"westerly" poems
surrender hind-legs
targets yellow spines
yellow stems
flowers blend into frogs
tree frogs tree apples
tree fruit heart numinous
nervousness next level
levitation into vibration
watermelon seeds
stars, steam, sand and shadows
i allow
keep talking spinning
weaving the stars
love is a happy motorcycle
bathtubs zoological
sisters straight eyed sailors
cumber-buns saviors
yawning in the wind
at the hint of a spark
gravity embarks on sacred journeys
desert walks soul visions
quest into westerly winds
pools of tough romance tough love
chances are that now and then
we will pretend
that we are more compassionate
then we are
Feb 22, 2018
Feb 22, 2018 at 11:43 PM UTC
hanging from the ferris wheel,
swinging in a cage blown by the westerly winds.
looking at the ground below,
seeing how the lights, they glow.
hold onto me as we descend back down,
plant our feet on the traveled ground,
and hope, that we'll be carried up again.
Feb 16, 2012
Feb 16, 2012 at 3:16 AM UTC
Is tamed wildness
And manufactured wilderness-
A plastic world
All my young son will know?
I have known gritty gravel roads
And sunburnt savanah veldt.
Swam and splashed
in muddy dams and reservoirs.
I have sat high above,
in mountain peaks studying clustered clouds
close enough to reach out and run my fingers through by day,
and I have counted the dancing stars above
in vast dark nights.
I have discovered treasures in the misty valleys on early mornings
And seen sun streak through
heavy storm clouds
to colour a grey sky with radiant rainbows.
I have seen surreal snow fall
And slowly erase the world around us.
I have seen majestic beasts truly free-
Wildebeests, various buck and cautious rhinos,
Zebras that danced and played
Around an elephant that loomed high above them,
And elegant wings that whispered
upon westerly winds.
And it has all left me marked,
these magical moments tattooed in
my south african soul-
And I am more for it - filled.
what will feed their sould now?
Sep 9, 2015
Sep 9, 2015 at 3:34 PM UTC
CRIMSON
Colors explode
As the sumac stands sentinel over the ebbing rays of the sun
Shepherding away Niibin to make room for Dagwaagin
Standing, alone, in a sea of green
Sumac heralds the changing season
And like an artistic wild fire
Is the first in what will become a palette of chromatic vibrancy
Sensing the subtle change
Mother deer, her two fawns and yearling
Meandering through the sumac grove
Make haste of the fading green buffet
Mother Bear and her cubs, now a year stronger and wiser
Gorge on honey and berries as they ready for their winter's sleep
Red-Winged Blackbirds, Robins and Sandhill Cranes congregate en masse
Hummingbird drinks the final drops of nectar
In anticipation of their journey south
In advance...of the returning white Biboon blanket
The clock of Mother Earth is precise
And the natural world follows her timely rhythms
As southerly and westerly winds shift to the north
Eagle soars high above...the yet unfrozen river
Vivid foliage slowly falls to the forest floor
Creating an intricate insulating tapestry for those below
In the meadow, swaying in the wind, stands a solitary Daisy
It's single yellow petal defying the departure of longer days
Harvest moon shimmers through bare branches
Dancing, tapping in rhythmic fashion, upon a quiet window
Stirring Misigami from her reverie
Outside her window, a lone black figure, a Lobo, like her
Acknowledges her presence, blurring the lines of consciousness
Signifying that dreams do come true
And that through the change of seasons
We grow
We become stronger
Wiser
And are given the true gift...of forever being...
...Hopeful
(c) 2013 Shawn White Eagle
Sep 14, 2013
Sep 14, 2013 at 6:31 PM UTC
Lazy days and choppy waves
Upon a copper sea,
A breezy, warming westerly
Is blowing down on me.
Sunlight striking wavelets
Below clouds of cotton cool
And seagulls hang in squadron lines
Aloft from oyster pool.
Road signs judder in the breeze
Ripples weave amongst long grass,
Mangroves bend in unison
And asphalt bakes in molten glass.
A parasol of brilliant blue
A picnic basket brimming high
With lemonade and icy beer
Whilst sausages and onions fry.
Two barking dogs cavort with joy
Chasing hard on sandy beach,
Leaping high in summer air
Running, fetching, ***** to each.
The lazy summer saunters in
Engulfing us with solar heat,
The pretty girls wear tiny shorts
Which breathless boys find such a treat.
Pohutukawa’s bursting forth
In waves of rich and scarlet red
Which juxtapose dark olive greens
Of leafage midst each flower bed.
A sky of brilliant powder blue
With salt spray aura in the air
As swimmers splash in gales of fun
Hot sunlight baubles kiss their hair.
