"soughs" poems
Dangling sweet ambrosia scents
Repose upon the jasmine bench
Easing sorrowful soughs
Amidst lamented long slipped
Melancholy memories singing
Suserant soliloquies in stillness
--bruised orange
Oct 7, 2011
Oct 7, 2011 at 12:15 AM UTC
Beyond the butterfly feelings
In the whirlwind of our intimacy
A full option sensual desire
Distance distancing distance
All at once till we hit the ******
The zenith of pleasures and feels
Like the breakthrough of Miracles
Sounds of Soughs, ex and in hales
Hot Moments of breathlessness
Scratches of speechlessness
Mouth agape, dead-in-moments
long squeezes, short grips, sweats
Body vibrating, breath whispering
Emotions revealing, turn ons
Passions imploding, hard ons
Intense kinetic motions of kardias
Slippery shining fleshy mammalians
Till the moment of implosion: ******
That sweet ecstasy moment when
all that exists is what you feel
Nov 27, 2012
Nov 27, 2012 at 10:09 AM UTC
Out on the marsh on a lonely night
The wind soughs through his rags,
The hat that’s pinned to his painted face,
Flutters and soars, then sags,
His eyes are wide and his mouth is grim
As an owl is put to flight,
And nothing but shadows will venture there
For the Scarecrow rules the night.
And back in the manse in a window seat
The Parson’s daughter sits,
She stares at the fluttering coat-tails, but
In truth, is scared to bits,
She watches the sails of the windmill turn
And creak and groan in the gloom,
As clouds come stuttering over the marsh
In the rays of a Harvest Moon.
The father is out in the donkey cart
To tend to his aging flock,
He’s left Elizabeth waiting there
By the tick of the hallway clock,
But out on the moors and beyond the marsh
There rides one Highway Jack,
A frock coat topped with a bunch of lace
And a gold trimmed tricorne hat.
He’s whipped the horse to a lather
In a retreat from a new affray,
For the magistrates have gathered
Vowing to ride him down that day,
The redcoats wait in the village Inn
For the sound that they know too well,
When the curate sees the approaching horse
He’s to toll the old church bell.
But the curate lies in a drunken fit
On the floor of the old church nave,
And soon, by matins his soul will flit
From life to an early grave,
Elizabeth sits in the window seat
And thinks of the coin and plate,
As the highwayman dismounts, and ties
His horse to the manse’s gate.
He beats on the door, ‘Please let me in,
I’m weary and faint, that’s all.
I wouldn’t abuse your person, but
I fear my back’s to the wall.’
She leaves the seat and she slides the bar
For bracing the oaken door,
‘I dare not, sir, I fear for my life,
You’re safer out on the moor!’
Their voices echo across the marsh
Like fear, distilled in the night,
And something shudders out in the gloom
And lurches to left and right,
It seems forever, but now a sound
Tolls out, like a final knell,
For something, out in the church tonight,
Is tolling the steeple bell.
He barely makes it back to his horse
When the redcoats stand in line,
Their muskets fire a volley of shot
And his coat turns red, like wine.
They go to the church when the deed is done
To say, ‘You have done well!’
But the curate lies on the cold stone floor,
The Scarecrow tolled the bell!
David Lewis Paget
Jul 30, 2013
Jul 30, 2013 at 10:30 PM UTC
a balmy sweet day
the company of palms
caught the rays
with a
sway
blue hues
sliced evenly
through the green fan
Bahama breezes
brought blooming
bitd of paradise
dreams
dreams of footprints
on wet shore
DREAMS
of loving passion
forlorn
~~~ but ~~~
a little more time
a little more time
breezes sigh
pick up
become
WIND
sea begins to chop
sands to sing
air soughs through
the fronds of the
satin spikes
and the entire tree
begins to
SWAY
a dance awed
by forest nymphs
so potent and
courageous
~ yet ~
delicate and fragile
the spiked heads
of the palms
show a
frenzied nod
then a
shake
then they
/// BOW \\\
clouds glower
on the
horizontal lines
the joins of
sea and sky
rain begins to beat
tattoos
in the sands
the congregation of palms
are now bending low
touching their
foreheads
to the
singing beaches
like the devout
in a
mosque
they
bend
like reeds
but have a root
that touches the
inner sanctuary
of the
((( €ARTH )))
nothing will uproot
them from
her
(((♥HEART♥)))
with eyes closed
they go back
to being
TALL
and
PROUD
with teeth clutched
they know even
~ this ~
soon
will
>>> PASS <<<
(C) dajena m
(C) soulsurvivor
Oct 31, 2014
Oct 31, 2014 at 1:41 PM UTC
The falling leaves of fallen hearts
We have greatness in what we feel
Time alone will reveal its presence
Time can also break a waiting heart
November is a passionate fellow
But passion isn't about crushing lips
And hugs and kisses, sensual feelings
Nor climaxing the zenith of soughs
Passion is a balance of what we feel
Don't feel and want to so eagerly feel
Did no one ever kiss you so tenderly
Don't press them so tightly
Make them moist and air free
Slow sweetness starts passion
Passion hurts when its rushed
Gush! My Sweet November
Great November victors passions
For it always ascends in elevating
Love is not a power struggle
Its more than mere kissing
Victory is sometimes found in surrender
The slower vengeance ripens
The sweeter when plucked
You're are my Sweet November
I love you from here to the moon and beyond
Really slowly
Aug 4, 2014
Aug 4, 2014 at 4:37 AM UTC
walked across the dunes
to the light house to
clear my thoughts.
