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'Why keep a cow when I can buy,'
Said he, 'the milk I need,'
I wanted to spit in his eye
Of selfishness and greed;
But did not, for the reason he
Was stronger than I be.

I told him: ''Tis our human fate,
For better or for worse,
That man and maid should love and mate,
And little children nurse.
Of course, if you are less than man
You can't do what we can.

'So many loving maids would wed,
And wondrous mothers be.'
'I'll buy the love I want,' he said,
'No squally brats for me.'
. . . I hope the devil stoketh well
For him a special hell.
Late, late yestreen I saw the new moon,
With the old moon in her arms;
And I fear, I fear, my master dear!
We shall have a deadly storm.
Ballad of Sir Patrick Spence.

I

Well! If the Bard was weather-wise, who made
The grand old ballad of Sir Patrick Spence,
This night, so tranquil now, will not go hence
Unroused by winds, that ply a busier trade
Than those which mould yon cloud in lazy flakes,
Or the dull sobbing draft, that moans and rakes
Upon the strings of this Aeolian lute,
Which better far were mute.
For lo! the New-moon winter-bright!
And overspread with phantom light,
(With swimming phantom light o’erspread
But rimmed and circled by a silver thread)
I see the old Moon in her lap, foretelling
The coming-on of rain and squally blast.
And oh! that even now the gust were swelling,
And the slant night-shower driving loud and fast!
Those sounds which oft have raised me, whilst they awed,
And sent my soul abroad,
Might now perhaps their wonted impulse give,
Might startle this dull pain, and make it move and live!

II

A grief without a pang, void, dark, and drear,
A stifled, drowsy, unimpassioned grief,
Which finds no natural outlet, no relief,
In word, or sigh, or tear—
O Lady! in this wan and heartless mood,
To other thoughts by yonder throstle wooed,
All this long eve, so balmy and serene,
Have I been gazing on the western sky,
And its peculiar tint of yellow green:
And still I gaze—and with how blank an eye!
And those thin clouds above, in flakes and bars,
That give away their motion to the stars;
Those stars, that glide behind them or between,
Now sparkling, now bedimmed, but always seen:
Yon crescent Moon, as fixed as if it grew
In its own cloudless, starless lake of blue;
I see them all so excellently fair,
I see, not feel, how beautiful they are!

III

My genial spirits fail;
And what can these avail
To lift the smothering weight from off my breast?
It were a vain endeavour,
Though I should gaze forever
On that green light that lingers in the west:
I may not hope from outward forms to win
The passion and the life, whose fountains are within.

IV

O Lady! we receive but what we give,
And in our life alone does Nature live:
Ours is her wedding-garment, ours her shroud!
And would we aught behold, of higher worth,
Than that inanimate cold world allowed
To the poor loveless ever-anxious crowd,
Ah! from the soul itself must issue forth
A light, a glory, a fair luminous cloud
Enveloping the Earth—
And from the soul itself must there be sent
A sweet and potent voice, of its own birth,
Of all sweet sounds the life and element!

V

O pure of heart! thou need’st not ask of me
What this strong music in the soul may be!
What, and wherein it doth exist,
This light, this glory, this fair luminous mist,
This beautiful and beauty-making power.
Joy, virtuous Lady! Joy that ne’er was given,
Save to the pure, and in their purest hour,
Life, and Life’s effluence, cloud at once and shower,
Joy, Lady! is the spirit and the power,
Which wedding Nature to us gives in dower,
A new Earth and new Heaven,
Undreamt of by the sensual and the proud—
Joy is the sweet voice, Joy the luminous cloud—
We in ourselves rejoice!
And thence flows all that charms or ear or sight,
All melodies the echoes of that voice,
All colours a suffusion from that light.

VI

There was a time when, though my path was rough,
This joy within me dallied with distress,
And all misfortunes were but as the stuff
Whence Fancy made me dreams of happiness:
For hope grew round me, like the twining vine,
And fruits, and foliage, not my own, seemed mine.
But now afflictions bow me down to earth:
Nor care I that they rob me of my mirth;
But oh! each visitation
Suspends what Nature gave me at my birth,
My shaping spirit of Imagination.
For not to think of what I needs must feel,
But to be still and patient, all I can;
And haply by abstruse research to steal
From my own nature all the natural man—
This was my sole resource, my only plan:
Till that which suits a part infects the whole,
And now is almost grown the habit of my soul.

