Best Weather Beaten Poems
O April
how I’ve longed for your return
to breathe new life
into this gnarled body..
for these roots to be unfettered
from the grasping earthen frost -
the past season of fanged nor’easters gnashed
me bare - leaving me mauled and dulled
alone with stiffened limbs
lifted to face
the hard glower of old man winter
with not a morsel of mercy to be gained
but April
now that you're here to share
the innocence of the daisy
and the honeyed scent of the sweet pea
I feel inspirited like a sapling young and tender again;
mild is the fog’s embrace in early morn
as I taste your sweetened rainwater
and gentle is the rhythm of baptizing
showers bathing dark days away..
and ever grateful is my grayed heart
as it begins to beat
with the fresh pulse of verdant rebirth
oh April
how easily you inspire
my shy imagination to fly
with the zephyr's muse
to expand my artistry
in an afternoon’s brushstroke of forsythia light
dreams once frozen now thawed and golden
eager to flourish in bloom
awakening the poetry
in a new leaf’s unfurling whisper -
a whisper that grows a praising wind-psalm
as choirs of bursting buds
celebrate revival
with a rustling alleluia!
star-shaped sails rouse in swishing sounds
their leafy lyrical breath one with the breeze
my green-laden boughs now a wellspring
of exuberant born-again voices
a thronging rejoice lifted
to the heavens on the whisk of the westerlies;
supple is my sweep and sway ‘neath
the soft-bellied skies of Spring
dear lady, April
how I revel in the glorious abundance of your Nature;
your nurture enlivens my humble woody being
and though gray may shade my weather-beaten heart..
evergreen is my soul
Susan Ashley
April 12, 2021
~ First Place ~
Premiere Contest: April
Sponsor: Regina McIntosh
weather-beaten sign
driven down in dying weeds
forsaken headstone
oh nameless, forgotten soul
the Savior knows who you are
I can see the past glory, though it is humble now and all the more reverent....
With thoughts of deep ocean bliss,
that comes with fading hope,
I walked along the tide line,
no longer able to cope.
I stared at the setting sun,
its brightness, burns the eyes.
I glanced back at the sand stone cliffs,
where a building caught my eye.
I don't recall it being there,
when I traveled the cliff top path.
I shrugged my shoulders then turned back,
to the ocean and waiting death.
I take a step towards my fate,
when I feel a tap upon my shoulder.
I turn to see who is there,
all I see is sand and boulders.
My eyes are called to the top
and to that small building.
Something there outweighed my need,
so up the cliff path I started walking.
There upon the windswept crest,
were trees leaning with the wind.
I followed the overgrown stone walk,
to the building, just round the bend.
The steeple leaned, but still spoke volumes.
No stained glass to catch the sun.
No bell to call folks to service,
no roof, as the rot had won.
Yet a charm was there to see,
strength came from the ancient stones,
that made up the four standing walls,
of this Chapel, now just bones.
I made my way to the entrance,
amid dead leaves, the scrag that enfolds.
I felt a welcome pour over me,
as I crossed over the threshold.
The setting sun cast long shadows,
that all pointed toward the alter.
My need, took me down the aisle.
Not once did my feet falter.
There He was, looking down,
from a weather beaten cross.
His countenance both pain and love,
I suddenly felt small and lost.
The sun sank deep into the sea,
and gave its final flair.
Within that light I swear I saw,
His face lift, so he saw me there.
I fell to my knees and I prayed,
as I had never prayed before.
I prayed for guidance and His love,
I felt both, to my very core.
I visit that Chapel, now and then.
It's still crumbling with time.
But, to me it has more glory now,
than it did when its bells did chime.
Paula Swanson 9/25/2011
For the contest; Church By The Ocean
Sponsored By Constance La France
Placement: 1st
Wrinkled, worn, and weather-beaten
one old hat sits a loft a dusty shelf.
A witness to individual history,
a vision of days gone by
of both good and bad times,
a garment of many memories.
Like a King's crown,
the hat once sat cocked to the right
over a stern, but wise brow.
Well used and sweat stained,
but worn with dignity and pride
by one unyielding individualist.
A common man by all accounts
of uncommon quality and character.
