"thundered" poems
8:00 am plenty of time to get
tinder-ed
it's how people meet
no worries here,
tinder-ed tendered thundered
by 9:00
I'll be fine,
possibilities multiple, soul flayed,
body at risk, hookup sweet,
no problem,
will line up a few,
on the hour,
star power,
no heart, but
candy is dandy
when you need a date
on Valentine night
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
http://blogs.wsj.com/personal-technology/2015/02/13/dating-heats-up-as-valentines-day-approaches/?mod=WSJ_hps_sections_lifestyle
Feb 14, 2015
Feb 14, 2015 at 8:11 AM UTC
Betrayal is the closest friend
and the most eager lover.
Betrayal is the whetted apathy towards the willow tree
that lay in the rubble of old letters and scents.
Betrayal feels nothing
but joy in itself, blinded by its ignorance.
Betrayal is the abrasive hug
and the facile drawings of a thundered smile.
Betrayal feeds the poppies
and waters the corpse.
Betrayal is the closest friend
and the most eager lover.
Apr 1, 2014
Apr 1, 2014 at 6:46 PM UTC
I had been whispering brazenly in your ear all night.
Not even using words half the time.
A knowing smile, a finger edging ever closer to your womanhood.
When I flicked your ******* the first time tonight I knew I couldn't lose.
The nearest park.
The nearest patch of grass in the dark.
Covered in dirt, a train thundered past as you came, your ticket to be vocal.
You looked so beautiful right then.
I inhaled you one last time and looked up at the stars as we put on our faces.
Oct 2, 2017
Oct 2, 2017 at 4:41 PM UTC
Often I think of the beautiful town
That is seated by the sea;
Often in thought go up and down
The pleasant streets of that dear old town,
And my youth comes back to me.
And a verse of a Lapland song
Is haunting my memory still:
“A boy’s will is the wind’s will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”
I can see the shadowy lines of its trees,
And catch, in sudden gleams,
The sheen of the far-surrounding seas,
And islands that were the Hesperides
Of all my boyish dreams.
And the burden of that old song,
It murmurs and whispers still:
“A boy’s will is the wind’s will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”
I remember the black wharves and the ships,
And the sea-tides tossing free;
And Spanish sailors with bearded lips,
And the beauty and mystery of the ships,
And the magic of the sea.
And the voice of that wayward song
Is singing and saying still:
“A boy’s will is the wind’s will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”
I remember the bulwarks by the shore,
And the fort upon the hill;
The sunrise gun, with its hollow roar,
The drum-beat repeated o’er and o’er,
And the bugle wild and shrill.
And the music of that old song
Throbs in my memory still:
“A boy’s will is the wind’s will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”
I remember the sea-fight far away,
How it thundered o’er the tide!
And the dead captains, as they lay
In their graves, o’erlooking the tranquil bay
Where they in battle died.
And the sound of that mournful song
Goes through me with a thrill:
“A boy’s will is the wind’s will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”
I can see the breezy dome of groves,
The shadows of Deering’s Woods;
And the friendships old and the early loves
Come back with a Sabbath sound, as of doves
In quiet neighborhoods.
And the verse of that sweet old song,
It flutters and murmurs still:
“A boy’s will is the wind’s will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”
I remember the gleams and glooms that dart
Across the school-boy’s brain;
The song and the silence in the heart,
That in part are prophecies, and in part
Are longings wild and vain.
And the voice of that fitful song
Sings on, and is never still:
“A boy’s will is the wind’s will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”
There are things of which I may not speak;
There are dreams that cannot die;
There are thoughts that make the strong heart weak,
And bring a pallor into the cheek,
And a mist before the eye.
And the words of that fatal song
Come over me like a chill:
“A boy’s will is the wind’s will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”
Strange to me now are the forms I meet
When I visit the dear old town;
But the native air is pure and sweet,
And the trees that o’ershadow each well-known street,
As they balance up and down,
Are singing the beautiful song,
Are sighing and whispering still:
“A boy’s will is the wind’s will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”
And Deering’s Woods are fresh and fair,
And with joy that is almost pain
My heart goes back to wander there,
And among the dreams of the days that were,
I find my lost youth again.
