Best Hailstorms Poems
Music and romance are camarilla comrades,
just like poems are my shield and arrows.
But not all lullabies of lovers,
harmonise like a street choir of angels.
If love resembles the weather,
then poetry is like a snowflake.
Its fragile abstract nature
can betray the innocence of a poetic heart -
serenading in slaughtered symphonies of silence.
When lust burns in assailable impurity,
love suffers in small doses,
performing a masquerade concealing truthful tones.
So what is the purpose of poetry if it offers no remedy?
Whispering winds form hailstorms in my mind,
wondering if there is a sanctuary
for lonely spirits suffering as seasonally sad souls.
In the midst of melancholic misfortune,
I wish to drown in tepid tides of holy water,
because fate is frozen in winter wanderlust.
Heartache taught me how to be a poet,
each scar inflicted from profound lies and cries.
But what is the purpose of poetry if there is no muse?
In the perception of imagination,
I search for the one
who left frozen tears on my pillowcase.
But her eyes see celestite waves kissing
ecru shorelines under blue pearlescent skies,
blessed with the radiance of saffron sunshine,
in the heavenly harmony of relaxing music.
So, I wonder why she resides in ebony emotions,
refusing to dance, lost in lyrical lament.
Some spirits evolve into envious entities,
but mine just misses the rose window to her soul.
When wine dark skies glare in misery and gloom,
composing ashen clouds to pour in plentiful rain,
I feel the chills of an Antarctic iced leaf on an ice covered lake,
but maintain an evergreen glow,
hoping to forever illuminate like cathartic moonlight -
reflecting upon her bronze fibers.
Opposites attract like fireflies in the night.
I am the bridge and you are the chorus.
so I follow footprints in the snow,
under the guidance of devotary sincere stars.
In the hope we will make melodies at midnight -
merging into rivers of unassailable purity
And If I can't be a poet, then I'll become a poem.
I cannot predict how my ink will spill,
so will you guide each verse to give it a purpose,
breathing my words into life?
Will you love me more than poetry?
Kissing all those diamond promises
into my rhinestone heart -
or will you massacre the music,
abandoning me like an unfinished symphony.
I woke up changed
but love stayed ~
for my cluttered consciousness
escapes into the cosmos,
where the Flame-June stars
are christened with
healing hieroglyphs
hibernating within
your heartbeat
mimicking the murkiness
of this mind that
noiselessly misses
the metered magic
you composed cautiously
into redolent reality
with acrylic colors
from dawn after hailstorms…
and I drown… O beloved
I swallow my ink...
stained with your scent
in lucid dreams
steeped in seared sienna
wrapped in stimulating silence
as faith meets me fearlessly
beneath the kiss of an angel
that left me lethargic
longing for the levitating light
of a sultry sun that
clothed me selflessly
unspooling the urge
to pirouette through peace
that looks like homely solitude
as hope rests in the
saffron soul of clouds
where your rhymes return…
so trace me amidst the
trail of thoughts I find
myself weaving
with wildflower wishes
into the glistening sky
glazed with
passionate promises
caressing my pensive skin,
while I plead
with the awakening moon
to teach the tuscan
tones of my phoenix sun
to soak my silhouette ~
a saving grace beneath my hair…
but these feelings
are not severe symptoms
of persistent exhaustion
or spiritual emptiness
this is the sound
of my pulse ~
a piercing ache
to feel the lips of
an empathetic empyrean
to breathe siren’s bliss
into the arteries of angst
like waves undressed
unreservedly obsessed
with the thought
of being seen and saved ~
a prayer perfumed
like a dream designed
in citrine gold crystals…
*Inspired by the art "Flaming June" by Frederic Leighton
For years she thought his heart would warm up,
and open the door for her world. It felt like walking
in summer clothes in the north pole,
whenever she touched his chest;
she couldn't sigh, breathe or move.
It's as though he was afraid her hands would
melt his frozen heart,
and unravel his secrets.
Sometimes she joked, and asked him whether
he was an Iceman in his past life,
which he shrugged off,
as hailstorms gathered in his eyes.
Every day the space between them was becoming colder
and wider; she couldn't tell between winter
and summer anymore.....
