Best Westward Poems
The ground is damp
it bleeds through my thin cotton skirt.
Crest born, I sit and wait the dawn.
My fingers weave into the high rye grass.
The house below is quiet still.
The children sleep.
The dog’s with me.
We sit high upon the hill.
Peaceful heart, Venus I spy
the morning star, the moon, and dawn,
God could see them in my eyes a tilt.
Barefoot bliss, Champ for a pillow
down I lie and sigh.
The children sleep.
My man’s returned.
Now, we sit high upon the hill.
He lies with me. Grass stains my skirt.
He weaves dewed daisies in my hair.
Crest born we writhe beneath the sky
above our farm on prairie grass.
The house below is quiet still.
The children sleep.
The dog runs home.
We sit high upon the hill.
Contest: Into Night's Dwelling
Poet: Debbie Guzzi
Date: 1/8/14
strengthening in force
ruffling grasses over plains ~
taunts the westward wind
in solemn homage
mauve blooms bend to touch green grass
westward whistling pass
she whispers softly
new leaves rustle their reply
breeze wanders westward
The Quakers, being religiously persecuted, set sail from expatriated England;
they were the first settlers to reach the shore of New England: a free land!
Later the Puritans came and settled in other eastern, bustling colonies
seeking the same religious freedom, but their urge was stronger than dreams.
Many moved westward on foot, on horseback and on overloaded wagons...
exploring the American wilderness plundered by indigenous Indians;
they searched for grassland everywhere, to let their cattle roam and graze;
first they built wooden shacks on vast, lush prairies full of Queen Ann's Lace.
And out of this American westward expansion, came the fearless pioneers,
who sought gold mines...despite the wild cowboys causing troubles
with heavy drinking and desire for unscrupulous women, seeking money and pleasure,
who served them more whisky and lured them to a room with a demeaning measure.
Beyond the Rocky Mountains' and the Appalachians Mountains' skies,
these diligent pioneers obtained wealth with sweat and sacrifices...
changing and shaping the wild landscapes of arable land,
avoiding the drudgery of getting stuck in mud and sand.
"Westward, further out ..."
Dusk washes over you
warm like honey
saltry and sweet
immersed in amber tones of
apricot alerts and rose
swirling unfurling peonies
the blooming silent dancing clouds
rush over white horses
crashing against
bracken green emeralds
the depths open
and unfathomable,
who can read the eyes of
an unexplored ocean,
the shallows
slide under your feet,
you turn your face up to the Sun and smile,
you feel like you’re bathing in Manuka,
it’s moorish and incurably medicinal,
the salt spray chasing northwards
up along bare legs mid thigh
on another shore
the uncertain sure calls,
the stories are a legion
in multitude of treasures
like beached shells whispering
to ears that are not listening;
you think of wading out further
where the turning back is harder,
the song calls you evocatively
further westward like a drug
you’d gladly holster star shot
drinking life in like a last shot
like a burning addiction,
your world is sliding strong
tide-drifted under your feet,
flesh and bone trying to bed
the undertow and its
neverending mystery
dragging you further out
westward
incomplete
complete
(LadyLabyrinth / 2023)
I
wet cat impaled on telegraph poles
serrated ashbrown fur
tinged with flinting silver
a mirror blue
cut by guitar strings on a shining plate
bathed in molten evening shine
jet streaks through pylon barrage
windshield wipers’ hemicircular swipe
dry cat’s crusty baguette fur
ashen edges of rapidfire cirrus
pylons stalk the sky
and catch the wipers in the eye
II
horses purr in the cat’s geule
carriages trot through veins of pomp
hounds howl in pinewood packs
fountains spurt warrior sperms
over-stuffed regalia golden-tressed coiffures
wrap scalp and skin in scented sweat
coachmen backfire trussed up in perches
perfumed eminences speed to trysts
III
The Sun-King illumines long dead VISTA galaxies
The Hall of Mirrors reveberates secret oaths
Lights dim as Le Notre adjusts tropical palm vats
The parvenu Corsican struts on depraved genes
IV
wipers peer through moving fingers
pylons jetstreak high-wire noon
Marie Antoinette drivels at Fresnes
The gilded streaming sun dances on fitful time
Glints through slithering interstitial space
Am I driving or am I driven in a cariole.
© T. Wignesan, October 29, 1986, Paris (Revised)
From: T. Wignesan
Copyright ©: T. Wignesan 1992 - October 29, 1986 [from the collection : back to background material, 1993]
the errant west wind
wobbly migratory birds -
disoriented flight
How was the West really won?
