I’ve walked the length of my sentence
long after the gates unlatched,
counting the gravel underfoot
as if each stone might still accuse.
The years have grown moss over my name,
but transgression carved into memory’s vestibule
means there is always one chair turned away,
its back carved with the shape of my absence.
I’ve mended the fence,
stitched the torn sleeve,
poured water into the roots I once scorched—
but the wind still carries
a syllable I cannot unhear.
So I move,
but not without the weight of glancing—
a pilgrim with a mirror in his pack,
catching the ghost of my own retreat.
And forward is a road
that keeps folding back on itself,
a loop of weathered timber and rain-dark stone,
where even the horizon
wears my shadow like a borrowed coat,
and the door I step through
is always the same vestibule.
.
Tip's of Women?
Lounge flushed
In delusion
I plays
Issues of wear
And weather's are vain
Tip's of women
Tied entrances
As low as old war
Gushes enter our floor
Isn't hours tasking?
Asnt looming often rooming
Rooms join dolls bury
Hands praying? So ways say
Papers run in the filled nights
Breaking ideas, counts, verses, checks
On tables and on the mind
City damsels, men aren't rhymes
Okay honey man
Driftwood apartments
Kevin issues jazz
You accident prone today
Chaska home
I have been behind San Francisco Paris
Says speaks for itself
Fearless abandon
Call on shores
Runned in
Hip at the door
Night the session
Strange moon wander in question
Illusive paints
Harken of tame
Tara I uncover
Repent dowry upon my branch
Eyes drafting midnight
Hourglass tarnish adventures
Lost rehearsal
Worn
Expended
Altered
Tattered
Harsh
Empty
Reduced
Enduring
Dilapidated
Clouds drift onward, dark and bright,
sailing softly out of sight.
The wind breathes free, a gentle sigh,
yet no law bends, no rules pass by.
A fleeting dance of air and time,
motion without reason, nor rhyme.
All things may shift, yet still remain,
for nature’s law holds firm, the same.
Emotions swell, then fade away,
like clouds that linger, then decay.
Joy and sorrow, swift they glide,
yet truth of heart will still abide.
A passing storm, a moment’s grace,
they move, yet keep their rooted place.
Through every mood, the soul’s refrain,
unchanged, its essence will remain.
Summer has almost passed
in the Southwest -- slight
edge taken off, optimistic
with the shorter days --
shorter, darker days
has nothing to do with
spiritual content, in the
desert -- God blesses those
who survive as well as the
blistered dead. Fall, we
start leaving our dens,
our human bear connection.
Dare we venture back into
the sunny days? Looking
forward to garments, and
cold water from the cold water
tap -- colored leaves and crispy,
crunching while walking is
evident to the mountain dwellers --
but in the valley deserts, Fall is
recognized more by the thawing,
so to speak -- our season of cooler
drippy celebration! A chance for
splashing in puddles, and doing
happy Rain-dances! Monsoon
for Desert Rat Bloom! Maybe
I will even shave before taking
my first Winter Airing.
All the tears begin to fall,
Bright and wet, they tell it all.
Clusters gather, soft and slow,
Dripping down, a gentle flow.
Eyes may sting, a blurry sight,
Feeling things with all your might.
Grief or joy, it might be why,
Heavy heart beneath the sky.
Inside feelings, deep and vast,
Just like rain, too strong to last.
Kindness offered, soft and low,
Lets the healing start to grow.
Moments pass, the storm subsides,
Newfound calm within resides.
Over and done, the wetness fades,
Peace arrives in quiet shades.
Quiet breaths begin to mend,
Released emotions reach their end.
Sorrow lessens, light appears,
Through the shedding of the tears.
Understanding starts to bloom,
Vanishing the shadowed gloom.
Washing worries, fresh and clear,
Xenodochial comfort's near.
Yearning's eased, the spirit bright,
Zenith reached, embracing light.
Lightning dances across the sky
The wind blows mountains away
The rain baptizes those below
My heart dances with every drop
Every clap of thunder makes me smile
The wet grassy earth beneath my feet
The pouring rain enwrapping me
The trees dancing in the wind
The dew sitting on the flowers
Mother Nature twirls on by
I gaze on up into the sky
And I feel her love
Listen to the wind:
it roars, it murmurs,
righteously chants --
In gusty breaths, exhales, rants,
tempestuously pants.
In tyrants it wails --
tearing sleeves
and billowing sails.
It reddens, it pales
the ruddy faces of non compliant seamen
and blithering, pompous beached whales.
Perhaps this poem, too hastily sown
Should have read the rules
before breeze and blown
and not so far from the guidelines would
this pen have wont to roam. But in hindsight,
wind stirs in many out of main focus ways
blossoms beyond bordered-grid of a well centered garden
in orphaned airs, for some, yet, may glisten their sways --
A classic wind upstaged the evening,
Vocalizing Leaves and Tremulous Aria
Branches. On accompanying fused-sand, framed
and clear, began a run of finely tuned
rivulets -- busy writing, I had not
looked, and saw, dark clouds conjugating --
nor sniffed thickening troops of air~ my
sinuses alerting, their usual swelling. Came a lantern's
flash, came a vivid slash, rumbling
likened to a heavily weighted freight-train, with frantic
mind to lighten its burdensome, brooding load.
I hear the gale.
Rain on its tail.
Stock up. Put 'taters in the bin.
A raucous wail.
Tree branches fail.
Winter's fury returns again.
Cloudburst, furious flood
Damaging drains, soiled soil
Erosion, gully, death.
Boiling mad torrent
Sweeping, digging, dragging.
All unto the stage
where the earth
swallowed the hearth
Leaving in its wake a dearth
of life.
Turbulence in the Ocean
from the macabre
dance of debris and dirt
Burying the rock in the muck.
Yet amid the chaos
a new life begins
with passion and pain.
Culled from "Echoes of the Savannah" © Makinde Adebayo ADENIYI, 2024
Your are dressed up in cool nights and days,
Showing pretty colors always.
The blistering sun sears the sand.
Time will create a desolate land.
If the sky above is dark and gray
and your inner blues won’t go away
Think of what is bound to come
by Monday morn, September one
Weather fronts don’t last forever
two-three days if they’re clever
So a Sunny Labor Day anticipate
~ Just blame me if ‘tis not worth the wait!
~ Note: Monday, Sept. One is "Labor Day" in the USA
I have some fruit trees in my backyard.
Cooler dawns we ripely say hello, sweet
and sour occasions~ the lemons you know.
With a little cooperation, fertilizer, a bit
more water when dry, I find mostly sand can
be quite agreeable, even in a desert.
Diverted irrigation, flooding the property
every 2 weeks is a big help. Salt River
our wet angel. Occasionally the blanching Sun does feign
sympathy: a bit Less luster, grace enough that allows
clouding for a blessed evening drench. Now and
then on rising, a gentler gleam, for lingering morning dew
that does not go unnoticed and appreciated. At times occurs
a suspicious, easier on the eyes, toning down of
fiery afternoon skies~ maybe courtesy of UFO’s? I don’t know.
This time of year, in Phoenix, very predictable
temperatures: Half past hot or a quarter to Hell.
Specific Types of Weather Poems
Definition | What is Weather in Poetry?
Poems Related to Weather
climate, elements, clime, withstand, resist, survive, surmount, suffer, overcome, brave, season, expose, acclimate, harden, stand, toughen, come through, pull through, get through, ride out, bear the brunt of, bear up against, become toughened, grow hardened, grow strong, make it, rise above, stick it out,