the windsailors were
riding the sky,
my son calls them the teabag people.
but to me they are like those seed pods that coast upon the
wind in search of something
beyond.
the grass soughs and if you sit
quietly enough,
you can hear the hungry cry of
the little tern chicks.
hidden in the dunes nearby.
the sand trickles through twining, grasping, tenuous grass roots,
single grains multi-hued,
flow like minature snowboarders down the dunes,
steep slippery slide.
little metallic black ants have the herculean task,
of working this slope for
seeds and other oddments of food.
i watch one stumble,stomp past, sherpa-like, precariously balancing a potato crisp's crumb.
while scaling the acute angle of sliding sand.
the pittering of the sandy ground indicates the presence
of giant skinks, sleek glassine skinned lizards that are at home in the area.
their track patterns, remind me of those old teach yourself
to dance charts seen in black and white films,
you would now find them mostly in antique stores.
the tide is in recess
and the terns are hunting,
mottled little sand *****
in some killer, crazy
game of tig or redrover.
where to lose is to looose!
the windsailor above is surpassed by
the big old seahawk
as he stretches his wings.
it is a comparison of true mastership,
over a poor and gaudy parody.
the hawk with practised disdain, dives,
through the breakers emerging,
with his fish dinner.
as i turn toward home.
i wonder,
was it the fandango the lizards, were trying to master?
Mar 24, 2014
Mar 24, 2014 at 12:32 PM UTC
My favorite trips are the ones I never took
In Kazakhstan there are trees submerged in Lake Kaindy
who instead of rotting have remained frozen in time, heavy
with icy spruce--and I feel strangely in touch with them.
Sometimes I'm self-sustaining on a single kiss, like any insect
of the Coleoptera order, literally, sheathed wing, the ones that crack
into the summer soil and bury themselves between dry blades of grass
and decomposing springtime--
I am a lot more of myself inside my head, terribly forward and
magnanimous, always curious and split into hundreds of questions
firing like these silvery synapses or a school of minnows refracting in and out, i'm afraid of never letting her go, that my fear of falling through every open door will forever deter me from finding that she is the best and most beautiful part of me.
that I will never change seats and let her continue on in thrilling fantasies of how I almost was--what I almost said and what could have been, building ecosystems around laughs and
hands and that feeling when in the low tangerine glow
two people pull up their shirts and press their skin together
unfolding in soughs as if they are gales rushing through
each other's sails, fluttering between knees and
glowing in barns.
she is there and wants to try everything, the most careful exhibitionist in daisy leaves and doily patterns, barefoot in your room with dandelions between her toes, wisps of cotton quilted into her hair, unwavering in the light and ever more in the dark, and when I am silent she is in the background quoting John Keats and Dylan Thomas, taking your fingers to trace her own lips, effervescent and tireless in the ways that she loves you without regard--
I want to let her go
I want to let her go
May 30, 2016
May 30, 2016 at 6:57 PM UTC
Male voices, quavering with cold,
call to Christ's chosen.
The Latin archaic.
Psalms learned
thru many years of hardship.
Music is a language
all are
born
knowing
Venus hovers the horizon.
The sighing snow brings frozen hands
clutching rosary beads
to lips shivering
with piety.
The wind soughs in the buttresses
as holy monks whisper
their prayers
as cruelly hard stone
laps at their knees.
Stoic. Spartan. Men who are not men,
nor yet eunuchs, battle foes unseen,
and devils in flesh
buffet them.
It will be some hours thus.
