Long Rustling Poems
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LISTEN TO THE WIND
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Listen to the wind murmur. Can you hear it
gently stirring yesterday’s dust motes,
kissing everyone's cheek with forgotten warmth,
painting hues of hope into the bleeding blue?
Listen to the wind sing. Can you hear it
creating a soft melody from rustling leaves,
whispering promises etched into tree bark,
grounding us in the breath we share equitably?
Listen to the wind mumble. Can you hear it
bowing giant oaks, tickling forest’s green expanse,
ruffling the mouse’s coat as well as the king’s gold crown,
leveling an equal, impartial hand to all?
Listen to the wind whisper. Can you hear it
raising up paper cranes and giving them flight,
carrying one’s dreams on its placid breezes,
guaranteeing nothing, yet everything.
Listen to the wind moan. Can you hear it
lifting silent prayers, light as dandelion fluff,
bidding us pause as life’s burdens dissolve?
O Lord, why have you designed
for every malady a medicine,
For every wound, a balm
leaving only love incurable?
This melancholy dusk
this smothering loneliness
and my mournful heart
pining for my beloved
in this godforsaken milieu.
If not to appease my yearning heart
My love, can you but come
to soothe this moaning moon
and lo, to console these teary stars?
Oh, for heaven’s sake,
do come to enliven
this woebegone skyline.
When a gust of wind sweeps by
the rustling of the fallen leaves
startles me and I begin to wonder...
Did you just pass me by?
~09/06/18
~For John Hamilton's Best Free Verse
July 1 - Oct. 1, 2018 contest.
~Brian Strand's 115 contest
Travelling forlorn in the desert of an imperfect life
in the maze of your deceptive dunes I wander,
enticed, I’m seduced by your face behind the mask,
my broken heart turns into debris in your swathe.
I don’t know where I’m meant to be and to belong,
but try to find a place in the oasis of your flawed love.
I end up becoming dense dust in the cracked wasteland
and blow away to the obscurity in the desert storm.
From the tree of yearning that grew in desolation,
I’m now dislodged and meandering as a torn leaf,
rustling with the tormenting tune of melancholic music,
on its journey of despair beyond the horizon of isolation.
Under the scorching sun burning the façade of desire,
as I drift desiccated across the dunes of deprivation
with shifting sands of time designing myriad of illusion,
in the mirage flashing in your eyes I see my destruction.
______________
June 19, 2021
Contest : Writing Prompt-Flawed
Sponsor : Constance Le France
Hard black line lying flat
straight razor edge of day and night
hard bright points of colored light
reds and blues and burning white
golden beams spear into darkness bright
washing away points of light
darkness transforming to deepening blue
softening black shadows into green
fluffy rounded trees spring into view
chilling air against us moves
bright songs of birds fill the breeze
soft rustling of leaves in counter point
softening blue arcs high overhead
disc of gold begins to form
it’s growing arc blinds the eye
with piercing beams spears the mind
greens and blues and burning yellow
fervent soft green arcs on lines of brown
line divides blue from green
were once marked night from day
fools lying on soft green grass
eyesight lost within the night
watching castles fly away
seeing things that never were
words do dance in scattered thoughts
words to stories undefined
meaning sought that is not there
madness sought in morning light
The love of my soul...comes after I pray,
I thank the Lord...for the start of each day.
My journey of peace...comes after I yawn,
Observing the fields...as night is withdrawn.
And watching the fog...ascend from the limbs,
To the sound of grace...as birds chirp their hymns.
The symphonic quivers...of rustling leaves,
As the romantic wind...kisses the trees.
The golden dawn...beaming bold shards of light,
Lighting the path...for the birds to take flight.
While the brook meditates...easing its rage,
As the pallid clouds dance...on their blue stage.
I praise God...after seeing the bison,
And thank Him...for these morning horizons.
In the dusty dusk of summer
The air suddenly stops to flow
The trees transform to stilled fossils
With the dry leaves drooping low.
The horizon turns to a stony wall
Draped by dark clouds on the rise
Thunder splits the slate sky to fall
On me with the shards of surprise.
As I stand beneath a twirling tree
Beguiled with the rhapsodic state
I morph into a fallen leaf on the drift
The wind will carry to you, and I wait.
In the dreamy dusk of seraphic spring
You run on the garden path flowery
Rippling breeze swirls your golden hair
As you turn into an alluring fairy.
Your fleeting feet scatter silver dust
As you float on zephyr’s melodic flow
That cascades in the vale of your smile
Sparkling in the sheen of full moon glow.
Entice me like a rustling raptured leaf
Entranced and resigned to its final fate
Time'll come to see the yearning buds bloom
In the garden of your heart, and I wait.
