"windfall" poems
the Silence became
like an old lesson learned
a broken heart intones
a voiceless song
resonating a refrain of Silent echoes
in a voice that never heard a word
yet spoke so clearly ... lingering
in realms of subtle ambiance
soundless remnants
stacked neatly as
building blocks;
another brick in a wall,
already too tall to see beyond—
growing like a bunker
without a sense of safe harbor
as the Silence became
time and space,
a stillness beset the melancholy air
as if a world without song
foreboding an unpredictable storm
beget vestiges of broken windfall,
reticent leftovers hushed after a gale
s i l e n t l y
an acorn fallen — became a mighty Oak
a wind-broke twig — became a weeping willow
a neglected child — became mother nature's son
the Silence became
a blind prophet —
in its voice held forth
smatterings of truth
and undertones of an unrequited
fool’s hope
the Silence became
a strong, abrupt rush of wind
uttering voiceless exhalations of breath;
a hovering dawn mist
befallen after a summer storm—
surrounding all in all
bedewed in a feigned peace
... the unabated sounds of silence
become
Jesse Stillwater ... July 20th, 2018
Jul 28, 2018
Jul 28, 2018 at 11:44 AM UTC
#(a travelogue)
He stared down through
the unbroken silence
lapping the shoreline
Water skippers dart around
the rocks and windfall driftwood
settled juxtaposed in cattail reeds
and emerging broadleaf sprouts
A petrified heartwood timber
lie fallow waiting bare barked,
hushed like a pining lover’s
timeworn love seat,
rubbed smooth as
the crystalline waters
of half-moon lake
Lingering for a while ―
like a hidden stalker,
a perched wildcat waiting
for the full moon’s
swooning spell to saturate
the thickening dusk quietude;
arousing the urgent
call of the wild —
exhaled from the held breath
of the wilderness nocturne
on half-moon lake
The stillness was scattered
with the soft downy hairs
of the sleeping cattails, and
the newly shed catkins
a spring gust bestrewed
from a tall resin birch tree
nigh the Sitka willows
He sat quietly ...
time out of mind ―
tossing his eyes up into the sky;
taking the time to read the stars ―
catching them each again
as they fell into his gentle hands,
to show him who he was
Seeing their sparkly tracers
trail-out above the cattails,
from a distance
they resembled falling stars
unable to perceive their own renaissance ―
plashing lightly upon the still-water
on half-moon lake
A lone shadow glides stealthily
near mid-tarn,.. swimming
enchantingly with the grace
of a blackswan
Appearing to glance shoreward
at the glowing low stars
rise and fall, as his eyes
twinkled skyward over
the moonlit lagoon ―
heavenward of its moonlit ballet;
the lone sleek dark shadow
slipping through
a faint circular ripple
stirring the smooth as glass waters ―
disappearing like a fleeting moment
waning deep aneath
a subtle silent wake.
When all the clear lines blurred,
he knew it had been so long ...
but hearken !
… an interceding
long drawn out wail
echoed a feral ache
across the stillness,
breaking the silence ―
as the shadow reappeared;
his tears surrendered
to the undulating call of the wild;
he felt the spirit of the sole Loon,
as black and white
as the moonlit night,
stir deeply in his wanting heart ―
lay bare the silence
in lengthy yodeled psalms
to the god of the moon
Diving down deep yet again,
keeping the light he’d been given,
vanishing into the lifespring
sanctuary of half-moon lake
harlon rivers ... May 2018
travelogue: 4 of some more
May 21, 2018
May 21, 2018 at 2:36 PM UTC
Lost to backdrops scrolling past,
She sits knitting
in the carriage of a train.
The vague needles
They scintillate and glimpse
With the cadence of the wheels –
Upbeating ceaselessly.
Strips of tiny loops
And eyelets like dewdrops
Of condensation
Grouped on the superior rim.
Once in a while,
She gives a heave
To loosen more yarn from the skein
Of Filipino-made wool,
brushed worsted weave.
Spun and carded
from the richest fleece,
Deeper in the wicker basket by her feet.
The needles flash,
With ancient rhythms and attack
Of duellists in their chainmail coats.
With little hesitation she can tack
From plain to purl to blackberry.
Count back by rote or slip a stitch
While the fish-eyed gimlets gleam.
All gather profusely in her lap,
As windfall trove, rich-patterned
And warm with peach-fuzz nap,
All crafted from a single line of yarn.
Marvels fall continuously from wise
Spell-binding hands and all is well for now.