In a flourishing vineyard,
I’m a vine bearing no fruit,
forsaken in the soil of twisted roots,
burnt and scarred in blistered blackness,
as the cosmic seeds engulf my skin~
with fiery flames of thunder
and scorching stones,
awakening demons to draw
darkness in drowsy strokes,
above this field of fiendish flowers.
Maybe this is the poem of a soul,
singing chaos to collapsed
clusters of leafless twigs,
drenched in rain and tears…
For my empathy, the lotus stars could see,
but you’ve long refused to feel
these aching refrains~
like hailstorms in heartbeats,
bleeding bonfires of woe, yearning to be heard…
Tonight I’ll find solace within ashes and thorns~
counting petals painted in pain,
pondering: if I were a rose,
would you thread rhymes of love
in syllables of gold and green?
Or would I still be nothing but a wordless sonnet,
lost between the waning rays
of forgotten sunsets,
resting in a sky of moonless rivers…
Summer cries, autumn whispers,
I bloomed, like spring roses, despite my winters.
One by one, my petals fell,
Enchanted by an eerie spell,
Blown away by violent wind and hailstorms,
But they always grow back in their most delightful forms.
It’s a beautiful change, from seed to rose
The one who had to shed his old shell knows
A change is never easy but is a must,
So fear not what you might become, and in the process, you have to trust.
He fell in love with a painted lady.
She moved in mauve,
Her limbs sweeping in clouds of gold
That broke the monotony of his glass life.
Her presence brought hailstorms,
Navy rain that streaked her cheeks
And stained lips tasting of peaches.
She danced in her own supernova,
Yards of brilliant bronze hair
Filling his mouth, his nose, his ears,
More flavor than hue;
More scent than shade;
More song than any color
Her swirling body could produce.
When he was with his painted lady,
He knew no shades of gray;
Her moods were rose and plum and sky,
She his lovely painted lady.
They tangled beneath stars,
Each moment brighter than the last.
In the fervor of their love
His days faded into months
Which streaked into years
Until the cool blue morning
When his beloved painted lady
Released her last bleeding scarlet breath.
At the end of the street,
lays a lonely beggar,
Fighting the hailstorms,
with no food nor light,
with no beds nor clothes.
He shivers in the cold,
and
burns under the sun,
There he lies...
At the end of the street.
To disembark on a journey,
A journey to his destined end.
Patiently he awaits for his life to end,
Dear oh dear,
there lies the beggar,
he waits for the scraps of food,
Fighter he is,
even a soldier too.
Yet there he is,
offering his delicacies,
to a stray with rumbling tummy too,
with a smile in his face and twinkle in his eyes,
the beggar lived his life.
At the end of the street,
was a beggar,
who's life is not worth living,
filthy and dirty he was,
yet he embraced life in a special
waiting patiently for his time,
His patience is yet to be granted.
so there he is..
At the end of the street.
When nylon nights
trade crystal colours
in the stalls of nimble
butterfly wings,
I blossom as an
irenic origami
fervently fabricated
with snowflakes of
greedy gloom,
stealing royal violets
from the smokey estuaries
flowing beneath the
heavens befogged
with indigos, glistening
in periwinkle-arcs of
abstract auroras.
I reminisce those
amaranth stars
that whisper
graphical pantoums in
pearlescent pixels
of plum pentagon-
shaped skies,
as everytime when
porcelain acrylics
get spilt upon mauve
pages ribboned
with hydrangeas,
my orchid lips spin
a twist of leathered
spells amidst
frozen fahrenheit of
frostbit textures.
Painting heliotropic
oxygen with brushstrokes
of peony petals,
I carry unspoken
words of iris,
so that artificial aroma
within sculptured truths
remains caged
behind these dark
magenta carnations
printed upon
cashmere curtains
of hallucinating hyacinths.
Do photogenic pansies
never get frozen in iced pyre
of parched patchworks?
For, I believe that,
drowsy poppies
too have streaks of
wine stories
to narrate in their
ages of ache.