Marshalg
Port Waikato beach
15 November 2011
© 2011 Marshal Gebbie
Nov 15, 2011
Nov 15, 2011 at 12:28 PM UTC
Wanton winds whip
Westerly while whooshing wildly
Wicked witch weather
Feb 9, 2015
Feb 9, 2015 at 10:43 PM UTC
950
The Sunset stopped on Cottages
Where Sunset hence must be
For treason not of His, but Life’s,
Gone Westerly, Today—
The Sunset stopped on Cottages
Where Morning just begun—
What difference, after all, Thou mak’st
Thou supercilious Sun?
2.5k
Here is Cedar Draw, a stream which
spills free from the dam upstream
and then slowly licks its way westerly
among the billowing cottonwood
and volcanic boulders that still appear red-hot,
flattening out, pooling here and there
where fat trout and perch can feed
on luckless grasshoppers and mayflies
blown into the water by the wind.
Here is Cedar Draw, widening into
lush shallows with bulrush and cat-tails
clicking in the wind, showy red-winged
blackbirds clinging to stalks high above
the waterline, and where snowy egrets
ply the mossy banks for frogs. The
only sound heard is the chittering of
birds and that warm summer breeze
softly moaning and sighing for you alone.
Here is Cedar Draw, as fine a place
a poet could every hope to find to relax,
meditate, sip a little port wine, tease the
iridescent-blue damselflies that abound
here, cool one's feet at water's edge,
scribble in a notebook disjointed thoughts
that may or may not make it into a poem,
perhaps to doze a little and finally to
rouse up and thank your muse for such
a great day and such a splendid spot.
--
Sep 18, 2011
Sep 18, 2011 at 11:27 AM UTC
*The terracotta shines in the westerly sun
when the man and the woman
fly on the temple courtyard
on the wings of time.*
She touches the sculptured kiss
He stares at the ample breast
She blushes at the frozen mount
He awes at the curve and crest
She feels a longing to be his
He wishes seizing her for a kiss.
*Shadows grow long on the burnt clays,
time to go separate ways.*
Sep 15, 2015
Sep 15, 2015 at 12:45 PM UTC
It sits expectantly on the peg in the dim hallway
just above the miniature blackberry stained walking cane,
waiting to be pulled over that wonderful head
reigning-in errant silver, bushy brows framed.
In the pub in a cloud of smoke,
a pint of beer next to half a Guinness,
just up the road from a market stall
where it waited
A million Christmases ago.
Hide and seek,
bobbing along the top of the untrimmed hedge.
Coming or going – no difference
happiness wherever it goes.
Straining against the South Westerly
soaked in ocean rain
longs for the shoulder-carry from the beach and silly songs
sweat pouring, Friday fish and chips, tea in the ***
Radio 4, crosswords and roasts.
Nov 27, 2013
Nov 27, 2013 at 11:16 AM UTC
Carrying the fever and heat
Of love’s first flame
I set out on a journey
Expectant and anxious,
Sealed and tight lipped
All emotions bottled.
From port to port I journeyed
Travelling in a little love vessel
What a heavy cargo of dreams I carried
With the scent of memories perfumed
Did a black cat cross my path?
Behind all veils of cloud
Hope lingered
My spirit….
Pulsating inside
My senses….
Waiting for the moment of beatitude!
Skyward I flew
Floating through the air to land
Finally in your trembling hands
Dreaming of a nameless delight
Bursting open at the earliest moment
With my heart beats rising hoarse
You slit my mouth,
Pulled my soul out.
But,
Gnarling at my face
Mercilessly you tore me into bits
And threw me into the bin
In the Westerly wind
Slivers of me flew about
Like ghosts unable to get back to their graves
After whirling naked in the gust of wind
Pieces of me fell down one by one
To lie inert on the ground
Gasping for the final breath
Did the firmament tattooed by stars
Mock at my pitiable plight?
Jul 16, 2016
Jul 16, 2016 at 8:03 AM UTC
I always forget that those
That burn brightest now
Burn soonest too
I'll stoke these embers
And carry them to westerly winds
Into flame
Apr 16, 2015
Apr 16, 2015 at 5:02 PM UTC
I can lose you in the crowd-
I can lose you in a train of thought.
I can lose you to the errant sock
the wallet left on a table,
that last marble down the vent.
I can send you down the wrong path
send you packing-
send for your belongings.
Send you away.
I can deliver you safely.
Deliver you to the doorstep
Sign off on your delivery.
I can get carried away by you.
Carry your grudge.
Carry the weight of the relationship.
I can blow off to the westerly wind
Blow up, Low blow.
Blown away.
I can mark the days
The mark of the beast
market day and slip away.
But I can't remember how to not love you.
Can't remember how to stop hope.
How to turn off faith.
I can't remember how not to look for you
in the crowd-
how to not listen for your laugh or your key in the lock.