(9/11/13 @xirlleelang)
May 27, 2014
May 27, 2014 at 10:10 PM UTC
sword-shaped
wild iris leaves
pierce the meadow sod,
reaching outwards
from cold reclusive shelter
beneath native strawberry
carpeted repose
juxtaposed ― smoke rises
to the sun
like the basal verdures
of fleeting winter's escape;
crawling up an invisible
spiral staircase seeking
the azure heavens
r e n a s c e n c e
a nexus ―
stormy winter’s windfall
and,
irony of a wooden match,
gathered winter tinder
inflamed, sacrificed
to the heraldic spring skies
of the begetter;
just like
the wistful soul
beheld a simple man
that impatiently rests
on the threshold
of a dream,..
unnoticed
by the billowing silence
of evanescent
winter exile:
daydreaming
a peaceful ascendance;
dissipating puffs of smoke
drifting away
unto the ether,
weightless as light
harlon rivers ... spring 1st, 2018
Mar 18, 2018
Mar 18, 2018 at 1:07 PM UTC
Now as I was young and easy under the apple boughs
About the lilting house and happy as the grass was green,
The night above the ****** starry,
Time let me hail and climb
Golden in the heydays of his eyes,
And honoured among wagons I was prince of the apple towns
And once below a time I lordly had the trees and leaves
Trail with daisies and barley
Down the rivers of the windfall light.
And as I was green and carefree, famous among the barns
About the happy yard and singing as the farm was home,
In the sun that is young once only,
Time let me play and be
Golden in the mercy of his means,
And green and golden I was huntsman and herdsman, the calves
Sang to my horn, the foxes on the hills barked clear and cold,
And the sabbath rang slowly
In the pebbles of the holy streams.
All the sun long it was running, it was lovely, the hay
Fields high as the house, the tunes from the chimneys, it was air
And playing, lovely and watery
And fire green as grass.
And nightly under the simple stars
As I rode to sleep the owls were bearing the farm away,
All the moon long I heard, blessed among stables, the nightjars
Flying with the ricks, and the horses
Flashing into the dark.
And then to awake, and the farm, like a wanderer white
With the dew, come back, the **** on his shoulder: it was all
Shining, it was Adam and maiden,
The sky gathered again
And the sun grew round that very day.
So it must have been after the birth of the simple light
In the first, spinning place, the spellbound horses walking warm
Out of the whinnying green stable
On to the fields of praise.
And honoured among foxes and pheasants by the gay house
Under the new made clouds and happy as the heart was long,
In the sun born over and over,
I ran my heedless ways,
My wishes raced through the house high hay
And nothing I cared, at my sky blue trades, that time allows
In all his tuneful turning so few and such morning songs
Before the children green and golden
Follow him out of grace.
Nothing I cared, in the lamb white days, that time would
take me
Up to the swallow thronged loft by the shadow of my hand,
In the moon that is always rising,
Nor that riding to sleep
I should hear him fly with the high fields
And wake to the farm forever fled from the childless land.
Oh as I was young and easy in the mercy of his means,
Time held me green and dying
Though I sang in my chains like the sea.
3.3k
One can easily become disillusioned in a world senselessly
Filled with confusion and upheaval – evil at every corner,
and it appears as though good has become unsustainable
Bleak as tomorrow’s tidings may, I stay on bended knees
Looking upward with unanswered questions - let wisdom
Rain down like libations, to quench thirst wrought off miles
upon life’s rugged road, and before the end has come I want
To have left behind a legacy of achievement, taking whatever
Motivation I can get to buildup up conviction, until cynicism
is converted into action - my spirit soaring like an eagle propels
My ambition to loftier heights thought unimagined – so I wait
Patiently for a windfall gain, made from choices to facilitate change
For I’m indomitable, from a lineage of kings rising above the worlds
condition, like a sprightly star among the constellations…
Sep 24, 2012
Sep 24, 2012 at 2:02 AM UTC
Sable, the swallow rising
as it banks over the white conduits
of marrow in the body, rain
slashes through the honey locust,
along the long ellipse of its hunt
as savage dragonflies rise from stems
to cling, a deep sienna of doeskin tremors
over their sting, catkins,
an aftermath, melancholy to the skin
soaked in white calla,
its reticence assails
the sleeping orchards of the heart,
in its darkest sheaves,
to cleave apart the soft joining of lips
and silence me;
for eternity
is this moment,
and the light you give
cloaks me in a coat of flames,
the burnt locust of slaughter, taunt
the rubric of Christs hidden scriptures,
as I night,
the body, solely a vessel
of shadow, returning
through a field of windfall,
ripe with wasps,
echo you
in me,
a dream of a dream dream't,
in the dim recess of light
your lips close
like a sutra over mine,
a brutality of moments
ground out of thick pine,
as the fine agony
of cricket ballets rise
shivering, to stillness,
this silence is a lotus,
a blue psalm,
throttles the throat,
as a quorum of swallows
gather between the swathes
of sunlight and skewed shadows,
and lift as one body, subsumed
by our abandoned depths,
out of exile, you
have made me a homeland
of truant light and as I night,
lightning opens like scripture,
a black plea, poured over some sore refuge,
and so that I may never be restored,
cloak me in a coat of flames,
suffering an ecstasy of moments hardened in amber,
over the white conduits of marrow
in the savage body, writhe
a black throng of swallows,
assail the sleeping orchards of the heart,
in its darkest sheaves, to cleave
apart the soft joining of lips
and silence me....
