Long Blanches Poems
Long Blanches Poems. Below are the most popular long Blanches by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Blanches poems by poem length and keyword.
Nature ages like Youth,
a bougainvillea wrapped
around a strapless watch.
Youth doesn’t look at the clock
but ignores passing hours unknowing,
innocent of the melting water.
It leaps and lunges without fear of a fading silhouette,
it smiles with missing teeth,
gaps filled with dreams that will change.
Youth giggles at the simplest of movements,
it blanches under praise -
it drifts along shores, feeling hearing holding then
abandoning the flotsam and jetsam of aging. It is a bundle of
yesterday’s plans
ostracised by calendars,
unaware that friends will leave, as
trenches are dug by
hands, wrinkled.
Youth is a promise milked into creams,
it is a sweating desire to return, rediscover the
suppleness of joints, of bones, of possibility.
Youth has not yet become a mouth that sighs,
is bougainvillea still free from being entwined, twisted and tied.
It is not yet conscious of time as an intangible abstract
forever
In open schools,
On the laziness of orange trees,
On the beds of straw,
I’m looking for it,
In the naked mills,
On the guest books,
On the square roofs,
I’m looking for it,
Under the sheets of Sunday,
On the tars that melt,
On the white spices,
I’m looking for it,
On the defeated facades,
The distant sails,
On the sweet vines,
I’m looking for it,
Dans les écoles ouvertes,
Sur la paresse des orangers,
Sur les lits de paille,
Je le cherche,
Dans les moulins dévêtus,
Sur les livres d’or,
Sur les toits carrés,
Je le cherche,
Sous les draps du dimanche,
Sur les goudrons qui fondent,
Sur les épices blanches,
Je le cherche,
Sur les façades vaincues,
Les voiles éloignées,
Sur les vignes sucrées,
Je le cherche,
Over rolling hills, it tiptoes in on bobcat feet
With Lynx-like eyes, and billowing clouds of gray
And turns the hush of twilight's blood red sky
Into a witches brew, alive with piercing cries
A wind that coils in the breast of dunes
Gliding in from distant lands, Saguaro sands
Eerie sounds whistle through window sills
The chill of what was peaceful and still
Has turned to anger, fear and dread
Wildness arrives on chariots with mighty steeds
The monsoon thrives, while a desert blanches dead
It gnashes teeth with biting winds
Shaking shingles, tree trunks bend
The pouring thunder, lightning peels
Rain gushes down as strong as steel
We wait until the wrath is spent
At last with gusto,....a final vent
Like spoiled child it takes a bow
There's nothing but a murmur now
The wretched carpet left behind
Broken wings from dark of night
Trees and limbs are battered hosts
Cacti lift their arms to toast
The remnant of a monsoon's ghost
.................................
Inspired by Paula's Monsoon Contest
I did not sleep that night,
the hotel room was already taking on
the chill ambience, smell, and sounds
of an intensive care unit.
Occasional distant laughter
in a corridor where people are carefree,
I pretend to laugh along
but thoughts croak and tremble.
I mean nothing to Cincinnati,
the city has no memory of me yet,
and If I die in its University Hospital
I will still be a hole within a hole
of a book never read.
During the 4 a.m. G.P.S drive
it rained a soft black rain
as headlights plowed into
the unknown.
Back in the hotel room,
I am still packing and unpacking
while somnambulant eyes
try not to see the looming Hospital entrance
emerging from a gray faced dawn.
The entrance is an electric mouth
that withers. puckers and reflates.
Beyond sliding doors, the day blanches white.
The atmosphere rings with the bell like calls
of the plover flock, long before they are spotted.
The flight herringbones a grey fedora sky.
Markings of white and coal black weave,
wing-stitched, a blanket maker’s dream.
Sigh makers they close on the beach
at high tide, the horizon shivers the
sand blanches. These ravishing scavengers
light on the tattered edge of wet to dry,
dawdling with the dead.
Plovers are diminutive scroungers, one-legged
dancers, hopping to the pull of tide, dining on
crab-eggs in black-tie and feathered tails, their
gray skull caps lined with a black brow.
Sparrow-small birds dress to the nines.
A feast for the birds, fall crisps, crab moltings,
go on for endless miles. September is beginning
and soon winged ones will fly to sunny shores.
The cold Atlantic will moan for the loss of music,
the unstitched sky will part. The avian choir is off
to the mud flats of Carolina.
First Published Eunoia Review January 2015