Long Easterly Poems
Long Easterly Poems. Below are the most popular long Easterly by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Easterly poems by poem length and keyword.
Written: November 11, 2023
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Zeal, which requires forbearance as its root,
Akin to a home built upon sleek clay
Yet, as brave as all the walls on the route
And its high spires proudly rise to the sky.
Though skilled creators leave behind a trail,
Aesthetic pyrrhic shapes on every hand.
Shining sculptures in shady nooks prevail
And waterfalls dance in some pastiche stands.
Yet, when a gloomy easterly breeze blows,
The worst wind blows, and dewy showers fall.
Always defeating a hindrance that flows
Then! The ornate design crumbles and crawls.
Earning love spells the skill to endure pain.
Masonry-like friendship called to remain
The Wind
Within the air there is a gentle breeze that kisses your cheek
Slightly turning your head to feel this wondrous mystique
Gusts gently move all flora and fauna in a mystical dance
As if all of creation is intuitively aware of this circumstance
Outside my window I hear the sounds of the winds roar
Strength increasing then subsiding, and then once more
Fearful can this beast be, rapping at my window sill
Within the deepest of darkness when all is so still
Stirring up sand and dust with each and every gust
Drying rain soaked soil, within each wind so robust
Hearing the haunting moan of branches that bough
While spreading seedlings for newest growth to sow
Spring winds for the starting of something so new
Summer winds that cools the hot air for me and you
Fall winds bring wondrous changes so bold
Winter winds bring such bone chilling cold
Winds from the frigid lands of the frozen north
Or a southernly warm front that comes forth
Be it westerly, easterly, trades and more
The wind holds so much for us to adore
Moon, why do you taunt me?
Your haunting glow consumes all I am.
I howl at your feet as you hang majestic
from a diamante sky
I am breathless, shackled to the earth as I gaze at your beauty, your shape centred in a clustered jewel.
Your children sparkle in sibling frame.
My heart is lost, no other will pacify the aching wound that protrudes from my chest
My healing is long and painful. Will sanity return? One day, maybe tomorrow?
You stole my dream, ripped into nocturnal misery as the ghosts pose in silent masks.
Regret stirs, clinging to the winds of a toxic flame.
Beguiling, my eyes burn as sunrise shapes its day,
Tender strands of light peak through the gullies and allies of my being.
Romance still forms within me, a harmonic tune that whistles with the easterly breeze, but this tranquil sea stirs madness. Fire will again light this soul once regret has done its worst and left my shadow.
Moon, never leave, be my secret no more, rejoice not weigh me down and, I will love you forever.
Scales hardened over her skin
a condition called ichthyosis vulgaris
ik-thee-O-sis vul-Ga-ris
fish disease
(the ‘vulgar’ means ordinary
but at its worst
it is far from common).
She bled where the plaques chipped and cracked,
she leaked oils, but could not sweat enough.
She existed on her own sunbaked beach
gasping for breath.
She was a salmon fisher once
before she was encased in Piscean plates.
(The root of the word salmon
is ‘salvo’ meaning, to ‘leap’),
and indeed
for years she had tried to jump out of her skin.
One night
an easterly wind
brought a silver-eyed fisherman
to her breach.
In the swaying dark
he laid her down.
She suffered him to scrape
the arid scabs from her
with his skinning blade, hooked like a gaff.
He was exquisitely skilled,
gentle even.
Slowly he skived her sheath,
left her
glowing and wet,
beautiful and supple
on a heap of husks.
There beside the pitching surf
they made love.
Later,
he watched
as she swam away.
(The ichthys fish symbol
is older than history,
sea goddesses
claim it
as a symbol
of sexuality and rebirth).
Out on the cold frozen porch in midafternoon..Ice is dripping pitter pat from the
trees and off the roof..That north easterly wind roughly crackles the few leaves left
hanging on the oak..Ice sickles hang releasing one drop at a time..Those wind
chimes clank a frozen sound..Roosters crow across the creek as if the sun was
coming up and it is a warm spring morn..A little confused somehow..As the breeze
moves the frozen fingers of trees there is a snap crackle pop as of one who has
suffered from arthritis for many years..Just listening to the distressed sounds of
nature is chilling to my bones..Those few minutes out on the porch was refreshing
and chilling all at the same minute..
As the days shorten and skies darken
Greenwich meantime feels like a lean time.
With a heavier coat I go out scarfed,
my hat pulled down, to find those last leaves
compact in corners and crevices.
With whitening fingers gloved I crouch
and pluck them for leaf mould; while wood lice
watched by a robin, head cocked, alert,
are plucked as he darts for a morsel,
as blackbirds too pluck the last berries.
As a north-easterly blast attacks,
it is time to retreat from the chill
wind into a defensive shelter,
to sharpen secateurs for pruning
apples, blackcurrants and gooseberries.
Winter battles as the rain rattles
on the windows, probing and testing.
I bring in some logs and lay the fire –
match to kindling it begins to roar.
Now dusk it's time the curtains to draw.
Hot drink clasped, I behold a new moon
crescent up into a clearing sky.
