"weatherbeaten" poems
looking for forgiveness in the eyes of strangers
in every train station on the hudson line
breathing the beauty of the rush and hustle
of every train in the pouring rain
scribbling heartfelt worthy lines in a dogeared notebook
with her name etched with loving care into the
weatherbeaten cover
while standing at the top of the stairs
the faces shuffle past
offering absolution to the pawns
offering escapism to the bishops of twisted truths
gaze down the halls of forgiveness
looking for a familiar face to unleash your hearts burdens
to unwrap the tear stained words for
hoping like hell its somebody who could tell her
that you weren't so bad after all
if she only see her way to giving you that
holy grail of the heart known as a second chance
but in the end you catch a glimpse of your
reflection in some woman's poem
makes you look and see the state your in
see how far you have fallen
how far you've run from the light of day
carrying the weighty truths close to the heart
but never looking them in the eye
live again my friend
forgive yourself and live once again
Aug 28, 2014
Aug 28, 2014 at 11:06 AM UTC
It is numbing to stare at the ground,
seeing nothing but my own weatherbeaten ankles
each footprint evidence of steps half-taken
in between neckbreaking pausing
to squint at starless skies.
But where there is water,
there is life
and maybe, just maybe,
maps are of no use here.
Feb 21, 2020
Feb 21, 2020 at 10:03 AM UTC
1. I like the color of your sweater and the stripes on your sleeves and I especially like how the ends fray and the gray looks more like milk than it does a rainy day sky or a weatherbeaten road.
2. The reason I stepped back was not because you smelled funny, or that I was shocked to find you there, but because the air condition was hitting me right on the shoulders and I left my red sweater at home.
3. Okay, so maybe I was a bit shocked at finding you there; it’s just that you’re the first one who’s ever bothered lingering at the poetry section besides me, and I’m not good with surprises; in fact, I hate surprises.
4. But you’re a good kind of surprise.
5. I like your glasses. I used to have a pair just like them before someone removed them and told me that I should learn to see differently. Things have been kind of unclear since then, but I’m learning how to hold onto the side rails.
6. I hope you’ll let me remove yours, too.
7. Your hair looks like a bird’s nest. I wonder if you’re hiding life or pieces of green bottle in there. That’s a lovely shade of brown, by the way. I’ve never seen chocolate curls before.
8. Do you think that if a pine wants to, it will grow until its branches poke holes in the sky for stars and pinecones to fall out so we can catch them in our palms and compare who got the most scratches and who caught the most stardust?
9. The book you picked up happens to be my favorite. If you turn to page 118 you’ll find a poem about churning seas, angry thunderclouds, and a drifting boat that lost its sail.
10. I think I finally found my sail.
Dec 28, 2013
Dec 28, 2013 at 5:25 AM UTC
Daves trowel has a hickory handle,
With a blade thats broader than most,
It could cover the **** of a Tipperary mare
Going down to the Steeplechase post.
I spin it around in my palm,
the trowel . . . not the horse,
Its old, from a bygone age,
When skill was the poor brother of force.
Now its weatherbeaten and corroded,
Every cut and nick still lingers,
Daves trowel shines as bright as day,
Im talking about my fingers.
Jan 27, 2016
Jan 27, 2016 at 7:38 AM UTC
I'd like to think otherwise
but this ship is aimlessly afloat,
maybe her sails do whip higher
and her anchor does cast deeper
but when being stretched both ways
where does that leave her?
Port and starboard
have never looked more the same
but this ship is still starbound,
still hopes to anchor herself to the moon,
still keeps her crow's nest
a little weatherbeaten, but with better navigation
more aimless than she'd like, but still afloat
not sure where she's going, but still she runs
never seen it before, but she knows it's North
oh, she knows. now she knows.
Dec 30, 2019
Dec 30, 2019 at 10:17 PM UTC
just the outline remains
like a silhouette of happiness faded
like a footprint of a past joy
in the dusk cannot perceive where it has gone
only mark its point of passage
in the soft cold sand
where the brittle rough edge of concrete
juts out from the tangled undergrowth
now just a rain soaked ruin
now just discarded shell someone called home
the rotted planks and shattered glass
litter the ground a maze of pieces
like some lunatics puzzle box
spread for contemplation's amusement
there amongst the jewels of rot
a single small face etched in the grey weatherbeaten stone
the detailed portraiture done with
adorations care
a young woman with long hair flowing
a young woman with captivating smile
now fading slowly in tropical sun
etched on the worlds edge
here amongst the spoiled walls
and broken windows
moonlight now casts its otherworldly light
down through the torn roof
like it is fishing here for mens dreams
which it hungers for
to speed it on its journey
i cast it the morsels of my once loved
i cast it a trail of hearts crumbs
which the moonlight follows on down
the silent street
like a small boy returning home late in the day
with a pocket full of strange treasures
i lay here fitfully dreaming
as mornings heat intensifies to full blown day
jaundiced by the seabreeze i crawl forth
and sit once again
to stare at the etching of the girl
as it is slowly eaten by sea and sand
time may not heal all wounds
but it will consume all the wounded
as it consumed her
Mar 4, 2014
Mar 4, 2014 at 8:08 PM UTC
As the dust settles in
On the coffee table,
I smile.