Faces set like flint
yet soft
as the breast
of
a
dove
SoulSurvivor
Sep 13, 2014
Sep 13, 2014 at 4:58 PM UTC
The trees were talking in foreign tongues,
The leaves had plenty to say,
As he stood deep in the golden grove
Watching the treetops sway.
A gentle breeze had caught at their breath
To carry their whispered tales,
From tree to tree in the woodland depth
While the Autumn winds prevailed.
And golden leaves lay thick at their feet
A magic carpet of death,
Fluttering down with their lives complete
At the time of their final breath.
But she lay still on a mound of leaves
And smiled at the man she loved,
While he looked up like a man who grieves
At the sway of the trees above.
‘Why is the Autumn fall so sad,
Could it be that they feel like us?
Their Summer went, and at last they’re spent
And fall from the trees like dross.’
‘They’ve had their season of love,’ she sighed,
‘While ours is still ahead,’
‘But even we,’ he had then replied,
‘Face the day when we’ll both be dead.’
He joined her down on the bed of leaves
And she kissed his lips and his brow,
‘I never think about death,’ she said,
‘But only the here and now.’
‘Don’t you listen to what’s been said,
Those fluttering leaves in the air,
They’re asking, what’s it like to be dead
In a tone of utter despair.’
‘How could you know just what they say,
They’re swaying trees in the breeze,
There isn’t a dictionary, per se,
That a man can follow with ease.’
‘Haven’t you heard the tender moan
They make, when the wind soughs through,
Their sadness echoes in every tone
And it kills me, looking at you.’
‘You have to stop, you’re frightening me,’
She said as she pulled away,
‘I thought that we came to make sweet love
On a beautful Autumn day.’
‘But what will we think when our skin is dry,
And wrinkled, so many years,
Maybe the love that we feel today
Will lie in a horse-drawn hearse.’
He looked again and he watched her age
So brittle, an Autumn leaf,
Dry and brown, he was looking down
While she stared with eyes of grief.
‘You’ve taken away our springtime, Joe,
And reached for the Autumn rain,
I only know that I have to go
And I’ll not come here again!’
David Lewis Paget
Jun 14, 2015
Jun 14, 2015 at 7:17 AM UTC
In a world that is caught
between all the cracks,
there's a lonely old woman
with a **** on her back.
She is wearing a shawl
that's tattered like feathers.
She is speaking aloud
And the words are her tethers.
She raises her arms
And she spins in the darkness.
Weaving and tripping
Against the world's starkness!
She is chanting the words.
She is moaning the words!
She is crying the words!
She is shouting the words!
She is whispering the words.
She is sighing the words...
She is drowning in...words!
And in her dark eyes
That are shadowed..now streaming,
You can see that shes crazy!
You can hear her mad keening!
Her shawl lifts and flutters-
the feathers all airborne!
They swirl all around her
Like a dandelion snowstorm!
And when the wind soughs
And clear is the air
.......There's a crack in the sky
She is no longer there...
Mar 24, 2011
Mar 24, 2011 at 6:20 PM UTC
The verdency has long been bleached from the grass.
It is now hollow straw and chaff.
It soughs and rattles it's
sorrow in whispering distress.
The livestock, ***** smudges
of skin and bone.
Stand listless, under the stick
bare branches, of the ghost gum .
Waiting for the rumble
of the feed truck to come.
The dust swirls, red fine
and irritating to skin and eyes.
The only creature to thrive
are the buzzing horde of
flies.
The bore pump clanks to life
and the water allotment
flows.
The sheep arise and drink
the trough, bone dry.
Before resettling into hungry
repose,
under the white ghost gum west of Gundagia.
This is drought, this is the
wait for rain, this is the daily
struggle, the farmers lonesome refrain.
All but the sturdiest stock
sold, shot or long gone dust,
to the unforgiving heat. Nuturing the best,
saved from starvations
questing hold.
To rebuild the farm
and complete Job's test.
After the rains have come,
all will be good again.
And if they don't come.
Doesn't matter, soon we'll
all be dead.
Apr 2, 2014
Apr 2, 2014 at 3:52 AM UTC
Low-lit along the coast
young boys play bones upon the stone, and the elders,
waiting for the sea, conceal their interest.
