"soughed" poems
Friday- the most promising day of all.
The beginning of the weekend, but the one day that will spark appall.
Down on Mainstreet all the girls
In their fringed dresses, pouting their foxy lips and their hair waving in short messes.
The hags frown as the winged ladies pass by- displaying their carriages a little sly.
Oh, but Jane's favourite speakeasy was 'The Back Room' down on Norfolk Street: the place where the lost creatures meet.
Tin ceilings, velvet wallpaper, plush thrones and back in that dark corner, there is the sound of low moans.
'A whiskey, neat, please' as a shadow in a tuxedo walked towards her and he whispered 'Hi,' in a sensual purr.
'Who are you?' he stirred,
'Oh, I'm Miss Doe' and he lept into the stool with a swift flow.
And the jazz trumpets married the spontaneous harmonies and the saxophone created sublime melodies.
So they sat as idle as ghouls in the dim spotlights, until Jane asked Mr Buck:
'D'you fight in the war?' And he whined 'Cambrai, Amiens and Lys' - his lips seemed a little sore.
'I'm sorry - do I know you?' His face looked as familiar as Jay to Nick. A brief pause in time at that smile.
That was the final chord to the "lick".
He drove her down to Roslyn- to his replica of Versailles and Jane looked intensely shy.
'Oh, do come in,' the desperado soughed. And she walked into the gilded palace which Cupid's presence bowed.
'I have a favour to ask of you, Miss Doe. Would you be as kind to wash away my woe?'
And as they congressed under diamond chandeliers, his comrades gathered around the bed in amorphous silhouettes; watching disgustedly.
As for Mr Buck he was an alien, skin-to-skin with a haunted beauty and Miss Doe- a labourer on duty.
Jun 24, 2017
Jun 24, 2017 at 6:32 AM UTC
The wind blew out and the sea rolled in
By the cliffs and the curving beach,
A lonely stretch, they were kith and kin
And had never heard human speech,
A cottage grew by the shore one day
There were figures of surly men,
The sea had muttered, ‘They’re in my bay,’
And the wind replied, ‘Amen!’
The men had left but the cottage stayed
Like a wound to the ocean’s pride,
It split the wind at the valley floor
As it passed there, either side,
The sea said ‘blow it away my friend,
For it grieves my heart to see,
The works of man where I lap the sand,’
And the wind said, ‘Leave it to me!’
It soughed and soared at the eventime
And it scored with sand from the beach,
It struggled to topple the chimney pots
As it surged at one and each,
It lost its puff as the sun came up
When the tide was on the ebb,
‘I couldn’t move it a jot,’ it sighed,
‘And the roof, it felt like lead.’
‘We’ll wait for the winter tides,’ my friend,
‘I’ll surge and wash it away,
I’ll undermine its foundations, then
I’ll sweep it out in the bay.’
But then a flickering candle lit
From a window, facing the shore,
‘There’s something a-move, for a shadow flit
Last night through the cottage door!’
The sea had grumbled, ‘We’ll wait and see
What lingers there in the light,’
The wind peered in at the window pane
And sighed at the wondrous sight,
‘A creature there with its golden hair
And its eyes, a deep sea blue,
That set me quivering in their stare,
So what will they do to you?’
The morning saw at the cottage door
A woman all dressed in white,
She wandered along the empty shore
And the sea had gulped, ‘You’re right!’
He lapped his waters around her feet
As she waded in for a swim,
And said to the wind, ‘She’s warm and sweet,
And it’s sad, but you can’t come in!’
Back on the beach, a gentle breeze
Had whispered the woman dry,
Then flitted, scurrying out to sea,
‘You’ve changed your tune, but why?’
‘I think we needed that cottage there,
In reflection, let it stand.’
The wind just capered along the shore
As the door of the cottage slammed.
David Lewis Paget
Nov 27, 2013
Nov 27, 2013 at 4:04 AM UTC
The reaper's eyes were on her,
Yet she never bowed.
The reaper's ax chose her,
Yet she never soughed.
Death was finally in love,
With the girl he could never cow,
For she was something he could never have,
A girl with a skin too firm to swallow.
Why couldn't he touch the girl,.
The girl whose tears never fell,
The girl whose eyes are pearl,
The girl whose voice is a shim of bell?
Her secret wasn't a mystery,
She was too pure to be touched by maleficence.
The reaper desired her for her rarity,
But his hands burned at the touch of virtuousness.
Death chased her everyday,
In the hopes of taking her soul,
But her soul was too far away,
Far away for him to hold.
The young maiden didn't even notice
The harvester at her tail.
She was too involved in lightness
For her to witness his veil.
