"pluming" poems
Torrents of vapor ridden wind, snatched at her hair.
Below, rattled the rapid, riotous and vast, rippling sea.
Churning, like a chewing, charming serpent's lair.
Once long ago I knew her; with time she left me be.
On the edge she was, with will to leap t'wards the horizons.
The brittle cliff would not give way, for even it was curious.
Dare say all of nature reacted for the most prurient reasons.
Even the sky descended to watch, with a lightning so furious.
She beheld no fear and the sky wept with thunderous applause.
Her bare marble-like features glistened in the gleaning of the gloom.
Why she stood there, triumphantly, tempting, terror, for what cause?
It will never be known, for she never was, in a time before this doom.
The earth shook like the hands of a beleaguered, berated old man.
It erected monoliths. Volcanoes, pluming molten magma skyward.
The red glow brought heat; earth thought to please her, or so was its plan.
The elements wrestled for the better view of that beauty stalwart.
Never had a sight been so majestically violent, so mightily tame.
Where she stood, should and would forever more be a sacred place.
The tempest of the elements raged on, though none would win the game.
A silence, softly, settled the rambunctiousness, and halted their race.
The skies parted with a sad and lowly somberness.
Every elated, embittered, element safely put to rest.
As the sun swept aside all their postulated, pettiness.
Rays of the sun showered her with bright white zest.
The lady, she moved with unfathomable grace.
She tilted her perfect head up to the skies.
With the slightest of a smile shook her face.
Like all before, she left them there surprised... and forever, there she stood.
Mar 22, 2016
Mar 22, 2016 at 3:21 PM UTC
Thirsting
For subterranean
Blue morphology
Azure dreams
Flitting about
On butterfly wings
Mining stalagmites and
Stalactites
Sipping nectar
Numinous ruminations
Illuminating
Analogous mimetics
Allegories of the Cave
An altar for
Pluming rhetoric
Dec 2, 2014
Dec 2, 2014 at 4:55 AM UTC
He travels after a winter sun,
Urging the cattle along a cold red road,
Calling to them, a voice they know,
He drives his beasts above Cabra.
The voice tells them home is warm.
They moo and make brute music with their hoofs.
He drives them with a flowering branch before him,
Smoke pluming their foreheads.
Boor, bond of the herd,
Tonight stretch full by the fire!
I bleed by the black stream
For my torn bough!
2.4k
The clock smiled at us
as if it knew we were lost.
Unable to see the path, we continued along
on the wrong side of the ones and zeroes.
Tired of our aimless float;
fumbling along in the vacuums of our ignorance.
With all kinds of navigational aids to chart our journey
we mostly relied upon the compass tattooed over our hearts
While lost in the chasm of our indecision
our bodies and minds listed.
Our attempts to unpack the endless
parcels of our unrest ... proved futile.
So carefully, we re-learned the ABCs
and re-interpreted the Western Canon, finding
that it was only by closing our eyes
that we were able to see; were able to feel.
However, the rhythm was off
which was immaterial as
our feathers were ruffled and
the rhetoric was pluming.
With the overture of the new day dawning
we turned our back
on the algorithms of our demise
and shucked off self-imposed limitations.
You see, it was thirty seconds to midnight and
the world that never seemed to want us
needed us now.
So like anemic royalty, we took flight
breathing down rarefied air and
gulping the nuances of our resilience to swallow:
our intergenerational trauma
one more time.
Jul 28, 2020
Jul 28, 2020 at 8:09 PM UTC
i sat on my roof and screamed,
i'm gonna revolutionize this
god **** world if it kills me
and my neighbors all turned
and stared, interrupted from
mowing their lawns, washing
their cars, teaching their sons
to play catch, and daughters
to go fetch their morning papers
they quickly turned away at
the realization that it was just that
crazy neighbor girl who hasn't
done **** with her four year
degree, but create a fortress
in which she hides day after day
they smell that stanky marijuana
pluming out of her window
and watch her stumble home, drunk,
listening to her sing along to the music
that the devil has surely put on this
earth to corrupt good catholics,
like the one she once was
and they shake their heads and
hold tight to their son's shoulders
and even tighter to their daughter's
hands, because maybe, just maybe
if they hold on tight enough they'll
always be dumb enough to withstand
because the masses are the winners
and this is the spoiler,
we're being taken over by cookie cutting
stepford wannabe *************
and they're gonna ruin the world
Jan 30, 2012
Jan 30, 2012 at 11:31 PM UTC
This *****
Artificially awake
Lydia
apples 20 years have passed
oranges i want a do over
manhole cover coins
savage glares across the 4 wheeled property lines
young moms not giving a **** that's alright
kiss of sun hidden from
anxious from blue oak , it's ridges pluming in the dappled twist
and floundering wave, wiggling wave of oak leaves green as frogs.