I could lose you-
but I could not ever resist you.
and that's really the thing about it, isn't it?
Only one of these sentences matters.
Just one.
Apr 8, 2015
Apr 8, 2015 at 11:46 PM UTC
that plant in the window
may well resent those roots
firmly potted and positioned
on that westerly sill
held in place as it is
by those wispy tendrils
straining outwards
desperate for growth
ever-reaching for
the drifting light
of that introverted Sun
evasive though it may be
its potential remains
dirt encrusted and anaemic
as the hidden branching is
neither its stem nor leaf
nor its bud or flower
could realise the heights
that it hopes to achieve
without these buried parts
for though this tangle
is filth-covered and
far from what any wish
to be faced with
when in admiration
of such flora
without this
the evolving maturation
from ceaseless elongation
and meristematic activity
the terracotta on display
could not be filled with
this greenery so vibrant
Dec 9, 2023
Dec 9, 2023 at 9:04 AM UTC
the shoreline at dusk,
two elderly walkers.
a weaving sandpiper.
one thousand shells,
rolling to and fro,
in foamy froth,
click-snickering, away.
me and myself.
the wind, westerly,
upon the rise
and the sun.
saying farewell.
waving an apricot and
orange banner.
reading....all is well
May 31, 2014
May 31, 2014 at 2:21 AM UTC
Emily will take her cedar box
of hidden poems
throwing them on a Sou’ Westerly breeze
in a New England Spring —
They will be snatched and fly
daring, dainty flutter byes
across the stretching continent
the Great Plains and New Frontiers —
The Sun — rising in ribbons
Mountains dripping scarlet sunsets
vast Miles of Evening Sparks —
as the Hemispheres come home
to early Night —
they’ll be read by lonely cowboys
drinking whisky, in the sagebrush
Indian braves campfire smoking
Sung in Saloons by husky-voiced dames
can-can dressed and a whole lotta grit
and gumption.
Emily, lightened of her load
unknotted the Skein of Misery —
Universe unstitched —
in this moment of escape
Landscape will listen —
Shadows will hold their breath
until the words are spoken.
Emily’s skipping down the stairs
of that morbid, cold wintered house
with its bare Slants of Light —
rushing out the door
throwing herself on the Open day —
Telling True, but slanted.
Sep 1, 2015
Sep 1, 2015 at 6:46 PM UTC
An old florist, dressed in black
Hands a white rose to a guy.
While the beggar pets a stray..
A bicycle falls by.
It’s the westerly winds again...
Rain peeking through the sunless sky…
Though everything is getting moist around..
It’s my heart that’s running dry..
There’ goes the artist’s beret
And the lil girl’s pink umbrella..
A child pays a sixpence..
To the friendly pretzel fella..
The street lamp winks
While it listens to the accordion..
Lovers falling in love again…
While I wait for my old companion
The sea isn’t getting any wetter with the rain…
Though my hands are getting wrinkled and white…
Then the same old man in his mackintosh..
Comes into my old ,weary sight..
We just saw, gave a reserved smile..
Then I cursed the different ways I chose…
Yet he melted all my regrets…
And held out that white rose…
Feb 21, 2014
Feb 21, 2014 at 5:44 AM UTC
She stands tall and proud, her elegant architecture that even on winter mornings warms an icy breath and sates an empty belly.
In the burst of sunlight, beyond and through the trees, she is a muffle of loud voices, calling out a name, I can't quite catch it, in the rush of a westerly wind and the swirl of Autumn leaves.
The echoes bounce off the bark, and in her resonance heralds the death knell of the light and the coming of the children of the dark.
The moon wrestles in a patchwork cloudy sky, and I the Watcher can do nothing to halt time or the tide.
Left to watch as the Belle Tower fades from sight, silently she hides in the long shadow, and like the moonlight between the trees, flickers as she slowly passes me by.
Apr 8, 2016
Apr 8, 2016 at 8:04 AM UTC
Four fairies were dancing
in the sea of summer's night
by a seabed of roses
and jasmines of delight
I, nonchalant
was gazing at the waves
when the westerly wind
brought me a whiff of her scent
a castle of emerald green
with angels at its gates
its courtyard with daisies
swaying in the wind
I, in my dream
was floating along
when I saw her in the moonlight
lost in my song
the fairies then led me
to her castle in the sea
lit in a haze
by moon's milken rays
I saw her by the pond
with geese splashing around
and a swarm of darting bees
feasting on fragrant white lilies
Lest this melody's green fade
in autumn's yellow glare
Lest my dream wither
in winter's barren despair
The fairies who blessed me
my soul's last prayer;
‘To the distant horizon, these verses fly
forever live, beyond the deep blue sky’
Jun 19, 2016
Jun 19, 2016 at 1:42 PM UTC
Westerly flows on
a northbound
express..