The reaper's ax was rotting,
It was yearning blood,
Though who he was lusting,
Was nothing but an illusion set by god.
The girl was a mirage,
God's own penalty,
Towards the slayer,
That gave birth to misery.
Aug 1, 2014
Aug 1, 2014 at 6:38 AM UTC
High above the teetering mast
A shout long awaited is heard at last
"Land ** Land ** Straight ahead"
Across the sea, the mariners sped
The mass of land, close in range
Ominously, the winds have changed
The ship drops anchor a hundred yards out
Rowing in without a doubt
Making landfall, the ****** cheered
A great appraisal to Brown Beard
Gallivanting, their songs sung loud
Roused, the sea soughed
Ripping from the strenuous tides
The monster emerges, the sea divides
Crashing down upon the ship
Fearful men tighten their grip
Threshing about as the beast descends
Into the depths where the mirk never ends
Duped, the mariners take their last breath
Inhaling, the seas grant them their death
Bloated corpses resurfacing
The dubious island repositioning
Full, the gulls await
For the next to take the bate
May 10, 2010
May 10, 2010 at 8:44 AM UTC
When we awake from the mist
I am in shadow,
the perambulance of
grief revisited,
till the lengthening toombstone
dwarfs hyperion-
a sculptors cast ,my shell my heart
The gestapo of faith revisited
that others may from my net
Dream sweet prision free-
psychedelic arrest eclipsing
aeons lost fears.
The secret of the hate filled chamber
green gas ,green light &
mercy all,
cracking under boot
ribs target
sheltering from a fathers love.
Were you or I to slumber
nor stir in walking shade
what nets of love entomb us
lest we rise-
the shining ,the living yet are gone
earth's first wake
Yet quickened beyond eyes recognition
The silver sash my silence brings;
a field soughed deep and empty
a fitting palace
for a king
The denseless hollows of my tears
or yet unvapoured from the ground
the shadow of the sky appears
enshrined
in rainbow's fallen glass.
If a child is not a fallen god
- why so unquiet and shallow the grave
that holds the brave emancipator
in such a gentle grasp .
Till in death we meet asunder
apart can never live
a blossom as in winter hangs its head
so a laurel wreath astutely made our measure
must be cast...
Sep 27, 2010
Sep 27, 2010 at 7:29 AM UTC
A curious child asked ' what is life? '
I ignored with a smile dainty, nice.
' What is life? ', ' what is life? '
Pulling my shirt child asked twice.
I took dust from ground.
And flew it in the sky.
Took him close to the ocean.
And flung a droplet nigh.
Showed leaves green on tree.
And how yellow beneath soughed.
Showed the smoke flying high.
And how it vanished into the cloud.
For a child answer was concise.
And I thought it would suffice.
Dec 18, 2014
Dec 18, 2014 at 9:20 PM UTC
They’d shovelled her husband into the ground
Before she got to the grave,
She wasn’t able to keep good time
And her husband used to rave:
‘I spend my life, waiting for you,
You’ll be late for your funeral,’
That wasn’t due, but it may come true,
She was late for his, do tell!
He wasn’t a very pleasant man
He was known for his violent moods,
She’d married the guy, then wondered why,
He was often downright rude.
She knew what he was capable of
For he’d often flipped his lid,
And left a trail of destruction then
For that was the thing he did.
If only she had got to the grave
In time for a swift goodbye,
And with a spray, sent him away,
She may have just heard him sigh.
But he must have known she was still at home
When the hearse, with him inside,
Arrived at the local cemetery
On time, but without his bride.
She lay awake in the bed that night
And thought she could hear him breathe,
Just across from her pillowcase
And her breast began to heave.
The wind sough-soughed at the windowsill
And she heard a step on the stair,
She wished for once she had been on time
To know she had left him there.
But she hadn’t seen the coffin drop
And the hole was almost full,
She’d asked that they uncover it
But she didn’t have the pull.
She only hoped he was six feet down
Unable to get back out,
When there was a rattle, out on the porch
And she heard a dead man shout.
‘Late, you’re late, you’re always late,’
It moaned, in an eerie tone,
‘You couldn’t get to the grave on time
So you left me all alone.
You’d not come even to say goodbye
And for that, you’ll pay the price,
For I’ll reach out of the grave tonight
And I promise, it won’t be nice!’
The shutters began to rattle and bang
And the door flew out, ajar,
The wind howled in like a taste of sin
‘I know just where you are!’
She shrieked, and pulled the covers up
And placed them over her head,
‘You just can’t stay, please go away,
You can’t be here, you’re dead!’
The covers were torn from her huddled form
And from what the coroner said,
‘Her face was white, she died of fright,’
Curled up in her lonely bed.
