Long Buffeted Poems
Long Buffeted Poems. Below are the most popular long Buffeted by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Buffeted poems by poem length and keyword.
When dark days and evil nights lurk and strike,
Without regards for what's yours or mine; When high tides of cruelty strike
The good who's done no crime;
In troubling times like these,
We are open to being deceived.
When confronted by fears that bind,
A very powerful song comes to mind,
Speaking of anchors for troubled times,
For lives turned and tossed way out of line,
For people beaten, buffeted, and intertwined.
A way out of their wilderness, they cannot find.
Each day is a grind, falling further and further behind.
Life makes no sense, having neither rhythm nor rhyme.
They feel voidness and feebleness, a life without design.
Storms have destroyed their fruit, now rotting on the vine.
They need hugs, smiles, and touches from loving humankind.
May God give us all an anchor that holds tightly to The Devine.
050520PSCtest, In Times Like These, Silent One. 2P
One More Cuppa Tea
to the unknowing
the cup is empty,
slightly stained,
laced with miniscule
cracks. It has a glossy
sheen., polished
by life’s luster,
buffed and buffeted
by its burdens,
distilling Orange Pekoe
fortunes, reflecting
the passage of time
in the eyes of
the tea leaf readers.
she sits, this cup,
this reservoir
of moments,
symbol of
a simpler time,
the balm of a warm cup
in loving hands
shared across a table,
across a generation,
across the great divide
of age.
Oh, to see it full again,
feel its amber warmth,
inhale its steaming secrets,
nuzzle each endless moment.
Share
one more
“cuppa tea”.
©12/20/2017
submitted to – Best free verse poem October-December 2017 – Poetry Contest
Note: Norwegians are proud of many things, but above all, they are endlessly proud of Sissel Kyrkjebø, the Voice of Norway! International singer.
______________________________________________________________
I live in a deserted chapel,
Buffeted and corroded by harsh winds,
And yet to me it is a godsend haven
Away from hazards of fellow men.
Dry from incessant downpours
But cold and damp and forlorn,
I rest in a forsaken sheltered corner,
As my thoughts linger on you.
For I can never forget you
Though you prefer me no more.
Instinctively I rise from my sad corner
Hobble towards the broken altar,
There I light a candle small
In loving memory of you.
Its feeble light shines wanly
A lonely shadow it throws
Down to the depth of my isolated soul,
A little faint flame of hope.
Soon a turbulent wind violently
Blows its way across the plain.
Like a horde of evil demons
Sweeping all that's in its way,
The candlelight is snuffed off
At least for this desolate night.
Is love so fickle that
It can be stifled so quickly?
Is love so petty and trivial
That it's comparable to a candle wick?
But such a light can be renewed,
The wax ignites into life once more.
So let the gusty winds blow
For I know deep within me,
My love will never be stifled
That I should lose all hope.
I am sailing upon open waters. The wind, in my face,
thrashes white sails and casts briny foam into flight
from churning seas. My boat is buffeted by mighty waves.
I stand at the helm with salt-stung eyes on the undulating horizon
where it blurs into storm gray sky as if a single encompassing terror.
Then I think to myself, "I cannot win this fight."
But what fight?
The wind is the wind - not my foe. I can lament the injustice
or wait for its course to change, but both of these choices,
in the end, will only serve to repel me farther from my destined port.
The fight lies within me - not without.
I choose the course, steer the rudder, and trim or slacken the sails.
So with patience - and perhaps great effort - even opposing winds
and tumultuous seas are harnessed to navigate wherever I am willing to go.
And that is living...
9/20/2016
Based on the form (and theme) of "Gone From My Sight" by the poet Henry Van Dyke
A south westerly buffeted the house
all night, howling at the windows,
trying to find something loose
to lift up and rip away.
Then the rain hardened to hail
bruising early summer growth
with icy shot.
I like laying in bed
listening to rain but this was
no soft patter, no gentle sedative
to send one to sleep.
This was rage, broken free
of limits. Senses tightened,
stretched across sleepless hours
waiting for the breach,
the moment when wind
would find the weakest point.
No mind was in this fury
but a pure play of power,
vectored here on some fall
of numbers hidden
in the howl. Unencumbered
by thought or feeling
there was a raw beauty
to its might.
