"windblown" poems
Cornwall, Cornwall every day
Bright sun and fresh feelings
Simple pleasures by just being here
Forward thinking into old age dotage
All our lives waiting, hoping, wishing
Never believing it could be
Out of mind with secret longing
Filling up with atmospheric air
Sensing that emotional rush
Deep breaths swallowing cliffs and sea
Wild flowers and cows here
Hedgerows and windblown trees
Lopsided branches pointing inland
As cool salt air combs their twigs
The winding tracks disappear
Love is here all around, so strong
Heart wrenching and stomach churning
Soul and body filling up with Cornish…
Cornish, as long as it’s Cornish
It’s good!
Give us a chance to stay
Give us the chance to live
Ever on the hard granite pathways
Sounds of mewing gulls and thunder of surf
Beating on the windswept rocks and beaches
Cornish light familiar and so bright
Invading our eyes and warming our hearts
Gently massaging our faces with soothing fingers
Lifting our spirits as breaking through the clouds
It charges us with love
Fulfilled and whole
Our lives and minds gratefully feasting
The armfuls of wonder as we carry our hearts
Together, through eternity, watching
As the sun sets in a blaze of Cornish light
Feb 3, 2010
Feb 3, 2010 at 12:28 PM UTC
Turquoise in the morning light
The treetops are alive
With the myriad of birdsong
As the swirling mists arrive
And the shaft of brilliant sunshine
Penetrates the greenish gloom
To illuminate the craggy ridge
In a honeyed, golden bloom.
The rabbits head for burrows
Retreating from the night,
A flock of teal, in unison,
Explosively take flight,
There’s a freshness in the morning air
A tingle to the skin
And the twinkle in the blue eyes
Lets a secret smile begin.
Autumn in the country glade
The russets and the gold,
The song of early crickets
In the leafy knoll takes hold,
There’s a brilliance in the crispness
In the piles of windblown leaves
And the healthy crunch of underfoot
Invokes a sense of ease.
The peacefulness is calming
The solace in the sound
Of the distant song of blackbird
In the tall oaks that surround
And the velvet feel of morning
Thrills the mind to warmly hum
To the glory of occasion
In the warmth of Autumn sun.
Marshalg
Beneath the reds and golds of Autumn leafage.
14 May 2012
© 2012 Marshal Gebbie
May 15, 2012
May 15, 2012 at 2:09 AM UTC
Verse 1
Why do I have this haunted feeling?
Something is moving in the shadows.
Working secretly tides flow,
as night steals past the day.
A voice is singing to silence,
a thousand petals falling windblown,
the still earth will lie strange, unknown,
a tolling bell brings on the night.
In the fullness of a falling tear,
In the garden of remembered time,
In the silence sung before the song,
Life will find you there.
Verse 2
What moves a fallen leaf to swirling?
Couples are speaking words of love songs.
In the hour of the dawn's glow
a rose will scent the night.
Moonbeams will stir the waving waters,
while feathered wings caress the breezes,
and your heart sings to pierce the dark,
a falling star will shed it’s light...
In the fullness of a falling tear,
In the garden of remembered time,
In the silence sung before the song,
Life will find you there.
With the turning of the heaven's sky,
With the dancing of the seasons by,
With the yielding of a lover's sigh,
Life will find you there,
Life will find you there
When darkness spreads from near to far,
In the cascade of a falling star
In the motion of a bird in flight
In the sweetness of your lovers light…
With the beating of your yearning heart.
Copyright © 2007 Gary Brocks
Aug 27, 2018
Aug 27, 2018 at 10:39 PM UTC
Just disappearing
isn't possible
when it takes
so long for
a rock wall
to erode away
The wind
is the only one
that sees you,
and its silence
grinds down
from the inside out
a mountain
too high to climb
It's hard to forget
swelling words
spoken under the breath
of the voice of silence,
when your hands
are lined with all
that they ever have;
still bearing
every latent piece
that breaks off
tryin' to keep
from the sight
of another
tempest storm gale
moving worlds
So I'm going
way outside
the edge of the inside;
crossing over
way outside the lines
covered by gathered
windblown life fractals
Though I may not
get back in again,
way outside the lines,
or I might not
even want to ...
you can’t go back
the same way
you came,
everything changes
while you're gone
even if you DO notice
Gravity pulls
with the strength
of a turning tide:
you can try
and fight it,
but you can't stop
its running downhill
looking behind
your eyes, trying
to take you back
the same way you
went way outside
the lines ...
