Best Bustles Poems
Summer Nights
Setting sun, the light is fleeting
as this day in June’s retreating;
twinkling stars, the darkness greeting,
welcoming this summer night.
Sparrows in the treetops nesting;
daytime bustles now are resting;
calm of twilight now suggesting
gentle are these summer nights.
Fireflies flicker in the twilight,
amber jewels of summer’s birthright,
drifting in and out of eyesight
on these warming summer nights.
Honeysuckle scent is drifting
through the air as moon is lifting;
silver beams she’s gently gifting
on these lovely summer nights.
Breezes through the treetops prancing,
causing leaves together dancing,
like young lovers’ sweet romancing
on these tempting summer nights.
June’s warm nights are soft as sable,
thus I write this like a fable;
hold these moments while you’re able,
cherish now these summer nights.
One day midst the dying embers
on a day in deep December
thinking back you will remember
how they were, these summer nights.
June 1, 2022
Poem of the Day - June 2, 2022
I watched it as it was born in the drenching rains of spring,
Cool condensation drops left over from winter's cold,
As it grew and grew and finally pedaled
Into a white, but, quite young rose.
As a child of youth, it swayed in spring and summer
Breezes, winds and gales, heat and cold,
Its petals enlarged and its fragrance became
A daily delight to inhale whenever bumble bees had gone.
Maturing, it grew beautifully, along with its siblings,
Arrayed upon so many branches of its home, the rose bush tree,
And provided me a diversion by its beauty from my daily
Worries and concerns - and life's hustles and bustles.
But alas, summer could not sustain itself beyond its appointed time
And began fading into fall, that time of red, yellow, brown and golden leaves,
Browning and dying tall grasses, shortening daylights and cooling evenings,
Deep into this Indian summer, onward towards winter’s cold and snows.
It gradually lost a pedal here, a pedal there, a pedal every other day
And finally had but one white pedal left which I watched fall floatingly
Down upon browned and yellowed grasses dying, leaving but its sprig
Upon its home rose tree branch in September breezes.
It had lived. It was bloomed and went through its cycle of days and months,
Sunrises, sunsets, moon sets and moon rises of silver shines,
Folks admiring its beauty and inhaling its stirring fragrances, as I had done,
And in its time succumbed to natures laws of life and death.
If it did nothing else, such as make a great discovery, climb Mt. Everest,
Win Olympic gold medals, become pope in the Vatican, it did a greater thing
In reminding me life is short; we must enjoy it now – it will be gone tomorrow
- This last white rose of summer.
W.C.Hull © 2020-23-9-772 (D)
No one else exists
A crowded city street
strolling a narrow sidewalk,
your hand in mine
Pastel neon lights paint the buildings
in soothing colors,
softening sharp edges,
creating a wonderland
on this cool winter night
A small bistro, street side tables
candle light and tablecloths
tiny dancing flames on white linen
igniting your smile as we take a seat
amidst the din of taxi cabs
racing to find the sunset,
lover’s fare put to good use
in backseat desires
Two glasses of Pinot,
fine crystal offerings
as are your eyes, glistening,
dark chocolate petals
calling me in, hypnotized
free falling into your heart
and I drink them in slowly,
tasting every tantalizing gaze
A toast to us, touching glasses,
touching hearts, changing lives
as I wonder what I have done
to deserve this dream, you and me,
no one else exists, the city bustles
unnoticed as we sip the fruits
of our love on a chilly evening
hoping it never ends…
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
…and as the clock strikes midnight,
a joyous noise rings out, streamers flutter in the wind
while fireworks dazzle the skies
and I raise my glass to my friends at Poetrysoup,
wishing them all the happiest New Year!
For the first time in weeks
we wake up to cooler air
and the sound of the windchimes
from the breeze swishing there.
They've been quiet too long
in this heat wave we've had.
No wind. No windchimes.
Making mornings quite sad.
