"whirlwinds" poems
6Am
Exhausted , yet still awake
Why am i up
My head consisting of 50 whirlwinds
Hmm , what lies beneath my mind?
Can it go any deeper?
Whats left to uncover?
So I start to wander
And I see ... The girl next door
Beautiful .. But she hides her beauty behind mountains
Why?
Beauty like that gives life .. Why hide it
Quiet and mysterious
Doesn't say much except Good Morning and Good Night..
Talk to me
She uncovers her veil
And I say .. Good Morning Sunshine
Feb 19, 2015
Feb 19, 2015 at 7:15 PM UTC
I know of a world with magic in the air
Flights of fantasy and the most enchanted sea
I'll take you there
Show you the forests of the fair
All you have to do is follow me
The oceans will take your breath away
Mer scales glimmer as they shed in currents
Dive down in the bay
And mind the seaspray
And you can catch one if you make sure to hurry
Deep in caves, dragons meet our eye
Guarding hoards of gold and jewels
But they leave to fly
Throughout their own wide open sky
And that's when you disrupt their accrual
Higher in mountains, gryphons make their lives
Wingspans like whirlwinds: mighty and wide
But diets on which they thrive
Can't keep them forever alive
So take a talon which'll never again glide
Mer scale, talon and stolen gem
I like these souvenirs so far
And when I look at them
Checking over again and again
We can make a potion of stars
But there are a few more ingredients
We need to brew our magic
I'm a potion genius
And also a bit of a deviant
Who cares if this gets a bit tragic?
Sep 23, 2014
Sep 23, 2014 at 11:18 AM UTC
your name on my lips,
a whisper in the night
-ten thousand enunciations,
do you even know my name?
what’s my name?
they fall like rain
white and pink and red and blue,
fluttering wings, little butterflies
you call them pretty,
as they cascade to the floor,
little whirlwinds,
tiny storms.
roses, roses,
they all fall down,
pick up my petals
i’ll be ashes in the ground.
in my dreams,
you twirl me around,
soft hands in my hair,
eyes on mine,
golden mornings and moonlit nights.
each morning, morning i wake in your arms,
every night we’re under the garden’s bridges,
a soft waltz,
for softer caresses,
and yet the petals fall all around.
roses, roses,
they all fall down,
pick up my petals
i’ll be ashes in the ground.
i don’t dream anymore,
all my days i lay in the sunlight
-dreams of mornings fill my head,
as i grasp rose petals,
strewn like dreams all around.
summer turns to winter,
spring won’t come for me,
the last spring i’ll ever know,
there are rose petals on top of me and i’m six feet below.
roses, roses,
they all fell down,
you didn’t pick up my petals
so now i’m ashes in the ground.
Dec 11, 2018
Dec 11, 2018 at 2:41 PM UTC
we are waves crashing
we are strength and beauty combined
for every time that we chance
upon the shore,
we end up going a few steps back
falling farther away from land
taking us deeper into unseen depths
where what lies beyond is uncertainty
you should be the sand
while i should be the water
that imprints patterns
along your body
or i should be the air
taking you to endless streams
where we could be whirlwinds
gathering up bounties
for our flawed existence
but we are waves crashing
and even if the sun
becomes too extreme
or the shore is too far from reach
i won’t get tired
of falling in and out with you
even in midnight summer dreams.
May 9, 2013
May 9, 2013 at 7:01 AM UTC
Today, suddenly, I reached an absurd but unerring conclusion. In a moment of enlightenment, I realized that I'm nobody, absolutely nobody. When the lightning flashed, I saw that what I had thought to be a city was in fact a deserted plain and, in the same sinister light that revealed me to myself, there seemed to be no sky above it. I was robbed of any possibility of having existed before the world. If I was ever reincarnated, I must have done so without myself, without a self to reincarnate.
I am the outskirts of some non-existent town, the long-winded prologue to an unwritten book. I'm nobody, nobody. I don't know how to feel or think or love. I'm a character in a novel as yet unwritten, hovering in the air and undone before I've even existed, amongst the dreams of someone who never quite managed to breathe life into me.
