"psithurism" poems
Breeze bellows,
leaves echo in
quivering psithurism,
dithering like
unbroken smoke,
this approaching omen goads.
Dozing crows
slumbering in rows,
droves of locusts'
silenced drone,
almost comatose in repose;
nighttime overtones
choir of toads'
raspy croaks
answered by alto
of crickets' orchestral strokes.
Gust encroaches;
robed boughs
cloven open,
bring into
scope and focus
me juxtaposed,
suspended apropos.
Although motionless
and petrified in stone,
provoked by zephyr
coaxing to and fro;
swaying pendulous
and no longer frozen,
locus gently thrown.
Death rattle moan
evoked from throat,
reflex can't say no
to rigor rigidly posed,
final sigh in silence,
awoken vocal,
expelled and disposed.
Smote by
morose emotion,
gun loaded then exploded
by neurosis,
now bloated
necrosis decomposes
into gross ochre.
This trophy
and this ode
both an opus to
my inability to cope;
romanced i proposed,
eloped and betrothed to
my own
inappropriate composure.
Pocket full of posies
plucked when luck bestowed
and tears in a cup, a toast;
crying copiously,
tempest runneth overflowed,
eyes swollen and soaked.
Dipped my toes
in the coast
of this ocean's
amorphous folds,
gripped by undertow
holding control of my soul;
swiftly shipwrecked in
shallow shoal,
an old atoll.
On sandy floor,
water burrows roads;
digging, carving, roams
through unmarrowed
silica and sandstone
eroding into a cove.
A host for
opal geode trove,
enclosing a
technicolor rose,
from the depths
a glowing mosaic shone
Unopened lotus floats
on foam
of lapping waves,
a boat;
prone to no
grandiose notion
or motive,
adrift as wind stokes.
I suppose
this only shows
the total corrosion
into which I dove,
the only foes to oppose
are those of burdens, so
only weightless can I atone-
I must let go.
Mar 11, 2024
Mar 11, 2024 at 11:02 AM UTC
sing me an aubade
at beginning of aurora
serene and mellifluous
it's like a reverie, a felicity
you soliloquize, so calm
that it could be psithurism
I hear
the beating of your heart,
like the sound of a watch
enwrapped in cotton
a summer's zephyr opens the balcony windows,
so gently
dust particles are dancing
in the morning light
and are slowly falling on the white bedding sheets
do you smell the scent
of our neighbor's citrus trees?
2 hours by car is Venice
and I invite you to stay
in the enchanted and narrow alleys
with me
Feb 10, 2019
Feb 10, 2019 at 3:30 AM UTC
As I sit and look out
I see the trees leaves dance in majestic rhythm
Moved by the wind the sun glistens and fills up the space between natures flow
Soft rustle to the ears comforts from days cares
Bird settles in timbered bough
Air sounds as sea shore
Waves swish in the breeze
Psithurism
such
setting
serenity
Sep 12, 2017
Sep 12, 2017 at 10:55 AM UTC
I do like him and that’s a fact. I like who he is and his looks are simply an additional thing that can be appreciated. He is kind and I like that. I like the way he walks, and talks, and does everything. His eyes. Holy moly. His eyes. I hate to be cliche and all, but sometimes that’s what the world needs to hear about, those utterly cliche moments. To be completely honest I’ve liked him since the moment I met him; the very moment I saw him. There was something about him that entranced me. I don’t know what that thing was, but it has haunted me. Now we are friends, but something deep down in me has always been drawn to him. I enjoy seeing him…when I do. I wish I could see him more. Truthfully though I denied my gut feeling about him because I thought it was too soon for me to start liking someone. I buried what I felt and I settled for simple friendship, but every time I speak to him or honestly got the chance to look into his beautifully blue eyes (oh that sounds so ooey gooey and girly, but I can’t help it!) I am reminded of that first feeling I got when I met him. I don’t know of a word that describes exactly what I felt, but hopefully someday I’ll come across it or make one. For now I’ll have to compensate by using way too many short and unspecific words that fail terribly. I like him. I even remember the moment when it was cemented into my being (the fact that I liked him). We were talking about words and I told him my new favorite word that I had just figured out existed, psithurism. He shard his with me, sonder. He pulled a youtube video up explaining, in black and white, what sonder is. It’s beautiful. The fact that that it is his favorite word is beautiful. There was something special in that moment and it hit me. I just can’t. I can’t believe I was waiting my whole entire life for that moment. And now it is today and I haven’t done anything about it. About him and me. And I hate that. I hate that I’m not doing anything about it. I want to hear him talk all hours of the day and give him a hug just because I can. I want to curl up next to him on a couch and listen to him tell me how his day was. I want my hand to be the hand he wants to hold when his own has no where to rest. I want the chance to look into those blue eyes every day of my life. I want to know all of his favorite things.