And the strange and beautiful song,
The groves are repeating it still:
“A boy’s will is the wind’s will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”
6.8k
You left ...
And you left behind your silences.
Baby your silences I was reading
Some were grey skies waiting to pour ,
While some were raging storms
And your echoes thundered
May 14, 2015
May 14, 2015 at 11:35 AM UTC
Wild stallion live free
Galloping unbound
Always you flee
Never chained to your ground
Wild stallion how swiftly you fly
Over distances and plains
How courageous you try
Hide your aches and pains
Wild stallion your hooves beat the earth
With fierce determination
Let loose and be rid of your girth
Be free from trepidation
Wild stallion covet your solitude
Embrace the run in silence
Your formidable strides of fortitude
Bound forth with repentance
Wild stallion I see you there
Mane billowing as you thundered across
Grounds fly beneath you without a care
Running without remorse, gliding without loss
Wild stallion I was once like you
Soaring to the ends on unrestrained wings
A life that is now but an echo; a faint pathetic hue
A life that is now filled with broken things
Wild stallion keep on running free
Keep galloping and know no bounds
You're free, no need to flee
Outrun the chains, leave them as faint indiscernible sounds
Wild stallion how I envy you
As you canter, your coat gleam in the light
See me as you always do
Just a reflection who has ceased to fight
Jul 16, 2014
Jul 16, 2014 at 11:31 PM UTC
*You were the lightening flash,
I thundered just after,
Billowing cloud you were,
I lashed, thy rain I became.*
Oct 13, 2012
Oct 13, 2012 at 2:39 PM UTC
When the arc of his watch hands
reached the top of the hour
Sam pushed the throttle forward.
Engine 138 thundered
out of Blossburg station
like an iron dragon
breathing smoke and steam -
whistle shrilling over the Tioga valley.
Powered by coal
the train carried coal
to the waiting city of Elmira
where Sam would press his mother's hand -
perhaps for the final time.
The wheels churning iron on iron
across Pennsylvania farmlands,
turned like other wheels before
moving settlers west
to break its ready earth -
wheels beneath his grandfather's oxcart
turning toward Lycoming's verdant hills.
New wheels now carried America
to urban landscapes
drawing us like electro-magnets
to streetlamps - factories - dry good stores -
new crops for a modern age.
Elmira’s silhouette expanded on the horizon.
and Sam pulled the train in on time -
brakes screeching through billowing steam.
His wife, Jenny and his sister's Sam
came in a horseless carriage
with Zoe, Marie and Edward,
children now grown at their sides.
They all gathered by Hannah's bed
now approaching her final hours
soft voices and fragile smiles
cradled the truth beyond all telling:
Time, ever advancing
like the hands of a fine old watch,
holds us all in its circling sway
© 2006 by Robert Charles Howard
Aug 25, 2017
Aug 25, 2017 at 10:58 AM UTC
Captain Scarlet
Had a weakness for harlots
Who always wore scarlet as well.
This could sound
The death knell
For the show
Thundered Gerry.
It's so deleterious
I'm deadly serious
Less of the hoes
And more Thunderbirds Are Go.
Captain Scarlet's
Favourite starlet
However
Was no harlot
Even though
she always wore
Scarlet as well
But it was quite difficult to tell
That she was not so
Even if one was very clever.
Unlike Bobby Shafto.
May 9, 2014
May 9, 2014 at 2:59 PM UTC
You were lightening flash,
I thundered aloud your will.
Billowing cloud you are,
Thy lashing rain, here I am.