ponytail suzy, *** from galaxy sci-fi
i brought up a cup while it was empty there,
but so distracted by my own trembling effort,
every hair a furry hood, every fatty fixture of my face a rebounding basset hound
tennis shoes up to my neck, dumb naked in my greenery,
already old somehow, the window closing,
the permanency of parks, like a stilletto in a limosine,
green fixture of my white blinded attempt to see tomorrow,
tourist .
thoughts of Sylvia
, my gaping awe at the feminine,
and its green garden.
-cbrander
Jun 26, 2022
Jun 26, 2022 at 12:26 PM UTC
In moonlight shadows, she awaits
As the air around her dissipates,
Pluming tendrils of smoke enfold,
Her body now numbed to hot or cold.
The silver disc moves one step to the left,
She eyes the sky, her feeling bereft.
He whispers from the lake, “where are you?
My all, my everything, you withdrew”.
Her footsteps hesitate once, then move,
Naked emotion she has to prove.
Immersed, submerged, underwater,
Once again, reliving the manslaughter.
And once more freed from the dreams,
Where she left him only hearing screams.
Apr 14, 2015
Apr 14, 2015 at 8:35 AM UTC
Misty words billow in the cold
Pluming from their mouths
Quiet swearing and first smoke coughing
They walk close to hedgerows
Kicking the dew from the grass
As birds squabble over breakfast
And mushrooms are still socialising
They whistle the dogs to heel
All panting and wagging tails
Stirring the dawn damp air
For happy is the early dog
In these sumptuous fields
Now the business of dawn begins
Low sharp commands are uttered
Bringing the younger bounding learners
To a proper sense of purpose
And that high-toned cross breed
The sleek and swift lurcher
Is eternally proud and primed
This long-sprint racer
Takes inevitable chase
Without sentiment or concious cruelty
An ancient craft is practised here
With the dogs at dawn
By Phil Roberts
Jul 29, 2015
Jul 29, 2015 at 9:21 AM UTC
The hills held their breath
as October came shouldering over them
suspending September's false summer promises
tugging the sodden sky behind
and charging the channels with boisterous foam
Remember your place, the season proclaimed
*I'll lower the sky if I wish
Strip trees to humiliation,
grey their ridiculous colours -
Run
little people,
run
while I crash and scatter my cackling fun!*
A day, a night,
then short relief -
the hills exhale
in pluming cumulus
like colossal conifers bound in snow
pointing at the beleaguered blue
and we, below,
emerge, remembering.
Oct 4, 2014
Oct 4, 2014 at 12:16 PM UTC
Misty words billow in the cold
Pluming from their mouths
Quiet swearing and first *** coughing
They walk close to hedgerows
Kicking the dew from the grass
As birds squabble over breakfast
And mushrooms are still socialising
They whistle the dogs to heel
All panting and wagging tails
Stirring the dawn damp air
For happy is the early dog
In these sumptuous fields
Now the business of dawn begins
Low sharp commands are uttered
Bringing the younger bounding learners
To a proper sense of purpose
And that high-toned cross breed
The sleek and swift lurcher
Is eternally proud and primed
This long-sprint racer
Takes inevitable chase
Without sentiment or concious cruelty
An ancient craft is practised here
With the dogs at dawn
By Phil Roberts
May 23, 2016
May 23, 2016 at 2:18 AM UTC
Those doe-like eyes and your rosy lips
Make these liquid emotions collide and swoon -so when they mix-
Infectious is the way I feel them bloom
Inside my heart so smitten;
I swear you love it too.
I swear you feel it too.
And I swear this space grows with graceful Hues: Orange-Purple sunset lulls that pull
The strings of our two souls
So catalytic, the strum that hums nascent Blues.