I'm always thinking, always feeling, but my thoughts lack all reason, my emotions all feeling. I'm falling through a trapdoor, through infinite, infinitous space, in a directionless, empty fall. My soul is a black maelstrom, a great madness spinning about a vacuum, the swirling of a vast ocean around a hole in the void, and in the waters, more like whirlwinds than waters, float images of all I ever saw or heard in the world: houses, faces, books, boxes, snatches of music and fragments of voices, all caught up in a sinister, bottomless whirlpool.
And I, I myself, am the centre that exists only because the geometry of the abyss demands it; I am the nothing around which all this spins, I exist so that it can spin, I am a centre that exists only because every circle has one. I, I myself, am the well in which the walls have fallen away to leave only viscous slime. I am the centre of everything surrounded by the great nothing.
And it is as if hell itself were laughing within me but, instead of the human touch of diabolical laughter, there's the mad croak of the dead universe, the circling cadaver of physical space, the end of all worlds drifting blackly in the wind, misshapen, anachronistic, without the God who created it, without God himself who spins in the dark of darks, impossible, unique, everything.
If only I could think! If only I could feel!
Oct 20, 2013
Oct 20, 2013 at 9:58 PM UTC
my torment is one of clouds and flowers
freckles upon sun-kissed oranges
like roses through honey
& vivid eyes like the abstraction of Renaissance pieces
oh butterfly how you make my heart melt
chocolate brownie wonders with giggles on top
your effervescence brighter than a summer's day
entrapping my purity within your oppressive interior
our silences are filled with images of my creation
a cornucopia of passion for even the loneliest of wordsmiths
I leap into our pool of nostalgia for old time's sake
only to find your words transform into serpents.
whirlwinds of emotion now whispered into the ears of another
burning adorations into scarred remains
May 9, 2019
May 9, 2019 at 8:23 PM UTC
How this could have
happened I will
never hear again
but it happened
all the same
exactly this way.
I was walking in
Prairie Creek
surrounded by my
soon to become silent
companions
when I noticed
events so
strange.
I dug my feet
into the dirt
they soon dissolved
and roots were
sprung
a nervous system extending into
the soil, oh the sounds the
smells I felt.
Where my skin once was
bark began to emerge
my fingers became tiny
clones of myself
each speaking different
tongues I could not comprehend
I made out these
words "our time has begun. "
I became a Buddha
on the road
a three quarter
smile on my lips
as my body grew
towards the sun
a thousand years
was now mine
and to it I did
succumb.
I watched the
generations pass
Christs come and
go and come again.
It all meant nothing
to me at all
as long as I have
this fog that nourishes
me and creatures living
in the canopy.
I stand at peace
for centuries
a thousand years
and still my life
is a five minute
dream filled with all
possible intensity
and former attachments
as the impermanence
of the illusion of
time was plain
to see
as human lives whirlwinds of
experience
dust devils
blew by me.
Lightening and fires burned me
but I survived.
Now that I stand in
this silence
lost in the meditation
of dreams
a solitary tree
the last standing
a brand new species
born of evolutions breeding
runs on the ground
dancing on my grave
I remember that
first day
the beginning of my
thousand year awakenings
I think it was only
yesterday.
Jun 12, 2014
Jun 12, 2014 at 10:31 AM UTC
(Genesis chapter 1:6 and God said: “Let there be a firmament in the midst of the water, and let the waters be divided by the water.” I never understood this statement, well not until I wrote this poem).
The ocean.
It’s just a wetter version of the sky
a graveyard' of poetry
that broke into my heart and open my eyes,
and I saw the brightest darkness mirror reading
handwritten dreams cuffing the stars consoling the rain
whom tears laugh
and in that laughter, I hear the words
God hates you
these insulting tears that only once god could hear
now speaks to me with warring tongues
and I had nothing deep to say
just a crushed sentence
a pile of regret
a sky that jumped on my train thought
and we went from an angelic blue to a halo of black.
God, I do apologize if you feel like I have displeased you.
See I have been searching for a weightless god
because the others are too heavy
and too weak like watered down gospel,
Weak like the dark side of poetry
Weak like a religious inside joke no one gets
Forgive me for you know everything I don't
so tell me am I a self-portrait of you and will you promise to
clean ***** lost souls like mine
and will u forgive me for having an enchanted mind
You see I often mistook you for a poem that has never been written
Mistook you for masculine words that became undone
I mistook you for a selfless father that has more than one son
Mistook you for a sky filled with multiple sunsets.
