"squall" poems
Death, sweet Death, beckons to me.
He is a lighthouse, warning most to avoid his realm
But He calls me by my name
He tells me to be dead is the greatest gift Life has to offer
And whispers of the secret joys of His hazy oblivion.
"Come my child and partake of my treasures," and
"Your troubles shall cease even as your spirit roams," are His entreaties.
At first His voice is as soft as the waves lapping at the shore
But as I ignore him his call becomes
louder
Louder
LOUDER
Than the squall of a maelstrom
Until He is all I hear
His voice dries up the Happiness fed by
Hope, who is a frightened dove.
And when Hope ceases to feed you in the morning and in the the evening, then
"Elijah, you are alone."
So
End Life to escape from Death.
Cast off your body and dwell with Him.
Death is the light in the lighthouse.
Choose that light
Choose darkness.
Oct 10, 2014
Oct 10, 2014 at 2:17 PM UTC
Corpses proliferate in soaring violence; heirloom of franchise and eminence— perish in erosion.
Timid denizens of derision, cynicism in roaring silence — optimism’s paling vapor—commodity of Indecision, our halcyon days forgotten.
Chosen token of audacity; the onyx maladroit feigns, prevaricating beneath the Sacred canopy.
Etudes of apathy; attrition unlamented; streams of guile— quixotic squall conversely merge — veiled conceit, eloquent arrow of equivocation.
The policy of attenuation.
Treason’s vine obscured beneath the blind surf of consent.
© 2014 & 2016 W. S. Warner
Jul 20, 2014
Jul 20, 2014 at 3:12 PM UTC
Another silent mid-Fall afternoon
Icy raindrops slash into my neck
The forecast calls for falling thumbtacks soon
One thin umbrella folding
Just 18 feet to the front step
With champagne acquainted
But forgot how to sip it
I slurp it down, eager,
'til I sit soaked and dripping
In time, fevered minds
will lower ears made for hearing
under waves of migraines
as mighty storm fronts are nearing
So I close down the bars and stumble home under awnings
Just to search for your name among newspaper cuttings
I've read the whole issue
and I've frowned over headlines
put it down
Now, soaked or dry, I've got only time
I've wasted so much of it losing my mind
I'm blind in the rain that now sticks in my hide
and they were right--
The forecast called for this squall to last all night
Another lonely mid-Fall morning walk
I follow gangs of specters in their steps
And, in the crunching gravel, ghosts will talk
November winds come howling
The second I leave my front step
The flavor's familiar
It comes back every morning,
when sunlight and sparrows
ignore tornado warnings
So the gales pick up strength
and a small bird's bones are hollow
The clouds lay oceans down
setting many sips to swallow
"So goodnight." I depart, but circle back in my wanderings
I'll always wind up here--shaky, ash-faced and yawning
I've read this before
it's printed on poor paper
in red ink
I can't say why I'm still walking by
Those other front doorsteps that I never try
The thick thumbtack rain stopped but I can't stay dry
the ghosts were right--
But if I find your name I might stop by.
Oct 26, 2012
Oct 26, 2012 at 7:09 PM UTC
In ruck and quibble of courtfolk
This giant hulked, I tell you, on her scene
With hands like derricks,
Looks fierce and black as rooks;
Why, all the windows broke when he stalked in.
Her dainty acres he ramped through
And used her gentle doves with manners rude;
I do not know
What fury urged him slay
Her antelope who meant him naught but good.
She spoke most chiding in his ear
Till he some pity took upon her crying;
Of rich attire
He made her shoulders bare
And solaced her, but quit her at cock's crowing.
A hundred heralds she sent out
To summon in her slight all doughty men
Whose force might fit
Shape of her sleep, her thought-
None of that greenhorn lot matched her bright crown.
So she is come to this rare pass
Whereby she treks in blood through sun and squall
And sings you thus :
'How sad, alas, it is
To see my people shrunk so small, so small.'