The waves are far enough to ignore
but the salt mist has lingered:
blurs the tracks about the strand made by creatures whose names you once knew;
lost now amongst the streaming lists and orchestral sounds that drown the young before bedtime.
for some time prophesy or tradition,
the journeys tracing symbols down to
the sepulchral cities that rust under water –
Sometimes bring droughts,
reveal spires and penthouses, weathervanes and aerials.
lose a notebook and die elderly gardening temples.
fear life in sustenance.
fear primordial words
that chime like glass honey traps
dull and shallow.
fear
the panoramic shots of cattle
, a great still herd shivering breakers of light,
the temporary herder, you weren’t permitted to see, chasing away baboons with long-ish strides behind you.
poetry is always chasing
and each step will always chase better,
transcribing the soughs of the meadow (or other inhuman acts)
to speak with running subtitles:
in the translation of a voice
to be some natural thing singing
like the humpback corrupting the grace of the older song
whilst tootling along the coast
May 26, 2015
May 26, 2015 at 12:55 PM UTC
wind soughs outside
slightly
I'm up late tonight
my sister careens
on the eastern coast
touches Topsail
with her lacy fingers
and I cross mine
wheels and wheels
like lockstep men
march inland
automobiles whine
like soon, treelines
I'm up so late
my best friend dreams
in the wayside,
somewhere west of me
after a long day
of convincing her boyfriend
to high-tail his *** out of Raleigh
Clayton, it is
he decided
her fret only calmed enough to sleep
by his promises of a high-rise property
and below 70 mile wind speeds
I can feel my eyelids tug
my brother's fingers thrum
on countertops
well-wishes in morse
as he says he'll stop thinking about it, now
no, wait... now
and my mother works to bend
each emerging frown
as my fingers drum up natural disaster nonsense
I watch, wait for the earth's recompense
as it surely blares through my old house's fence
rippling through the silhouette of the statue
my sister's soul had attached itself to
every crevice of county road
every man-hiked piedmont mile
interstices of feet and snow
the dirt that has seen every trial
to fail under inclement weather
they say it's overdue
that it's been a while
Sep 12, 2018
Sep 12, 2018 at 1:48 AM UTC
Raindrops, liquid drops
Rain, rain, as the sky opens,
Raindrops fall down to earth,
The parched soil suckles every drop hungrily.
Satiated and nourished, it brings forth new life.
Lush,green grass begin to grow,
Soft and silky smooth.
New foliages on trees sprout over old ones,
Drinking rain in gulps,
And when the wind soughs through the branches,
They rustle melodiously.
The rivers, lakes and dams,
Have their fill,
Waterways gush down to the plains,
Bring forth new life in all forms,
Lambs,calves,cubs,what not.
Young lovers,dance in the rain,
Entwined,lost in each others arms,
As silver drops kiss their skin.
Boys and girls,
Stamp their feet in puddles,
Shrieking with laughter.
Flowers in the rain,
Have their shower and drink,
Their colours become more beautiful,
They are happy, growing and fresh.
Pitter patter,splish splash,
Comes down the rain,
Cleanses,renews and hails in,
New life,new harvest and nature in abundance.
May 27, 2018
May 27, 2018 at 6:16 PM UTC
(1)
We cross seas with our wrists
And drown in rivers too minute
To keep our muscle afloat.
I once heard there was a time
When the moon
Bled tears of recognition for our hearts;
Now my last name soughs the story
Of women who wept
In lieu of pursuing their second beings,
Dominated by passionate blows of vulnerability.
(2)
Still today my skin
sheds your light
Only to leave me with estranged metal bonds
Whose conductivity has
burnt into dust.
(3)
Pain-stricken, I clasp you
With the contractions you send to my broken legs.
You inform me: This is Home;
I carefully murmur within,
This is a rotten home; this is Loneliness.
Yet I strangely feel glimmers of radiant energy
Shine through these windows,
Only to pass into my own holes.
(4)
I stay.
Jul 16, 2014
Jul 16, 2014 at 10:12 PM UTC
I’m listening to gentle praising
the wind praises the trees
as it soughs through the leaves
the leaves tremble at the touch
birds praise the gusting air
as it carries their songs across
the nimble land to my ear
a trilling of joys and feathers
my heart joins in, making the trio
a quartet of flute, timbrel, song, and heartstrings
melodiously transporting all who listen
to join the angel choir in windy praise songs
to Life
c. 2023 Roberta Compton Rainwater
Oct 1, 2023
Oct 1, 2023 at 11:54 AM UTC
Plum rain halts, river's still, sails fall
Isle's near, smoke's clear, wild **** soughs
By the dock, fishermen sing an old tune
I am home, far from Land of Shu
A dream, a song, two scores fly by
In a monk's thatched hut, I hear
the rain impinges upon the earth
May 11, 2020
May 11, 2020 at 10:05 PM UTC