Dec 4, 2012
Dec 4, 2012 at 4:05 PM UTC
The highs and lows of living life
Occur in sweeping loops
The ups and downs of everything
Are determined by the groups
Of numbers as they glide
Across a digital display,
In rendering the parabolas
Of this game of life we play.
The winning runs of business
A sweet windfall of cash
Temptation to extend that deal
Beyond …is perhaps rash;
It may just tip the balance
Commence the start of the decline
And your parabolic plunge
Will see you quailing to divine.
How you claw your way to solvency
You sweat to make it right,
How you battle tax malignancy
To surmount official might.
The administrative penchants
Of administrative types
Who insist on crossing every “T”
And switching “OUT” the lights.
Having made it, you sit astride the top
And bask in shining light.
You cast off the cloak of caution,
Claim success as yours by right.
But by morning there’s a thunderstorm
A headache and a snag,
By lunch evicted on the street
With your belongings in a bag.
The ups and downs of life my friend
Are a parabolic coast
One day you’re sitting pretty
The next day you are toast.
The only consolation
Of this constant change of state
Is the reconstructive challenge
In re-determining your fate.
So gird yourself my beauty
Hitch your belt another notch
And launch yourself at living
Before you seek that midnight watch.
For tomorrow is a mystery
The possibilities are vast
And paradoxically speaking
The very best is usually last.
Marshalg
Mangere Bridge
20th July 2008
May 11, 2010
May 11, 2010 at 4:55 PM UTC
Halfway up a mountain
on an ice-bound January day,
I sought to reliquify
a few calorific assets.
I am no fool -
I had been carefully investing
a portion of each meal
in certain holdings
(mainly around the waist).
Of course, I knew the safe route:
balanced diet, carbs, fruit, veg;
but a venture nutritionist such as myself
pays little heed to such extravagant prudence.
Fried breakfasts looked like offering
a quick and reliable payoff
and sure, for a while it worked.
But guess what:
Just when I needed the big windfall,
nothing.
Not a sausage,
if you'll pardon the pun.
"Sorry," a regretful body explained,
"I know you'd think you could call on your investments
"at the drop of a hat,
"but actually they're kind of clogged,
"a bit like your arteries."
Wheezing, waiting
for the mountain rescue helicopter,
I spared a rueful thought
for the taxpayer -
the reluctant buyer
of my safety.
You might imagine I owe something in return,
but I watch the news
and I reckon
I'll get away with it.
Jan 6, 2012
Jan 6, 2012 at 10:40 AM UTC
THE GATE SWINGS OPEN
( for Mary Frances )
We hang from
(albeit upside down)
now interlaced between
now balanced upon
the five-bar-gate
the river beyond calling our names.
This is the threshold
between lane and field.
We live only
in the moment
and so
forever.
Your dress falling
over your face
stifling giggles
gales of laughter
shaking us from our perch
like windfall apples.
An "Ouch!" and an "Ow!" later
and we are back upon
where we had
fallen from.
A Constable I could imagine
would have painted us
thus
in passing.
Our five-bar-gate
as much a part of us.
Even in this
over-grown now
I still smart
from the sting of its nettles
still taste the tang
of its baby strawberries
at its gnarled
wooden feet.
The gate open
into a world that is
...gone.
Captured in my imagination
by a Constable blur of paint
showing two blurs
that could be considered
us
children at play.
It hangs in my mind
in the gallery of memory.
The light slowly dying
only the laughter remains.
The thrush's song
threaded through the morning.