7k
Darkness, Shadows, Fright’ning screams
Red eyes haunt you in your dreams
With serpent coils and spider crawls
Clouded skies and banshee calls
Cold chills running down your spine
Something’s counting down your time
Monsters wait to draw your blood
Don’t listen for that sick’ning thud
With every turn you hear a howl
Eerie, freaky, creepy, growl
Apparitions all around
Voices groaning underground
Death and phantoms at your neck
Pirates on a grim ship wreck
Something’s coming down the hall
With fangs and claws and dying squall
Darkness, shadows, is this real
All this fear and dread I feel
I must wake up and see the sun
Or this nightmare won’t be done
Dec 9, 2014
Dec 9, 2014 at 11:15 AM UTC
They say lots of things about love,
They make it seem it is the ultimate desire,
Wanton and wilder than the known universe,
An cataclysmic explosion of two personalities,
Born separate, reborn together,
And yet...
I have loved worse men,
And lost better women than I deserve,
And now my convex chest is as vast and devastated as abbey ruins,
sanctuary,
sacred,
crooked,
ruined,
beautiful,
still here,
After hundreds of years.
Maybe I will live on in my memories,
For there are graveyards in my bones,
Eulogies imprinted on my arteries,
Long lost love letters scarred on my very marrow
For those that I drowned,
And those I saved.
My faith is a moorland hillside war memorial,
An obelisk to reach the very gods,
Your love is but a squall,
My hope is a trickle, a stream, a reservoir, in the deepest steepest canyon and Valley,
Your love is but a rain drop,
My clarity is at the bottom of a whiskey bottle,
Your love is but an ice cube.
Do not ask me brazenly to die for you,
When ******* me is your finest hour,
And I am but a pleasure boat ride for your masculinity to take a trip in,
We are not divine here;
My expectations are as low as your esteem:
A water you paddle in, a toe dipped perhaps,
but you wouldn't swim through, dare to at least,
And yet,
I am a rushing beautiful rainbow of a waterfall on a sunburn induced day,
The haze in the corner of your eye,
When you begin to question,
"is this too good to be true?".
Yes.
We are all but fallacies.
Dip your fingers and cross yourself,
As you wish for clemency.
But still,
Be still,
And know,
That,
I am,
God.
Am I?
Or am I just divine on your tongue?
Apr 23, 2018
Apr 23, 2018 at 4:24 PM UTC
A quaint little bazaar
In the heart of the town
Tells a story
Of a thousand moments
Dal Bazaar as they call it
Or "Curry Market" for others who don't know.
I have fragments of memorable memories
Deep within my mind
The smell
The intoxicating smell of spices
Blended with the quiescent yet cacophonous lives
Of Merchants and Beggars
Of Buyers and Sellers
Of Bullions and a single calloused rupia
In the hands of the old *****
The sunlight baking
Bags of turmeric.
Suspending the scent
In the minds of men.
Capering clouds of black and grey
And the sudden squall
Stirring the monotony
Of the customary.
The pirouette of rain
The one that excites the plainest of the plain
Painting the whitewash with shades of grey
The chalky walls
Dust
Moist corriander
And the relief of earth
Conciliating
So rewarding
For the ruins of the bare sun.
This flashback into my soul
Where all my senses seem to be so awake.
The feel of the wooden veranda
Scent so inexpressible
My eyes devouring the sunset
Tasting the heavens
Hearing it all.
Feeling it all.
Oh the plight of poets
The ritual to end a poem.
Painful.
Aug 16, 2014
Aug 16, 2014 at 3:33 AM UTC
I wanted to live for you.
I wanted to sacrifice myself for you.
It's always you that I love.
I gave you more than just enough.
As I kept doing it,
The squall inside me became uncontrolled.
It caused me a lot of pain.
I only realize now,
I'm the one I should love in this world.
This precious soul of mine.
Not so perfect but so beautiful.
Dec 13, 2018
Dec 13, 2018 at 9:19 PM UTC
.
I have one hand on the handle of the mad sane door,
the other is scraping shards on the missing floor,
my mind dissolves away into a hurricane squall,
and my face is the mirror on a stark naked wall.