There beneath the starlit canopy
snowdrops begin to poke through the grass
as if to reflect the countless stars.
In the morn I rake moss from the lawn
to keep warm – it pays to keep moving –
with aconites as if acolytes
soon to join a vernal procession
into the promise of renewed life.
kids
in
wigs
tickle
my
r i b s
Colorful glow in the dark costumes.
Witches, vampires, monster, zombies,
mummies , ghost, ghouls, pirates, fairies, and ninjas
Giggles and tickles, filling their tummies with yummies
They walk around the neighborhood knocking on doors
with shouts “Trick - or- Treat! Fill my bag I want candy.”
Darkness of twilight, shadows of moonlight, cold night.
Carved pumpkins, lite candles flickering and dancing sitting on c o n c r e t e blocks, presence of a dark spirit near casting eerie chilling, howling fear.
Haunted house, KEEP OUT sign, broken fence, harvest mouse.
Bubbling caldrons, glittering white silhouette skeletal trees.
Easterly wind perfect for a ride on a broom stick serenading
the moon and play among the stars before it starts to fade into
morning twilight. Don’t lose
your way through haunted hallow you might
stand in the absent of sound, fog hanging close to
the ground and caressing, fear will come close
This is Halloween
10/28/2016
Children Story
Anxious in Ancona (1)
His plan, as he’s boarding his baldachined barge
en route for the easterly sea,
(arthritis allowing) is giving it large,
but the pain is as bad as can be:
though Rome is his home, he must go and take charge:
Cortona is cortisone-free.
One thousand four hundred the Christian years
(and then we’ll add sixty-four more):
Pope Pius the Second, that subtlest of seers,
is bound for the Umbrian shore.
He’s even less warlike than Billie Joe Spears,
but wants to be wading through gore.
He’s running a fever, his legs have ballooned,
but he won’t be deflected or swayed.
He’ll not be impugned or dragooned or lampooned:
undampened his rodomontade:
the mention of mercy, mere salt in the wound –
hell-bent on a pious crusade.
The portents are palsied: a bargeman is drowned:
this project is just getting sillier.
“Venetians are keeping us hanging around:
we can hire troops for Tyre in Sicilia.”
The Middle East! Pius wants boots on the ground
(now why does that sound so familiar?)
The ominous omens are gathering thickly,
but no-one could call him a quitter.
He’s scrofulous, suffering, sallow and sickly,
but boyishly buoyant, not bitter.
They land him on sand on the strand of Otricoli,
and lift him aloft in a litter.
Guarded by towering hills on the East
And flanked by the Arabian Sea on the West
With its easterly shore of stretching sandy swell
That lulls the restless waves to sleep,
There is a land, my land of green vegetation
Nestled among palm trees and paddy fields.
Oh! I am in love with this narrow strip of land
Of rugged hills and meandering rivers
Of placid backwaters and blue skies
Of gibbering monkeys and singing cuckoos
What rich diversity you graciously provide
A land dotted with temples, churches and mosques
Where Hindus, Christians and Muslims cohabit
Where diversity flows through her arteries
And unity beats through her throbbing heart
Here souls dance to the timeless rhythm of music
Of diverse genres, vocal and instrumental
Classical and folk, sung either as solo or in groups
With the accompaniment of (2) 'veena',(3) 'tanpura' and violin
Their varying pitches beautifully synchronized!
In the serene dawns and dusky evenings
The atmosphere gets abuzz with the soft strains
Of (1) ‘Sopana Sangeetham’, the ethnic music of Kerala,
It comes floating from inside the Hindu shrines
Flooding soul’s enchanted shores,
And opening the floodgates of piety
In healing murmurs and throbbing notes,
As the symphony builds up its circuitous round
It descends down as a stream of blessing
Drenching devotees in its moistening sweetness
Like the drizzle of dew drops from heaven
Making hearts ride in the palanquin of joy!
May.21.2023
If your Birthplace- Country was a Poem Poetry Contest
Sponsor - Anoucheka Gangabissoon
This poem is about Kerala, a small state in India, which is my birthplace and its geography and culture.
1.Sopana Sangeetham is a form of Indian Classical music, developed in the temples of Kerala. It is sung, sitting by the holy steps leading to the sanctum sanctorum of a shrine.
2.Veena- a stringed musical instrument, one of the oldest of Indian musical tradition, played sitting cross legged, capable of producing all oscillations of Carnatic music
3. Tanpura- a drone instrument of Indian origin used mainly in a concert of classical music, creating a melodic background, but not a melody.
Star/Steer poem: This is about a traveler navigating the harsh Free State winter relying on the stars for direction and solace.
The Free State veld a canvas stark and white,
Icy Easterly winds cut through me to the bone.
A lonely traveler in the freezing Tweeling night,
I walk a path to a far away home.
The snow clad earth my bed, the sky my roof,
against the cold my spirit stands as proof.
Above the kapok a brilliant fierce guiding star
Ignites the darkness with its age begrimed flame.
It steers me to my home afar, though
frost bitten I whisper his name
It tells a story of resilience and might,
And guides me safely till morning light.