"westering" poems
October's bellowing anger breaks and cleaves
The bronzed battalions of the stricken wood
In whose lament I hear a voice that grieves
For battle’s fruitless harvest, and the feud
Of outraged men. Their lives are like the leaves
Scattered in flocks of ruin, tossed and blown
Along the westering furnace flaring red.
O martyred youth and manhood overthrown,
The burden of your wrongs is on my head.
3.3k
It is evening, Senlin says, and in the evening,
By a silent shore, by a far distant sea,
White unicorns come gravely down to the water.
In the lilac dusk they come, they are white and stately,
Stars hang over the purple waveless sea;
A sea on which no sail was ever lifted,
Where a human voice was never heard.
The shadows of vague hills are dark on the water,
The silent stars seem silently to sing.
And gravely come white unicorns down to the water,
One by one they come and drink their fill;
And daisies burn like stars on the darkened hill.
It is evening Senlin says, and in the evening
The leaves on the trees, abandoned by the light,
Look to the earth, and whisper, and are still.
The bat with horned wings, tumbling through the darkness,
Breaks the web, and the spider falls to the ground.
The starry dewdrop gathers upon the oakleaf,
Clings to the edge, and falls without a sound.
Do maidens spread their white palms to the starlight
And walk three steps to the east and clearly sing?
Do dewdrops fall like a shower of stars from willows?
Has the small moon a ghostly ring? . . .
White skeletons dance on the moonlit grass,
Singing maidens are buried in deep graves,
The stars hang over a sea like polished glass . . .
And solemnly one by one in the darkness there
Neighing far off on the haunted air
White unicorns come gravely down to the water.
No silver bells are heard. The westering moon
Lights the pale floors of caverns by the sea.
Wet **** hangs on the rock. In shimmering pools
Left on the rocks by the receding sea
Starfish slowly turn their white and brown
Or writhe on the naked rocks and drown.
Do sea-girls haunt these caves--do we hear faint singing?
Do we hear from under the sea a faint bell ringing?
Was that a white hand lifted among the bubbles
And fallen softly back?
No, these shores and caverns are all silent,
Dead in the moonlight; only, far above,
On the smooth contours of these headlands,
White amid the eternal black,
One by one in the moonlight there
Neighing far off on the haunted air
The unicorns come down to the sea.
2.2k
Just been out in my garden for a cigarette
Stood there facing east
Two stately oaks stand over there
Sillouted against a rain filled lead grey sky
Behind me the westering sun sets
Throwing its last dying rays
To fall against those stately trees
Green they stand there
Ever changing minute by minute
Lime green to olive, to almost black
So many differing shades of green
How can any human stand there
And not see the beauty in those trees?
They started life as such small insignificant things
More than eighty years ago
But look now upon the statuesque beauty standing there
Eighty years standing against all that nature threw
Those mighty ever changing royal oaks
May 22, 2014
May 22, 2014 at 3:15 PM UTC
Pain , sorrow , flame , and passion said her rainbow in my ears ; like an echo from the past with no love for living here ; so I tried to light a candle for her golden woman's tears . But like the cool of a blown out candle for the thunder in my mind I watched a young girl try forever just to burn a million times , and we were leaving in the summer with no sympathy for wines ; it was violence , stones ,and hatred , love for pain was left behind .
She never stopped to think for her patterns seamed complete as her golden sun came rising and her colors met with mine , and from a simple warriors passion what shall we leave behind in a world where color is not but need , and death the woman's wine .
He couldn't stop to play or light the shadows of her mind , and like the golden light of misery she spiraled through his time , and who is to say there is more to her as she burned slowly in her dying , and fell into the gravity of her northern lights so blind , and listened to the howling wolves as she weaved for better times .
Thoughtless killing , thoughtful tool , I love you said her tune ; and yet as summer turned to fall the leaves upon her loom sang of spring's new hope again in a land of westering sun , "For in dying I will rise again to greet tomorrow's rain with no thought of bringing back your killing , no screaming from your pain ."
The ice it slowly covered me as I sank into her womb , and the myriad stars of children's dreams echoed softly from her rock ; like the endless ripples of her final chords and the broken glass of dreams , and said to me a man is never truly what he seems , but only just his moment , and how I build tomorrow's dreams .
I stood upon tomorrow's shores a witness to her schemes , and watched my mother burning , saw my father's broken dreams ; to chew upon coca leaves and watch as mother weaned . I must learn to grow old again for she died from all our pains , and yet continued weaving as her winter brought the rains ; for children must learn to live in the golden honey of her pain , with time her only company , and her rhythm father's game .
Like a child on the edge of night I stopped to sing my song of a thousand lonely burials and I must carry on , and yet I too must learn to live on the fragments of wind's sails , or try to build a better ship as her dawn comes on so pale , and the cold light of our father's eyes an icy wind in hell .
Oct 9, 2015
Oct 9, 2015 at 8:18 PM UTC
Already darkness comes sooner,
and the days pass so quickly.
Nights last forever
in the coming winter, yet my own.
Old friends and acquaintances fall behind me
to disappear in fading dreams.