Listen...
It sings You and I as a
Primordial premonition of truth, the Downpour like Tuesday Rainfall.
And You?
The pluming sensation reigning in my Skies, breathes when I feel you feel me...
When I love you wholly, surely you'll see us Truly.
Jan 17, 2017
Jan 17, 2017 at 10:03 PM UTC
Misty words billow in the cold
Pluming from their mouths
Quiet swearing and first *** coughing
They walk close to hedgerows
Kicking the dew from the grass
As birds squabble over breakfast
And mushrooms are still socialising
They whistle the dogs to heel
All panting and wagging tails
Stirring the dawn damp air
For happy is the early dog
In these sumptuous fields
Now the business of dawn begins
Low sharp commands are uttered
Bringing the younger bounding learners
To a proper sense of purpose
And that high-toned cross breed
The sleek and swift lurcher
Is eternally proud and primed
This long-sprint racer
Takes inevitable chase
Without sentiment or concious cruelty
An ancient craft is practised here
With the dogs at dawn
By Phil Roberts
Nov 26, 2015
Nov 26, 2015 at 8:07 AM UTC
When I’m dead like here and now.
Like before and present, as I’ll always be portrayed
wound within the fabric of my birth.
I'll stammer through the phantom beastly of society,
as I always have I will phase
beneath the day's skin,
flower and splatter
amongst the phantom passerbys
and click my blooming tongue
behind your blind ears.
And chant one lasting whisper
against the back bristles of your shivering neck,
my breath pluming against
and within your porous skin.
One lasting, one altering statement or phrase or acknowledgement
I give shackled in the chains of a gift wrapped present
within the corridors of your perking ears
and there to be unpacked.
You as every other soul will misplace my memory,
will forget as a ghost dissipates against the breeze.
I was never anchored here,
indistinguishly as the phantom I am composed of
I may sputter the words farewell,
farewell only to be met with farewell and forget.
Farewell as my pattered steps flutter within the distance,
dead as here and now,
dead as my unlasting memory.
I exist as but a farewell.
Aug 28, 2011
Aug 28, 2011 at 12:06 AM UTC
Misty words billow in the cold
Pluming from their mouths
Quiet swearing and first *** coughing
They walk close to hedgerows
Kicking the dew from the grass
As birds squabble over breakfast
And mushrooms are still socialising
They whistle the dogs to heel
All panting and wagging tails
Stirring the dawn damp air
For happy is the early dog
In these sumptuous fields
Now the business of dawn begins
Low sharp commands are uttered
Bringing the younger bounding learners
To a proper sense of purpose
And that high-toned cross breed
The sleek and swift lurcher
Is eternally proud and primed
This long-sprint racer
Takes inevitable chase
Without sentiment or concious cruelty
An ancient craft is practised here
With the dogs at dawn
By Phil Roberts
Nov 5, 2017
Nov 5, 2017 at 4:54 AM UTC
Thy mother's bounty bundled in thy swaddling
Took up the cry to capture mine own craft,
And taking arms, thou plundered of my coddling;
Enslaved, I toil to serve upon thy raft.
Thy word is law, thy captaincy commanding,
I sleep not lest I miss my master's call;
Thy will is served, thy drudgery demanding,
Through foul and fair I weather all thy squall.
Thy institution has me fear the looming
Of pirate vessels, renowned for their shrift,
Majestic sails billowed in handsome pluming,
Looting thy spoils and setting me adrift.
Surrendered now unto thy vasty sea,
I dread the day thy heart will mutiny.
Apr 5, 2015
Apr 5, 2015 at 11:14 PM UTC
Grow, grow, growing grow
Taller, wider, deeper, steeper
Topsoil cracking
Foundations creaking
Interstitial water leaking
Gases pluming
Sun too hot
Birds forgetting how to fly
Flies all set to multiply
Central heating turned up high
Fish recumbent on the sands
Hail brave campaigning elephants
Who rampage through
the concrete jungle
eviscerating 4WDs
with tusks awry
trunks outstretched
eyes akimbo
Vanguard of a worldwide army
of feather scale and bone
all stitched up
By might is right
into a threadbare tapestry of deprivation
Today we spread, we glow, we grow
In rampaging delight we gag
on feather, bone and scale
We suffocate ourselves
Tomorrow
The earth will fry
And so might I
Is this the way to end our poem
© Diana Korchien 2012
Feb 21, 2017
Feb 21, 2017 at 7:39 AM UTC
Like Jesuits before
High-rise semblance
latex sunrise
The man removes his skin.
bunny-eared fantasies
ivory, piss-stained car seats
ignition.
