure and be refined by rich streams.
Sincerity does not crumble under commitment,
Nor erode in the face of effort:
Prepared to invest, forgoing instant gratification,
Persevering under pressure whilst all else fades.
It does not shrink from the fight but turns its cheek,
It forgives the slight and suffers for the lost,
It carries the cross for the rejected and the weak,
It sacrifices all it has at great personal cost,
It stands up to scrutiny when it stands for truth,
It lives and dies in unfathomable love.
Dec 30, 2016
Dec 30, 2016 at 3:16 PM UTC
Shadowed moments,
A rush of after bubbles
Whisper-weep a name
Leg wrapped warmth;
Tied down in pearls,
Burning me in the curl
Of satin sheets and tumbled pillows,
And I am stripped bare, across the cradle of dreams
Captured by pulsating fingertips
Fire-staining my thighs...
Shimmering diamond cascades of gentle stir
Fire-Wrap the mist of soft braille
Etching the moan of whispered yearn
Touch-tasting my moon kissed nape;
And I sway to the music of buffeting winds
My hips enticing, enveloping, ensnaring rigid muscle,
Lifting the hem
For teasing fingertips, searing drenched skin, and
Brazen ache meets incessant hunger...
Skin ravaged, blood pulsing...
His breath a rushing kiss between my legs
Piercing my darkness with his heat,
And licks, sweet, the tenderness I open;
This red haze of dry hours
Bathing my skin,
Sheathed behind smiles in dark corners of his eyes,
Unlaboured lust entwines trembling lips
Limbs awakening to thirst for honeyed-sin
My sigh drapes the curvature of his milky sway
Desire's swallow drowns my satin burn...
The immortality of our kiss
Etched in the warmth of garnet's gleam
Lingering upon the smoothness of softly wet;
The fragile lace binds my body, risen from rows of indigo roses,
Sequestered,
Shuttered, its heat like a leash in his palm, wrapped,
Effortlessly;
Surrendering to nuance and caress
Heartbeats
Flailing the drum-skin;
His reaching arms hold me down...
Heartbeat slowing
From the thunder of our storm,
Along my body, his braille
In gooseflesh fabrics and amber
Tambourines of skin seep,
Bind me in deepest velvet, resonating bliss...
A refuge where I curl in trembled release
Buried in purrs
Stained in screams;
Unforgettable moments
Melted in the whimper of love's breath..............
Aug 16, 2012
Aug 16, 2012 at 7:49 PM UTC
*Laughing,
Slow dancing
In bedrooms*
Problems drain away
Like kettle- water down the sink
From our last cups of tea
The smell on your neck
Our jokes and gestures
Like rituals
Teases of where, one day
We might end up.
We could be, on the sea
With the breeze buffeting our faces,
Making violent sails on blue-grey skies
There, you'd stand -
A silhouette on the deck
[Salt-wood & peeling paint]
- Absent minded.
Not understanding
How much
These moments
mean
to me.
Out on the sea
There's nothing but us
Laughing,
Slow dancing
Feb 23, 2013
Feb 23, 2013 at 7:54 PM UTC
It's the smell of a mild summer evening. The grass, an occasional bloom mixed with overheated lawnmower and gasoline undertones. It's simplicity and classic rock love songs; U2's The Sweetest Thing. It is complete satisfaction overall, with a pang of uncertainty niggling at that fact. It's when the windows are rolled down with the wind blowing in your face, buffeting your hair. It's the sun shining through the trees--blinking and flashing like a strobe light. Hurts your eyes. Look away. Headache.
It's hearing beautiful things as if underwater. It's having a great idea but no means When you want to say something, but don't have the words. It's you. It is all of you and thank you.