Sermonia (n), that’s the word, at least that’s what the feeling would sound like if I made it a one. Maybe someday I’ll admit to him that it is in fact my most favorite word. Psithurism, is great and all, but it fails in comparison to that feeling you get when you know you’ve met someone special.
Dec 25, 2013
Dec 25, 2013 at 10:29 PM UTC
With parted lips,
I draw in your sweet psyche--
all opaque and smoky--
as these placid, sober feelings swim,
verdant and gentle,
through twisting tendrils.
Still thawing and diffident from the flux
of our individual nuclear winters:
flakes of former selves
fall around us, formless,
flailing cold
to sting our entangled skin,
valleys where I end and you begin.
I exhale you again,
you are lasting in my veins.
Enticing fervor once hidden in marrow,
I am enlivened by the dreamy exaltation
of my breaths back into you.
Suddenly, all is warm.
Dec 17, 2012
Dec 17, 2012 at 10:40 PM UTC
*I met the stygian nights
I asked them about love
They chirped your name
while the distance cried psithurism on your absence*
Aug 24, 2015
Aug 24, 2015 at 12:56 PM UTC
She looks so gorgeous hanging there:
Her eyes like glass and silky hair.
The bits of skin that still remain,
Make me think of porcelain...
But it's her bones that speak to me.
The wind eternal kicks up then.
It swells and drops, and back again.
The perfume of rot calls it near,
And it's only then that I can hear...
The wind whispers through her frame,
That's when it tells me her true name.
They call me sick, and though it's true,
I can't stop doing what I do.
There is no love without a name--
We say the words; it's not the same--
And none can speak quite like the wind.
Now what's your name? Shall we begin?
Apr 5, 2014
Apr 5, 2014 at 12:54 AM UTC
Amidst a melancholy darkness, all is silent, all is still. Mimicking the nature of my soul at this precise instant...
A river flows within me dancing to the beat of a lonesome drum, waltzing me into a million realms of true disbelief where my thoughts linger eternally. I play the role of a mere onlooker to the sheer terror that ensues within the darkest chasms of my imagination...
Despite the sonnet of insanity playing alongside my unconsciousness, a drum still calls, a sweet psithurism flows through the branches of memory and a serpentine red river continues to flow mortally like clockwork...
Salty drops of rain embrace the names engraved in stone as beautifully decorated couples dance atop their ancient beds.
You see, their rivers stopped flowing at the final beat of their fateful drums, imprisoning them to a non-existent world where memories are no longer created. For now, they're dancing; while they await the final judgement.
A holy holy flash of light strikes the center of my still pounding drum, all the wine has been drunk and the last cigarette smoked, rivers are a flowin'. I awaken breathless, to an empty, white chamber. I know I am home. Without a pulse.