Perhaps, I'm a
glasswinged sorceress
of arctic hailstorms,
tracing phlox-
fluorescent forests
with tropical crayons,
as oiled hues of
multi-dusks flutter
across lavender orbs,
sprinkling mauve
dewdrops upon
watercolor dusts of
pencil-shaded luna
who unlocks
silver secrets
with skeleton key,
washing my bones
with lilac fog.
So, when these
thistle shaded leaves
crack their crystal
cocoons and
the sun sheds its
fluffed feathers
of hibernation,
meet me along the
horizons where
bright Veronica
takes the shape of
the moon and
reincarnates as a
crocheted sangria
memory along the
translucent sleet of
snowy sights.
My skin is softer
than raisin pearls
of mulberry seas,
as my spirit is stained
with glamorous grape
dyes and amethyst-fresco
distemper across bitter
skies has discoloured
every apathetic shade
that doesn't seem to
define my airbrushed
heather heart.
Whether it be pernicious hailstorms,
Or be shiveringly cold snow.
It shall be in all forms,
And it comes by and goes in a blow.
Surprisingly it can be an exuberant reminiscence
Perhaps a past full of dolorous tear.
One can only see it in essence,
For it is neither far nor near.
Oh, The wonders it brings!
Deftly leaves on in disarray.
When it comes, it subtly clings,
Be it the month of june or the month of may.
May it very well be a place of fantasy,
Even a song so beautifully composed.
People erratically collate it with ecstasy,
By the virtue of emotions it grows.
Though the memories might not be real,
Mesmerizingly it blooms in me and you.
Sometimes it truly can be cordial,
And is delineated by very few.
Well, 'Tis merely a feeling,
So distantly called nostalgia.
As it may be endearing,
Precisely known as anemoia.
Tim had entered the state of a corpse while
the chorus assaulting his purulent soul festered
Callouses on his corpus callosum pretended
there was no connection just chaos exhumed
Corpuscles splattered astray ice in his vessels
in the same vein of demise as so often before
He stood at the pons dissected in cerebellar
disconnection nauseous detached from brain’s stem
A sequence of rapid succession seceded left overs
Hailstorms of concussion hailed hell freezing over
Snow gathered fast only that the crystals were black
Thunder and lightning electrocuted his passions
A squall out of nowhere invited rapidly raging squalor
Violent tempest arrested in sunken emotions
Blistering blizzards invaded the shelter of survival
Flooded with emptiness he crouched in the corner
of his neuro-toxified mind complicit of oblivion
He had tried the loneliness of a desolate desert
but then sand storms seeped through his pores
poured increasing abrasions towards ashes from dust
A vicious assault broke all defences’ containment
as he listened to the dispatch of an exploding skull
Caustic corrosion dangled from sockets of blinding sight
Tim attempted to drown himself at the oasis only
to find the mirage dispersing convoluted conclusion
But whirl winds returned him to the point of departure
He lingered at the crux of pontificated bridges
crucifix in hand and resolved to jump from the past
Ready to escape from judgement he stumbled and
fortunately the overpass had collapsed due to the storms
Faced with the murky slate of destruction he
gathered the debris and waited for fate to abate
04th October 2018
in dogmatic stillness, since uncle died
he's been traversing the phantom dimensions
from endless skyscrapers to artic edges
through hailstorms of indignation
but then he met the pondering moor king
lost in abstractions of his cane castle
and blocked his everlasting glance for good
it was then, when mist(er)y girl showed up
eerie and blossomless, just like anathema
and took the hillside rambler by the hand
astonished spectators watched the lovesick couple
as they descended to the subway of hollow earth
crowded and restless, markedly hectic
everyone thought it's just a plain buffoonery
but no one could break the mundane restrictions
and all once for disrobe that badly sewn uniforms
then, the catastrophe - cyclonic catharsis
earthquake caused by the centipede march
sent the ones with fiery hearts down the drain
likewise the tin soldier and little Lady
and sentenced them to be lone again
Frozen stars in the shadows of changing seasons, the pain of love engraved in acrylic gold
Swirls through the sunlight, draped in somber mists, the echo of endless memories
Of a timeless love story, I feel the frozen sigh of a suffering sunset
While the warm mustard dew of shifting fog gently caresses the sapphire fringes of silent seas
Singing sober melodies on the rain-kissed horizon, heavy with onyx tears of anguish
Like a black rose wilting, mourning in a mahogany coffin, locked with painful memories
Embalmed in shades of hailstorms, somewhere between split gusts and winds of sorrow
The dismal sunflower remains captive, a dusty souvenir with the grayish green of a shattered September
For every autumn hides a story, lost among the dark sights of dripping leaves
And I will always bloom from an opaque mirage, listening to the forest fading, whispering sad odes
To the melancholic wind, feeling time flow through my veins like a river of regrets
Memories melt into colors of fermented must, and my thoughts wander through labyrinths of fog
In this symphony of sadness, words dance on the knife edges of my troubled conscience
Drops of nostalgia trickle down the windows of the soul, reflecting a past that no longer exists
And I, a captive spectator in my own mind, watch as the fabric of reality unravels
Leaving behind only echoes of a love that once was, now lost in the waves of time
Thus, I float through the sea of melancholy, clinging to fragments of memories like lifebuoys
As the horizon drifts further away, and I sink into the depths of my own consciousness
Where frozen stars and wilted roses form constellations of an inner universe
Pulsating to the rhythm of a broken heart, but one that still beats, still hopes, still dreams of eternity.