Trembling wasteland
in the dreams of
her dress...
Southerly tides
in East Michigan’s
winter...
cascading skies
under a buried
splinter...
Destiny’s heartland
in the middle of
nowhere...
condoms and fish gear
on a diet of
Lite Beer...
Aug 23, 2010
Aug 23, 2010 at 6:15 AM UTC
Pontificate
Set to sojourns music...?
And thrown the light of reason, to sate
Weal is a known seeker, of life intrinsic...
Westerly, the face of men
Has a column of seclusion, adding the facts
Of pride before litany's passage, a wisdom's question
Come to pass, with a realer first of lest, we act:
In favor of solemn derision?
The found privilege, has a callous fate
Where we are, the paces and passion of intuition
Hadding the silence we evoke, is a moment come too late?
Hatred, or by excessive gesture, the world?
Place a future of benevolence in front of a child
And the willingness of wishes to give a gift, or take one for
The lips of destined forces, the actual and the meager keep while...
A babyish face has the time, to remember the day as a friend has
Has a shown turn of courage, beginning and ending with cause
Sought the better of you, like a thread of persuasion is to ask
Can the arduousness you describe as a friend, be at odds?
The worth of hosting, a day dream...
Still to fore, the sanity of regency in the name of future loyalty
The winds of omnipresence, have the sense to live well, to deem
The stir of vanity in the lead, the welcome and or the doubted, to be...
A king about the reach and notoriety of views, here is loves vote:
Meant with maying guests, and the hope of virtue to come
With the worth of anger and bother, the vice we hold to fears cope
With the lip of liberty to prove, is our gift to teach its love?
Jan 26, 2024
Jan 26, 2024 at 12:08 PM UTC
For many long years we sat, in the shade
Under the branches
Of a vast and ancient fig tree
That stood
On the edge of a sea-facing cliff,
With a stiff wind which swept the side
Of the cliff faces and caught the leaves
Like a million small sails
In a north-westerly breeze.
And in the shade where we
Waited with baited breath for the
Three wandering ships they say were
Lost at sea long ago
To appear with destined symmetry,
Mastheads rising from a fine line horizon,
Sending signals to shore
Of their shared destiny.
And we, with unfolding hearts had seen
Their intended course and vector
Towards the ancient fig tree
Feb 17, 2012
Feb 17, 2012 at 5:48 PM UTC
Walked the Orchard this morn,
my dog and two barn cats in tow,
the sun brilliantly aglow,
comforting whispers
of westerly breezes,
the air wonderfully pristine'.
Sat for a while out front in the sun,
watching clouds morphing to recognizable
forms. The valley orchards and crops below
resplendently dressed in multi shades of green.
Further east Cascade Peaks remain white
crested in blankets of snow. . . Beauty all,
to humble the soul.
Home on the farm with family, is everything.
Why travel afar to lands I've previously been,
to revisit sights already seen and recorded within?
Why would I indeed, when everything
I love and need resides only steps away,
right here where the spirit of
this land dwells deep within me?
When I die, I wish my ashes spread
here among these orchard trees.
In death, nurturing life.
What stunning Head Stones
these trees will be.
Perhaps my soul will linger, forever
walking these orchard rows with
my dog and two old barn
cats eternally, faithfully in tow.
If that is not heaven what is?
Jun 10, 2019
Jun 10, 2019 at 1:00 PM UTC
Some days the wind blows
and bends yonder willow
Its roots hold sway
perched high upon
steep sea cliff walls
No gale could affix
a bow to such a limber
heartwood backbone
Wind arched echoes
undulate to and fro
alike a gentle restoration;
a resilience unrenowned
It looks as if it takes
the skies weight so lightly,
while the rising waves
gather an unhallowed chill
fomenting untamed
at the heart of the prevailing
westerly swell
A human tends to lean rigidity
right up to the yonder most edge,
a thin line threshold
a step away ―
pushed by a moment's gravity;
a blind jump over a cliff
into an unfathomable deep ocean
far beyond
a forgiving
willow's bend
Jesse Stillwater ... 09 May 2018
May 10, 2018
May 10, 2018 at 12:37 PM UTC
been to your house
where all the light bends -
where all the Flamingos
eat their feet
for Fear of landin'.
where the crosses burn your heart
and your Art
is a Most Lost Cause -
I've seen you at random
according to
your plan...
i've found you
smoldering in the east wing
of a westerly
advance.
been to your world
where the girls in the air are priceless
and found you among them
trimming treacle from
the diamonds... your gorgeous lungs
twirling the unbelieveable highness
of a soft note
from no
song.
Oct 20, 2013
Oct 20, 2013 at 11:29 AM UTC