Oct 25, 2018
Oct 25, 2018 at 5:00 PM UTC
The begging God
Holds forth His greedy hands
Palms up
Lifeline unbroken
A vending machine
Without a coin slot
Asks for a dime
Expects a dollar
A greedy deity
Who dances with demons
Listens to gibberish
Suffers fools gladly
Insisting
"This is the Way, the Truth, the Life
This is the way it's done, it's all you must do
This the truth: P.T. Barnum was right
This is the life, unearned and unpaid for
A wise investor's goldmine
A field of dreams for sale, barren
Blood money for more seed
It's yours for the asking"
The begging God
Patron saint of confidence and extortion
Comforts the elderly
Patiently waiting
For
The Big Payoff
For
It's easy to convince them
To expect a windfall
Green Granny Smith apples
On sale
Ten for a dollar
Tiny serpent worms munch tunnels
In nine of them
The gambling deity
Lays odds on whether or not
Their shiny skins will ever be broken
By coffee stained teeth or pearl shiny dentures
He knows they will
For
They are hungry, starving, famished
He also knows they will throw away all ten
When they bite into one bad apple
Sep 14, 2010
Sep 14, 2010 at 7:13 AM UTC
.
Scurrilous birds fly by,
To nest in the little painted
Houses left clear for them,
In awkward circles they romp
Their peculiar dramas
With ****** wings.
Do they even witness
The skies revolving canvas,
New masterpieces each day,
How the light shimmers
In the sparkle rays of sun,
How the golden fields,
Of vales in sighted sweep
And dance, airy etudes,
By the windfall gusts
So suddenly arising?
These visions are marks
For but few, who hear time
As it plays in stepped quartets
Of the spiraling seasons song,
For the lone mercies, gifts,
To ones most gentle, merest,
Spirited eyes who gaze deftly,
Deep in sacred days,
From a window.
.
Dec 22, 2018
Dec 22, 2018 at 7:36 PM UTC
A fortnight ago an Algerian masseuse anointed each note of my joints,
spread thumbed cursive over my shoulders and
back around to my chest;
she spelt out how I'd be shivering now knowing you were leaving.
And last week you led me to an acupuncturist where he said,
Rob Frost had quit his job on point duty to become a receptionist instead.
I knew it was ******** by the way you barked in the background.
I knew it was wrong from the rumble through the stud wall,
sound of timpani, of gusto's drawl ringing in my ears:
the resonance of windfall if saved 'in the best ISA for years!'
This has been the best February since records began
and I thank you for being a friend.
Mar 21, 2016
Mar 21, 2016 at 2:31 PM UTC
.
Scurrilous birds fly by,
To nest in the little painted
Houses left clear for them,
In awkward circles they romp
Their peculiar dramas
With ****** wings.
Do they even witness
The skies revolving canvas,
New masterpieces each day,
How the light shimmers
In the sparkle rays of sun,
How the golden fields,
Of vales in sighted sweep
And dance, airy etudes,
By the windfall gusts
So suddenly arising?
These visions are marks
For but few, who hear time
As it plays in stepped quartets
Of the spiraling seasons song,
For the lone mercies, gifts,
To ones most gentle, merest,
Spirited eyes who gaze deftly,
Deep in sacred days,
From a window.
Apr 29, 2017
Apr 29, 2017 at 2:31 PM UTC
The willows crack, windfall wheat swaying cattails in the solar wind of my lively heat. Scrounge these pieces pock marking the oak floor. We may just have enough to eat tonight.
In my hand I hold all that I own, yet all that I own is that from my hands made. Soft, this light, glass frosted in empathy smooths spiteful dusk.
Take this wishful ape from my teeth and chew those cresting bows until they break. Feast of your own knowledge and naught but your own will can surface.
I have enough ice for the two of us. It melts into memories, traces raw in my mouth dissolving cleanly.
Let me draw you up a shape, so that I may see your fears and quell them with warmth. In mocking phrase you lend passion and we in acknowledgment grow.
We have more ideas than space allows and make extinct time laughably so. Our conceptions spill over and serve to saturate each following encounter. Even excitement is surprised.
Take my hand and run with me through woodland desires. Lets plant new willows and raise them to drape and make secret our delightful passions.
Dec 7, 2010
Dec 7, 2010 at 7:38 PM UTC
mossy semblances
of childhood softening
growth a reverie
nervure crisps of windfall brown
scent autumnal stillness
in the gather-warmth, beading
sweater gems of sweat--
thorns recur in green
as spiraled lusts evanesce;
bright helix rising
Sep 16, 2012
Sep 16, 2012 at 1:26 PM UTC
Entertaining an angel unawares is not an everyday thing;
Playing a guitar in solemn solitude.
Being loved is beautiful
But please, set that caged bird free
When held, I don't want to be smothered.
True freedom is too rare
A PC for company can be so demanding
You are making tea; the child wants some chicken
I want some of your love
Is that so hard to understand!