VII

Hence, viper thoughts, that coil around my mind,
Reality’s dark dream!
I turn from you, and listen to the wind,
Which long has raved unnoticed. What a scream
Of agony by torture lengthened out
That lute sent forth! Thou Wind, that rav’st without,
Bare crag, or mountain-tairn, or blasted tree,
Or pine-grove whither woodman never clomb,
Or lonely house, long held the witches’ home,
Methinks were fitter instruments for thee,
Mad Lutanist! who in this month of showers,
Of dark-brown gardens, and of peeping flowers,
Mak’st Devils’ yule, with worse than wintry song,
The blossoms, buds, and timorous leaves among.
Thou actor, perfect in all tragic sounds!
Thou mighty poet, e’en to frenzy bold!
What tell’st thou now about?
’Tis of the rushing of an host in rout,
With groans, of trampled men, with smarting wounds—
At once they groan with pain, and shudder with the cold!
But hush! there is a pause of deepest silence!
And all that noise, as of a rushing crowd,
With groans, and tremulous shudderings—all is over—
It tells another tale, with sounds less deep and loud!
A tale of less affright,
And tempered with delight,
As Otway’s self had framed the tender lay—
’Tis of a little child
Upon a lonesome wild,
Not far from home, but she hath lost her way:
And now moans low in bitter grief and fear,
And now screams loud, and hopes to make her mother hear.

VIII

’Tis midnight, but small thoughts have I of sleep:
Full seldom may my friend such vigils keep!
Visit her, gentle Sleep! with wings of healing,
And may this storm be but a mountain-birth,
May all the stars hang bright above her dwelling,
Silent as though they watched the sleeping Earth!
With light heart may she rise,
Gay fancy, cheerful eyes,
Joy lift her spirit, joy attune her voice;
To her may all things live, from pole to pole,
Their life the eddying of her living soul!
O simple spirit, guided from above,
Dear Lady! friend devoutest of my choice,
Thus mayst thou ever, evermore rejoice.
Marshal Gebbie Nov 2011
From origins of humble pie
From parentage so bland,
A simple soul with simple goals
He sprang from South Auckland.
The green, green grass of Tuakau
The onion fields of home,
Wherein he tended hives of bees
For golden honeycomb.
 
Tall and lanky, mighty man
He strode through life in tune
With little fanfare, little flair
No technicolor moon,
To choose the low key profile
Was an automatic thing,
Humility was in his blood
Elan, a spurned gold ring.
 
Self conscious, long and concave chest
A toothy lantern jaw,
With skinny ribs and pallid skin,
A boy could want for more?
Bright shiny eyes and earnest will
He gathered up his gear
And conquered Mt Olympian
Without a trace of fear.
 
A forte found, a passion sprung,
A love for mountain air.
The rocky crags and pristine snow
The cold wind in his hair.
***** after ***** his long legs climbed
His skill and ardor grew,
And all at once he found himself
In a Himalayan crew.
 
The stories told the legends made
Those mighty deeds alone,
Both he and Tenzing stood astride
The planet’s summit dome.
They went to where no other man
Had ever been before.
They conquered Everest’s soaring peak,
They witnessed heaven’s door.
 
And on and on through life he strode
He raised a happy brood,
But tragedy would strike and ****
That joy in Kathmandu.
To ressurect, to lift your game
From whence you were so low.
It takes a special breed of man
To wear that dreadful blow.
 
The Sherpa schools and hospitals
Were built by funds he raised,
He organized good teachers
And the building Trusts he paid.
In far Nepal and India too
His fame did spread afar
But this man kept his ego
Firmly locked up in a jar.
 
He shot the mighty Ganges
In a jet boat through and through
He drove a Fergi to the Pole
And through McMurdoe too.
Across the world his fame did grow
To epic size and plan
But in his heart he stayed intact
An ordinary man.
 
Throughout this fair and lovely land
I think it’s true to say
That every man & boy & girl
And farmer baling hay,
Respects this Kiwi Icon true
And salutes, to a man,
This epitome of greatness
From the Himalayan land.
 