A man who never lost focus
on the true widgets of life
even when it was at a cost.
A man who once owned:
a pocket full of dreams,
a desire for pure freedom,
a true lust for life,
and one old hat.
*spot poetry written in 15 minutes or less about any random subject
There lay a button,
'neath the weather beaten tile,
Lay in it's dust, shadowed crust,
it had been there quite a while.
Hopeless trust amongst the feet
that scattered it abroad,
It dodged and hid itself for keeps,
in hopes 'twould not be trod.
It kept itself a distant force,
this button in the tile,
I picked it up to change its pace
and placed it in the pile,
Of buttons in my sheltered home;
'twould be so happy there
But who was I to criticize,
or place it anywhere?
Perhaps it was quite happy,
in its home away from tacks,
So I turned around,
and put it down,
It was happy to be back.
Moral: Don't assume that changing ones'
surroundings are always what THEY desire.
Who are you, my Lord?
And what am I standing here as a weather-beaten tombstone,
O Lord, reveal yourself to me on the tombstone standing here alone.
Long, long ago
Cain averted his face from the light,
the condemned river, surrounded by a dead
Cain laid atop of his own brother, flows into the valley
carrying the curse.
And the condemned river flows to the dark side of the sun
since the time Abel’s blood cried out.
My eyes grew so accustomed to the darkness
and, thus, though I am no longer able to stand in light,
I face you, the Lord of the origin of light,
standing here as a tombstone.
O Lord, are you the very person whose voice I hear?
are you the man who is rolling and tossing on the ground
under the out-pouring lashes who moans:
“forgive them,” each time I call for aid of my destiny?
O Lord, are you the one who crawl on the path
that leads to the Place of the Skull
in the mixed air of cries as the fools shout,
mockeries of the evil ones affront,
and the useless tears the women shed?
Are you the one who mutters: “forgive them,”
while falling under a rootless tree
for the weight of the tree is too great to bear?
For the good nature of humankind is numbed
by the weight of sins too deep to break loose.
The emotion of human kind becomes cold and cruel
and, therefore, O my Lord,
do you groan with pain unbearable:
“forgive them,” when those stone-hearted drive spikes
pierce your hands with no compunctions?
Are you the one who stands as a decaying wooden pillar
on atop of Golgotha with a darkening sun on your back
to close the shamefully-mistreated hard life,
the miserably-humiliated painful life?
Are you the benevolent kind-hearted one who looks up at heaven,
and at mobs who accused you, appealing with tearful eyes:
“Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing.”
When the wooden pillar collapses from its own weight
and darkness falls onto earth to cover the unsightly world,
I, the tombstone with no name or epitaph,
see a sad image standing atop of the Place of the Skull
tightly holding the world’s anguish.
On the wind-swept Nebraska prairie sits a building in wretched shambles,
Surrounded by a sagging fence and overgrown with prickly brambles.
It was once a bustling one-room school house, abandoned long ago.
Its weather-beaten clapboards, I judged to be a century old or so.
Atop its cupola, swaying listlessly in the wind, was a rusted weather vane.
Eerily, at the whim of the wind, the school bell still tolled now and again.
Two ancient oak trees stood sentinel seeming to provide a guard,
To ensure that trespassers like me would value its past with high regard.
I warily opened the door, its rusty hinges protesting, to take a look inside.
Mice skittered across the dusty floor and cobwebs I had to brush aside.
There were well-worn desks, a blackboard and pot-bellied stove for heat.
To muse about its past and the ghosts of scholars of yore, I took a seat.
I pictured the schoolmarm who taught readin', writin' and basic math,
Who struggled to maintain order with imps who suffered her fearful wrath!
Little girls looked so prim in their pinafores and gingham frocks;
The boys wore knickers, buckled boots and gaudy argyle socks!
I could hear the droning recitations of pupils whose attention would digress,
To the ticking of the school clock anticipating the merriment of recess!
I noted relief on the teacher's face when at last the kids were released.
I sensed that she felt she had been nurturing a horde of wild beasts!