Others will long endure this journey
towards the westering sun.
I feel the approaching winter,
in the biting wind,
the taste of snow
bitter on the tongue.
Passages and transitions;
the seeds of tomorrow
lay deep in summer's ruin,
while New Years day may find me...
...soaring in the sun.
Maybe New Years day will find me
waiting for the dawn
maybe, maybe not... in winter, yet my own.
Jun 30, 2013
Jun 30, 2013 at 2:34 PM UTC
That iridescent image I had known for years
seen it in various guises and learnt its form by heart
know its poetry from the classics under Grecian lights
and when it appeared this time I delve to find its mind
But it was for Papa that the birth of reason grew
in a missive unspoken and a call enveloped later unfurled
a whisper rose that urged, look after for me, I will soon be gone
a king had spoken perchance to a chosen knight now obliged to obey
the ode of times and fleeting sighing sights of the light-footed
in rays of play the child of our times skips boundarys and forts
maidens sing stories and the gallant forays in skirmishes abound
a ringing promise hangs as a willow in wisp claims legacy unknown
tempest swirls and sound in fury rules in chagrin and ardour
a gamekeeper sees a ***** traipsing the trails of Tigers and lions
the tipsy gypsy hears neither the troubadour nor the rites of Templars
a mind envisaged was the shrunken bulb of shrubs and alien foliage
Be it not a dirge or condemnations of seducing Westering gales
banquets laid for differing tastes and jesters jest for mirth and frolics
a wizened once reached out in wordless touch, a promise sailed forth
In deep blue sea a mindful dolphin far from home turns and swims away......
Jul 16, 2019
Jul 16, 2019 at 6:33 AM UTC
Walking to work
Pausing to watch westering geese
Cross the early tints of sky
Formation fraying from V to S
One day Ill fly away
Remembering another morning
They turned in air, downriver
Whilst you slept
My hand pinioning your bare shoulder
Lips kissing your nape
Mar 13, 2016
Mar 13, 2016 at 10:09 AM UTC
I sit here in this sunlit glade beneath the southern downs
I gaze upon the beauty not yet destroyed by man
On six sides are bushes, trees of every shade of green
But sadly in this blighted land such scenes now are rarely seen
Over there an aspen with leaves of silver grey
They shimmer in the gentle breeze like a shoal of fish at play
Close to me a stand of oaks so mighty and so strong
Their leaves so dark and sombre green abound with natures songs
There stands a tree bereft of leaves branches stark bare against the sky
I know not if it sufffered or why it had to die
Soon it will be the time to put a match to the fire
Then smell the fragrant wood smoke as it ascends into the sky
I'll sit quietly, cook my food, drink a beer. Maybe a scotch
Sit and watch the westering sun, watch the moon and stars come out
Once more I'll wake up with the sun and a glorious choir is heard
No human intervention
Just a choir of singing birds
Jul 6, 2014
Jul 6, 2014 at 5:28 AM UTC
I sit here watching the westering sun
Relaxed now that my work is done
The slight ache in the shoulders
From bearing the weight
Of living the life that I chose
But this now is the time to sit
This now is the time to think
The time to sit and remenisce
On times long past, opportunities missed
But would I change the life I've had?
The fun, the laughter
The good, the sad
Probably not for that is history made
And tomorrow the start of a brand new page
I could have spent my life behind a desk
High blood pressure, ulcers, daily stress
Instead I chose another way
Of winter storms, springs fragrant days
Days spent beneath the summer sun
Free to wander free to roam
To breath the heady pine scented air
Feel the soft breeze on skin and hair
And now I sit and reminisce
On those times long past
May 3, 2015
May 3, 2015 at 3:58 AM UTC
Drowning in the pool of judgement syndrome
The cold water soothes my festering burn
Tangled between hours like a ****** palindrome
Air escapes my lungs like the westering sun
So pull me against the gravity if you can
These legs refuse to wake from their sleep
face my tales of depravity a man
Who begs for the ache but runs from the weeps
The fading warmth welcomes this surging numbness
Eyelids now decide to double their weights
Intelligent ones breeding an incessant dumb race
Thy deeds do not outweigh their widening plates
Is it strange that i like my wounds fresh?
Sort of like a hangover that never ends
I hide my intentions behind this skin dress
Reveal one day I must, infliction my only mend
Apr 29, 2020
Apr 29, 2020 at 1:55 PM UTC
I sit here watching the westering sun
Relaxed now that my work is done
The slight ache in my shoulders
From bearing the weight
Of living the life that I chose
But this now is the time to sit
This now is the time to think
The time to sit and reminisce
Of times long past, opportunities missed
But would I change the times I've had?
The fun, the laughter
The good, the sad
Probably not for its history made
And tomorrow the start of a brand new page
I could have spent my life behind a desk
High blood pressure, ulcers and daily stress
Instead I chose another way
Of winter storms, springs fragrant days
Days spent beneath the summer sun
Free to wander, free to roam
To breath the heady pine scented air
And feel the soft breeze on skin and hair
And now I sit and reminisce
About those times long past
Feb 9, 2021
Feb 9, 2021 at 4:12 PM UTC