Jesse
Apr 4, 2018
Apr 4, 2018 at 2:14 PM UTC
///
ironclad clouds
rain rust
roiling
on streets timorous
tired and torporous
turgid with wetness
windblown
fowl run afoul of
flights of fliers
Jul 12, 2015
Jul 12, 2015 at 7:15 PM UTC
It is not enough to see
a soul will manifest
what has been sown
immortal purple flame
gnarled roots in stone
the truth of nature
an external blooming
expression of the world
a flourishing vision
voraciously spreads
animating the meadow
with honey-scented breeze
steep slopes sweetened
magnificent blossoms
open lavender wings
to conquer the sky
here the air is thin
windblown seeds
so carelessly thrown
to harsh alpine soil
become willful weeds
persistently untamed
internally unchained
forever wild flowers
Nov 30, 2016
Nov 30, 2016 at 12:31 PM UTC
The devil's speech say they:
Rolling, clattering, frolicking, hungry.
Billows of charred skeletons embrace the air
Black soot pumped straight from the pyres of Hades
Congealing to clouds of evil intent wherever it roam.
That charred old shell so terse,
Black as sadness and dead as a hearse,
Darling to death as he brings on the rain:
The dry rolling thunder of the funeral train.
In the coughing desert
Not a thing dares roam
Neither wind nor creature
And neither stick nor stone.
But then the silence disturbed by a horrible shriek -
The railway screams in horror and the train itself speaks, saying
"Tell me, thou innocent,
Why feel you special and best?
For when all is done I take you
And return you to my nest;
Your world is bright and happy
Full of high spirits and song,
Though soon you too shall step aboard
And join my faceless throng."
Hot saliva on the heaving engines:
Weeping, groaning, ghostly, parched.
Rusted joints spewed onwards grinding resisting
Movement spat out like a violently beaded string of curses
Sloppily uttered as incantations of a malformed mouth!
From that charred old shell so terse,
Black as sadness and dead as a hearse,
Darling to death as he brings on the rain:
The dry rolling thunder of the funeral train.
That dark train cries out and all around
A mourning whimper rises like slumbering fog-
Bleak and yellow it obscures the land
Seeping out insidious in strange locales all:
The old lonely fisherman
Sleeping on his wharf,
The frustrated hawker's
Windblown barefaced booth,
Silent streets crying for attention,
Dark places hidden at the corner of every eye.
That solemn train cries out and all around
Her mourning whimper rises like harrowing fog
Calling all to upright attention and fear.
Looming like a spectre but a breath-span from your window
Slowly closing cold dread claws-
Naked numbness dumb as ice-
Cold dread claws upon thy waist.
And you,
You poor old thing,
Shivering in your pitiful shack of bones,
You never had any chance!
You were only human.
You were only human, you poor old thing.
Barreling on with brimstone slang:
Clang clang! Dang dang! Beelz Bub!
Sputtering an ocean of curses from turgid goat-flesh
Born of sadness to cause even more, yawning great maw
Jowls clanking with fresh hot oil drool steaming stark and lewd, and yet
That charred old shell so terse,
Blacker than sadness and slain like a hearse,
Is all that gives meaning to our every gain:
The dry rolling thunder of the funeral train.
Oct 4, 2011
Oct 4, 2011 at 12:10 AM UTC
I'm
breathing
hurriedly...i'm
r e m e m b e r i n g
c o n c e n t r a t i n g
trying to p i c t u r e :
~~ A ~~
P--lethora of trees, flowering plants...across and beyond...surround the
L--ustrous surface of the rushing blue green water...spraying...
nourishing
A--maranths and azaleas, with its windblown mists...refreshing.....see,
C--reeping creatures underwater could not ruin the quietude it emits
I--nimitable is its Serenity...nothing else is at par.............its
D--impled surface, tiny ripples running, creating streams of dreams...