May 31, 2012
May 31, 2012 at 11:11 PM UTC
He was walking home
Ticked off with a broken nose
They stole his things
And with no shame
Left cuts and bruises
Head to toe covering him
No one gets his mind
No one really tries
He hides in the closet
When he gets home
In fear of his intoxicated father
His leather belt
Swinging from his fist
The boy cries in bitter isolation
He can't trust anyone
With no safty
He fears for his life
His mother was killed when he was five
Nine years later
He just wants to die
Multiple times he's tried
Every one of them
He survived
His wrists bleed for releaf
His skin pulls tight
Then it's released
He tiptoes out of his room
This for the last time
His father asleep in the chair
He looked pail
His chest barely moving
If you weren't paying attention
You might think he was dead
The boy got an idea
Such a melancholy idea
He went in to his father's quarters
Peaking under the bed
There lay a box full
Unsold meds
A knife in the kitchen would be his weapon
Nothing but a sigh let out
His father was soon to be no more
His heart pounded
His mind thundered
With anger and pride
"This is for Mom!"
He screamed with tears in his eyes
A knife to the chest
He fought the man
Pushing further and harder
He worked fast
The eyes glazed over
Both fear and joy filling his heart
Into the bathtub
Pills in hand
He turns on the water
He uncaps the bottle
Putting it to his lips
Up turned
He sinks down
Letting the drugs take their toll
Gone
******
Suicide
This was the price
For freedom
For justice
Mar 5, 2021
Mar 5, 2021 at 5:27 AM UTC
Maveric Prowles
Had Rumbling Bowles
That thundered in the night.
It shook the bedrooms all around
And gave the folks a fright.
The doctor called;
He was appalled
When through his stethoscope
He heard the sound of a baying hound,
And the acrid smell of smoke.
Was there a cure?
'The higher the fewer'
The learned doctor said,
Then turned poor Maveric inside out
And stood him on his head.
'Just as I though
You've been and caught
An Asiatic flu -
You musn't go near dogs I fear
Unless they come near you.'
Poor Maveric cried.
He went cross-eyed,
His legs went green and blue.
The doctor hit him with a club
And charged him one and two.
And so my friend
This is the end,
A warning to the few:
Stay clear of doctors to the end
Or they'll get rid of you.
3.2k
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
This poem is self translated version of my Hindi language poem titled "गीत का जन्म" published in Hindi Literary Magazine 'Veena' in June 2013
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
When the wounds given by you gave much pain
Lightening occurred and cloud thundered
Downpour started, Poetry sprouted
It consoled and fed ambrosia
Relieved wounds, brought relief
Brick should be answered with stone
The poet also knows this
And also believes somehow
But throwing Brick is beyond his nature
In response to the brick and stone
He recites poetry
He sings a new song
On hearing his song
The one who wounded him, barks first
Then loudly bursts
Throws brick and stone again and again
The poet again recites a song
Keeps Smiling and Smiling
Creates a new poem
This proves beyond any doubt
Brick and stones give birth to Poetry.
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
गीत का जन्म
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
तुम्हारे ज़ख्मों ने जब दर्द बख्शा
बिजली चमकी और बादल गरजा
कविता फूटी और जल बरसा
उसने मुझे संभाला, अमृत पिलाया
घावों को राहत दी, आराम पहुंचाया
ईंट का जवाब पत्थर से देना चाहिए
कवि भी यह जानता है
पूरी तरह से मानता है
पर ईंट चलाना उसके बस की बात नहीं
ईंट और पत्थर के जवाब में
वह कविता सुनाता है
गीत नया गाता है
जिसे सुन सुनकर
पहले तो मारनेवाला भुनभुनाता है
फिर जोर से फनफनाता है
पुनः ईंट और पत्थर चलाता है
कवि फिर गीत सुनाता है
खड़ा खड़ा मुस्कुराता है
नयी कविता बनाता है
इससे यह सिद्ध होता है
ईंट पत्थर कविता को जन्म देते है|
Sep 1, 2019
Sep 1, 2019 at 10:14 AM UTC
for Robin
On that frosted January day,
you and I hiked north
along the Mississippi shore
on a trail marked well before us.
Footfall tapestries etched in snow
wove tales of assiduous commerce
of hosts of fur-cloaked cousins:
the playful step-slide gambit of an otter -
rabbit paw tracks by the score.
A bald eagle soared above singing ripples
in quest of a mid-day meal.