My life is a fluid flowing through images weird,
dripping through the cracks, tactile and veneered,
pouring dark thoughts into a head once cleared,
the door whispers promises of nothing to be feared.
© Pagan Paul (14/12/17)
Feb 17, 2019
Feb 17, 2019 at 5:22 PM UTC
I stand upon a familiar shore,
of white sands and ocean waves,
looked upon so many years before,
you and I joined as true loves slaves.
Salten sea breeze fresh upon my face,
casting mist and haze like some dream,
where I see that other time in this place,
bound forever, or so it then did seem.
In this place I now stand so all alone.
as if drawn across rolling dark water,
to calmer days once warmly known,
before love like tide ebbed unto it's slaughter.
Days when loneliness was an unknown.
where sun was warm, and seas were still,
before any storm squall gales had blown,
or wave and wind wrought it's winters chill.
You alone were there to share my time,
I recall beauties smile upon your face,
beauty before tears performed their crime,
it was you that made this a perfect place.
But this sand now beneath my feet,
leads nowhere I would wish to go.
My memories now of loves defeat,
in a time my heart still longs to know.
Sand worn away and faded coastal dreams,
waves roll and ebb high upon the shore,
eroded memories by times cold extremes,
Never to know the beach as in those years before.
Mar 31, 2022
Mar 31, 2022 at 12:20 PM UTC
because our dreams of leaf-canopies and lignin
arrive at a certain variety of green, we will zither
anew with song
here in Bulacan; all the leaves are capsized
brandishing inflorescences as naked as
the scent of petrichor girdled
on the cobblestones: they are forsaken not by
trees but by seasons only, a twofold deliberation
of caprice: there is only two of what is spoken.
such is the warmth and coldness,
missing their obvious targets, hesitant and abstruse,
scattered and at long last, never collected
deftly camouflaged in the familiar drapery,
“Tantusan mo!” as they cry for marks to remember,
we touch the cicatrix to measure with our jagged hands
how much we have forgotten.
what we cease to remember descends deep, as wash-hand basins
concur such depth,
into the well of ourselves, later to discover such
perilous foundling in the squall of either morning or evening,
still devoid of sense: still arguing whether there is much
to reconcile with what has been found and what has been pictured
now, altered by such loss: this is danger, and so is nothing,
swollen and tender, the waters of the estero reek of such
remembering – we cannot ignore its perfume, oddly taking the shape
of the next dagger slowly making its way towards the back
of the skull to pare with river-run precision, what we all
try to hold back inside; so as if to say,
“Tantusan mo!” to remember
where we last took off, like a heron,
or a bird, wary of distances.
Jan 26, 2016
Jan 26, 2016 at 12:59 AM UTC
In the distant lands of forever
misted light seeps beyond line of sight
where gulls circle above the ocean squall
lies the dream of ethereal treasure
drifting in and out of dancing firelight.
Within the lush and precious emerald reaches
fly majestic golden hummingbirds
graced in flight off untouched white sand beaches
shadows stand tall in the eye of a lonesome moon
and in its fleeting ephemeral decree
couple wine with unspoken wise words
and see them better received.
In the Eleusinian dreams of men
gather the cornucopia of breath
nourish oneself in the last passing of days
grasp firm the righteous omen
and embrace the rituals within thy beating breast.
See glowing amber give flames to creation
revel in the pagan shamanism
rise above the mortal coil of chains
craft a celebration
and in the haze of hedonism
dance naked in the summer rain.
Jul 24, 2014
Jul 24, 2014 at 12:28 AM UTC
Hung up on a Sunday with a strung-up savior
Hanging from a cross across the hall
Pleading that a deity annul her misbehavior-
Her previous activities, forestall.
Hung up on the hunger pains, insatiable and gnawing
Knowing well the vigor of the squall
Hung up on a strung up stranger, rendezvous withdrawing
Waiting on the King of Kings to call.