I know nothing of you,
you unseen god
tell me am I of the other god
am I his fleshly creation standing outside my normal heartbeat
and on the footnotes of his story
standing breathing whirlwinds on death ears of soundless music
into the lungs of his bible
The lungs of his heaven that often resembles the blood stains in his hell
blood that flows throughout my veins and into an anthem of sorrow
Sung with broken tongues
sorrow buried in all kind if ancient languages
And I sit in this hell crying with roses
that's been wounded by his thoughts and
his words shoved into each other and I hate this
so much that I stripped down to pain and
I am exposed naked with caution
and I can see that my heart is a jealous god also
an egoistic ghost filled with love I never felt
a love that has no title
a love I am not entitled to feel
and why should I be
When that god knows I am a sleepwalking addict high off of pain
why should I be when that God knows I am as useless as a headless butterfly
When I should be more like the ocean
Yeah just a wetter version of the sky
The human body is made up of 75% water
(So in Genesis chapter 1:6 when God said “Let the water be divided by the water.” Where did that water go? It is in me).
Oct 2, 2018
Oct 2, 2018 at 12:47 PM UTC
Earth is rocking in space!
And the thunders crash up with a roar upon roar,
And the eddying lightnings flash fire in my face,
And the whirlwinds are whirling the dust round and round--
And the blasts of the winds universal leap free
And blow each other upon each, with a passion of sound,
And æther goes mingling in storm with the sea!
Such a curse on my head, in a manifest dread,
From the hand of your Zeus has been hurtled along!
O my mother's fair glory! O Æther, enringing
All eyes with the sweet common light of thy bringing,
Dost see how I suffer this wrong?
3.3k
I lay down
your creamy expanse
unto the marble surface,
as if milk made love with
the stars in the galaxies.
I write you out
as pleasant simmer
of pulverized charcoal
and bloated glycerine.
I splatter and spread
fine dusts of Carica
in temperate motion
to touch the sleek edges
of the vanilla branches
on your person.
I hold and dip
my feathery digit
amongst rose water
to grasp the flowers
that frames your face,
like light morganites
that hail from the west.
I cast you off
as the blue sea engulfs
the life from the waters
where life swims with
stable beginnings
and whirlwinds of stories.
I finish you
by letting molten pearls
lither your dark onyx orbs,
surrounded by your lakes of gelatinous almond,
like shooting comets
finding rest on land,
as lightning's faint and close
but never quite touch.
I made you
with intrinsic detail and rawness
to give you the life
that you may never have.
Feb 8, 2019
Feb 8, 2019 at 8:52 AM UTC
Like air,
my presence is gentle and quiet.
Yet I am temperamental;
from breezes to gusts,
from gusts to whirlwinds -
a turbulence derived from perceived planes.
Still, I stand before you,
eccentricity that does not deviate from its kind manifest.
And with this golden cup,
I will rain upon you from the heavens above,
cleansing the earth.
I am Aquarius.
Jan 27, 2017
Jan 27, 2017 at 5:37 PM UTC
right to the core of a problem
that refuses to be solved,
defying absolution like
time against our wishes
sending the whole **** plane
into a tailspin—
around and around and around
like the whirlwinds of history’s echo
channeled through muffled ears—
nowhere to go, no way to
think your way out of a past
that clings to your back, claws
digging and steadfast, digging
for answers, for resolution—
some kind of ablution,
so the everyday gnawing
may cease to be—might, perhaps
let us be present without
past tense.
Feb 27, 2014
Feb 27, 2014 at 2:36 AM UTC
.
The oceans are dying,
Coral reefs are bleached,
Ghostly acidic in the seas,
Climate is changing, not for Nero,
But for subjects who wait in whirlwinds
Eye, underneath uncapped mountain peaks,
And water is draining underground. Where is
Reason, where is sense uncommon? Not with
Elected hands who are wringing to lords of zero,
Whose legions are sent off, engaged in foreign wars,
To scathe, faraway dramas brought back home,
Politicians squabble, as they reel, cashing in,
Seals of unapprovals, witness hollow, low rings,
Infrastructure crumbles, above our dry heads,
And Nero plays his fiddle, in a land of perky dead,
John Lennon said NYC was in reality the new
Rome, soon set to burn, in a decade or so,
Nero knows, Nero plays, could give a feck'
Humanity is Nero playing his fiery fiddle
There is only one issue of news that matters,
Not bread, or circus, Kardashians, or deflated
Footballs, it is our survival, the earth, heating up,
Is angry and we are small, deaf, blind and numb,
A mankind of fools with Nero playing his fiddle.
