Hurriedly Poems | Examples

Spring's Embrace 14-03-23

A thousand different notes one hears
from the flute-like whistle of the thrush
to the chirp and twitter of the sparrow,
blended all into a single song;
Earth's welcoming of spring.

Sat there,
basking in the sunlight,
(the first in several weeks)
Spring's weather,
a hint of the summer to come.
Around us,
the wind whispers gently,
"Rejoice humble grass, it's time to break free"
and trees hurriedly recreate their leaves.

Spring is a time of freedom and growth,
as the horse which slept in its stable
hemmed in by the bitter cold
now roams the fields, completely free.
Amidst it,
dove white lilies and orange tulips thrive.
Nurtured by the glorious spring showers,
they sway and dance in its breeze.

Layered in scarves, gloves and a coat,
winter's icy embrace locking up her body,
nevertheless, under the frosted willow tree,
her eyes carry hope of that time
a mere three months beyond January.

Each inch of my niche

The whirlwind rolled in rings at the eyewall,
Wild gale blew through the open tropical field.
I'd forgotten to close the windows tight,
And the ensuing rain inundated each inch of my niche.
The hurricane hurriedly stripped the veld of its peace.

Dry air pacified the expanse of the grassland,
The massive flood drained into a sunken cesspool,
My thoughts swayed to the windows the storm had slammed,
Now a zephyr traverses the meadow's breath;
Calmness fills the eye of the once-raging storm.

Lyrics

Lyrics come to me by moonlight
When the power of darkness lessens
When whispers soften like overripe
Mangoes dispatched hurriedly from India,
On ramshackle East Indiamen vessels
Sailing fruitfully through consternated
Waters and heated lines of the tropics,
Selling rewardingly on busy markets
Charged with the power of buy-and-sell,
And order-and-supply.
I wonder how Bob would react to
My girlfriend’s long and big, sexy hair
Blowin’ in the wind,
Seeking answers to horizon-tossed questions,
When howling, racing gales accompany
Frightened sorrel horses, newly freed from
Spavins, and spiked by the energy of the sun,
Hurtle home happily towards old and battered
Picket fences newly mended?
I write often under the spell of night rain,
Striving much not to blend lyrics with poems,
Which, like zucchini and cucumber,
May look alike but are quite different.
I stumble upon the fraternity between words
And promises and splice them with soft, nimble
Fingers of the piano.
Gentle taps yonder come from happily sobbing congas.
And with an unseen ensemble, a song is born.

Marcel Duchamp

Marcel Duchamp
(French Dada artist, 1887 - 1968)


Marcel Duchamp is most celebrated
for a woman rushing down a stairwell naked,
a painting critics mocked from the start
as degenerate French modern art.

Wives sighed relief she’s less than revealing
so invited their husbands for a viewing.
Duchamp painted her stripped of any garb
apropos to the art of the time – avant garde –

a style abstracted from reality
and untouched by prurient vulgarity
devoid of any libidinous knowledge,
unless her many overlapping legs.

I suspect her lover’s knock she heard
had her rushing hurriedly and blurred.
Who he might have been is still unknown –
some think Duchamp, discreetly not shown.

A Mirror Reflected in Their Writing

Did they plan it all, to write it all, of their inner most feelings and thoughts.
l think they did. just like their poetry, they couldn't help them selves.
l had visions of them today, sitting at their writing desk, or hurriedly, at any spare table available. Papers strewn, pen and ink, untidily about the room. l think that's when they wrote the best.
Sad stories, emotional pain, written in every line from what iv learnt so far.
Not much yet, as l never wanted to know before, untill , for some reason, today l took interest. 
l thought l knew them, little did l know, l knew nothing about them. shame on me.
But l think now its possible  for me to really know their inner most soul, just by their writing.
So l will search the meaning in every one of their written lines, for l really care.
l need to know, l owe it to them, they died in the prime of their lives.
What even more POWERFUL written work could have continued....
from the Bronte Sisters.

Nepenthe

a cute child playing by herself
accepts chocolate by stranger
is taken to desolate shed
where four men played until she bled

hurriedly she was dropped where found
a known passerby brought her home
to scared dad, mother aghast cold
who cradled half-dead six year old
---
ostracized, no child plays with her
no relatives cuddle or kiss _
cannot fathom glance of others _
shifting places baffles, bothers _

no nepenthe calms the wronged child
no nepenthe numbs shocked parents
their abused eyes stare at the gloom
why the child? why? why? Questions loom

A Gallery of Passing Clouds

These thoughts we frame and title
hang now from long defunct dendrites,
made branchless by the passé and pointless
now all strung-up upon threadbare strings.

Ones or twice the hanged are molested
by magpies seeking baubles for their nests,
yet most go unrobbed and remain as still as death,
or they twist in chill uncaring winds.

These thoughts shaped to mind-images,
collected together in empty galleries,
these works nibbled at; edited by blind mice
who then hurriedly hide from sight
the slipshod carpentry of our words.

These portraits of spent passions
may still be gazed upon
by the idle few, who beyond all reason
choose to elect a passing cloud
to admire or decry,
plucking out that feathery fragment,
as if it were the real feature

of the faceless and yet untold.