Today we said a sad farewell,
The rich and famous too.
All gathered here in squally air
In thousands, me and you.
We celebrated greatness
And a noble life supreme.
We tasted humble graciousness
In a grateful Sherpa’s dream.
The words were said, so well I thought
Reflecting, probably,
This lifetime will not see again
The like of Hillary.
 
Marshalg
Mangere Bridge
22 January 2008
I planted a cherry tree
Four seasons back
In a morose rain
Pelting sharp upon nimble naked boughs
And rows, of wild berries
Running amuck in an unruly strain.

The tree is a full bloom now
Of white satin flowers
Swirling against a beaming blue

Tonight, as night keeps a vigil over my eyes
I get under my squally Cherry Tree
And suddenly I see it ailing
Sick old moon peeps through its branches
And I hear them crackle, not clear though
Moaning unobtrusive, through a wicked grin.
The moon lingers on long
Shining painfully in the womb of night.

I feel the stiffening wood coagulate in my veins
As blackness suffuses unbridled
In the cold wilderness of mind.

April never was summer in Kashmir
Look unto these dark skies
Those pierce the ether yet once more
Pelting mercilessly upon
The ailing, armourless beings
Whereby the cruel moon grins
And my heart wilts with each withering flower
Knocked down in the mud by
The unsparing shower.

Tears trickle down the smeared petals
And I collect them into my eyes
Till the plethora can no longer be contained
I let them fall
Into the capacious ***** of earth

And in this cruel April rain
My Cherry Tree shivers.
Moans. Weeps. Over me.
Kedar Aug 2016
Stygian clouds clash,
Drizzles a great squall,
Quenches the parched land's thirst,
The nature's blue wonder.

The shower pours down,
Soaking the natures hand,
Spilling on the dry fields,
Flourishes the farmers land.

Fill the dry lakes,
Overflow the thirsty dams,
Fall the natures cascade,
Drench the lifeless forests.

Trees sway merrily,
In the gusty winds,
Their shrivelled state vanishes,
As bathe them a deluge.

The concrete jungle wettens,
The beings here rejoice,
As falls the rain,
Ends the withered climate.

Droplets dash the ground,
The view fantasise me,
To feel the zest at once,
Out my abode i flee.

To embrace the weather,
I go drench in the pour,
Splashing through puddles,
No worries of muddy clothes.

Streets wetten up,
Slippery they seem
Vehicles slide over it,
In the squally weather.

A scurry i see,
As run people on the roads,
Seeking for cover somewhere,
As rain cats & dogs.

Many tunes i hear,
A  "pitter patter" ring's my ear,
The ***** traffic jam,
Disrupts the nature's hymn.

Kids i see around,
Dance in this noise,
Sail they paper boats,
A child in me invokes.

"Red hearts" roam around,
As continues the watery storm,
Spending minutes of love,
As showers this romance charm.

Flows a chilly gust,
Pour and pour the clouds,
Soaks the busy city,
The first squally shower.

Drenched up dear me,
I am back at home,
After natures cool splash,
My hearts quenched now.

Back at home,
I seat by the window,
Relishing the weather,
In the chilly monsoon.
             - Kedar K
ArturVRivunov Oct 2011
When I walk I’m deep with my senses, clearly drawn to people’s alluring glances.
So lucid they think, their eyes show the interest far from extinct from my stance in this world.
I feel that I’m respectively speaking, to say so the least.
I’m not recluse or a beast always wanting to feast.
If I had to say so the least, I’m as calm as the tree with the leaf, that stays calm when the wind turns to burn, while everyone goes with the turn.
Because it’s what the tree made them learn.
But back to the point I was making while you are sitting by this tree,
looking at me with such glances pointing at stances,
blaming the cause which in you is aloft,
making you soft to pretend in this wind,
moving you and the others to part sways in the matter the wind is racing.
When simply it’s all about the peace calming transparent flow,
less transfiguring your stance in this warming sensation. . .