Jun 23, 2013
Jun 23, 2013 at 5:28 PM UTC
we're gliding through the clouds
we're enjoying the in flight movie
we're talking to our fellow passengers
all is good at twenty five thousand feet
we're all comfortable in our seats
the pilot makes an announcement on the intercom
he alerts us that the flight is going to experience turbulence
the air hostesses reassure everyone
that the pilot has been on many a turbulent run
suddenly the plane drops down some several hundred feet
a fair bit of buffeting is happening
passengers hold on tight to sides of their chairs
a tad of wind shear is in the air
some start praying for the turbulence to subside
as they aren't having a stereo-typical smooth ride
the plane lurches and dips
in a pocket of thick air
it is rather disconcerting
dropping and flopping so high in the air
some ten minutes later the pilot again speaks
saying that the turbulence
is at end
so when next you're on a jet plane
don't forget
fasten your seat belts it's going to be a bumpy ride
Apr 23, 2013
Apr 23, 2013 at 11:16 PM UTC
You have to hold it up to the light
To see her darkened soul
She was born into the night
When the spirits were forced to let her go
Releasing her from the delusional 'utopia'
She had always known as home
Throwing her, stumbling into the blackness of the universe
Through the gauntlet of buffeting blades
Which tosses her back into her past
From which she has tried so hard to hide
If the truth were ever known
She'd hide it in the crevices of lies
Lies and half truths she has woven into
Thick veils and walls which block out the world
Like her hair does, hiding her eyes
Which brim over with tears daily Leaving pock marks in the path she's taken
Like a season of acid rain
Unforgiveness to her is another saying
She hears time and time again
Like a backhanded slap
Each time stings, but with repetition
She numbs to the pain
Cold as ice from her fingertips in
Creeping in towards her heart,
Surrounding it in a protective ice cage
Until some hopeful soul comes along,
Trying to warm her fingertips again
Oct 6, 2013
Oct 6, 2013 at 9:04 AM UTC
always throw caution to the wind
for a life well lived, for I did not, and lived a life well-lied
always throw caution to the wind
our life in this realm is short-lived, no bigger than
the size and brevity of our divine sparks existence
always throw caution to the wind
long winters and short summers recalled on paper,
have you not realized that mere gods worship immortal men,
our gloried markers, our stories, our ephemeral skin - forever
always throw caution to the wind
jump in after it, the winds course is a buffeting, head knock heading,
breeze, gust, gale and storm, a recovery chance of chances, a tourney
where the thrill of the unpredictable toss is not a simple head or tails,
but a slot machine of innumerable outcomes randomly optimized
always throw caution to the wind
the life irregular is the normative, the outcomes always positive,
this is the only thought that should ever provoke -
be wild but not crazy, think clearly and dare define safety
on your own terms, your own odds calculating, sew your own net,,
pick your wind and as a parent, always dress appropriately
for I am still crazy after all these years
Apr 26, 2019
Apr 26, 2019 at 3:30 PM UTC
A Demon was buffeting a woman,
this went on for many years;
She tried and tried to rebuke him,
through her multitude of tears.
-
He would constantly remind her,
of things that she'd done wrong;
Things of her days in the past,
it was like a really bad song.
-
Night after night,
and day after day;
He tortured her,
in so many ways.
-
She finally prayed to God,
to make the Demon stop;
But all God had to say was,
"Rebuking him's your job."
May 13, 2019
May 13, 2019 at 4:02 PM UTC
The night people seep away
Like water into soil
Neither noticed or followed by anyone
Road sweepers remove the night's detritus
Ready for the city's full awakening
When the rushing crowds shall emerge
Surging tides of humanity
Never speaking to each other
With heads down and hidden eyes
On their way to another day
Worker bees in skyscraper hives
Growing old and growing ulcers
Amidst the canyons Between these buildings
Leaning into the buffeting wind
Two young lovers are seen
Little more than children
Carrying their innocence between them
Hurrying away from here
This harsh and angry place
Believing only in each other and love
Leaving the metropolis behind
Their names are Hope and Joy
And this is no place for them
By Phil Roberts
Jul 23, 2021
Jul 23, 2021 at 9:11 AM UTC
Is there
Or isn't there
A storm coming?
Yes, oh yes, there most definitely is.
It's going to be vicious, and ugly
And angry, this storm.
Lashing will happen.
Winds will roar,
My head, throat and heart are sore,
Longing for
The release of this storm,
The one they've promised me,
The one that's guaranteed.
Outside, rain falls, but gently.
Where are the buffeting torrents,
The groaning, ghastly gales?
I feel cheated.
I was so ready
For pathetic fallacy.
Deliver, or be ****** forever,
Gods of weather.
Your guru's fail us,
Buffet and hail us.
They told us to batten down the hatches,
But I'm ready to fling the windows wide open
And welcome the chaos and the debris,
I'm ready!
Where are the flying branches?
I want and need terror,
But someone's made an error...
My storm is undelivered,
Consequently, so am I.
Oct 27, 2013
Oct 27, 2013 at 6:52 PM UTC
I ask myself often and loudly.Why does my expression come mostly with pain. And where does it come from time and again.
And what is the reason that joy brings no meaning
My words have more substance and insight and meaning.Pain is my midwife.
She delivers the soul of it.
The heart and the sinew the blood and bone of it. Why?.
Why is that so.
A smooth carriage inspires me not. Except for a moment or an odd inkling.
The stream seldom carries the twinkling.
The angst and the pain.
Confusion and grief.
Are my harsh school master.
With dower stare with
No sign of laughter.
Perhaps that is the tarrif.
The fare.
It gets me form here and it urges me there.
I think the price too high at times.
Too steep a hill to climb.
For the buffeting view.
The pound of flesh?
The devil's meal ?
Be that as it may.
I flip the cards. Cut the deck
And deal.
Jul 26, 2013
Jul 26, 2013 at 3:38 PM UTC
The road I travel has called me again.
