"gusted" poems
a gift for Aladdin Aures H
from his 3rd follower...
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the inescapable need,
unformed firmament
inquiring; am I capable?
the impulse palpable,
the urge to urgent,
to gorge and disgorge?
instead of morning prayers,
precomposed and ordered,
morning poem plucked from
morning fog, gusted breezes,
early-on, newborn sun rays,
progeny of disheveled skies
words fused, in irregular sizes,
senses censured by drowsy eyes,
but the chest beating arrhythmia
means bursts of free verses
superimposed on reluctant eyelids,
jigsaw puzzlement be re-conformed
and the first poem of the day,
emerges from the intersection
of mind, pale dreams, and the
first is special till the neu morrow,
when fresh bursts explode inward
to windward, and the first is just
yesterday's mesh of hash,
once formidable, now last,
pinned, yellowing, purely a
**descendant of the recent,
but always, ancient past*^
Jun 19, 2025
Jun 19, 2025 at 3:13 PM UTC
The cold dash in October
could break your ankle,
on some twig strewn iced river,
gusted by this uneasy Bravado.
And through this
we form a common bond
the strewn and promiser will led their merry dance.
It is better to shut your eyes and see again
and undream.
So rollick in the dew,
the resplendent Samphires will regrow.
For were we not pre destined
to edge towards the tidal marshes
and with dugout boats
voyage through the satisfied.
Tempus fugit awaits
to enrapture our intricacies.
Apr 8, 2013
Apr 8, 2013 at 4:57 PM UTC
The wind is yelling at me today
She's being mean and cold
Throwing dirt in my eyes
Pushing me and making the leaves dizzy
she sounds like a congested lung
I guess she wants my attention
"WHAT DO YOU WANT? WHY DO YOU BOTHER ME?"
she answers with a cold gusted dust devil
"FROM THIS DUST YOU ARE...THIS DUST YOU WILL BE!"
I make the sign of the cross and go in peace.
Feb 4, 2011
Feb 4, 2011 at 6:22 AM UTC
unspared during my travels
prepared by an exchanging world
of appearances
i came to this place
at the base of
a hill of course fell
a whipped traveller i am
by the vital Spring weather
i am met
welcomed a night of shelter
led the way by a lace of monks
discreetly
i am put up
residence
bowed into an alcove
and left be
sun settles gloaming
bleeding out into the night
the night moves on
steeping
it plays on my solitude
a temple of awakening
freed from need of sleep
plush in the gloom
of this unfamiliar lodge
pulses lune from the lamp
calling me to something family
suckle
peculiar flares of incense
my heart at pace
gusted by the lungs
gushed with a nourishing charge
of remedy
i stand lightly
i take a stroll
timid
subtle bells
quake little tings
under a propelled circulation
engine utters
quivering the air
Sudden :
it buckles
yawn out from under a gallows
the spaces between the temple walls
drop away
fathomless theatre opens maw
barriers have dissipated
crumple
i am a mite short of distress
held
in keeping shallow
maintaining a sensible program
i give out breath hesitant...
and gratefully retrieve
i stand weakly
with care
this is temple
me, a guest
my travellers bed roll remains stowed :
i am a fool to be swallowed
a courtyard
compounds this pressed element of nature
i reached its edge
this building acts the amplifier
a spiritual device of development
bade by hemorrhaging darkness
i wade beyond any lamplight
each step taken when the tide pulls it
mottled perfumes now exhaust in punches
(powering from the baying boundaries)
look up
a royalty floods across the night sky
cropped by the yard rooves
chants and bells eddy about my ears
pants and tones mediate
worship hounds the clock
i finally do what is best
follow myself back the way
i make up my bed
(retire or
as a shade
i'll find my way between the walls
and flourish)
chuckle
i regain valued humor
i concentrate
close eyes and slow my heart once again
make peace in this temple of strobe
tomorrow i'll face agricultural land
and the sunlight
i'll continue my selfish travels
bedroll bound to my pack
my pack tight to my back
i shall weep and honour the departed
as i continue
this little i have learned
Jan 17, 2022
Jan 17, 2022 at 7:11 PM UTC
The winds gusted blowing that
Dam branch upon my window,
"Tap, "Tap, ".....Help,
I with hesitant breath move the
Drape, and see nothing but arched
Twigs teasing my window pain.
With relief I walk to the top of the
stairs, Hearing a knock on the door
"Tap, "Tap, "......Help me,
I cling to the wall rising upon the spy
Hole to find only pitch darkness and
My heart relaxes its grip upon my throat.
I step upon the porch, unseen wire flaring
In the wind, like a viper encircling my throat.
I momentarily clasp the door and tap.
"Help me,
I'm picked up like a doll as the wire entailed
Upon the tree thrashes me around, higher
it pulls. And a window I tap with gasping breath.
"Help........,
I know what happens as I lapse in to
unconsciousness, was it my imagination
Or did the drape move an obscured face.
"I was my own witness to my single moment,
I swing like a leave in the wind, hanging silent.
I am the last leaf to fall, cold and dead.
Oct 27, 2015
Oct 27, 2015 at 6:43 PM UTC
There was once this boy
Who treated me like Helen of Troy
To my euphoria, he was the ground
To his kingdom, I was crowned
From the shadows that abducted me
He fought and snared the key
Chased me, he did
So I could finally be freed
On his white horse, I rode
My hands, to him I bestowed
For I knew his love wasn’t feigned
And for he’s the one who got me unchained
Forth we escaped
As my heart got reshaped
Into something beautiful and steady
Hence he could hold it dearly
Shortly, the darkness penetrated
The castle our love had made
And with his arms as my shield
I was utterly concelead
The attack never ceased
And I watched as my bliss
Slowly withered with every hit
But even with the utmost, he didn’t quit
He said, “If love isn’t enough
to keep you away from the cuff,
then darling, I’d be again the key
that would always unleash thee.”