whispering
W--ords...a gentle massage, washing away rage, misery...like precious
A--methyst, jade, citrine and crystals...shimmering down under,
rebuilding, helping
T--urquoise, gently touch with its sea blues...above, under...wherever
E--merald waters, against red carnelian rocks...to weather...endure...to
R--escue someone reeling...patiently...with words mollifying...and
sprays of
S--alty mists..soothing pensive eyes, mind, soul...cleansing...healing
CHAKRA...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Placid~waters~run
b e h i n d~~me
b e f o r e~~me
deep~~within
~~ m e ~~
~~~~~
Sally
Copyright September 3, 2015
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
Sep 25, 2015
Sep 25, 2015 at 8:36 AM UTC
The shoes of a dead man
For you to walk
And his blade
For you to ****
Every page vanished
And every memory
But not the paper upon which it was written
And the dust
Under which it was hidden
Traces of direction
Windblown
A new future
Waiting for ripples to die
To see the reflection
And the form
That must be overcome
In the eyes of others
To determine need
Though not enough
In the eyes of others
To speak
Or live in silence
To write
Or to think
For who would listen
Or learn
From a man wearing a dead man’s shoes?
Because they are not wearing them
Only you
The blasphemy of discarding his past
But saving his presence
Is only for you to know
The willful generation
The one that learns from the past
But lives for the future
While others
Ignore the past
And die before they say amen
But not the man walking in a dead man’s shoes
Inside a book
Inside another book
Choosing the prophecy
That fits his needs
But not the worlds
Because they wouldn’t understand
Even if it was written in their language
Nobody can understand
Except the man walking in a dead man’s shoes
He knows death
And every word is life
So he reads
And prays
And does not bring who he is
Because he is not the book
He is only the man walking in a dead man’s shoes
He cannot hear anything
Or see color
Only the desperation that fills the void
Between men
And their confusion
That he is unafraid
And able to walk between people
Without explanation
Or justification
Because they wouldn’t understand
Nobody can understand
Except the man walking in a dead man’s shoes
So don’t ask
Don’t ask
You do not know how to ask
Or what to do with wisdom
They are just words
Words that amaze you
But cannot change you
Because to you they are words
To him they only describe
An approximation
A sketch
Of smoke
From a fire
That you cannot see
Or feel
Not like him
Because you are not a man wearing a dead man’s shoes
It is much worse than you think
Because you won’t confront it
You are insensitive
Dehumanized
The only ones worth living must believe as you do
Thoughts are life to you
Certain thoughts
Thoughts that may be right or may be wrong
Thoughts that cannot be described by one man the same as another
But thoughts that he will not speak
Because he is walking in a dead man’s shoes
Without the blade
For he does not come to you by the sword
For separation is only by choice
His alone
Without bloodshed
Without the desire of what you have
For he is not a thief
He will live without it
He will never take it
For his interest is not in what you have
But in what he can earn
And what is provided
As it is given by the world
As it is described
In the prophecy
That best fits his needs
Because he is a man walking in a dead man’s shoes
Jan 31, 2015
Jan 31, 2015 at 3:54 PM UTC
(rough translation)
debt
debt
debtor
tonight it howls
in tumbleweed tongues
beaten about and windblown
over a barren, over-there road
a dust-tongue stretches
licking skeletons
all the way to feet of the silver hills
that lie in the moon of the Little Karoo
debt
debt
debt in vein
Mother is a stranger
just standing there and sipping tea
in another woman’s blue kitchen
debt
debt
debt in her
all staring at the cracks
reflecting on the windowpane
the fragile earth’s
dismembered
but
the rain will come
my child
the rain will come
prophesy the rust-red clouds
all bellowing in the wind
Mother will stand
unequivocal
as untamed buffalo grass --
rooted and valid
Jul 13, 2016
Jul 13, 2016 at 12:59 AM UTC
There's a drawing on my wall
a pen and ink impression
of the old transporter bridge
- a Meccano masterpiece.
It's my Tardis, my time machine,
portal to a vast interior
of vivid early images,
sounds of a rumbling grumbling bogie
pulling me back through time.
The clatter as our boarding gate swings shut,
an alert pause in the varnished cabin.
We listen for the next familiar step,
the creaking **** towards Runcorn Gap,
passing over Aethelfleda's Castle,
the mid-crossing windblown waltzing,
the bustling landing in the other county.