But today is different,
as the breeze bustles by
and I listen to windchimes
sing their song to the sky.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~`
24/08/2018
She spins erotic prayers that he tattoos
onto his libido.
She clutches
at this man plucked from the void,
prints his likeness over her breasts.
His words,
now as close as a bedtime stories
told to her flesh.
They meet at the edge of an idea.
Motel doors slam. Daylight bustles
through echoing corridors.
From each side of twin lamps
there are tongue-tied, tangled sheets.
Their cyber words
have now turned to bats in the sun.
Sat by the jetty overlooking the waters
of Tombia
Waves and ripples as boats drive
pass speedily
Passengers and luggage alike all
disembarking
All by the Tombia waterside in the
riverine Rivers
Free from the hustles and bustles bedevilling
Port Harcourt
The mayhem and chaos in the Oil city all left
behind in the city
Yet such serenity by the waters of Tombia
Piece, quiet and tranquility quieten my
stress
Trying to be patient, but my patience is
running riot
Trying to stay and remain calm by the waters
of Tombia.
Roasted peppered fish and plantains my
consolation.
All by the waterside of Tombia.
On Christmas, many people eat
The feast of seven fishes,
With salted cod and smelts and eel
Among the many dishes.
There also might be shrimp and calamari,
Clams and mussels,
Prepared by Mom or Nonna
Who, for hours, sweats and bustles.
But as a Jew, I might partake
Of fishes of my own,
The kind that every New York
Bagel lover’s ever known –
There’s sturgeon, whitefish, sable,
Plus baked salmon and some Nova
And belly lox, depending on
The people coming ovah.
To make it seven, you could add
Some herring made with wine
Or cream sauce, or some mackerel;
They all would work out fine.
No matter what your fishes are,
To those who celebrate,
Have a very Merry Christmas day
And Gey Gezunteheyt!* (pronounced Gay Guzzinta Hayt)
*Go in good health (in Yiddish)
Hectic day, the device beeped incessantly:
Salient, superficial, attended all, not to skip,
the vital from the plethora of logs.
Voices buzzed interminably : known, alien,
the bulk superficial and unknown;
Irritated, lulled the apparatus to silence;
urged own moments from the bustles!
That mercy on the mode,
the lulling turned erroneous; fateful!
Rued the decision; the most urged one,
was missed like never before!
Irony! Took the tool to ring back; came another,
vital one, as clarion call.
Engrossed in the pivotal, forgot the ring, missed again;
no sooner did arrive, reclined, took the device to recall.
Fated! On that very moment, the gadget beeped again,
to convey the harrowing, the man behind the missed call, was no more!
The abrupt demise of the yearned voice, numbed the core!
Dumbfounded! how could that be the last call?
That last glimpse! That intimate husky voice!
Unable to hold the irrevocable;
Unruly drops rolled down from the sterling eyes unbidden:
A mere heave: could have catched that beep of the last call!
Nona is love with a spoon in her hand,
To stir the pot or smack your hand.
She's free with her hugs, her stories, her food,
But if your bad she comes unglued.
She hustles and bustles all over the place.
She fusses and worries and gets in your face.
If she can't solve your problems with food and a hug,
She'll call in a priest and get down on the rug,
To pray for your soul and your problems she'll share.
With the priest and The Lord she'll lay her heart bare.
If you don't have a boyfriend then she's sealed your fate.
She'll call up her nephew and get you a date.
Never tell her you're hungry 'less you want to be fed.
She'll feed you till your eyes bug out of your head;
And when she feeds you you'd best clean your plate.
If you don't eat it all then her food you must hate.
Then her feelings are hurt and you feel like a cad,
So eat till you're sick so she don't feel bad.
She's the queen of the guilt trips and the queen of hearts,
But she does give new meaning to the phrase,"Ow! that smarts."
Her eyes still twinkle though she's withered and old,
But when God made her, He broke the mold.