Green poison darts. Drifting upwards
he drives aimlessly
Alone
pluming this commune
everyone is a girl
Selfish cognition.
Stabbed in the head with keys
between knuckles
like an unfurled hazard
rubbing faces in glass. putting pressure
On my teeth with my tongue.
it builds
Blind sea-life - crustaceans strewn
smashed & ******
on the cubicle floor. Knee deep
smudged and blurry.
He slowly
Disappears. I feel drained
Dipped in salutation
dripping kingdom
- Crust, licked off mouth corners
Bruised (angular cheilitis)
watery evening/moot
Picked up, and poured down the drain.
May 14, 2014
May 14, 2014 at 10:00 AM UTC
The only thing I've ever committed to
has been cigarettes.
So I've been stockpiling my doubts
and all my little regrets.
Maybe I'm useless, maybe I'm a waste.
Or maybe I just haven't found it;
maybe I haven't found it yet.
And the taste of smoke is jolting, renewing,
reminding
me of that fear that I
am designing my life around:
desperate to find color in the insipid motions of living.
Maybe I am committed to the search;
That one day I will wake up and be found
And the first thing I reach for in the morning
will not be the lighter but
her
or him
and their pluming breath, rhythmic will surround me
and the warnings
on the side of my pack will seem real
and my god, will I finally ******* feel.
May 30, 2013
May 30, 2013 at 2:33 PM UTC
The burgundy lighting
Is oh so exciting
I'm lush and inviting
For all to see
My body is moving
The dance Im resuming
Cigarette smoke is pluming
Look at me
I dance for hours
Until early hours
For higher powers
Whom pay for me
To leech off my fleet and to preach on deciet to forgive or forget I don't know
The threat is consuming
You hate me? Well sue me
I don't give a **** about what you please
If you were halfway decent
I'd let you get even
In light of the recent events
But I'm just a body
Meat to be discarded
I am not your Bunny
And I am not Holly
May 23, 2025
May 23, 2025 at 3:39 PM UTC
Red petal maw
Growing wide
And Gasping deep
On the sill like skin
Grown Ink bled red
Making scrawled critique in patches
And the poppy addled spring
Blooming rich and red
All over the ward
Till the air smells sweet
And clean and white
Dancing in the rattle draft
till the breath grows soft
And still
I saw the hemorrhaged gorge
of deeper red
That welled inside him
Like the blossom
When I pressed his hand
And held his head
I watched the wither
Beside him in the night
Wondering with him at the dreams of dying poppies
At the furrows of their season
The Welting swollen purple and blue
Heaving
And dripped in IV's
Pluming in blood
And pooling its petals
One by one
Like forget me not
At the crest of spring
Making breathing a shallow
Easy thing
Forgotten among the poppy's blossom
Feb 9, 2014
Feb 9, 2014 at 3:26 PM UTC
some things need not be kept,
damp and inexclusive. only
the brave are kept.
others are filed away ready
to be disposed of some day.
some things are burned in
the garden, a small incinerator,
smoke pluming.
the photograph.
this does not mean
i love you.
sbm.
Aug 6, 2015
Aug 6, 2015 at 1:35 AM UTC
Misty words billow in the cold
Pluming from their mouths
Quiet swearing and first *** coughing
They walk close to hedgerows
Kicking the dew from the grass
As birds squabble over breakfast
And mushrooms are still socialising
They whistle the dogs to heel
All panting and wagging tails
Stirring the dawn damp air
For happy is the early dog
In these sumptuous fields
Now the business of dawn begins
Low sharp commands are uttered
Bringing the younger bounding learners
To a proper sense of purpose
And that high-toned cross breed
The sleek and swift lurcher
Is eternally proud and primed
This long-sprint racer
Takes inevitable chase
Without sentiment or concious cruelty
An ancient craft is practised here
With the dogs at dawn
By Phil Roberts
Mar 19, 2016
Mar 19, 2016 at 2:18 PM UTC