And with his last gusted breath,
Before he surrendered to Death
He rested his lips on mine
And made our last kiss benign
Oct 21, 2013
Oct 21, 2013 at 11:29 PM UTC
Beauty lies in the eyes of the beholder?
For I was torn between the wondrous musing
And the unfaithful, the treacherous verity.
Dad said that it lies in the wit and the wisdom,
Mom believed it to be synonymous with serenity!
I roved in reverie, pottered with presumptions;
What is beauty? From where does it emanate?
But may be, there was no oasis to my quest.
The answer breezed in and out, gusted here and there;
To catch hold of it was a big, big test!
Was it the reflection in the mirror?
The unbearable, the ill-favoured, it couldn't be.
The face that lacked glow, the face sans any sheens,
It longed for glory, for eminence.
I sighed; for was beauty the boulevard to my dreams?
There are the gifts of botany lacking blossoms,
And scads of scars blotching the moon.
But never could they blotch my view:
Splendor couldn't stop itself descending upon my eyes!
Even in murk, even in dim, I could descry hue.
'Twas in my eyes, they could life the lifeless
Like a shore serenading a cove or
The Ocean constantly kissing the shoreline.
These epitomised allure, incarnated love.
For me, it was an emotion 'divine'!
I realised: Not in the skinny legs and the fair hands
It is found in the vivacity of spirits.
Neither in the mascara nor in the mole;
Beauty has never found it's way through these,
It resides in the heart, in the soul.
Nov 8, 2015
Nov 8, 2015 at 12:10 AM UTC
tallying up her glass house hits
from rocks thrown in the past,
a gusted breeze jostles curtains
with the bone-chilling icy blast
like droplets from the falling rain
the shards all spill down shattered
from windowsills without a pane
the clear broken pieces lay scattered
along with breaking me into sharp-edged bits
you stomped every single thing that mattered
Jan 17, 2019
Jan 17, 2019 at 3:51 AM UTC
fear winding upward it
speaks of gusted nests.
a tap tap tap-
at one window
the timeless
tick vex stick
chicken skinteeth
curling up your spine
the glass hilt of another
ice cold slap
or heat-ironed patch
to soothe the eye
Glowing Friend-
I worship.
My new religion screen
keep it in a
knot running
stitch by stitch
bound up
scrapbook
tell the need of longing
Jan 3, 2024
Jan 3, 2024 at 7:34 AM UTC
Blue shadows slither uphill
The sun smothers behind the glade
Of trees--
A barrier,
A fortification to the wounded kinks
In my chest
The silent vowels which breathes
Upon every current of pollen-carried breeze
The red,
A lovely, dark malevolent glare
Which seeps into the soil at my feet
And top the soil like sprinkles of
Ruby dew drops
The grazing glance of blue--
Blue of the midnight,
Blue of wild, turmoil waves
Crashed
Rolling
Thundering
Which creep to my feet
Gusted by the pillar of trees
I sit still with knees held to my chest
Pondering at the beating against walls
Walls I refused to breach before
The drumming--
The unprecedented humming
Which rattle into the marrow of my bones
And echo, traveling the hollow curves
Snaking--
Spiraling--
So that voices may carry
And whisper in my ear
This pulsing streak
Radiates into the folds of my limbs
And I cannot possibly catch my breath
Waiting to catch,
Waiting to listen,
Waiting for something to happen
After years of silent of calls
Years of fortified smiles
Just to break the fall
One day,
Maybe this day
It is time to
Sitting on the glossy bed of grass
Smells enriched by the scorch of suns and brass
The joy--
The ecstasy--
To feel the stones crack
Break the wall created to deprive
And as the midnight blue
Shimmy onto my toes
And travel up my feet--
Over my head,
Tying a knot in my hair,
The dew drops twinkle
Now like pebbles of obsidian
And the field of green
Is now an expanse of black
Where have I gone?
Jul 27, 2015
Jul 27, 2015 at 10:27 AM UTC
There are six coffin bearers carrying a box,
It was a solemn procession with priests and pastors,
Rituals performed; requiems sung; lamentations heard,
Who is in the coffin? Who are the coffin bearers?
A flash of interrogations hit my heart and mind:
Where do they carry the body in the coffin?
Who are the priests and pastors to the one who is breathless?
Why are lamentations ‘sung’? Why are rituals?
Are they to please the breathless corpse?
Where is the breathless corpse taken to?
Beyond doubt, the destination of the corpse is the cemetery.
Mourners and pallbearers are hired not by the corpse,
Dance performed; refrains gusted out;
Garlands of melancholic florets thrashed out;
Beats of unpleasantness resounded.
A silent spell practiced on the last journey of the corpse;
Neither a pallbearer nor the folks raised any slogan;
But everyone’s prayer in silence realized.
I am a passerby walking with a lot of reflections,
The coffin bearers shall be carried too one day,
The priests and the pastors will be taken in processions,
Rituals, requiems and lamentations will be enacted.
Coffins are ready for all with mourners and pallbearers,
Dance, refrains, garlands and beats shall be added to glooms.
I ask myself: when is my day?
Who shall make my coffin?
I cannot hear requiems in my long sleep,
I am far from rituals; dumb to lamentations,
I must reach my destination, whether l like or not,
Folks will never come with me,
For I came with nothing and leave with nothing.
Where do I go? Where does everyone go?
I cannot be a passerby to my own last journey.
I long for my day; it may not be my will;
But the day to all is predestined,
And we are to leave this shadow of life.
So, when is my day?
Jun 9, 2020
Jun 9, 2020 at 6:57 AM UTC