This is a journey, a trip call it what you will
It follows the footsteps of my ancestors, and allows my thoughts too spill
Firstly let me take you back, to tell you so little of my past
Indigenous I am, from the "Stolen Generations" I did not last
This is why I must make this journey, to allow me to find the real me
To retrace the few steps I made, to rediscover what my young eyes seen
How ironic that the person I'll ride with, is the son of the then official
Whose deliberation to round up us children, the scene, locale
It's now the morn of our travel, where I look I find hard to see
The peripheral of the distant horizon, is all that really captures me
The town where I grew up so young, barely to the age of five
Perth, now bustles like a termites nest, zig zagging in busily strive
Into the bush we go, to a place where us youngsters so enjoyed
Moore River Native Settlement, which soon became children void
As I walk my arid lands, patterned in the heat of this day
I recall with every step, where us Indigenous children played
We could survive on the smallest of fruit, water we could easily find
Even the son of the then official, said that we are a superior kind
He marvelled when I spotted tracks, traces of where animals crossed
Remembering back to when I was five years old, our lands always talked
We opened up as we led our horses, introduced all those centuries ago
They opened up my lands, rivers we walked, now the white man flows
This is a journey I had to make, it's called, it's in my will
No more "Stolen Generations" no more will my culture spill
winter releases
her hold so reluctantly
as cold leaves the land
spring bustles on in
tender buds burst into life
clothing all in green
summer days hotly
stir breeze of aromatic
scents around garden
Autumn slowly drifts
in, lush ripened harvest
fills barns to roof top
Small furry, stripy, cuddly puss makes
Lots of noise as the early dawn breaks
And so the reluctant household wakes.
“Get out of bed now,
Come down and feed us for all our sakes,
We’re on our last miaow.”
The household can but do as it’s told,
This tabby cat is exceedingly bold.
So from my bed and into the cold
I creep to provide
The feline breakfasts as I was told,
With some milk beside.
This tabby cat is plump and quite cute,
Bossy and nurse-like, a real old boot,
Her every whim always bears fruit,
She bustles about.
She’s Hattie Jacques in a tabby suit,
Matronly with clout.
Her fur is sleek, her voice is sublime
What will she be like given more time?
Her bossy manner isn’t a crime.
Sometimes she holds back.
Her friend, an alpha cat in his prime
Is leader of the pack.
Clouds cry on the grass,
Little sprouts springing slowly,
waiting for the sun.
Quiet, birds chirping;
Not a creature bustles today
They sleep with the sun.
By: Juli-Michelle
Motif: Nature/new poem
06 February 2010
Dream of Sailing
By: Noel N. Villarosa
Never sailed on a three-masted sailboat
Where it bustles to find a smooth wave
Where the wind is its engine
And heels above at the wave’s commotion
Feel the quiver of disappearing in a trough
Then mightily emerging to open water
To stand atop the mast
And feels the strong wind to drown my breath
It fills me with gobsmacked
To sail past on the Seine river
Or ride to a replica of Argo
And sails in the famous canal of Athens
To smell the ocean mist
To rein in the wind for propulsion
And touch the boat sails as it moved downwind
Hear the recoil of bow wave along the hull
The beauty and grandeur of a sailboat
Only to picture, my dream is outlined
The anchor never lifted, the mast never stretched
Only a message in the bottle keeps floating on blue water with my dream of sailing
Honorable Mention to Carol Brown's If My Dream Could Come True: 3/18/2010
Tambourines in the air;
Whistles and bustles in a
rhyme.
In the house of Khloe,
Melodies of the heart;
A reenactment in the farm house
of old rhythms.
Grand mother's tongue in cheek,
but she is gone;
Gone home to be with the lasses
Free from the pains of the masses.
The house of Chloe will never be the
same again.
Mirth and laughter gone through the
back door.
Enter the dragon, my mama with sternness
and a rod.
Not to be spared for our scrawny behinds
my mama.
The house of Khloe has changed course
never the same again.