I caught him staring at me
From the corner of my eyes
I turned to a cloud’s mist
His eyes had a grey pastel sadness
A white fog had drifted downwards
And covered his weather beaten face
A light vapour seemed to seep
Through his portrait, a sadness
That even Atlas could not lift
His misery seeped out and
Took hold of me, I looked away
But I had already painted myself
In his shades of grey, my eyes filled
Courtouring away my pain
Colours had no place here today!
7.6.22
Sponsor: Craig Cornish
Contest Name: The Pastel
The enclosed porch framed a weather-beaten door.
The door was slightly opened when I knocked on it.
I slowly set foot inside the musty dark drawing room;
little light shown through from the stained-glass window.
I reach and slowly move my fingers over the flower rosette
carved into the old elegant red oak staircase railing.
I do walk up the stairs to see the same as on the door frames.
Passing through in the nostalgic silence of the empty house
I could hear the echo whispers of life of its past.
4/8/2023
Writing Challenge - 'S' Words, Poetry Contest 10. staircase
Sponsored by: Constance La France
In streets of solitude...
A societal ghost ambles through
A bustling concrete jungle unnoticed.
A lost soul with sartorial handicap,
Carrying life inside his overstuffed backpack.
His face is weather-beaten;
Reflecting wasted years,
Loneliness and pain.
His hungry, pleading eyes
Dart from one passerby to the next.
No one cares enough to approach,
To find out his name. It's Jack.
A few stop by to toss pennies
Into his Styrofoam cup.
No one sticks around to talk to him.
His stomach often grumbles
With hunger;
The world blind to his plight.
He wants more than a friendly wave
At those waiting out a stop light
Half of those don't even look in Jack's direction
Because of pride, he doesn't
Knock at car windows and ask...
"Can you kindly spare a dollar?"
A forgotten citizen left to fend for himself.
He might as well be locked away
In prison; out of sight, out of mind.
Who searches, cries, and prays for this lost soul?
America unwilling
To bring this outsider in from the cold.
She looks past him like cellophane.
Campaigning politicians release
A laundry list of plans that don't include
Helping him to rise above his dismal circumstances.
None of their promises include
Sheltering this poor folk roaming about
Like a stray dog, living under a bridge
And sleeping in a makeshift tent.
Sadly, it will always be this way
In streets of solitude.
Between a sky of pale blue, streaked with white,
and a glassy sea of royal blue,
there lies a land of lavender rock,
where wind blown grasses grow in briny
patches around weather beaten houses
brushed in pastel shades of yellow, pink,
and green and blue.
A grey fishing shack stands on silts
beyond the waters edge,
deep in rippling reflections of itself
and the sky that shimmers across the inlet
to the other side, where a dory
tethered to a dock stacked high with reels
of blue and orange ropes and buoys,
rests peacefully in the noon-day sun, with me,
on these long cold winter nights.
~~~~~
With brew in hand, I step into a dew laden atmosphere that lies beneath a veil of grey, through which a huge, radiating circle of red rises and burns a hole, allowing the true colors of the day to seep through. Streams of blue, bleed through the green needles of the pines, as I sip my morning coffee and marvel at the crystal pinwheel patterns spun during the night, that now hang from my weather beaten fence.
In a melancholy breeze, I watch through cloudy eyes, a few leaves falling from the Crimson Kings, exposing the empty Robin’s nest I watched a Robin build - it seems - not so long ago, as I wonder through years gone by.
Across the way, where it seems only yesterday, I gazed at green pastures, I now gaze at fields of Queen Ann Lace, Golden Rods, Purple Asters and Scottish Thistles. When did, and how did all this happen? How quickly life goes by!
The sky above me turns black, as a flock of Starlings, swoop and sway and turn as one, before landing in the trees along the railroad track, breaking the silence with their deafening cries of summer's end, as a tear falls from my eye.
Author: Elaine Cecelia George, of Canada
Written: August 30, 2013
My wife and I
Visited our daughter and her husband in tiny Rhode Island
Newlyweds living in
The city of Providence and hope
We got up early Saturday
Feeble ray of light
Barely touching the horizon
Dense purple void below
Adventure in her voice
Wife said
Let’s wander
The house is quiet
And the kids are still asleep.