The distant staccato cadence
of a pileated woodpecker
echoed off the limestone bluffs
on that January afternoon.
Dusk-light washed the western sky
in pastel gold and crimson hues.
A coal barge heading south
thundered against the floes,
scattering ice across the channel,
then vanished beyond the bend.
And we like bargemen at their tillers,
set our southward course
retracing footprints in the snow -
back to the world of clocks and enterprise.
January, 2011
Nov 13, 2015
Nov 13, 2015 at 6:14 AM UTC
The writer is
bound by the Oedipus
cauldron stewing can't relax
--all women are mine--
but this doesn't stop the bloating bubbles.
But the writer did not invent Wonderlandia
--no double-sided tape or wrong number or sloppy poetics.
Wonderlandia was born from the ***** of the stars
--our fathers,
and the void of space,
--our mother's womb.
the writer
was busy staring at the girls that walked by
ditch diggers for renovations on Euphoria.
The hippies are disappointed in this current Wonderlandia,
or they would be.
Their dreams had dirt in the mud,
they walked upon. Our Woodstock
is celebrity interviews,
reservations failing,
political satires--the last ring of change
sold at five cents a word. Period.
the writer
says it understands and writes:
"Sticks shaped from elitism
rare.
Usually a vibe too brittle,
breaking in battle.
The bass thundered robins.
The snare's firearm stabled the swift,
electrifying beat.
The brass was addiction
to the crowd's ears.
All before the elitism was born,
a symphony was constructed in the drug's head."
the writer
knows about D. A. Levy and his revolution,
we all felt that voice, so the writer replies:
"Did you hear about the John Lennon poser
waving his gun on TV?
While listening to the Beatles, you
sit and watch the vagabond cry.
He says, "Counter-culture is dead, entombed
in a metal casket.
We need a new flame. Those watching TV
get your hands out of the basket."
the writer
walks with grandma Alice
by lakes,
thrilling dementia
"Don't tell me what taurine
and caffeine can do to my heart.
I can have alligators in my rib meat
eating away at bone marrow.
High? That's your question?
Hi...I am a float
in a useless pond
bordered by malnourished trees.
By the love of hell you better not
fertilize those ****** trees
because if I die
the alligator of my ribs
will dine and take your ****
girlfriend straight to the vet.
I thank you for asking though."
the writer misses
the syrup in the tree completely
I am not your beatnik
or future idol--burn your 1970's classrooms away.
Mar 6, 2013
Mar 6, 2013 at 6:49 PM UTC
i.
Coming out of the state of anabiosis, mine form was ripped and torn, mine adorn was battered and burned, I went through Hades whilst the pit of death's kiss shattered me in agowilt;
ii.
I was dying, in Hell's kilt; once a shape, now ***** in a pit of unsatisfactory demon's; roped, doped, bleeding.
iii.
The scaled creature's bit me, the ceiling's muck dripped me, whilst at mine ending breath's, a light shined forthward, a Filipino empress.
iv.
I was nothingness: a mess, molested, infected, by the realm of raven's nest's. That's when she thundered in, in Baro’t saya wonder; twas me who on the sea, on her lip's i swirled up-with Satan down under, mine tears hadst fluttered by like butterfly's; mine ghost awoke with Jane;
v.
Twas, she was
Heaven on
Mine side;
She took me
For a ride,
Back to
Life
Again!!!
©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Earl Jane Nagley dedicated ( Filipino rose)
Nov 22, 2015
Nov 22, 2015 at 9:44 PM UTC
I collect clouds
They belong to you
Chaotic and sprouting youth
Trying to make you love me
Come travel my spine
Drift into my dreams
My tattered fingers are the stems of peace
I'll be your anchor when you need
When I first saw your arctic eyes I was in disbelief
As a kaleidoscope thundered in my heart
Your anemic strips of hair disheveled and free
Your face a porclein ivory with lips I think I knew
As my tongue tangled inside my own
The very warmth of your words perforated my wind
I still envision your lips generous yet new
Aug 24, 2013
Aug 24, 2013 at 1:44 AM UTC
Now The Choices You Make...