-Garth Lebowski
Sep 30, 2015
Sep 30, 2015 at 2:38 AM UTC
Silent, still, whistlers
Careening between silk leaves
Explode into symphony
Feb 28, 2014
Feb 28, 2014 at 5:17 PM UTC
i like the way
this porch feels precarious
when softness spills into five am air,
words I don't want others to hear
kept between palms and cement.
stillness is my hands breathing you in,
listening for secrets along the creases of your skin...
the neighbors are rustling,
they apologize for interrupting
what can only be described as holy quietude.
We laugh in the moon's golden greys,
surprised anyone is able to see us at all.
I have travelled endless places
just sitting here with you.
Dec 17, 2012
Dec 17, 2012 at 10:31 PM UTC
The rain whispered to the leaves, "She needs my music to silent the restless echoes, but I can't sustain".
The leaves rustled, "Farewell my friend"
And then she read in the psithurism of the trees.
May 6, 2018
May 6, 2018 at 3:52 AM UTC
Vacation in estivation,
Listening to psithurism.
When apricity comes on my face,
Enjoying watching fondescene.
Aug 9, 2018
Aug 9, 2018 at 5:26 AM UTC
Stillness takes time
To ooze through the gaps of meaning
And
Silence
Doesn't come
Until the horses have stopped hurtling towards the
End.
Jan 29, 2019
Jan 29, 2019 at 11:48 AM UTC
standing amongst the crowd
so often
so stuck
she dreams of the escape
away
and there she goes
with her roots she runs
alas
from those with which she has yet to grow
hollow in soul
she listens to her mother's song
psithurism
enchanting in the essence
that fear exists solely in the mind
for the soul can conquer the thought
and so she runs
hear you me
down by the river
she pauses
and she can not hear the song any longer
silence surrounding
she follows the river flow
to the west
she walks now
and there is a sense of warmth
where the skies meet the waters
she rests
within this world of setting suns
idle in simplistic measures
of life
itself
Sep 28, 2017
Sep 28, 2017 at 3:40 PM UTC
Susserrating woodland
Agitated birdsong
Chainsaws
A psithurism
Bleeding wood
by Jemia
Jul 25, 2021
Jul 25, 2021 at 4:25 PM UTC
psithurism reaches my ears
as I walk through the forest
the rustling leaves
are so peaceful
the sun shines through the branches
wildflowers sway in the breeze
birds chirp in the distance
a lazy river gurgles next me
May 19, 2025
May 19, 2025 at 7:54 PM UTC
Selfish said all,
Consumption is all they are.
Focussed on money,
Growth will conquer all.
Challenge their being,
And all will fall apart.
Fight amongst themselves,
Whilst devouring the weakest.
Well 2020 came,
As a wind through us.
Taking no prisoners,
Except the loved ones left behind.
The history is still fluid,
But we should already marvel.
A collective effort on par,
With a moonshot or armistice.
Remember that health worker,
Scientist with delivery driver.
And those who supported
Came together.
Science flexed it’s muscles
And shrugged off the naysayers.
Society held closer
Those it already did.
Smile and look upon,
The society we are within.
That came together today,
To deliver a hopeful tomorrow.
Jan 29, 2021
Jan 29, 2021 at 6:07 PM UTC
"It's raining in my skull,"
says the woman who creases
matter-of-factly into sunned chop
of stone beside me on a city corner;
her eyes topple and drop into
her sullied mauvish oval bag
which spills crowds of rag and bone
into her floral fields of lap.
Then: a sudden psithurism
fences us in elm tilt, we sag
into the listen; what strange words
these foredoomed leaf-curls brush
into prose, sericeous speech
that smuggles death lessons
through the ring of afternoon.
It shakes us both: a mouthful
of extermination addressed
to us in the language of night places.
An empire of silence is reinstated
for a lonely tyrant minute until
the bus arrives; she gathers
her handfuls of sparks and solemns,
steps up into the air, and is gone.
Alone, I rescind every mercy I was ever given.
Sep 11, 2025
Sep 11, 2025 at 11:07 PM UTC