Jun 25, 2015
Jun 25, 2015 at 8:35 PM UTC
I've been meaning to write
The time comes when whirlwinds
Words churning in the mind
Begin to babble their own tales
In absence of a pen
Collecting words and rhythms
Like the swear jar in my youth
So I'm in need of inspiration
Of course, today was not my day
I lost my favorite hat
The hat in my mind which would
Imbue my words with fever
A cold glass to calm me down
Drink in the summers eve
Nature always puts me in the mood
To freely write my thoughts away
And then it began to rain
She is my lover, but not today
Things have not gone my way
Its pouring and I hate it
Jun 2, 2016
Jun 2, 2016 at 8:08 PM UTC
I join with you today.
the nation
in whose symbolic shadow we stand,
seared in the withering flames of injustice.
daybreak on a lonely island
in the midst of a vast ocean of material
architects -
wrote the sacred obligation:
give the people a bad check -
“insufficient funds.”
the bank of justice is bankrupt
in the great vaults of opportunity, of
the fierce urgency of now.
whirlwinds shake the foundations of my people.
by drinking from the cup of bitterness and hatred,
high plane of dignity - degenerate.
veterans of creative suffering! unearned suffering!
sweltering with the heat of injustice and oppression
not judged by the color of their skin, but
by the content of their banks!
Oct 4, 2012
Oct 4, 2012 at 11:14 PM UTC
A waltz with broken legs and a wailing heart.
A constant state of fear, of the inevitable darkness this way comes.
Where every thought sings to me “Do it.”
She sounds like me, and I’m afraid.
I’m afraid I’ll do it.
My blood would run a crimson red,
My heart would cry me a river.
Tongue tied ******* looking to escape a body, not mine;
a mind out to **** me.
A living broken record.
Without skipping a beat I'm floating again.
What a high! My, oh my!
The whirlwinds calm,
for a moment.
I come back to life.
I go home.
Only For a moment.
A moment..
You see? darling,
If you wait long enough, dear,
I will have plummeted again, and again; Forever, again.
Sep 6, 2017
Sep 6, 2017 at 3:36 AM UTC
Lord of the winds! I feel thee nigh,
I know thy breath in the burning sky!
And I wait, with a thrill in every vein,
For the coming of the hurricane!
And lo! on the wing of the heavy gales,
Through the boundless arch of heaven he sails;
Silent and slow, and terribly strong,
The mighty shadow is borne along,
Like the dark eternity to come;
While the world below, dismayed and dumb,
Through the calm of the thick hot atmosphere
Looks up at its gloomy folds with fear.
They darken fast; and the golden blaze
Of the sun is quenched in the lurid haze,
And he sends through the shade a funeral ray--
A glare that is neither night nor day,
A beam that touches, with hues of death,
The clouds above and the earth beneath.
To its covert glides the silent bird,
While the hurricane's distant voice is heard,
Uplifted among the mountains round,
And the forests hear and answer the sound.
He is come! he is come! do ye not behold
His ample robes on the wind unrolled?
Giant of air! we bid thee hail!--
How his gray skirts toss in the whirling gale;
How his huge and writhing arms are bent,
To clasp the zone of the firmament,
And fold at length, in their dark embrace,
From mountain to mountain the visible space.
Darker--still darker! the whirlwinds bear
The dust of the plains to the middle air:
And hark to the crashing, long and loud,
Of the chariot of God in the thunder-cloud!
You may trace its path by the flashes that start
From the rapid wheels where'er they dart,
As the fire-bolts leap to the world below,
And flood the skies with a lurid glow.
What roar is that?--'tis the rain that breaks
In torrents away from the airy lakes,
Heavily poured on the shuddering ground,
And shedding a nameless horror round.
Ah! well known woods, and mountains, and skies,
With the very clouds!--ye are lost to my eyes.
I seek ye vainly, and see in your place
The shadowy tempest that sweeps through space,
A whirling ocean that fills the wall
Of the crystal heaven, and buries all.