Dec 5, 2011
Dec 5, 2011 at 4:00 AM UTC
A scarecrow
Tired and pale
Rakes himself up
After the squall
Feb 27, 2015
Feb 27, 2015 at 3:31 PM UTC
~Christi Michaels~December 2015~
**the air presents tranquility
zephyr winds which blow on high
swirling within the troposphere
veiled serenity
clouds stealthy shift
covering brilliant, poignant stars
air masses
a juxtaposition
tension exists between...
omnipresent
yet unseen.
the sky illuminates..sparks of light
swarms of fireflies
ubiquitous in flight
there is a calm
steady as a drone
unwavering in its commitment
to a reality yet unknown.
till the shift proceeds
balance moves to tilt
calm planes of matter
Present ready to meld
celestial balance
no longer in alignment
exploding outward
defying confinement
fragile realization
of a squall revealed
friction surmounts
air becomes thick
atmosphere now dense
expanding as it pulls in
a tempest has arrived
opposition exists
shards of electricity
violently ripping open
the sky above
zephyr winds which
blow on high
the inevitable calm before the storm**
* * * * *
Copyright © 2014 Christi Michaels.
All Rights Reserved.
Dec 28, 2014
Dec 28, 2014 at 9:38 AM UTC
ECLIPSE ©
Willowmena Wren©, 9/1/14
Don't let them sway you - you must stay true
Don't let them consume you - you must not be confused
Don't let them make a case for something you know is not real
Don't let them come between us or our fates you will seal
We are but stars in a dark, blue night
Our brightness blinds the wicked one's sight
We have love between us - as it's been through the years
We have warmth and sunshine to calm all our fears
Envious people regret nothing they do
They squish and they squall about others' as they muse
Grievous people stirring up angry words
They twist and they howl, scaring even the birds
No one can alter our fates as they do
But we can eclipse them - yes, me and you!
Nov 4, 2014
Nov 4, 2014 at 10:15 PM UTC
stand(ing) here alone in the dark
like a head of tack pirouetting away
to no music - only acrid scruple
of this being with and not being with,
one is always alone.
space occupies the potteries in
the garden as a steady arm of light
stills in its mouth, a flowering dark.
it is only 3 o'clock in the morning
and the heat clambers the wall of
the vacuously atrabilious moment
of just plainly existing. the slender
harlequin of moon, like an old lover
having its own way with me, a child's
yelp coming home — the hermetic
air crushing the light, slivering it
revealing all the ensconced phantasms
too commonplace like a fork in the road
that i know, or the wayward metropolitan
that teems with a concatenation of roads
and gutters bilious with the squall of day.
a figure moves entering a warm miasma,
receiving the star of aloneness,
vacillating between
place and placelessness
telling this originary of repossessing
the moon with a hand in my hand,
pressing a question of where
have you been all the raging while.
Oct 8, 2015
Oct 8, 2015 at 3:52 PM UTC
I walked the ridge
solo,
downward
into the squall,
battling hail
with ice-brick hands,
the rain pummeled
me below the alpine line
all the way to my nylon abode.
I wish I were still there,
it was joy.
Dec 14, 2013
Dec 14, 2013 at 3:52 PM UTC
We’ve been herded by hook and crook,
To obey convention, and read textbook.
The uniformity is maddening,
And the subjects are baffling.
The whole wide world is grand and open;
Why cordon the mind off in a tiny token?
Rules were meant to be broken,
To usher change and issue motion.
Creativity, art, they build up cultures,
Not to be picked at by robotic vultures.
They always nitpick and they scavenge,
Intent on making things a challenge.
Passion is the cornerstone of all,
It survives when things are squall.
It’s the sun that rises within you,
Makes you things you never knew.
Question everything, for your good;
You’ll find more than you ever could.
Explore everything, be curious;
For the world out there is glorious.
Challenge everything, be skeptical;
Your brain is knowledge’s receptacle.
Think outside, and break the rules;
Don’t blindly follow, like the fools.
