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Yaser Nov 2017
The angels sing on heaven's shores
greeting passing mariners
with ships whose sails are blown awhirl
with each divine breath 

They sing tales of forgotten times;
of ages that - to the sailors -
never were
But the winged ones remember
and they sing out their names;
names unknown to the ears of mankind

For to the passers
they sound not much unlike
the sudden gusts of wind that blow
their vessels sails asunder
Evan Stephens Dec 2018
When Dad died
I had this nightmare
of him standing
by the bedside
ten feet tall
at least
trying to say
something
but the air
only congealed
into a
black paste.

A few of
those dreams
& sleep keeps
its distance.
So I go
running,
not to escape it
there is
no escape
it colonizes
the mind,
but to exhaust
the bones
so old Hymnos
can descend
on his one
charred wing,
and mute
the memory
of Dad
in the
hospital bed,
waxy gasps
collecting
in the air.

Tonight
I run west
with the
gale wind
that rubs
against the slate.
Along the
crannied angles
of the money houses
where windows churn
with the cadmium glow
of happy families.

The invisible gale,
the voiceless flat
slabs of slate.
The wind takes me
The texture waving wave
Of hair
That creates
The ocean lair
A hiss bladed in the grass
I follow the path

The moon glow
Turned the spirit

I hid in the valley of the dark

The nightmare
Turned me into the dark
The dark horse
Reflecting the day
A white horse in the moonlight
A shadow of the day
In the night was the light
A message from the storm of a God
Using a guitar from Neptune
Jesse stillwater Jul 2018
the Silence became
like an old lesson learned

a broken heart intones
a voiceless song
resonating a refrain of Silent echoes
in a voice that never heard a word
yet spoke so clearly ... lingering
in realms of subtle ambiance

soundless remnants
stacked neatly as
building blocks;  
another brick in a wall,
already too tall to see beyond—
growing like a bunker
without a sense of safe harbor

as the Silence became
time and space,
a stillness beset the melancholy air
as if a world without song
foreboding an unpredictable storm
beget vestiges of broken windfall,
reticent leftovers hushed after a gale

s i l e n t l y

an acorn fallen  — became a mighty Oak

a wind-broke twig — became a weeping willow

a neglected child — became mother nature's son

the Silence became
        a blind prophet —
in its voice held forth
smatterings of truth
and undertones of an unrequited
fool’s hope

the Silence became
a strong, abrupt rush of wind
uttering voiceless exhalations of breath;
a hovering dawn mist
    befallen after a summer storm—
surrounding all in all
bedewed in a feigned peace


... the unabated sounds of silence
become


Jesse Stillwater ... July 20th, 2018
Thank you or reading —
Molly May 26
It strikes, not with a gale,
but with a drizzle of cherry blossoms
and a flurry of gentle chords.
ryn Feb 2015
When gentle breezes turn into gale,
     remember that you will prevail.

       You may tear at these pages daily,
in search of peace and tranquillity.
   Planting hope and scattering wishes,
    Spilling blood in smears and blemishes...
       Flying out of the dark on
     wings of birds.
       Bridging the rippling void through
           severed words.

                Seeking...
             Reaching...
               Imploring...
            Writing...


     Be not wary of eyes that speak.
  Be not afraid of mouths that leak.

Know that our scribbles are only
   sacred to us.
       Emotions and thoughts we
           bind and truss.

  What we put forth, we owe it to ourselves...
     Bits of us we've kept hidden in the
darkest rooms; atop the highest shelves.

You...
      are wielder of your mighty pen.
You...
      determine how far or long your
         words would span.

   Your words... They're precious gold.
Many or little; be them new or old.

So let drip your ink with little reservation...
  Let us grow from strength to strength
     as life teaches its lessons.

   Rise up and live on in these here pages,
     For here exist only
         freedom;
               not cages.
Dedicated to writers here who are always apprehensive about posting or think very little of their writes.

Know that your words are gold. And the rest of us as readers are lucky enough be granted access into your mind, heart and life.

Keep the faith. Keep writing. Keep posting...
.
Pagan Paul Jun 2018
.
Standing atop this lonely hill,
my heart slow, breath near still,
tall and straight, arms out wide,
I summon the Wind from the skies.

When she arrives nobody knows
how much of her passion blows,
whispering zephyr, soft cool breeze,
or gale to strip the leaves from trees.


© Pagan Paul (18/06/18)
.
ConnectHook Oct 2018
Q-Tips raised! Their storm approaches.
Swab those ear-gates free and clear.
Thunder frightens the rats and roaches.
Looming clouds are drawing near;
Audible anticipation
Waxes with our rising nation.

Hope-**** is the thing with feathers
flying low, right before the gale.
Strident left-wing get-togethers
Do their best to countervail.
Tribunals herald something worse . . .
Enjoy some popcorn with my verse.

Martial law—a new diversion,
Flapping wings on the Left and Right
Disturbs the coop (or coup?). Subversion
now displays its plumes outright.
Deep-state angels prove satanic
sparking upper-level panic.