Magun- Thunderbolt

Thunderbolt

With the mystical whiff 
Dousing the air 
he beckons hurriedly 
Enticing the day 
into the night
standing tall 
he struts into the deed
defying every lurking laws
rummaging cloak and dagger 
defiling the hallowed hollows 
thus, infuriating the sitting gods

Space

Outside,
outer space pauses
to be visible to naked eyes.

Most dress hurriedly
clothing their eyes
for fear of being seen.

Inside,
an inner space
expands at the speed of God,

as we, at breakfast,
chat about this
and maybe even that.

Haunted House

In far away desolate moor of the Scottish Highland,
I was driving fast on the road around the wetland.
The car got stuck in sticky mud, I couldn’t take it out,
I was in for trouble in the wilderness, I had no doubt.

But luckily I spotted a Victorian manor not very far,
before the nightfall I could hurriedly walk up there.
Its door I knocked, an old man let me in a room stale 
that greeted me with smoke of dim lantern to inhale.

His curled lips quivered, faintly said, ”you’re hungry”,
and disappeared in the dark, closed the door swiftly,
didn’t return, I decided to explore, saw a streak of light
in a room where I found him stone still, sitting upright.

He clasped close a human skeleton with stretched arms,
said, “this is old, you’ll give me a new one with charms”.
Cold sweat rolled down my spine, shivering in the core,
I ran out of the haunted house through the back door.

Ordinary People

Ordinary People
.......................................
walking on the roads hurriedly,
to reach workplace indifferently,
to finish  pending work finally.,
saw a bleeding man callously,
looked at passing by people furiously,
and thought did my duty thoroughly.
The dying man could be wishing desparately,
to help him with a heart humanly.
What did he know,we have become possibly,
merciless than the reaper so grimly.
Have the time to take picture perfectly,
but not to lend the hand to help you readily.
Well ,could be anyone’s woman,child  or anyone potentially,
to be in a state and watched on helplessly. 
My status ranges from low to high endlessly,
and so does my education absolutely.
Do I care about these you silly,
am just like you ,ordinary people living casually,
unhinged,unperturbed ,going along slyly.
After all ,we are all people living so ordinarily.


Written  and finished on:21/9/24

Unsent Letters

-------------------
I find myself
with just myself reflecting
on undelivered letters of winters past--
the most bitter front glazing evenings
where a fireplace becomes a chilled shelter
of sharp, dazed musings 
as I travel within time's slow compass.
Two quarter moons ago...you left hurriedly crashed by a wheeler,
And my soul burned in the
 ragged kiln of night...without
 a lint of words between us,
I crawled under spikes of despicaple darkness:

My taut pen scratched paper on
  paper--- speaking to you among 
  tangles of weeds, a wailing through
  love-filled notes kneading pain and longing;
Envelopes devoid of a zip code, of 
stamps,  rimmed by spider webs.
Tell me now , can I bear the weight pinned
by handwritten drafts inhabiting our room?

Your wool jacket dangles tonight 
on a hook accumulating debris and stale mint,
while spring floods our garden with radiant foliage--
Papyrus of my ardorous thoughts lay on
deserted tables, 
and I'm orphaned...alone by myself.

THE POOR OLD LADY ON THE CROSSWALK

Busy as a street could ever be  
Everyone's eyes veiled but me  
In this busy anthill  
A poor old lady gave a shrill  
Struggling on a zebra, a daily drill.  

As every ant, loaded, hurriedly passed by
To the poor lady I gave a wide smile.  
Met by a worn-out stare
I noticed my gesture was to her a scare
"Mom, let me help you cross," I said to her.  

Sensing the genuineness in that smile
She handed me her hand, gave a high sigh.  
Her panting could not just stop
As if her poor breath was on the cross 
Ready to be nailed for crucifixion.

On the other side of the road
The sun shines again, brighter.  
Her poor old heart breathes lighter  
A weight lifted from her tired soul
And I, too, feel a little more whole.

Hummingbird Leap

Written: May 25, 2024
                
                       ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

hummingbirds with chartreuse throats
scared to fly off the ground
favored tightrope walking
where the sky and ocean collide
she considered attempting flight 
another time a circus visited town
another area where she may hide
hidden under a fake scowl

      nestled comfortably away 
      from the mother bird's picks
      a fledgling with propensity
      with paralytic rhinitis

      without plucking feathers
      to reveal a fractured limb
      or scars carved into wings
      stitched together
      a dinky bird soon gasped for air
      hurriedly touched line
      and took on a Goliath.              
                                                     leep 
                                                    *            
                                                *
                                             *
                                  to join her friend.
                                  weird and delicate.
                                                                  misfits

Whisper -For your choice T Contest

“It’s not what they say when you are there, it’s what they whisper after you leave.”                                                          ~~ Actor - Errol Flynn ~~


Whispers as you hurriedly pass them  by.
Whispers that can really make you cry.

Those whispers filled my head with doubt.
I didn’t realize what being poor was all about.

Whispers about the clothes that I wore.
Whispers as if it was a crime to be poor.

Rumors were rife in the school yard.
Those whispers really did make life hard.

Invited to parties, I didn’t want to go.
All snickering. Did they think I didn’t know?

I know bringing a gift of a potted plant wasn’t right.
Their whispers didn’t even wait till I was out of sight.

Whispers continued when I was a teen.
The rumors got worse the whispers were mean.

Slowly but surely, I overcame their sneers.
Learning to be proud of who I am over the years.

I met a man who loved me for who I am, I knew.
And how good it felt when he whispered, I love you.

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