And I, cut off from the world, remain
Alone with the terrible hurricane.
1.8k
while some seasons introduce beauty,
you bring upon the harsh cold of winter so suddenly
the frigid cold that rapes polar deserts in the night.
unlike the dance of the trees in autumn
when the leaves shake off their burdens,
the whirlwinds of your poisoned ego grasps and chokes away the new leaves
the hardened winter cold saps away the eternal beauty
of the glistening flowers waking in spring
but you twist and churn their stems
it was once the warmth of summer that your eyes greeted mine
emitting the heat which entwined our bodies
like the intense rays of sunshine upon a sandy beach
though i trust nature,
a monster like you,
i do not.
Aug 7, 2013
Aug 7, 2013 at 12:10 AM UTC
I'm rain
but not the kind of rain
people drink coffee and stare at
from studio apartment windows
and under pretty white gazebos ,
I'm rain
but not the kind of rain
that falls soft at first,
and then harder,
and then soft again,
I'm rain
but not the kind of rain
that smells sweet
and makes flowers grow
in the spring time,
I'm rain
but not the kind of rain
that collects in pretty puddles
in the pavement
so that toddlers in rubber boots
can jump in and splash
their parents,
I'm rain
but not the kind of rain
that lulls crying teenagers
to sleep in their warm beds
or makes lovers miss one an other,
I'm rain
but not the kind of rain
people watch and listen to
with gentle acceptance,
I'm the kind of rain
that falls fast and hard,
the kind of rain that is cold
and hurts sun burnt shoulders
when it hits them,
the kind of rain that washes
pretty chalk paintings off of
drive ways in suburbs
without a second thought,
the kind of rain that
seeps through ceiling tiles
turning cozy little homes into
chaotic whirlwinds of
anxiety and destruction,
the kind of rain that
makes your joints ache
and your eyes red,
the kind of rain that
gets the kids out of the pool
and sprinting inside,
cold, wet, and uncomfortable,
the kind of rain that
washes leafs into
your gutters,
you curse it all week long,
the kind of rain that
only wanted to touch the earth,
to feel some semblance of warmth,
but the kind of rain that
doesn't know how to
leave the thunder at home,
the kind of rain who
breaks the things
it loves,
no matter how
hard it tries to be
gentle...
Mar 21, 2016
Mar 21, 2016 at 2:36 PM UTC
all your lovers of summer whisper soundlessly
against my collared [owned]
existence.
airy spirits of longing sleep
unseen by anyone
except me,
and yet these
flickers of response aren't
noticeable.
I?
desolate and weak.
my heart remains and feels the sight
like an eternity of bleach down my throat
or glass in my eyes
or fingernails ripped
or neck broke
or burn marks
or bites
or the Judas Cradle
or the Blood Angel
or the Swedish Drink
or White Torture
or disembowelment
or Scaphism
except worse.
The thoughts are whirlwinds,
or maybe whirlpools
because I'm drowning
in the same way that you drown me out.
Dec 4, 2020
Dec 4, 2020 at 9:25 PM UTC
When we've turned to past
And all our memories turn
To vicious whirlwinds
: Untouchable
Aftermaths of aftermaths of flames,
Of which we were the arsonists--
Even with our senses impaired--
I'll still come back to you.
.
Oct 17, 2016
Oct 17, 2016 at 4:43 PM UTC
Man is in chains from birth to death
What control he has to have on his fate
Every step and every pace till last breath
What is hidden in fate one can't narrate
If this is the case then what is to assess
No doubt that it is great Creator's bless
If all is written then what else to express
Silently to bear all carry the real success
It's God's grand scheme which to prevail
Human tricks are just always bound to fail
Man from paradise to this world is on bail
Very many whirlwinds come on way to sail
Col Muhammad Khalid Khan
Copyright 2016 Golden Glow
Jul 5, 2016
Jul 5, 2016 at 2:13 PM UTC
The rust color leaves crunch beneath the soles of my leather boots, as I nuzzle my face into my wool knit scarf. The beaten asphalt path is the canvas and the pomegranate leaves are the splattered drops of paint sprinkling the trail. The cold, biting winds of autumn strip the weeping willow trees of their tears. Drooping, bent branches of the willows and birches beg for me to stray from the path into their welcoming, bark-covered embrace, promising not a single splinter. Whirlwinds of crispy leaves grace the peaks and valleys of the meadows, with so much life instilled in their dying veins. The nostalgic hint of chimney smoke wafts along the trail, and I yearn for the warmth that will nourish my chapped face. With a warm core and the wind seeping into the layers of my skin, the splitting wood of the maple branches guide me home.