By morning it was all blown out.
Children jumped puddles
of blue sky on their way
to school. Workers were busy
clearing away a tree
that had fallen on a house
killing a couple as they
laid listening or slept.
Known before time.
One big story.
A studious thinker.
Shaped for purpose,
With a valid C.V.,
Government sealed.
A Banjamite Turk,
Sharpened for subjection.
Approved a stoning.
A religious enforcer,
Blinded for construction,
Knowing who let it.
Saved, feared, then trusted.
A verbally adept writer,
Commissioned to carry hope,
Called, to open eyes.
Strengthen through adversity,
Buffeted, barred, bitten.
Character modeller ,
Signposting others,
Sharing from his heart.
An example of us,
Who follow, one of many,
Each telling his story.
Each knowing on which Rock we stand.
Acts 9:15, 13:2-3, 23:11, 27:35, 47. 1Cor. 2:1.
It’s caught up, always, in those little things:
street corners, half-familiar: shop facades:
it’s not so much expansive boulevards
as rain-worn roofs which pluck the silvery strings
of sorrow. Part of my subconscious clings
to remnants – ruined fragments, broken sherds.
They say the brain’s an organ which discards,
not hoards. Why, then, these cruel rememberings?
A tranquil helmsman, plotting perfect vectors,
is how I see myself. Wretched delusion!
We’re buffeted by failure and exclusion,
divided into Hectors or defectors.
The only shred of dignity it brings
is when we learn to love our sunderings.
Written February 10, 2025
********************
Bereft of soft flesh,
That once throbbed within,
Tribute from heart
To departed soul.
Living together
For eighty years,
Snowflakes dissolve.
Sea silent,
Seagull speechless,
Seashells alone.
Roses and thorns,
Sand and beach,
Looks at palm.
Standing calm on salted sands beside
the tumult of tides,
Red remnants of care lie with hollow husks,
buffeted by breezes beneath darkened skies.
Blushed by sunset altar of love,
sea shell songs,
scent of Rosa rugosa,
stones smooth as lovers skin;
sweet love hearts oceanic sensual offerings.
TAMING THE TRAUMA
a leitmotif
forever
a delicate moment
buffeted &vulnerable
a microcosm
of sentiment
unsubtle
reinforced
complications
of the
romantic relationship
which
elicits an
emotional
response
broken fragments
devastation
suspended
&
carefully
reassembled
in shadows
on the wall
precariousness
a crucial
component
feels
resonant
again
NOTE:THIS IS AN OPEN(organic) FORM VERSE using spaces&breaks without grammatical symbols ,the ' open' relies upon 'the one breath limitation' & so inherently requires the 'reader' (reciter) to input and responds thus making this enigmatic form a two way interplay & interpretatIon unique to the moment& changing according to mood is inherently variable.
Irma Sunday Evening
By Franklin Price
9/10/2017 - 6:22PM
For six hours we've been watching
The eye of Irma twitch
As the winds and rains around it
Are making life a *****
Since I last wrote her actions
She has twice come to the shore
As some have indicated
Here to even up the score
She landed last in Naples
Eye overhead on land
Was determined with her wind and rain
To make a gallant stand
The weathermen stood with her
She tried to blow them to the ground
They grimaced and they squinted
As they were buffeted around
She sucked the water from the bays
To make the tidal surge
Then when she would pass them by
She would open up and purge
The surge already happened
And it made Miami flood
Covering streets and highways
With much debris and mud
Although the eye was never there
Miami got the brunt
Got much more than bargained for
More than they could ever want
Irma keeps on moving on
Without a full blown eye
Left the lower lid in Cuba
Tore it off when passing by
It did not seem to matter
Her focus still not bad
She saw to pummel Naples
With the right hook that she had
She's headed for the city
With the Russian sounding name
Saint Petersburg is waitng
To see how Irma plays the game
Putin is not resident
Nor is the POTUS Trump
If they were she'd do the same
And kick the city's rump
Half blinded, getting old and tired
She's traveled very far
Still searching for new lands to hurt
Irma's now a fading star
Still can do some damage
Although she's hurt and sore
If you are in the path she takes
Should hunker down a little more
The wounded beast still packs a bite
With her surge and wind and rain
Still able to hurt and end you
Or at least to cause you pain