Can DECIDE Your Fate... !!!
But It Seems That Some Voices...
Believe There Are Factors...
OUTSIDE of Our Choices...
That Also DO MATTER...
In Things That Then Happen...
Like Forms of... "Entrapment"...
That Leave People SHATTERED... !!!
But If You Choose WISELY...
I Think It’s... LESS Likely...
That You’ll End Up DEAD...
Because of The Feds’... !!!
Your Choices DEFEND...
And Can Also PROTECT... !!!
But If You Choose POORLY...
Things Can End PREMATURELY...
From Your Wife To Your Life...
You Had BETTER Be WISE... !!!!!
BEFORE Choices Decide...
To TAKE What You Like...
Or Just Leave You To DIE... !!!
Cos’ It’s EASY To BLAME...
Rather Than Have To Face...
The Fact That Your Choice...
Put You In A BAD PLACE... !!!
You’d BETTER Show POISE...
Rather Than Make Up Noise...
Because You CAN'T Deal...
With The Cards You Reveal... !!!
That’s Right To YOURSELF... !!!
Cos’ Oppressors WON'T Help...
They’ll Just Help Themselves...
To Take All Your Wealth...
And Knowledge of Self... !!!
And KEEP You OPPRESSED...
If That Choice Serves Them Best... !!!
As I Earlier Said Your Choices Defend...
But Can Leave You For DEAD... !!!
If You’re Quick To Deflect...
Instead of... ACCEPT...
That A DISCIPLINED Choice...
Could of Saved You From Death... !!!
I Choose To... AVOID...
Placing Blame Now On Others... !!!
I Choose To Stay Covered...
And FAR From Blood Suckers...
No Matter What Colour...
Or Group They Fall Under... !!!
My Choices Have THUNDERED...
Their Way Through Bad Summers... !!!
So Now Choose To Groove...
With POWERFUL Moves... !!!
Rather Than Those That Teach...
My Soul To Be Weak... !!!
My Choice of Free Speech...
And Use of Poetry...
SUPPORTS Such Beliefs... !!!
So The Words That I Use...
Are Those That Give PROOF...
That The Choices I’ve Made...
Have Indeed Made The Grade...
of Dealing With Hate...
And REFUSING To Slave...
For A Minimum Wage...
From The Type of Paleface...
With SUPREMACIST Ways... !!!!
And NO It’s NOT EASY...
I KNOW That BELIEVE Me... !!!
But Making STRONG Moves...
DEMANDS That You Choose...
To Sometimes FACE DANGERS...
That Come From Dark Strangers... !!!
That’s Right Like Enslavers...
And Those Known As Haters...
Who Choose To ABUSE...
Rather Than Help You To...
Make Choices That WORK...
And Keep You From Hurt... !!!
I’m Not One Whose Stuck...
On The Idea of LUCK...
Leaving Me In A RUT... !!!
You Must Choose Your Own Path...
Just Ask My Uncle DARTH... !!!
... I’m Already DARK... !!!
So I Now Choose The Light...
of Choosing What’s WISE... !!!
Even In These DARK Times... !!!
Where We’re Now Choosing Things...
That May Well Prove To STING... !!!
... Historical Tricks...
May Have Choices That Link...
To How Supremacists...
Nowadays Choose To Think... !!!
And On That LAST Note...
I’m Now Choosing To Go...
After This Final Quote...
That Is... NOT All My Own... !!!
Choose To Live On Your Knees...
Or To... DIE On Your Feet... !!!
Instead of Make Noises...
That Deal In Submission...
To... Limited Thinking...
Because You AVOIDED...
Making DIFFICULT...
......... “ Choices “........
Aug 2, 2021
Aug 2, 2021 at 9:20 PM UTC
Half a league, half a league,
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
"Forward, the Light Brigade!
Charge for the guns!" he said:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
"Forward, the Light Brigade!"
Was there a man dismayed?