Rumors can be quite arresting.
Cresting waves on the Psy-Ops sea
Break and roll, now manifesting
Dumbed-down mobs, conspiracy . . .
Some citizens awake to truth;
The rest rave on, benighted youth.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gfrGbax6j9I
Vicki Kralapp Sep 2018
Then the rains came;
they fell in torrents,
flooding over me with pain,
driving me to the ground.

Searing pain, unrelenting,
Its waves of nausea
washing over me,
cutting into my days.

Misery is my tutor,
teaching lessons of life.
I struggle with their mysteries,
so many elude me.

Still the rains fall,
pelting me with stinging tears,
and each day I raise my shield
to challenge the oncoming gale.
For those with fibromyalgia, arthritis, or any other chronic illness.

All poems are copy written and sole property of Vicki Kralapp.
It no longer exists.

The wind; a passing gale sweeps
my laurels.
The desert is filled, too many
my voice.

Origin, a return to birth.
A sword of blazing fire, winged
halts me.

Where are you Eden?

I look and look,
the desert is filled with voices too many,
which is mine or do i have any?

The sun no weeps, I sing.
Myself, I find, thick of leaves
I carry, it sings no longer green.

Winged fire sword ablaze,
use I, leaves dry. Outstretched,
brown, my arms, fail to sky

afire. Feet my burns, I no walk longer.
Stiff, I root my tree to flower.
Fragrant white flowers, settle.

Pray I to you, of hope I joy.
Bring life to water, Frame of sky
Bring, Abba, Father.

(Paolo Jerome D. Cristobal - February 1, 2011)
I...I think of it as a prayer. Read it line by line, each line a pause at the end.
*Title renamed from 'Finding Eden' to' Garden: Eviction'
Nico Julleza Jul 2017
∙∙∙◦◦•◎•◦◦∙∙∙
A little bit of summer
a little bit of breeze
in the days of warmer
love has so much-
to bring, come let us sing

A little bit of freesia
a little bit of lilac
never can resist a scent
-of Ms. Narine
Ogles, a morning scene

A little bit of sunshine
a little bit of eventide
caress upon the shores
-of such imagery,
passions of immortality

A little bit of cosmos
a little bit of crocus
in a glebe-like galaxy
stars white as daphne
from a garden of syzygy

A little bit of cerulean
a little bit of vermilion
shimmers the lucid lake
with trout's and doves
Golly! autumn is awake

A little bit of plowing
a little bit of sow
the hard workers of
-those pumpkins
reaps a stewful of zin

A little bit of snow
a little bit of flail
fly away as butterflies
hibernate as snails
Forging! a winters gale

A little bit of details
a little bit of trail
from dew drops of-
a frozen rose, icicles on
a drowsy bear’s nose

A little bit of sleeping
a little bit of wait
till the sun comes up  
gray clouds strew away
spring is here to stay

A little bit of sprout
a little bit of grow
And can it be, on thee
an Epiphany shows
the Lords glorious prose
#sing #flowers #seasons #nature #God #colors

Thank-you soo much for all the great poet who red, liked, and commented on this poem.

Don't you just sigh when Seasons Sing...?

(NCJ)POETRYProductions. ©2017
CK Baker Jul 2017
hickory nuts
and wind trees
are keeping
at the old buckle bay
light house corners and
shaker church craft
slip anchor on the southern tip

secret legions
and phenolic board
tuck in at gout dock
bands and nations
and miracle speak
fill in the center hall

sand hooks
and water domes
cover wharf road
***** bay toppers
and seven horse chugs
scatter the swollen upper deck

packards and pushers
and rusty back rails
skirt the night
lanterns and sterns
and navy gulls
steady on task

sand cakes
and drift wood
held tight on
the mystery tour
yellow tails
and tide pools
flat line
at royal reach

paddles
and cables
find ripples way
smugglers and smitties
take cover
from a
northern gale

down on
pocket shoal
there’s a graceful hue
~ they’re serving up
belons and xan…
it's time to get in
for a fill
sunshinecoast porpoisebay sechelt
Hannah Christina Sep 2018
I bought myself a kite to fly
I tossed it up and ran around
I tried to pull it through the sky
But found it just dragged on the ground.

It landed in the mud, it was mangled, it was done
And thus concludes the tragic tale of the kite I numbered one.

My second kite was different.
It caught a mighty gale
I flew it well, then let it go
And in the end I failed.

It joined released balloons and leaves, whatever else is there
In the *****, lonely cloudland in the out-of-picture air.

I still had hope and so I bought
My final silken bird
I told myself that I would soon
Unleash it to the word.

The kite's debut date got pushed back and further back until
It found a final resting place untested in its skill.

I bought myself three kites to fly
The first two meet ill fates
The third one has a dusty shelf
Where it keeps very safe.
Of dreams and men.