Jun 27, 2015
Jun 27, 2015 at 6:39 AM UTC
Deep brown eyes
Windblown hair
Life on wheels
Never slowed me down
I have a story i am willing to share
If you're willing to listen
Hiya I'm Jake, I'm gay and I enjoy my boyfriend. I play drums because it's weird to see a wheel chaired guy singing in the front you know. I'm good I guess. >^^< meow
Dec 2, 2014
Dec 2, 2014 at 9:40 PM UTC
Gray Owl hearkens
the dappled daybreak knell
echoing through
the wildwood forest stand;
rock doves and frosty stones abide,
where a marooned heart doth dwell,
disrobed by the longest night's frigid touch
Timber stand grips tight
red clay and bedrock of ages,
postured tall and strong
as eagle's spirit throne
Pine cones hide
in the low drifting clouds,
ripe acorns tumble down alone
unto a windblown
shallow earthen grave,
hillocked beneath
the sky-high canopy
Bones of branches,
furrowed bark from burled oak,
wood-grains of pith,
natural gnarled achings
peeled by the shivering
wind's breath
Paling autumn memories
grow dim as the receding sunlight,
recollections of ebbing Jasmine's
mellowing fragrant balm
waft aloft in a favorite fading fantasy,
the edge of winter metamorphosis
bears down with a prodigious weight
of a different kind of retreating light;
brindled Queen Anne's lace
hold sway across
the tawny frostbitten meadow
imbuing the poignantly
whetting breeze
The blink of an eye winks,
to catch sight of
an intimate glimpse,
an unspoken
solitude holds forth,
the mesmerizing coo of rock doves,
reverently mirroring
the sanctity of the forest wildwood
lingering amongst the frosty
ferns and stones
The harmony of tranquil silence wanders;
only the bowing resistance of the boughs
manifest the shapeless wind’s
whispered breathe
swirling above the labyrinth threshold;
therein lies an unfractured fault line
rooted deeply beneath
the earth’s crust
like the sonorous heart
of a sanctuary hearthstone
Hence there is symmetry
felt in silence that only whispers
in the deep toned consonant
of our own harbored sighs
a holy human blood link
born of heritage wilderness heartwood
beats keenly alive
written by: harlon rivers ... December 2017
Dec 22, 2017
Dec 22, 2017 at 6:21 PM UTC
Flickering indistinctly, like the last reel
of an early silent film,
these blurry shadows of windblown leaves
project themselves into
the corners of this simple room.
Inside my mind is another room, lit by intuition.
It is here that possibilities are delicately considered,
weighed, ever so gently, for their potential as eventuality.
This is not to say that my heart never holds sway
in these measured evaluations.
Oh, yes. It does win, from time to time.
Life is just sweeter, I have found, when peace reigns
between these two old friends, and a mutual accord is reached.
Sep 20, 2015
Sep 20, 2015 at 9:30 PM UTC
My love, my love these shaky Isles
Abandoned in the vast blue seas,
Born in Mesozoic times
When sedimentary oozes ease.
From far Antarctic mountainsides
To windblown dust from Austral plain
They lay in layers thick and deep
Beneath the Tasman Sea's domain.
A thousand million years of ******
Of plate tectonic shear and drift,
Mid oceanic larva seep
Determines continental shift.
Deep magmatic plumes arise
From down within the planet's core
To burst asunder from the crust
As mountain God's volcanic lore.
Ash and larva from the vent
In pyroclastic feirce display,
Obliterate the cold blue sky
Explosively in massive way.
Rooster tails of feiry ash
And bread crust bombs cascade about
Vulcan roars his rage to all
In violent, vast, volcanic route.
Ignimbrite flows from the vent
In sheets a hundred meters deep
The incandescence, from on high,
Would, watching Angels, cause to weep.
Like quicksilver, it cloaks the land
To cover all in burning flow,
To last a million years as sheets
Of sharded rock where 'ere you go.
So the land was born of fire
And bent and twisted by the force
Of upthrust from the great, beneath
And earthquakes felt throughout, of course.
Earthquakes of unearthly fear
Wrack foundation's very base,
Sudden as the artic gale
Unpredictable to face.
So the shaky Isles were born
Here to lie in ocean's vast,
Clad in forest lush and green
Snowclad mountains, rivers fast.
Well kept cities, well kept towns
Population proud and clean,
Beauty all around is felt
Perched atop creation's dream.
So the Shaky Isles exist
Perfect in their place in time,
Perched atop subducting plates
Perched in ignorance sublime.