Also how a sunset meant you were done
In a town called CENTER GULCH, TEXAS, it was a busy affair of stagecoaches and Sheriff Toby Jackson
He was a Sheriff that kept order in town being his action
But it took a little persuasion
Those stagecoaches in their days made your butt so sore
The whole idea, why would anyone want to explore?
But what transportation mode did you have then?
The Hound bus didn’t come until when
Then there were some attacking Indians storming through Center Gulch
Go ahead, you can budge
But now it is the Sheriff Jackson and the Indian Chief Red Devil face to face
The sun above was beating down hard
But wait a minute that’s my heart pounding
There was a stillness, and feeling of uncertainness
Sheriff Jackson had his gun ready with his hands at his side, and Indian Chief Red Devil with arrows ready to shoot
But suddenly from Borderville, some mean looking Villians had the shot the Sheriff and the Indian Chief
Immediately there was no relief
The Villains escaped in the winding hills
We are left with one big still
However an adventure that had you in a moment of will
End of story
Until next time being another glory
A sunrise that was and a sunset of the west days
We bid the tumbleweed goodbye
Here’s dust in your eye.
The Westward Wind
The westward wind whistled,
As it whisked wildly pass,
Weeping willow trees.
Weary eyed women watched,
As winters wayward wrath,
Wreaked havoc through its breeze.
Waffling warm winds weaving,
As wounded workers,
Walked, the winding path.
Wailing Whippoorwills whispered,
Welcoming words of warmth,
From the westward winds aftermath!
Written: 3/17/16 ©
Submitted for contest: Elements Part 2: Wind
Sponsored by: Brian Davey
How fast does the river flow Michael?
How deep and wide did you say?
The wagon need to cross this river
And cross it not tomorrow but today
The summer will soon turn to autumn
And the axes are sharpened and honed
And mama is needing somewhere to rest
And that somewhere is mama’s new home
So cross the river with care son
And tell us rather come or stay
Remember to hold to that saddle
Or that river will wash you far away
Then when we’re across that river
Find some wood so a fire we will start
For mama is still carrying that baby
That she holds so dear to her heart
I know you once where the youngest
And had all that love shown your way
But now that she’ll soon have another
You may as well forget it, hear what I say?
There, bring us that old felled tree son
And we’ll start a fire to cook our meal
And after we’ve eaten our share son
We’ll grease and tighten the wagon wheels
For Montana is not all that far now
A week, maybe half again you know
So make sure there’s wind in your lungs son
As you holler and let us know where to go
There, I see the grand Tetons
Majestic and calling out our name
Ride hard in the saddle toward them
I hear there’s sweet water and game
That was years ago dear reader
That we crossed that great divide back then
With rain ripping out it’s frenzy
In the bitter battering wind
But will power won this rat race
And home sweet home we finally built
Then hunted the mountainous regions
For bear or whatever for quilts
A ride of more than a day and a half
Just to get bigger game if we need
But as for now we sit and rest a while
Then plant early in the ground some seed
No need to ride hard in the wind now
Home sweet home, yep keeps us warm
And two Hawken’s with bullets abounding
Keeps this family safe from harm
(Blank Verse Sonnet)
The wagons slice a trail across the plains
in search for gold or land to claim and build
abodes where independence rules supreme;
my great-grandfather leads them west for gain
all while his wife and sons work on the farm.
The trails he carves become long rails of iron
throughout a nation sworn by force of law –
that each man’s peace now lies within his hands.
Yet greed breeds theft, and swag digs ugly wounds
across the land where freedom banners wave;
while bondage of the poor and frail prevails
and brother murders brother, flushed with rage.
A government now sets the bar too high,
as mothers, east to west, spill bitter tears.
.
Wagons packed, gunny sacked
Wheat flour, beans, preserves
Wild nature sojourning
Worn axles, oxen, health
Winter weather challenge
Wealth aspiring visions
Wonder-filled golden hills
5-10-2021
Plieades W Contest
Sponsor: Kim Merryman
Westward wanderlust,
Wagon waltzes with Winter wine,
White watercolor walleye, windy-wallop.
Wading where wafers wage war,
Where warmth wanes without warning.
Wary whispers; weather will weather, whatnot.
west winds soft alight
in fields where gleeful barley
wave their sweet goodbyes