"onrushing" poems
The old moon wanes
Her light so sweetly,
As dawn is breaking over neatly.
She's nestled in a cove of clouds.
I watch and know she is too soon
to be engulfed by their onrushing banks
and I can't bear
To lose the little light she bravely
Chose on me to shine.
Oh little light,
Please.
Be mine.
As if she heard when I looked up,
A miracle!
The clouds broke up!
And there she was, my yin-yang crescent - snuggling cold against her Warm black velvet twin. And nary a cloud in sight
Against the movie screen glow of periwinkle light.
Sweet!! Miracles still happen when You say.
God, please! Remind me of this fact every day!
Jun 11, 2014
Jun 11, 2014 at 6:51 PM UTC
Wind, hard-blown from a city
on the shore of Lake Michigan
gray-blue sky over water
gray-red sky over town
the tornado sirens fall silent
and the skyscrapers blur
with the sudden onrushing
of rain.
Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 1:31 AM UTC
*when I turned eighteen
sadness filled my cups,
for carefree was now gone,
laying side by side
with all my companion figurines,
off to rest in a boy's toy chest
in a backyard cemetery hid,
certainty assured
all that I was, so far,
all that I will be,
uncalming coming forevermore,
unwilling borne upon
the newly time redesigned,
heavy load shoulders of adult responsibility
when I turned thirty,
sadder now by the means and meaning of accumulation,
having thrice now measured the length of a stick of life,
denominated as a decade,
wiser now that the children underfoot,
certainty assured,
would have to pay
bills of lading for cargoes,
not of their own choosing,
indeed, selected unwisely,
by men like me, and men before,
all too old or too gone,
to be prosecuted now for the
short sightedness of reckless timidity
when I turned fifty,
the shoulders slightly stooped and gently curved,
my gait and pace slowed by weight,
pockets laden with undesired memories,
unfinished arguments,
dreams that morphed and morted into
failed schemes that with the
certainty assured,
the tallied ache of known losses
will always weigh greater
than the
unknown of opportune
now with seventy,
so near, onrushing to the sounds
of old men and their noisy excuses
of babbling, ironical,
eerie similar to the parental smiling hushing
of a newborn's squeaking,
a youthful brook,
happily to an open sea arushing,
hurrying in the fullness of innocence to
it's demise
the line of sight to the horizon,
far shorter now than ere before,
with greater certainty assured,
that near my god than thee,
my sadness daren't hope to dissipate, nor lift
as once it did,
an early morn mist rising off the river,
freshly sun burnished, then miracle banished,
sacrificing itself as a hopeful oracle of a new born day
recurring haunted words
like rest, best and tried,
the only legacy remaining to gift,
but one thing yet measures a comforts,
a red cross blanket round the shoulders thrown that with
certainty assured,
the marvy joy of life all in,
be our given right to err and learn wisdom at our own pace
so here I freely confess
with wry, sly smile that we
proved ourselves to be
victims of our unintended tendencies,
successful in being*
all too human
Jan 11, 2017
Jan 11, 2017 at 7:35 PM UTC
A demure river converges with the sea and turns into a scepter of intrepidity.
My eyes try to follow every ebbing wave into the strands of illimitable resurrection.
The wind carries the clouds toward a ruffled terrain and turns sunshine into rain.
Reckless movements seem to convey the act of solicitous tenderness.
A forsaken lighthouse on a deserted island tries to revitalize the ship that never arrived.
The enlightenment seems to brighten up its separateness
From the world of decreasing congeniality.
The resplendent pasture seems to absorb the colour from the verdant trees.
Scintillating dewdrops variegate the cusp of the grass like an exhilarating crown.
The inaudible murmur of pastoral life wraps the passing day in its tranquil impeccability.
The lucent stars seem to burn the vacuousness of night with its satiating fire.
Nature seems to have become the harbinger of my lost words
That long ago manifested my dauntless but wretched love for you.
The uncanny omnipresence of the unbarred memories seems to amalgamate
The unreciprocated past and the abeyant present.
Stirring thoughts in an invigorating mind seem to lose its scrupulousness
In the midst of these harrowing days of ruthless truthfulness.
The metaphors of nature seem to have juxtaposed with the feeble pieces of my fragile heart.
The ineradicable retrospection of moon-sharing nights seem to have emerged
From the irreducible darkness around me.
The twinkling shadows of inseparable hearts seem to converge
Into the enticing hills of the unlit valley.
The honest moon seems to have lost its sagaciousness in the night of relinquished lovers.
The closing day is enamored of the festering odor of onrushing annihilation.
The transcendental road to salvation merges into the heath of transcalent despondency.
Apr 1, 2017
Apr 1, 2017 at 11:53 PM UTC
Sara and Stephen were of a marked race,
living at the wrong time, and in the wrong place.
When ****** took power, they eased each other’s fears.
“Germany is civilized, It can’t happen here.”
When the Chancellor railed against gypsies and Jews
“ He’s just playing politics” was their commonsense view.
Yet hatred took root; the brown shirts had free run
And the voters had cause to rue what they had done.
****** came for their guns and they meekly complied.
Few then thought to resist the strong onrushing tide.
“The Police will protect us, Sara, my dear.”
“This is Beethoven’s birthplace; it can’t happen here.”
Those were very hard times, the worst we ever saw.