When I stroll, I feel deep in my senses, just life of the sound I’m within.
I feel you friend, no need to misunderstand because I’m the kind,
only of a kind, truthfully speaking since the world is ordinarily laid but so many minds sillily played.
What’s the reason to hastily be placed?
Impatiently wasting the self through calamitous wind around you in its ways,
pulled of your senses to part in its flowing admiration to help you feel its position not what the tree has been foolishly placing.
The sternness of impeccable word, just blur through the blurry frustration fostering to break wind from word communication.
But back to the sound that’s within, that plays for me again.
I say its sweet in this miserable place full of faces with eyes that stick with assumptive cases.
I can sense uneasy feeling of their spiritual mirror, lost in their glance even unheard, why did **** **** **** such lovely bird?
So you see what I’m saying, as angry ***** would be saying.
All the angry ***** this part over will be playing. . .because even words turn swiftly by the wind, gripping around the calm of your leaf.
You feel yet what I feel?
Practice with the wind, don’t amend to the blend of practicality because some want one option for you to be planted to grow all over this world as attired.
Only feeling whole after past your time being retired.
How in this sense could we live in such life time without sharing simple joys that some used to uphold,
but then life changed with a fold, all you could is forget and be sold, just like I was.
Funny story, but no worry, I’m no worry for you to worry.
One day I’ll share with you this story.
Plenty time don’t worry. . .to those who die I’m sorry, but there’s more joy in this story,
your story then the idea they abhor to make you feel this squally worry.
Although your dead and won’t hear my story, life will tell you after. . .
But of your self that I've been listening trying to feel you in what you have been missing.
It’s funny to words I have been retorting to, to explain exactly the calm of the self, when the word can never touch on such imperfection as to why the word is always leaning towards this misdirection. . .
hidden deep down in its simple complexion, when its all misdirected with the imagery that comes with projected. . .that’s why ***** get angry at my use of such satisfying word deep under their ego -blistic wants. . .
never relenting their simple misfortune of always trying at preventing the complicated feeling of but resenting what’s to them so complicated. . .
for a feeling they never awaited, stopping into churches thinking its something one day be recon-stated, but when silly as a church where they put you under at your birth, without a will to simply choose the path really most tend to loose. . .instead sticking a mat under your body as if its going to be the least your life can embody. . .and your parents so meek to realize from beginning as it it’s meant to be. . .life of being peaceful, instead disgracing you later for your aspirations. . .in any way possible manipulating your gracious. . .Even this comes as a misunderstanding because some choose to feel my words out of tune in miscomprehending the essence of my stroll through this wind. . instead resentment in the form shows up in assumptive waves with negative impression of your ease for my self I could give **** less when from you I hear your impression, since moi it don’t displease. . .but I keep on strolling with my full senses at life’s mistaken glances shadowed down on the branch caressing with pretences, in which all jump into with a **** full of stances. . . .with my outmost respect I have for everyone in any sort of the trances. . .
This is obscure and obscene in the sense of use of words. It is simply a prose with metaphorical concept of flow with the use of periods to make a point as well as to hint on the idea of a drive towards alignment of ideas of one sensation as how the prose commenced.
and we met up, same place,
seats still cold but comfy.
Your cheeks were fuchsia pink
from the squally breeze outside
and I had one of my scarves
wound around my neck,
red and black
like a chunk of children’s candy.
The story you'd started
was going well,
ideas popping up
as a villain would
in a hackneyed horror film.
I said a sporadic poem
spilled onto the page
but little else,
just comatose dross.
Twenty past,
coffee swam over our teeth
like sepia-bikinied swimmers.
Somehow you were more beautiful
but unaware of it,
your hair brighter
under the glare of the lights above.
The youngest pair around,
early twenties, 'whole life ahead.'
How wrong.
Our relationship a radiator
that fails to heat up enough.
Everybody has one.
I'll write about you someday for sure.
Some day.
Written: December 2012.
Explanation: Poem written in my own time, intended as a follow-up to earlier piece 'It Was a Wednesday I Think'. NOT based on real events, but written with a specific individual in mind. Also available on my WordPress blog.
Someone Jan 2014
Unbeknownst to them,
Who speak with words of folly
I writhe and employ strength
Where they often squally

I struggle and I break,
Quiet and alone
As I do suffer for my sake;
Oh, how I do bemoan

They shall observe, surely stern
With not same, but similar, eyes
That quite mock, and quite discern
My sadness from their like