Not tho' the soldiers knew
Someone had blundered:
Theirs was not to make reply,
Theirs was not to reason why,
Theirs was but to do and die:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
Cannon to the right of them,
Cannon to the left of them,
Cannon in front of them
Volleyed and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of Hell,
Rode the six hundred.
Flashed all their sabres bare,
Flashed as they turned in air,
Sab'ring the gunners there,
Charging and army, while
All the world wondered:
Plunging in the battery smoke,
Right through the line they broke;
Cossack and Russian
Reeled from the sabre-stroke
Shattered and sundered.
Then they rode back, but not--
Not the six hundred.
Cannon to the right of them,
Cannon to the left of them,
Cannon in front of them
Volleyed and thundered;
Stormed at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell,
They that fought so well,
Came thro' the jaws of Death,
Back from the mouth of Hell,
All that was left of them,
Left of the six hundred.
When can their glory fade?
Oh, the wild charge they made!
All the world wondered.
Honor the charge they made!
Honor the Light Brigade,
Noble Six Hundred!
2.5k
caught in a dark romance of shadows
she said she could taste a wilderness of tears
waiting just beyond the soft candlelight
and she just couldn't face it alone again
so held her thin hand clasped in mine
while her heart thundered like madness
and we spent the hours talking ever so quiet
we lay awake under the moving darkness
we lay entwined in reassurance
we lay skin to skin
like lovers do
i drifted in and out of restless dreams
of sailing ships testing the tempest
i dreamt of gypsy's dancing in the dark wood
these dreams were a tangle of a dark romances shadows
****** you to believe that path you tread
was meant to be
her smoke filled eyes
lent favor to the idea that somewhere
deep within there burned a flame
but her voice was cool like the first kiss of autumns wind
was deep as the craft of her thoughts could devise
for she sought to weave such a tale
as to sway the heart
and repeal this dark romance
May 31, 2014
May 31, 2014 at 2:24 PM UTC
She danced away
in the falling rain
of one dollar bills,
under the clouds
of swirling blue
cigarette smoke.
Strobe lightning
blinded the crowd
in seductive pulses,
as the loudspeakers
thundered booming
bass into their ears.
Jun 7, 2015
Jun 7, 2015 at 6:18 PM UTC
You can't find relief...
In reasons non existent;
In predicaments ill-explained.
There's no relief.
In trying to peer over towering walls.
With feet on tiptoes,
and necks sorely craned.
Relief isn't found...
In wishing upon droplets
that explode as they meet the ground.
Everytime it thundered,
and then rained.
Relief is in the trove
when the heart lets go.
To acknowledge the error,
to move on...
And commit fully to the lesson gained.
Sep 13, 2016
Sep 13, 2016 at 7:39 AM UTC
There was once a drought that thundered through the land
It stormed from north to south sparing neither head nor hand
It came on the heels of may, to rob fields of their right
Giving hunger to day then taking respite from night
Sun came and moon thereafter, time and time again
Yet the skies yielded no answer to the outcry of men
‘Cause fortune did reject the farmer’s desperate plea
For sin of thankless neglect towards soil of sower’s glee
Clouds massed in mocking grey, winds whispered hopeful lies
Telling of a better day when we would hear the heavens’ cries
Such was the willful drought that ended harvest’s reign
Starving land of fruitful sprout till Mercy brought the rain
I should say no more of the gloom through days of old
But with words long withheld, tell of that which should be told.
Dec 28, 2018
Dec 28, 2018 at 5:51 PM UTC
From white to many,
From one to seven,
We live in that heaven,
Which is people driven.
We should rainbow our-self,
And then the battle is won.
Bending from white to many colors, as rainbow itself,
What could we have done, if we had only been one.
Rainbowing is an art, which we have to attend,
Coz every time we have a different self to present.
Our battle with life is mellowed, when we rainbow,
As winning seem as close as, those seven colors through my window.
The artist told me about it once,
The Almighty hinted when the creation of it was done.
Yet the juvenile me, always pondered,
That there is some magic happening, when it thundered.
Apr 24, 2015
Apr 24, 2015 at 4:47 AM UTC