“Some stars are frozen within the shades of shifting seasons, yet the grief of love, etched in acrylic gold, whirls through the sunlight, dressed in grim mists, echoing endless memories of a timeless romance” Quote By Poet
I feel the frozen sigh of an aching sunset,
as the warm mustard dews of moving mists~
softly stroke the sapphire fringes of
silent seas, singing somber songs
into the rain-kissed skyline,
heavy with onyx tears of angst,
like a withering black rose,
mourning within a mahogany casket,
locked away with sorrowful memories,
embalmed in hues of hurling hailstorms.
Perhaps somewhere between splitting gusts
and gales of grief, sullen sunflowers remain trapped,
as souvenirs dusted with greying greens of a broken September.
For every autumn holds a narrative,
lost between the dusky views of drizzling leaves,
and I will forever bloom from an opaque mirage,
listening to the fading forests~
whisper woeful odes to the wistful wind.
Open hearts to victims of neglect
In communities immunized from kindness
Hardened by design to the core to select
The affluent whose blindness and fondness for coldness and heartlessness
Shunt aside concerns of the bottom of the pyramid
Whose human worth they measure in dollars and pounds
Stashed in Swiss bank vaults and coffers amid
Abject poverty that makes the rounds and plea sounds on clay grounds
On which mud and pole huts teeming with bed bugs
Vacillate as strong winds at high velocity blow
In tandem with hailstorms whose ferocity tugs
Thatch roofs and cereal bans asunder when hit below
The survival belt when victims with neither voice nor choice
Cringe, gnashing teeth, shivering under threadbare blankets
As distended stomachs yawn and groan wishing Joyce
Could spare a coin from her meager security guard pay pockets
That hardly kept her soul and body together, dreading the shylock’s knock
On her door demanding Joyce settles a thousand Kwacha
Borrowed at usury interest rates on the chime of ten o’clock
To pay school fees for her fatherless urchins whose diet culture
Long forgot the taste and smell of beef last eaten
At Christmas when a Good Samaritan brought them morsel of offals
Cooked outside on a firewood stove, weather beaten
Which despite having seen better days played essential culinary roles
In feeding emaciated mouths
Pumping stomachs with green vegetables
In old family members' memories whose worship for simple truths
Ensured men, women and children prayed before eating meals on wooden tables
Where despite tiny quantities for which they scrambled
Lacked no wealth of compassion and affection
Shared unstintingly with prayers mumbled
In voices full of passion blessed by God’s protection.
Please change your attitude, I think you're being kind of rude. With hailstorms and snow in
early may, you decided to ruin my day. Your unkindess is not funny you're ruining my whole
summer, would it really hurt you to be so kind and spread a little sunshine? Your ever
changing attitude really makes me wonder should i wear shorts or a coat or decide to build a
boat. Sometimes your happy, sometimes your sad, but whatever your problem is if you
decided to let us have a day of sunshine it would sure make me glad.
We live in washington
this is why i wrote this poem