Nov 22, 2013
Nov 22, 2013 at 7:59 PM UTC
You know how that quote goes, everyone does.
"If I was a drizzle, she was a hurricane"
When we're all just our own kinds of rainstorms
Magically not working with each other
Just trying to drench whatever we can
But I'd rather spend time with you than anyone in the world.
People used to tell me they looked up to me
and the same people barely talk to me anymore
because what they saw was a figurehead instead of
a friend who is on their level,
and they like people who have flaws (not that I don't),
but tell us to strive to be perfect.
And I've worked so hard to learn how to love
flawlessly, but the more I love, the more I
bleed, with every breath you don't appreciate
and every love poem you don't read
And they keep beating me and beating me down
expecting this priceless gold mountain of positivity
and crushing me. It's like they're looking for flaws
in the statue I'm hiding within, and they seek to
destroy it because even tarnished gold is too bright
in their losing eyes. Maybe I'm the flaw in the statue,
my pink flesh and pale blood can't stand
these attacks and violent words, creating
holes in my heart where before there was none. I'm on my knees,
begging because I don't think I can do this anymore.
The blood I give is torn out of me from the passion I have for
you, I've had my suffering and death,
where's the resurrection?
I'm driving my head into the ground trying to
whip up the storm that will make me unique, beautiful, and valuable,
trying to gather little tornadoes around me,
while they're destroying me from the inside out;
standing for these things that are greater than me, and
watching in vain for an equal partner, since
no one can come too close to these whirlwinds
and mountain-high clouds.
It's lonely being a hurricane, too, because
none of the lovely drizzles think they're worth your time.
Feb 23, 2014
Feb 23, 2014 at 6:17 PM UTC
Morning:
My taken place at the faucet, a peer
Staring into eyes, not sworn to me
And I was standing, looking in the mirror
Speaking as my reflection
Spoke back to me.
I was shocked when he took my hand
Starting speaking about identity
I was shocked he knew so much
More of me
Than I.
He talked about my too-long hair
Or how good I looked in green
Or how messy my morning face could be
Or whether I was feeling smart or lean.
He knew it all:
I’d go so far to say more of me than I.
Evening:
Look to the east! A sun set
—Bravo! At least consistent and THEN gone.
Me? I’ve no such liberty
I couldn’t even tell, bereft a mirror,
The thing I like to call me.
Walking the roads, lined with lights
Bustling, living,
Lined with sights
Constituting the parts of me, invisible
—Added to nothing, they’re indivisible
Closed, exposed, fall and drizzle
Without the gall keep hold
From doors and boughs
In the windows—I’m there now
And THEN I’m gone.
Night:
The stone church’s door where
The righteous moor their souls
Piety flows
In its golden veins
And I’m there no more.
Their God does hate me
Without presence in the
Pews; I’m dross
Since the saint I chose
Was Saint Me beatified
Confirmed from the sinner Laity Goss
—So I turn
To the school affording play in my words
And a tact therefore
But rejects
All but their templates in blue shoes
Who sleight my for company
Only when within them
Or drowning in *****
—So I turn
To the wilderness
Blooming in virginal grapes
Disrobed save the skin
Unfamiliar,
Self-aware but only on a whim
And whirlwinds that blow
Ice and shrapnel and
Exile me to the country
Where not but dearth may grow
In a single season of mine
—So I turn
Too afraid of that winter
So much more the fall
And me in the mirror
Knows it all, knows it plenty
A casual drop in a casual chat
About identity
—So I turn
Back to the mirror
Back to it all
With showers and pictures in its wall
Staring into eyes, sworn not to me
Speaking as my reflection
Speaks back to me
I was not shocked he knew so much
More of me than I,
Since he strides alongside mine
And only in a certain climb
Telling me
It’s almost time, I’m almost there
But it’s not clear in which direction,
Or where.
Apr 4, 2014
Apr 4, 2014 at 7:28 PM UTC