Frustration abound, lamps none alight
I cannot speak, but listen; and write
Stormy day , rising , pollen laced puddles
Obsidian , squally countryside backdrops -
with aromatic Wisteria infusions , humid , sunbeam fueled -
certain windstorm conclusions
Citywide , asphalt stained vehicles , rain engulfed curbside -
rivers at full pool , diesel fumes swallowing available air
at four-way intersections
Discarded paper , eastbound swayed hardwoods
Snapping flags cry out in brief , turbulent episodes
Evergreen needles at hours disposal
The mechanized voices of late afternoon
travel and corruption
Copyright May 9 , 2016 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
Rohan Nath May 2017
You sang me my first song when I was in the womb.
Endured pain to grant me the breath of existence,
Shed tears of joy when I was released from the cocoon.
How could I ever forget your warm hug and over possessiveness?

You nurtured me and I still remember your bed time stories,
I have seen you wake up the whole night when I was ill.
It made me feel secure and in the state of bliss.
You wake me up during midnight and make me have my pill

Reprimand me in every idiotic and erroneous step I take;
Now whenever I commit an error, I just visualize your image,
And my intellect prevents me from committing a mistake.
Oh Mother! The feelings are too great to be contained in this page!

During my childhood, I used to snooze on the couch intentionally,
So that you would bestow me on bed and tug blanket.
You always sheltered me in your arms when it rains or if it’s squally.
Oh Mother! Wish I could time travel to those remarkable dates!

Your fragrance is sufficient to make me feel relaxed.
To our family you embrace the uppermost position,
We would be lost without your management and your acts.
Oh Mother! You really show me how it feels to be with your loved ones!


You taught me the technique to survive in this peculiar world,
For you knew that you wouldn’t be with me forever.
Be pleased! For ‘I am prepared’ is my word!
I guarantee I won’t fall down whatsoever.
Squally weather evolves into 'Life's Saccharum Wine' , dripping from grateful leaves and every vine
Seasoned with tangy , Foothill tree and honey- flower alike
Forest patrons cull their mouths with all their might , a parched countryside becoming drunk with delight
To partake in natures vintage from blessed Earthen cask this
rain cooled September night
Copyright September 11 , 2016 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
EP Robles Oct 2018
IT rained ruinously down the streets went the
raging day's temperament
The dog's barking and snapping at the droplets
of regretful tears that grew into monstrously
huge violence
A hailed cab stood no chance and a failed
businessman took his clothes off and dove
headfirst into the gutter of despair
The young mother with her stroller hoisted
her sails and allowed squally wind to
pacify the cute cuddly cherub
\no other thing existed.  The world
was all empty pending the eleven o'clock
news./

Unpredictable -- as is nature.

:: 09-29-2018 ::
Life
TheMystiqueTrail Sep 2018
Soughing through the meadows,
waves of stately grass swaying to your squally weaves.
Playing through the treetops
swinging them to your fantasy;
diving down,
breathing music into the withered, dead-brown leaves,
raising them from their gravey bed –
the summer wind in its mischievous dance!

Gold of the shining sun
lighting up the wind’s fairy wings –
a phantom dancing frantically.

Dead leaves
waltzing up to the heavens
in a majestic whirlwind!

O summer wind,
‘vigorate my wings with your arcane breath;
hitch me to your wings,  
take me to the exotic lands you graze!
Derrek Estrella Nov 2018
When I’m late for the party
Will my friends realize
That I don’t need anybody
To gaze at me in the eye

I’m alone in this chair
I’m entranced by my hand
I wear a stop motion stare
Watching Murmillos dance

I watch a billowed Boeing
Waiting for its head to yaw
I hear my matter flowing
But it’s yet to reach my maw

I’m alone in this world
My convulsions hold my tail
I’m still searching for a girl
Should I burn in the hail

Find me in the cinema
Find me in the cinema
Find me in the cinema
If you miss me
Find me in the cinema
Find me in the cinema
Find me in the cinema
If you miss me

When I’m lost in my folly
Will my friends peel off my eyes?
Will they find my reels of squally
Bite and tear at my own guise?

I’m alone in this seat
I am called without a smile
I will fold under the heat
Of the night’s airless mile

Find me in the cinema
Find me in the cinema
Find me in the cinema
Could you kiss me?
Find me in the cinema
Find me in the cinema
Find me in the cinema
Could you miss me?
Aly OMalley Oct 2020
Arise, arise
For their spite is their folly
Arise, arise
Clutch that burden of sight
Arise, arise
For the Queens become squally
Take hold your own hand
Stand tall for the fight

Be willing
Be bold
Be strength
Don’t fold
Take flight
Command
Be brave
Don’t land

For the King and his men
Will trample
Descend

“But FIGHT!”  