What's around the corner now?
Who's concerned, who really cares
For Kiwis make the best of now...
The rest remains as chance declares.
Marshalg
Celebrating a love affair with my beautiful New Zealand.
31 August 2012
Aug 30, 2012
Aug 30, 2012 at 9:32 PM UTC
I am closer to believing
than I ever was before
on the crest of this Elation
must I crash upon the shore
And with the Driftwood of acquaintance
light the fire to love once more
I am windblown... I am times.
To be closer to believing
to be just a breath away
On the death of inspiration
I would buy back yesterday
But there's no crueler illusion
There's no sharper coin to pay
as I reach out...it slips away
From the ***** of custom
to the ledges of extremes
don't believe it till you've held it
life is seldom what it seems
But lay your heart upon the table
and in the shuffling of your dreams remember...
who on Earth you are.
I need me
You need you
we want us
But of course you know I love you
for what else am I here for
only you not face to face
but side by side forever more
I need to be here with you
for without you what am I
Just a fool out searching
for some heaven in the sky
Take me to forward lead me on
Through collision and confusion
While there's life beneath the Sun
you are the reason I continue
so near for so long
so close.... yet so far away
I need me
You need you
We want us
to live forever
measure after measure
Of the writing on the wall
that burns so brightly it blinds us all
I need me
you need you
we want us
together on Sundays in the rain
closer than forever
against or with the grain
to ride the storms of Love Again
So be closer to believing though your world is torn apart
For a moment changes all things and to end is but to start
And if your journey is unrewarded may God lift up your heart
You are windblown
but you are mine.
Emerson Lake and Palmer lyrics -
favorite of Cherie Nolan
May 29, 2016
May 29, 2016 at 4:25 PM UTC
The gypsy hymns and railway trails
which you followed into the valley of your trials
Lady Luck brought you enough street child wisdom and thief given kindness
to turn the tracks around and the train whistle to wake me.
Desert saint of your weathered ways
with your thin wrists and moon gleaming lips
Hope to you was like a blinding sunrise, painful to acknowledge, yet sorely lacking without
Never could be without your Larkspur boquets and marigold wreaths
August heat heavy with the scent of cypress trees
Apollo of the dusty sea, flooded the cliffs with light like withering flames
born from boxcar visions and a desperate hunger for that windblown hallelujah we chased down the starlit trestles like missionaries. Summoned from our streetcar medallions, vagabond nymphs, rumbling through moth-eaten states and barren dusks, lazy moon gazing upon our dolorous times and wild days and all our rough and rowdy ways.
No need to heed the judgements of the stars.
With the arid land so wild and lonesome- we weave our own muse into the railway line- followed back to when you were my home, and the streets were the laurel crown of your vagrant fortune.
Aug 9, 2020
Aug 9, 2020 at 12:12 PM UTC
I stretch forward, elongating my neck, making the hairs that grow down onto my nape prickle,
envisioning
my true horse-nature.
I’m hooves clopping on river rocks. My mane combed to one side, my angular muzzle huffing.
I’m strong and sturdy – muscle and a soft steel kind of strength. And yet at the
whistle of a windblown reed,
I’m gone,
scattered and spooked.
I trace the angles that connect weakly on my rawboned face. Strong lines
never broken never snapped,
just shifted and sifted easily.
I stand before others, pulled loosely together, unsettled in my people-clothes.
Loyal – love me.
Wild – but not too tightly.
I sit for sketches
sometimes hours sometimes minutes sometimes seconds sometimes months.
I look like a human,
solid to the fingertips of others pressing in – but
I’m a ghost.
I’m burned by the red clay of a canyon wall, shiny from the sun. My sweat reflects ribbons of
wet diamonds
at the bottom of a cold, fast river.
Jan 18, 2013
Jan 18, 2013 at 12:42 AM UTC
Your windblown hair and
your windbound heart
inhabit a single memory.
Sad eyes in the rearview mirror
Pursed lips and perverted thoughts
Like how your hand resting on her thigh
should be resting on mine
instead.
Feb 1, 2013
Feb 1, 2013 at 10:56 PM UTC
Windblown mane flying out behind,
Ribbons of tangled threads dancing
In the early autumn zephyr.
Ebony hued hooves alternate,
Strong as steel, joined in the pounding
Music of free flight. The wild horse.