The rising sun
Elusive and innocent
Illuminates their faces as they sleep:
My brother-
All stubborn scowls
And groans.
My father-
Weatherbeaten and wizened.
My mother-
Pining and tired.
Youthful shadows creep into our home
On tiptoe,
Grinning impishly.
Barefoot, I greet them.
Nov 9, 2013
Nov 9, 2013 at 3:05 AM UTC
Your door
was always
open -
this time,
I entered
from the weatherbeaten
steppes
of my non-being
never to leave
again.
Aug 13, 2010
Aug 13, 2010 at 9:33 AM UTC
Oftentimes, sometimes, many times
I search through
all the words I know
And there are many a few.
I rift, I raft
I sift, and cart
I search, and submerge
Pondering over each one’s usability and suitability.
Trying to find one,
the right one,
the tight one,
the oh so alight one.
Terse, specific, concise and precise,
perfect, quintessential, robust,
mellow, complete, that cuts through the ice.
Not squandered or meandered,
Jaywalking through,
lost or philandered.
That’s so true a vision,
captures my emotion,
Visions an illumination
Offers description
Catalyses reflection
Provides perspective,
Inspires action,
Or are just so perfect in their conception.
Then some are there, a little broken, sound woebegone and weatherbeaten
Through a life well lived, they are rooted if slightly moth eaten.
They wear history and tell many a tale,
Just their espousal sets you to sail.
My favourite ones are a beacon of hope, encouragement, love and touch you to the core,
A ****** of laughter, a pirouette of flirtation, a wordful gaze, touching the heart, stimulating the mind, soul searching, words words words, those ones I love so.
Then some scare me to fumble, tumble and kazoomble freakishly so,
My pupils dilated, my breathing short, dark, dismal and morbid, less of them is more.
Some are just there, need to be,
alone they are nothing, combined they provide the key,
They coexist happy in their role in the larger plan.
Is it you, or is it me,
Ah those words...
but sometimes, just sometimes
Words just are not enough,
They are just not enough to get anything said,
Then all I can say is
Nothing!
Jul 24, 2019
Jul 24, 2019 at 1:14 AM UTC
Oysters they're out there - somewhere,
Everywhere,
as the oyster men slowly drift through the inlet.
Heaved by sail and oar;
sinews of sheets and sails stretched.
Driven by hope and anticipation
the patina of time etched in weatherbeaten faces;
Like a lure for life the longline stretches and dredges, expectant evermore.
Drifting from catch to catch where the ardent prosper;
Achieve and believe the addiction and alchemy of the aspirant,
"Dream big" of the world the unenviable oyster of youth,
Dictums of the desirous drifting from goal to goal,
and chore to chore.
Mantras of men mourning forgone missives of the masculine.
The dredges of disconnected men's minds to sea.
Destined for despair.
Mar 11, 2020
Mar 11, 2020 at 12:43 PM UTC
(an All Poetry feat to walk in
the poetic feet of Robert Frost)
Bucolic New England, circa
Early twentieth century New England
awash with dynamic harmonic leisureliness,
when much of North America favored rustic
visual whirled wide webbed watercolor
waiting afield at dusk, the thrum
of nature all abuzz didst feed thine
dizzily green jovial mien
unlike mean Gary Lewis
veritable innocence and naiveté
rollicked with mine lanky frame
relishing ambling into my own quietude
an infinite breadth, length and scope
of infrequently trammeled near ******
woodland paths grown over with brambles
nonetheless a faintly trussed harbinger
marked by weatherbeaten
for sale signposts
with here and there an abandoned plow
long since given over
to rust when the pasture
seasons elapsed since
farmer(s) left unharvested
fecund fields absent
the cloven hoof,
and deprived enrichment
manure, sans ungulates
ceased sufficing healthy
free ranging bovines,
where etudes punctuated
the terribly gross fresh air,
now no longer audibly quickening,
snapchatting, nor twittering
with the last word of a bluebird
deathly silence now 'cept
the wind in the willows
whispering woebegone laments
tree tops pining to cradle
idle youthful dreamers
boughs devoid of
psalm quivering romantic songstress
clattering debris merely
delivering echoed whooshing refrains
continually disintegrating among
in a disused graveyard
prescient ken aches with nostalgia
hallucinogenic nightmare slams
irrevocably shut the door in the dark
closed for good upon the onset,
wrought genocide against
the vanishing Red man,
a ghostly scarification meaningless ritual
wrested, removed, and highjacked
from indigenous peoples
without rhyme, nor reason
as fraternities no
longer pledge allegiance.
Aug 11, 2018
Aug 11, 2018 at 1:38 AM UTC