Yet, that's not true, as the voice was never quiet.
It was only hidden away like a pair of shameful eyes.
Closed to the admonishments of a sadistic lover.
Yet always there bubbling, percolating, cajoling in a soothing voice.
Beckoning me with memories of freedom and the comforting drone of the road.
Reminders of rest areas swarmed with hopeful travelers with red eyes and creaking joints.
The vending machine stand stoically in a row like good soldiers standing at attention.
Windows open, air buffeting, my face is that of a child catching the new rays of spring.
Music blaring, singing along, my soul rising like a barometer as high pressure moves in.
Right lane driving, eyes gleaming, each passing car tells a story of hope and and unveiled inspiration.
Small towns passing, unrealized lives, I ache to know you. Yet our paths must remain distantly apart.
Night falls and the excitement only builds. The bulbs of light above are my guide. No map has their magnetic draw.
The scene changes as the road becomes deserted. My fellow journeyers are swimming or ordering room service.
My metal friend shall be my bed. This jug of water my frigid shower in the morning. Late night talk radio my lullaby song.
My thoughts are pure and calm as I curl up in the backseat. No fear or remorse that I've spurned all lovers. My needs are few and my heart is full.
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 1:17 PM UTC
I love my sneezes.
They render me helpless.
I totally surrender to
that nanosecond of
being blown apart.
A dandelion seed
wafting and riding
the buffeting breezes
and sneezes.
Oct 3, 2013
Oct 3, 2013 at 3:34 PM UTC
Those leaves were once green
When once I looked out that tall window
Those branches will be bare soon
Frost may cover those nine window panes
Snow may be piled precariously,
Holding its breath to stay atop top branch.
Time passes slowly here, words pelting
A tired mind. But wind stirs again
Wind buffets fall’s leaves, forced suicide.
I do believe I may not recall the proper
Amount of time, neither in time before
Or in time after. But wind stirs again.
Leaves stand still now, only stragglers
No awareness of leaves above or below
Torn and ravaged, missing their once
Cheerful red friends. Wind buffeting
Their small limbs and fragile veins.
No hope for them. But wind stirs again.
Those three days of warmth seem imagined
Was I dreaming when one night’s dusk
Brought us forty and below while the
Next day’s dawn ushered in the seventies?
With ups and downs winter and spring life
Cycle's nonsensical meaning. Mind stirs again.
Jul 25, 2011
Jul 25, 2011 at 3:50 PM UTC
In the evening, my city becomes
the duskiness of hazy wind
buffeting into the street lights
of busy highway
addressing love with spirits
of solitude.
©_shade_of_a_lonely_girl
May 7, 2019
May 7, 2019 at 9:10 AM UTC
A misty morning smitten by frolicking waves sang out.
Close stood we in the buffeting breezes.
To and fro our rapture flowed.
Standing. on naked feet
In sandy drift. Closer we stood.
The gulls lamented their soitary ways
Taken afar by arrogant breezes.
Aloft and far above.
Soaring,drifting asleep on woven wings.
Sing sweet lamted days gone long in stormy skies
Now ice and cloudless.
Close stood we. Buffeted by mighty chance the god of the restless
They questioned.
How long?
How strong?
Will weary time intervene. Among and between
And pul love apart. Brick by brick. Moment by memory.
For it's own sake.
Gentle hands gripped tightly
Hearts believing.
Eyes assuring.
Breathless
Scatterd mist lit on silent tears
Heads bowed to stay the course..
Forever said we.
Closer we stood.
Never ending.
Endless
Said we.
May 18, 2013
May 18, 2013 at 9:35 PM UTC
I stretched myself slowly upwards
That slender back
How did it happen
Skin
Covering everything
Sprawled out over the lawn
There is a body of moments
Confused buttercups
Embarrassed breeze buffeting our nature.
Mow us down you mother
Before I grow too long
May 8, 2014
May 8, 2014 at 6:21 PM UTC
My love is now a swamp
in the Poem Factory.
See, I've been keeping mean
on lack of sleep and ****
************ at yesterdays;
an old dog's tricks,
an old man's routine.
The lung of water is thick
with chemicals; still-water bleach.
I've been trying to clean up my act,
you see;
bend my back into a yoga pose
and question what it means to be free.
I haven't found the answer yet,
but it comes in the moments
I don't question it.
It comes in the wake
of a happenstance lyric;
some eloquence through anxiety.
My love is angry heat,
a mirage across the street.
See, desperation leaves a scent
and an aura of hopelessness;
my dreams of ***
lift up from my tea,
steam buffeting from me.
The pipeline swallowed air
in the Poem Factory,
solitude, the hopeful dream;
isolation, the reality.
Feb 27, 2015
Feb 27, 2015 at 4:41 PM UTC