Soft, flowing mane brushed to perfection.
Ribbons entwining the smooth silk braids
Shining in the early autumn light.
Silver shod hooves alternate in rhyme,
Shimmering like gold, joined in the proud
Prancing of a lady. The show horse.
Two spirits combine.
The wild and the performer,
Both content in their
Destined lives.
Jun 4, 2015
Jun 4, 2015 at 4:02 AM UTC
Set free to roam in foam
a windblown mane
follow the herd
come all come chasing
rolling racing
kick up sand
water horse
reclaim the land
Aug 16, 2023
Aug 16, 2023 at 9:18 AM UTC
moonrock, lovelight;
dim, silent, mindbreath-
interleaving sunspace;
dark, narrow, corridor of doubt--
far below this moment lurks
an otherwisely ancient growing sense:
of worldliness i haven't asked again
(yet you are this world-to-be);
the smile-harvest nearing,
your touch reasserts its ever-meaning
of dancing in the starlight i ask
my yearning future self,
of playful rolls of joy
spinning off our lichen finger tracings~
of healthiness and utter-smooth response
to sharpness i think with full bodied thought--
(it throbs deep into the wellspring of our self-teaching);
of healing i ask with songs beneath the feet,
toes vibrate dream-colored peace
like the windblown comfort of forestal goddess tresses,
i fall upward into you even as we descend through shadowovercastings,
even while the earth-tremble breaks our calm,
even though the bees fade,
another nectar drips from all around
your inner-golden, flowered canopy of lives
(i effulge this world-to-be you are!)
Jul 15, 2012
Jul 15, 2012 at 4:43 PM UTC
It's never going to stop
being Friday
The Birth of Sacraments
is not Good.
Autumn is Friday's punch
in the gut of Summer It's
always Friday. The windblown
faded days are a trampled
graveyard.
Today is Friday and if I shovel
the fake faded Forrest of time
it is always Friday. The perennial
glare of a Gregorian mistake.
Christ died for me on a
Friday!
Illusions of time passing are
like
Prayers
blown back
on a Friday.
Today tears the pages off. You
flip it over.
Friday appears as oil from
the flood.
Caroline Shank
9.2.2022
Sep 2, 2022
Sep 2, 2022 at 12:57 PM UTC
i want a messy eyed boy to
drag his tongue upon my sun filtered skin
and lay me out in a field of wildflowers with
wide fingers and veined arms
wandering all over my aching body.
i want him to whisper things to me
in a light voice as wavering and deep
as trickling water
and windblown leaves.
i want him to feed me vines and fungi,
psychedelic plants,
and watch me trip into the
winking sky,
a wandering abyss.
i want him to growl all over me,
holding my bare body in his arms,
fitting his skin in every crevice that is possible
in these mundane bodies.
i want sweat sliding off me,
and the feel of bodies in motion. i want
him to
stroke my skin and paint it lavender
with crushed flowers and
put soil in my hair, while i
wiggle my naked feet
in the air.
i want him to swallow me
like i am overfilling liquor
in a crystal bottle,
desperate and excited.
i want him to leave
pink bite marks on the waiting flesh of
my collar bones,
and breathe into me;
i want him to write on my skin
in the fire of the dwelling night,
my soul is enigmatic and
it draws him in
like art.
i crave hands around my waist,
colors on my tongue,
the earth in between my toes,
and somebody to kiss me under
the lightning storms.
Feb 1, 2014
Feb 1, 2014 at 7:45 PM UTC
feral as the untamed passion
of the soul
Unrestrained murmurs
seep out into ether vastness
pleas of an abandoned heart
A howling silence bears a merciless ache
heedless to the rampant storm
This silent reverie --
but muted amends.
For in shameless longing,
the furor a deserted heart,
thrums onward, unrequited,
wafting in the wind song’s serendipity
Wild as the winged wanton breeze
Oh chilling winter winds of change !
Come lay me down ;
as if I were the windblown
golden fields of summer
down to the ground … down to the ground
cast aside some unnoticed countryside
Smugly indifferent,
restless to rise up untouched,
where seeds of wild hope
once thrived
defy gravity
in the wind swept aftermath
a thwarted sweet surrender
© wild is the wind
Jan 12, 2016
Jan 12, 2016 at 2:38 PM UTC