Rich Jews were resented for the furs that they wore.
“They cost us the war, they are traitors, it’s clear.”
“Sara, don’t worry, it can’t happen here.”
The foes of this Chancellor disappeared in the night
And he started to speak of a thousand year *****
He censored the newspapers; both Left and Right.
And glass littered the streets one November night.
With Hindenburg dead, who was there left to stand?
Who had will to resist that warped little man?
Perves wore Triangles, Juden wore stars
Both lost their rights under Germany’s laws.
Sara and Stephen were loaded, like freight,
on a train bound for Dachau by command of the State.”
I’m sure we’ll be freed, Sara, my dear.”
We’re a civilized race, this can’t happen here.”
Stephen worked as a slave but at least stayed alive.
He was freed by the Russians in May, Forty five.
Sara, his wife, had a far crueler fate;
She was sent to the showers by the Nazi’s mandate.
Back in Berlin, Stephen saw with his own eyes
that the “Thousand year ***** was a tissue of lies
First pillaged by brown shirts, then bombed in the war
Stephen thought” This isn’t home anymore.”
Now Stephen is old, living here in the States.
He looks with dismay at these two candidates.
It seems like a nightmare he lived through before.
A crisis is coming and there will be war.
May 28, 2016
May 28, 2016 at 11:25 AM UTC
High tide and low
Ebb and flow
Wax and wane
Yet sometimes there are floods
Floods that do not recede
Some floods that overwhelm
Floods that you want to be swept away in
Floods you never want to end
Floods that bring you somewhere new
Floods that change the landscape of where you were
That seem to change the world
That seem unstoppable
Yet somehow the waters recede
Wet, damp, dry, parched
What could have happened to end this flood?
Indifference, lack of acknowledgement
Ignoring the onrushing torrent has taken the strength from the all-covering ocean
When all it needed to flourish was the smallest amount of encouragement
Is this the end of the water
Or has it pooled somewhere
Waiting for the moment to rise again
Jul 18, 2013
Jul 18, 2013 at 10:09 AM UTC
The night was dimly lit,
The moon dancing with the clouds,
On the silence did nature sit,
Far from the maddening crowds.
A cool breeze stirred my hair,
Bringing the sweet smell of nature's best.
As I waltzed embracing the air,
The cuckoo kept glancing from her nest.
I listened to the ripple of a nearby spring,
And as my feet took me nearer;
In my heart was a familiar aching,
To hold on to the moment forever.
I walked through the heavenly retreat,
Time flying by like the onrushing wind.
Turning back, I seemed to miss every beat;
As I got back to a place where people sinned.
Apr 23, 2013
Apr 23, 2013 at 9:20 AM UTC
Dark clouds devouring our coast
Onrushing rainbows in glory
Devouring away the black night
Till heavy hunchback is dead, and
Green leaves revive the dead trees.
May 17, 2019
May 17, 2019 at 8:49 AM UTC
Rays of brilliance shine over the horizon
Beautiful and unstoppable in the way that only the sun can be
Nothing could be more inevitable
Yet their remains a cold sting
Night has refused to give up its hold
What would have been dew has become an icy frost
Jagged and harsh are the crystals
Each threaten like shards of glass
But like an onrushing train, the sun continues to rise
The rays begin to glance the shards
For a moment the prisms resist, scattering the light
But inevitability is equally harsh and ever more stubborn
As the sun rises, the frost has no choice
It has to melt, nothing else could ever have happened
And ever so slowly, but predictably, the crystals melt and drip to the ground
Warmth beats down and the ground drinks it up, along with the liquefied crystals
It longs to be warm, to shed its icy shell
All the while, inevitability pushes on
Jul 18, 2013
Jul 18, 2013 at 2:03 AM UTC
White capped waves crash into an infinite tidal spray
...
Sandstone breaches collapse downwards blocking the way
...
Slow moving glaciers form ever expanding cravases
...
Angeled snow drifts fall into onrushing avalanches
...
Angry volcanoes erupt deadly excrement into the sky
...
Danger surrounds us yet we continue to survive...
Mar 24, 2017
Mar 24, 2017 at 10:18 AM UTC
She starts up her motors,
She revs me 'til I purr.
She spins up her rotors,
I'm always dizzy for her.
She checks all the gauges twice,
I'm ready and eager for flight,
Heat, pressure - optimal, nice.
Her flight plan is for speed and height.
She glances back with a stewardess smile,
I'm shrugging into my bombardier coat.
She examines my seatbelt, no trace of guile,
So sweet, we wouldn't want it to chafe my throat.
Perfect piloting, no clouds in sight - no turbulence at all,
She's got the only parachute, but I know we won't fall.
Cruisin' along smoothly, we hit the target altitude,
Over the headset, "If you love me, hit the big red button, dude!"
Sudden change in direction, same speed but straight down,
What once was blue sky is now onrushing ground.
Her skills are legend, she could drop me on a dime,
She knows right where I'll land, and I climb aboard every time.
Feb 18, 2021
Feb 18, 2021 at 1:31 AM UTC
Should you throw
yourself upon
The mercy of the world
Beware the hoof
that tramples.
If your heart be pure
compassion perhaps
Some angel will
flap flap
Lift you above the
onrushing herd
Jun 19, 2016
Jun 19, 2016 at 7:22 AM UTC