There was just one thing in the autopsy
That was missed, and he made a note,
The thing was botched, for her husbands watch
He found, was lodged in her throat.
David Lewis Paget
Jul 14, 2015
Jul 14, 2015 at 4:36 AM UTC
Sullenly, I quote whilst I quaff
Softly stammered surcease of wroth
Consummately ****** I sputter and cough
Sloshed ale sloppily sopped
Spite shed, soft shadows soughed
Soggily satiated at brimful trough
Feb 24, 2021
Feb 24, 2021 at 12:46 AM UTC
The man had a terrible temper,
Would rage at the skies above,
Would screech and howl, like a midnight owl,
He’d been unlucky in love.
He’d stomp about in the village square,
Go out, and look for a fight,
The villagers always avoided him
When he’d roam around at night.
Then he’d come and knock at my own front door
Demanding to talk to Jill,
I’d hear her say from the passageway,
‘I don’t want to talk to Bill!
I’d had enough when he beat me up
And my heart would never heal,
Just tell him I’m sticking with you, my love,
I know that your love is real!’
He’d punch the door, then he’d stand and roar
So I’d slam the door in his face,
He kicked a panel across the floor
And I said I’d call the police!
I heard him muttering as he left,
‘Come out, I’ll give you a fight,
Tell Jill she’s dead if she’s in your bed,
I’ll call in the dead of night!’
I took the hammer and nails outside
And battened the shutters down,
Then strung an electrical tripwire that
Would pulverise the clown,
‘The man’s as mad as a meat axe, Jill,
Bi-Polar, that’s for sure,’
‘More of a schizophrenic, Jim,
‘Be sure to bar the door.’
We’d sit in a petrified silence in
The cottage, every night,
Listening for the slightest sound
If something wasn’t right,
The roof would creak as the timber cooled
And the wind soughed through the eaves,
We even strained by the window panes
At the patter of Autumn leaves.
‘How long are we going to put up with this,’
I said to Jill, one morn,
‘He’s tempting fate by the garden gate,
He’s been there since the dawn.’
‘I’m going to have to confront him,’ said
The darling of my life,
I hadn’t proposed to her just then
But I hoped she’d be my wife.
She walked on out to the garden gate
And I heard him raise his voice,
I couldn’t quite make his words out, but
He was giving her a choice.
Then Jill I heard in a voice that stirred
From the depths of a gravel pit,
And he went white with a look of fright
And he left, and that was it!
‘What did you say to the maniac
That he turned and went away?’
She smiled, and cuddled on into me,
‘I think I made his day.
I said that I’d go back home with him
But I’d poison his meat and drinks,
Or slit his throat when asleep one night…’
He hasn’t been back here since!
David Lewis Paget
Dec 18, 2014
Dec 18, 2014 at 4:50 AM UTC
He sat on top of the headland in
The driving, pouring rain,
The way that the clouds were gathering,
He’d never be dry again,
He thought of the girl at Windy Tor
Who had screamed at his only sin,
‘You’d better beware of that witch’s stare
For the tide is coming in!’
And down in the river valley, there
Was a cottage, made of stones,
Where a temptress with a gleam in her eye
Was juggling spells and bones,
She called the lightning out of the sky
With a book full of ancient tricks,
And blasted the heath round Windy Tor
While lighting her candlesticks.
But up at the Tor, Myfanwy raged
And bubbled and boiled the sea,
She churned it into a raging storm
That her lover could plainly see,
He thought of warning the temptress who
Had entered his eyes and ears,
But heard instead his Myfanwy say,
‘It only will end in tears.’
He couldn’t go down to the valley, and
He couldn’t go up to the Tor,
He could feel his life unravelling
From the bliss that he’d felt before,
A wind soughed up from the valley floor
Full of tempting overtones,
But from the Tor there was something more
An ache, and a Wake of moans.
The sun went down and he turned to go,
He made his way in the dark,
The spell that he was enchanted with
Had finally made its mark,
He turned his back on the love he’d lost,
Went down to the valley floor,
But all he could hear when he got quite near
Was the sea that beat on the shore.
The sea rose up and it poured right in
As it flooded over the plain,
The tide had entered the valley, it
Would never be dry again,
And under the flood of Myfanwy’s mood
Was the cottage, made of stones,
While all that was left of the temptress was
A gaggle of spells and bones.
Myfanwy’s still up at Windy Tor
And nurses a constant ache,
While his regret hasn’t left him yet
For his foolish, one mistake,
He’d sought a spell that she’d love him well
Then fell to a mortal sin,
And always he heard Myfanwy’s words,
‘The tide is coming in!’
David Lewis Paget
Jul 30, 2014
Jul 30, 2014 at 3:30 AM UTC