Pictures on the wall, fresh fruit
The metre's (quickly) running away
Find it to forgive yourself; find it to forgive others
Guess you gotta hide within your own mind.
A sibling bored chez lui
A stand cradles somebody's scribblings
Stars are sometimes too far to reach.
What..where...who...how...where?
Where is this promised windfall?
S T, 5 May 2013
May 5, 2013
May 5, 2013 at 2:34 AM UTC
Today I was hoping a breakthrough
seeking good luck my way
lift me from bad times sticking like glue
growing like weeds by the day!
My coffer long starved badly needs to fill
but dwindling faster instead
no more can cope with long line of bill
falling time barred unpaid!
Fortune you know has her weird style
in choosing the man to shower on
while I dream for her just one smile
she prefers to leave me alone!
The ways she chose to send me her love
could in no way lift me from bog
she threw on my way a bleeding dove
dying from the fangs of a dog!
She cast on my way a famished old hag
who for bringing good luck was no good
just short of **** in her surviving rag
couldn’t count the days without food!
Without a windfall on the mire stuck
my hopes lay ruined by sunset
the night found me still a sitting duck
with another day lying in wait!
Feb 24, 2015
Feb 24, 2015 at 8:19 AM UTC
If only we were the executioners of our downfall
that would be a fitting windfall, and
a rollover on the lottery
win
as death grins on the side lines
I
remember the good times
sharpening the axe.
Nov 29, 2016
Nov 29, 2016 at 4:01 PM UTC
Hereabouts was inearthed the grief of an infatuate;
Beneath the moonlight and clinged by deception;
Thou, one and only sol in the murkiness;
Pour spilled, imbrued the prediction away from the windfall;
Thou, who laughed there then shivered forsakenly?
presumed a northwind that never tied up here;
Was life span soundless as the unnaturalness of the ambiguity?
conversed without confab, forsaken the anguish each one raindrops;
Hasten the broken heart in the wake of thee;
When silhouette remains anonymous, hence thou stand synonymous;
thence it's tiring to imitate its fascination;
how afflicts sweet taste of hyperbole from a guileless lip;
Thou laud me, when thou stare me in emptiness;
Thou palter me, when thou don't seek about my beauty;
Thou vanished, when thou don't see amore anymore...
Jan 16, 2015
Jan 16, 2015 at 12:45 PM UTC
oh oh muse...
oh oh muse...
will your vacation here last forever?
holding hands hence and kiss
so many call you at their side
time to bring all of your juice tonight
inspiration and windfall your vanity
take me to an cosmos free of promulgation
oh muse...
give a touch to my trembling hatch
I feel like dust
and the pages...
oh muse ...
scratched and peeling...
no odour at all
no colour at all
only the light that makes them spicy
if you're there step by step come stand by me
I need you
oh muse...
petrified my skin, statue my corpse
I see only blue
a window of vanity
Feb 13, 2018
Feb 13, 2018 at 11:22 AM UTC
i held you still- fearing you mistook parts of me
for parts of God
held my breath because i guess
being here meant more to me
than being mistaken for Omnipotent
or safety.
let your heart beat
a fragile little bird fluttering in it's cage. heart cage. rib cage.
i think you were moving too. counter rhythm. restful momentum.
i wasn't trying to trick you. or trap you.
but,
i gave myself this moment.
and godhelpme- i don't regret it.
later
in windfall and disquiet
it was still me that you came to.
me.
Aug 24, 2011
Aug 24, 2011 at 1:10 AM UTC
Just when did our expectations
grow so very incredibly grandiose?
This feeling we seem to have developed,
regarding divine personal entitlement?
We want what we want and,
by God when we want it!
If "Selfish" was a Mill Stone,
Most of us would surely wear it,
around our self-absorbed necks.
It's all about me, to hell with the rest!
People, friends we are all in this together,
Maybe it's a test.
"Do unto other's" still works the best.
Then there is the blame game we play,
the old/new too quick to sue game.
What about that?
Slip and fall on your back,
take the money and run, it's a sad fact.
The boss gave you a hard look,
go straight to HR and sue the *****
Never mind that the poor guy,
has a huge family to feed,
That he was not wearing,
his glasses only focusing his eyes,
and not "hard looking" you.
I don't know, people used to be more civil,
even willing to forgive and forget, now it seems,
All about some windfall from out of the blue.
How to ***** your neighbor before they screws you.
What ever happened to "Live and let Live?"
Come on my brother's and sister's, get over it!
There is a big difference between "Want" and "Need".
And want in my dictionary is spelled "G R E E D"!
Sep 9, 2013
Sep 9, 2013 at 2:57 PM UTC