We walked through a cold morning
Not far but just enough
For the houses behind us to disappear from view
Ahead we saw
Tall trees
Hidden behind them a river called the Seekonk
Native American
For Black Goose
Getting closer we found a winding a path
She gave her hand to me
As we walked through a quiet place
Of brown leaves, bare trees
Here and there patches of green grass
Surviving a chilly Fall
Further and further
We went
Off in the distance we saw a lonely figure
And on the river
People rowing
Strangers smiled
Read an old weather beaten sign
That welcomed us to Blackstone Park
Stopped near the water’s edge
Looking down
To a tide that had run out the night before
Exposing a thin sand
Imagination believing
Each tiny grain
Was a person, place or thing.
We returned
To meet two sleepy faces
Daughter anxiously asked where we were
Silly Children, my wife replied
Your parents were never lost.
Hear the clip-clop of iambic beats
Sounds like Shelley with a side of Keats
Is that the scritchity-scratch of a goose quill flickin’
Or just the tippity-tap of some mouse you clickin’..?
So you a prophet poet, regular Marley meets Dylan
Writin’ about oppression and unjust killin’
Shootin' the Sheriff with a Reggae song
Inspirin' your generation with a sing along
A shot of tequila with a wedge of lime
Saddle up and bide your time
Every line don’t need to rhyme
I can give you a million examples
You don't seem like the lyrical type
Kickin' cold turkey with oranges ripe
That's the fruit that rhymes with nothin’
Fresh squeezed it's good for somethin’
Citric flashback, Tang for the brain
Hyperspace wormholes one cannot explain
Sun dippin' below the rim of a rhymeless plateau
Cow skull and cactus, a timeless tableau
In the twilight gloom, a weather-beaten sign
Free Verse Ranch is the place to dine
Gorge on rhyme-free wordplay victuals
Linguistic linguini and cage-free visuals
Specialty of the house: lemon chicken couplet
With a side of mashed onomatopotatoes--plop!
Gravy sloppin’ down slopes like molten lava
Washed down with mugs of fresh-brewed java
Buzzards circlin' the sky in a lazy ellipse
Moon moseyin' in for a total eclipse
Flee in the dark, take a steed for a ride
Jump the split rail fence to the other side
Leap back in time to a buzzin' hive
Looks like the vortex, circa 1995
Can barely think amid the din
Perfect time for the ‘shrooms to kick in
Tie-dyed girl where I left her spinnin' in place
Band still playin' a trippy Drums n Space
But how strange that I cannot feel my face
How did twenty years vanish without a trace?
Tumbleweed twirlin' down the rutted street
Empty rocking chair swayin' skee-reet skee-reet
'Taters still steamin' like a mini-volcano
Room reeks of whiskey stronger than Drano
Spilled orange juice tricklin' a fly-food slurry
Someone cleared outta Free Verse Ranch in a helluva hurry
The clip-clop of iambic beats, Sheriff on my tail
He wouldn't shoot an unrhymed man, would he?
Bouts of lightning flashes,swirls
And lightens up the pitch, black night
Of our neck of the woods
Tailgated by stealthy footsteps
Of growling, grunting, moaning and roaring thunder,
As in gnashing and grinding of canine
As rain, like beads of sweat, acne and goose pimples
Break out on my forehead and entire body,
Sprouting like yam tendrils from the earth;
meandering as water in rain gutter
From a million hair follicles,
Teasing my entire body
And finally docking by hook or crook
Like a boat at it's embedded tributary
Between my negritude toes
I google in consternation, bewilderment
At your obstinate attempt
As pestle on bits of grain in motar
To pound a defiant, renegade earth
Back against the wall in rope-a-dope
To submission and surrender
Powerful strokes of koboko whips
Descending from heaven
As plague upon pharaoh and his kinsmen,
Drumming endlessly on thatch roofs
And corrugated iron roofs alike
Concocting rhythms more intoxicating
And damning than heavy metal music
Images of African women
Resiliently scurrying, shuffling,
Between thatch huts and drooling rain;
Scuttling to retrieve rain water in pails
And ebony children
Drenched in rain like weather beaten bats
Savoring every drop from the whinning sky
Rain,
I yearn for your spirit
But dread your fiery, fury,
Flash and flood
Come rain, soak me in your mist;
Drape me in your dew and moisture
Rain,
Your ghost evokes succor and misery!