I'll probably change the title and maybe edit more, we'll see.  This was honestly in my drafts for like over two months.  I wanted to finally publish it.
jane taylor May 2016
pain knocks on weathered doors
fastened ever tightly
cryptic access is denied
it camouflages in the shadows

stealthily it watches
hypervigilance enhancing
catastrophe awaiting
it strikes in latent graveyards

the gale begins to form
and unleashes its fierce torrent
the latch shattered and torn
there’s now an open entrance

creeping in it slithers
engulfing to encompass
digging up emotions
buried underground there

hovering and foggy
tho’ murky does not smother
but fleshes out the psyche
entombed and cobweb covered

it crawls along the edges
and peers in secret ledges
seeps into sequesters
like dust settled in feathers

it slides through every feeling
and when it’s at its blackest
it carves the darkness out
and let’s in sunlight’s presence

© 2016janetaylor
Timothy Oct 2018
There is no comfort on the storm tossed sea,
Where haply death claims lives without a trace.
There in the froth, the gale, the waves that be,
Convulsed from clime to clime, and now embrace
What I just cannot fathom nor conceal,
The dark and boundless depths that now reveal—
The lives, long gone, a homeless corpse up churn'd
The shores that change but ne'er cease to recall
A rage that sank both sailour and the learn'd,
No knells, no coffins, graves, or ev'n headstones at all!

O, rolling ocean, ship's wreckage contained
Inside thy stomach deep and rotting be,
The slave, the free, the captain thou retained;—
Mere bones, that once were faces, they to me
Are nameless and unknown, they be not mine,
All wrapt in tangle, fathom deep in brine.
Somewhere someone adored and loved their form;
Yet now fore'er engulf'd in bub'ling foam,—
Still in the barnacles that are their dorm,
Old ship was matchless to the storm—hear thy last groan.

Yet standing on thy shores, heave to and fro,
No evidence of death that catch my eyes;
Thy waters glass, they sometime toss and go
Without impending gloom, no darken'd skies.
My love, ocean, rekindled all for thee,
Within my heart, within my soul, and see;—
Time changes not thy waves wherein I play'd
As childhood waned, adulthood now I find—
Both cheerful and the cheerless waters spray'd,
Thou givest hours of cheerfulness and death unkind.
( Dedicated to Tryst. )
© Timothy 20 January 2015
Francie Lynch Jun 2018
I'm at home with my thoughts;
It's not quite quiet if one thinks a lot.
At the oddest time they rage, then storm;
Rack and thunder or light my night;
A wind whirls into a gale,
And thoughts teem on the page.
Some take root,
Produce sweet fruit,
Others wither on the line.
So many thoughts I'm at home with,
I'll pick one to grow a poem with.
lesson #1: in the beginning, all poems on Earth were formless

on blended knee, the approaching, humility, raging, barely  
tempered by a gale force need, the forthcoming yoga pose of compose

you have urgings, mostly in a blink of an eye,
then going, gone notions, the writing is so a losing effort,
you turn the paper’s aperture sideways hoping to get an
inside straight insight,
but the poem refuses to come, the creation ******
delayed is torturous and the poem birthing, even worse

so you revert to basics to give the formless a shape,
recalling  a child’s learning that in the beginning:

“the earth was formless and void,
darkness was over the surface of the deep,
and the Spirit of God was hovering
over the surface of the waters.…”

so you insert a single sheet of 20Lb bond paper,
sliding the typewriters carriage smooth swift  
over to the starting gate hell’s bell, typewriter machine smell erotically exciting creative fluids boiling,
typing, laughing out loud, forming entree to the hinted hallway
of a womb opening to a crafting with three words:

                               in the beginning
Jesse stillwater Apr 2018
Just disappearing
isn't possible
when it takes
so long for
a rock wall
to erode away

  The wind
is the only one
that sees you,
and its silence
grinds down
from the inside out
a mountain
too high to climb


  It's hard to forget
swelling words
spoken under the breath
of the voice of silence,
when your hands
are lined with all
that they ever have;

still bearing
every latent piece
that breaks off
tryin' to keep
from the sight
of another
tempest storm gale
moving worlds

  So I'm going
way outside
the edge of the inside;
crossing over
way outside the lines
covered by gathered
windblown life fractals
 
  Though I may not
get back in again,
way outside the lines,
or I might not
even want to ...
you can’t go back
the same way
you came,
everything changes
while you're gone
even if you DO notice

  Gravity pulls
with the strength
of a turning tide:
you can try
and fight it,
but you can't stop
its running downhill
looking behind
your eyes, trying
to take you back
the same way you
went way outside
  the lines ...


        Jesse
.
  04 April 2018
Olivia V Aug 2017
softly, she weeps
warm tears caressing,
tracing her contours.
a breeze, so soft,
moves through her.
it's silent tonight,
and so is she.

tendrils of green,
sway above her.
a dance of despair,
of solace and sadness.
and she joins
and she floats
and she moves with this wind.

she thinks and she thinks,
of ephemeral air.
how it stirs and it moves,
then dissipates and departs,
only to sweep
across mountains and valleys.

she wishes to be,
no more than a breeze.
gentle but strong,
to be felt by all
yet seen by none.

the willow above
with its weeping green,
grazes her cheeks,
and beckons her gently
to join with those currents,
in their invisible journey.

and so her body fades
into mere particles.
she stays silent throughout,
until she too
becomes,
an ethereal gale.

and in her place,
there is now emptiness.
and the willow still weeps
with joy for her freedom ,
in despair that she's gone.
not meant to rhyme.
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