Said she.

“We’ll win...”

“...they’ll see.”
Antonia LS Kofod Feb 2020
Outside is gargling with rain;
A displeasing pitter-patter of cloudburst spittle,
You sunlight absent, serotonin vampire, dooming me into this inferior place while water flows into canals frying golden leaves that pass and pass.

I glare and I glare at the whiteness of this page; my to-be creation and what will I create?
Sunburned arc eyes, shuttered, flickered flashes
I recalled, ‘I am a creature of the pen’,
she said: ‘My pen is the best of me’. We share a name you know?

It was 1988, a blizzard hastened its squally flakes
during my twenty-hour wait.
They groaned, they rumbled against the frail hospice window; mother had always said.
A grating cry creaked that February night;
the blizzard was worried stiff.
shall I write about the night I came to be?

So there I am a sprout germinating in the dark,
Birth towards decay.
A natural occurrence, if you know?
I expected so much more.
there is so much more to say.

But I shut my eyes and I am rushing and I am dashing
towards the end of the horizon.
I drop myself into the pool of dooming sunsets,
Be swallowed into darkness; sweet comfort of the unseen.
And after I howl my yowl,

I let it
hiss the birth
of an unfamiliar
miracle
I used nature metaphors and imagery to describe raw emotion and real-life experiences
Lisia C Walsh Oct 2019
An arrow is a traveler
The wind is a visitor
Life is a long scroll painting
and
You and I are poems
When the golden leaves of autumn fall into the water
I saw a new life coming.
When the squally shower falls to the heart
I saw life dying
Spring is a preparation for the gods
Thousand arrows shot
The song of the angels rang through the wilderness
To the depths of the sunset
The road to Rome is not far away
a team of carriages
Take turns
Catch a dark day
When winter comes
You are still on the road
And the person who drives is you.
Qingming Shanghe Tu Scroll
Dvořák’s New World Movement
The Potala Palace
Are road signs
Life is like a cradle
Feast of wine
Only after you have drunk
Know the direction
beams of sun
light up our cottage
spills of snow on mountain tips
icy wind
clear blue sky
olive trees justly jive

squally raging gusting wind
screws are missing
zincs are kissing
flipping flapping
banging tapping
branches brushing scratching
fight
rain is lashing
precipitating

thank goodness
we are dry
tonight
one night during the `mcgregor poetry festival this year
Smoking smouldering chimneys
Like old steam engines
Seemingly chugging along
Through the windswept, and whistling
Squally, stormy skies
Is it the trees brushing the clouds?
Or have the houses
Uprooted from their foundations
As they glide along
Aided by the sweeping wind
As a stream of smoke
Billows behind
No choo choo
Just the howling gusts
Like ghosts
Of the dying wolf moon
The steam engine'd houses
Are soon stationary
As the wind dies down
The smoke from the chimneys
Now swirls upwards
Blending
With the grey puffball
Shrouded clouds
The houses
Their facades
Like glowing faces
Widowed windows
Mellowed, yellowed eyes
Light up
As the mouth like door
Closes out the night
Like a secret kiss

by Jemia
Gene Jan 2021
Undulating clouds that were once so distant
Arrive overhead in what seemed an instant
Never ending swirls of a malevolent wand
Clearly the winds presence was now at hand

Shades of grey turn, light ash to dark slate
Is it the storm’s warning of our looming fate?
Animals become alert, edgy and restless
The incessant crow cawing now breathless

There’s a smell in the air of oncoming rain
A chill in the bones, the foreboding storm plain
Aspen limbs quaking and cedar a spruce
Calm now cedes to squally, a storm to induce

Scared rabbit looking for an elusive burrow
Nary a moment, time lost to dig a new furrow
The Robin’s first instinct to return to the nest
Chirping welcomes her home to be with the rest

The ground moistens, the clouds unleash now
Quenching a thirsty branch, limb and bough
The storm’s fury gives way to clear sky
Nature’s spirit looking us in the eye

— The End —