May 29, 2014
May 29, 2014 at 3:24 PM UTC
All the sailor's know the warning
of a red-tinged sunrise morning
Storm clouds are on the bay
Just as Sally knew the forming
as his rage began its swarming
Storm clouds again today
Others see something pleasing
and rebuff the ocean's teasing
Storm clouds are on the way
And they said she was mistaken
no beast was there to awaken
Storm clouds they do embrace
But sailor's know their business
as time has oft made them witness
Storm clouds that run their race
To her the truth couldn't be clearer
as she looked into the mirror -
Storm clouds upon her face
The sailor knows to dodge the squall
that morning foretells with its call
Storm clouds then pass them by
Sally was left to take the fall
when truth was denied by us all
Storm clouds then let her die
Troubles in life they take all forms
so listen well when told of storms
Storm clouds never lie
Sep 19, 2010
Sep 19, 2010 at 1:33 AM UTC
Squall borne aloft, wildly brewing;
Erudite words or malarkey
Bustling and rustling and howling;
This poor mooncalf's soliloquy
Snow came to lay on rolling hills
Extinguished surviving embers
Absent warmth to counter the chills
This lone, tortured soul remembers
Spring arrived, flowers grow in bloom
Butterflies morphed to razor blades
Star! Save me from impending doom!
As this replete ice thaws and fades
Summer warms trees and birds above
Kiss from the breeze of gentle sea
My lady's heart billowed with love;
Much love to give, but naught for me
Hope, a sweet promise and a sham
Such a cruel drug, a poison
Sure to put a man in bedlam
I stand, steady as a bison
Apr 10, 2017
Apr 10, 2017 at 7:10 AM UTC
I used to think blue eyes were pretty,
his were not.
his were not cornflower, sapphire, baby, indigo, azure,
or cloudy sky blue.
His were midnight where the light pollution from the city blocks the stars.
Iceberg, squall, hypothermia, eventual death
May 19, 2025
May 19, 2025 at 10:47 PM UTC
Midnight Bat & Shadow Monkey
play
with smoke magic in moonlit parks
shimmering indigo stars dance
around them.
Island ***** & Mountain Fox
speak
jazz slithers in southern drawls
dripping in thick maple syrup droplets
off their tongues.
Savanna Fire Lion & Volcanic Red Eagle
sing
lighthouse words in squall-like skies
warming velvet hugs embrace
their eyes.
Psychedelic Air Otter & Hip Breezy Dragonfly
banter;
smooth repartee in tricky dream worlds
volley, twist and swirl around
their lips.
Queen Water Dragon & Aqua Gypsy Satyr
dance
Drooling patterns with swaying hips
Dawn smiles & electric fingers tingle
their spines.
Apr 22, 2014
Apr 22, 2014 at 7:49 AM UTC
Her body moved towards me
with grace and fury.
The gusts of her legs
and fingertips swirled
dangerously around my
hips and heart as I sat
breathlessly watching her squall
destroy all the walls
I have built.
It's a risky game to be a storm chaser,
but it's a devastating liaison to
love a tornado.
Jul 31, 2018
Jul 31, 2018 at 1:32 PM UTC
There is music at dawn in the song of the koyel
The tweeting, the chirping, the warbling,the cry
The medleys that float in the morning air
As birds sing a welcome to a rising sky
There is music in the span of feathered wings
The steady drone of the humming of a bee
As the sun revels on his throne at noon
While a brisk wind whisks leaves on willow trees
There is music in the silver drops of rain
A gentle drizzle or a thunder squall
Music in the flow of rivers and streams
And the sparkling cascade of a waterfall
There is music on slopes of lofty mountains
In echoes that reverberate of a water spring
In the soft rustling of a valley of flowers
Of blue irises and pink hyacinths
There is music in seas and oceans blue
Waves overreaching to meet the shore
Rippling in sounds of frothy ecstasy
Whispers of pearls and ocean floors
There is music at dusk when the day rests
The throaty croaks in a nocturnal sheer
As moths flutter drawn to light
'Tis music of life that I hear
Aug 7, 2016
Aug 7, 2016 at 9:50 AM UTC