April 22, 2021
Brian Strand's Contest : A Brian Strand Your Choice
Moonlight on mute meadows close to the whispering sea
Invokes in my mind such a sweet memory
Where we lay down together under a bright starry sky
To listen for an owl's plaintive yet haunting cry
And yet in that stillness your heart did strongly beat
Against my chest warmed by your bodily heat
All daylight colours reduced to a silvery black or grey
With fish leaping for insects upon which to prey
Upon the waters the moon's pale orb reflected
And in the fields the rustling scuttle of night creatures detected
It was in that still silence punctuated by soft sound
Which lingers so long in my head around
As we enjoyed our close communion in great measure
A recollection we will forever and more treasure
The moon, a pale eye, watched the lake below,
Where White Rock shimmered, cold and slow.
A shroud of mist clung to the water's face,
And whispers rose, a chilling, spectral grace.
They say a woman, dressed in purest white,
Walks these shores, a haunting, mournful sight.
Her screams echo through the silent night,
A chilling cry, lost in the pale moonlight.
The wind, a phantom hand, sweeps through the trees,
Rustling leaves, like ghostly, whispered pleas.
A chilling moan, a sudden, sharp despair,
A woman's grief, heavy in the air.
They say she fell, a lover's cruel design,
Her blood spilled red, on waters now malign.
She sought her peace, but found a watery grave,
Now doomed to wander, a restless, ghostly slave.
So, keep your distance, when the moon is high,
And shadows dance across the glassy sky.
For if you hear a whisper, soft and low,
It's just a ghost, a tale of ages ago.
The woman in white, forever tied to shore,
Her mournful cries, forevermore.
A chilling reminder, etched in the night,
Of a love lost, and a soul lost in the white.
In sepia foliage's of falsified fantasies,
cursed by haunting hornets stinging
with honeyed painted lies,
her mind was like a matriarch of metaphors.
An inflorescent seed buried in darkness,
with a somnolent spirit rustling in onyx nostalgia.
Too afraid to spread her fragile feathers,
she lay upon a bed of black rose petals,
veiled underneath dark raven phases,
hidden behind the silence of lunar secrets,
Her soul slept like grieving ghosts of galactic graves,
repeatedly releasing wounded sighs.
Not all florets flourish
with the mercy of rainwater,
only nourishing hands can create
an aesthetic pastel carnival of confetti,
like lilac lavender snowflakes of smoky love.
Some spicy spirits are like
the marigold locket of liquid,
glowing like turmeric hues
in tamarind tinted skies of oblivion,
clearing diaphanous dewdrops
of a grainy hourglass,
spreading vintage violet wishes
in bluish epiphany skies,
disintegrating a montage
burnt to nefarious ashes,
raising amaranth pink petals
of heartfelt empathy.
There is a magic in midnight reigns,
as dawn retreats, dusk births a saviour knight,
altering twilight's twinkling tunnel
of kismet stars perfumed with sins.
Moonlight spreads a subtle silk scent
when fears fall like cosmic dust,
soothing a scarred moon soul and stars in slumber.
Not all flowers need a gardener to grow,
but all seedsmen sow to bloom an ivory aurora,
through the obscurity of ebony eyes.
Sometimes, its the simple touch of fingertips,
that lays the perfect foundations,
for a sunflower to embellish in gold.
We struggled along damp, smoke-filled streets;
leaves still summer green,
a chilly breeze rustling some, turned golden early
in anticipation of the fall.
Neil at one end of the log;
me at the other.
Occasionally we paused our journey, rested;
took turns with the diminishing gobstopper;
and backward walking with the heavy branch.
Early October, our collecting started;
we had first-dibs on Ethel Jones' old settee,
two shabby chests of drawers,
about a mile of rotten fence,
branches collected from the woods,
assorted liberated shrubs,
and now, of course, a giant log.
We were to build
the most monumental funeral pyre;
the street had ever seen,
topped with fabricated Guy,
long-wheeled from door to door
for a penny here or there.
It would be the biggest and the best,
standing proud in the bombed-out lot,
that was our playground,
but once home to family and friends.
November fifth would come,
the bonfire built, would fiercely burn;
cracking windows with the blistering heat
scorching paint on faded doors.
Part-cooked potatoes
thrown in the embers;
would later, held in hands
be greedily eaten with a spoon;
steam rising from damp, woollen gloves.
Red noses, rosy fire burned cheeks,
sparklers waving patterns in the dark;
oohs, aahs; and gasps at fiery rockets,
whirling Catherine wheels and jumping jacks.
Then time for bed
Our grubby faces,
smoked stenched hair and clothes
would last a week
'till bathday.
October Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Regina McIntosh
Date wrote: 03-October-2021