Long Squalls Poems
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The Pond was drained,
revealing umpteen minnows;
they wriggle in the residual water
turning in silvered arabesques
choregraphed by a water-rippling wind.
Large ocean-going gulls descend out of a troubled sky,
they walk among the writhing small fry
pluck out the little fish
employing just the tip of their great beaks
as if sensible of the delicacy of such morsels.
Dark clouds loom foretelling a storm,
strange but the gulls do not fly off
to feast on Lake Erie’s plentiful bounty,
the linger here on this little pond
like diners at a buffet
skewering only these unseasoned sprats,
while squalls ferment the Great Lakes
and bigger fish fly freely
through the cresting waves.
A place called someday
Is no day at all.
Just a corner of oval darkness
Shadowing shapes with no
shape to fall.
Darkness as deep,
As a perfect storm's squalls.
I wish I'd seen this side of
yesterday
Before I felt darkness claw.
And on this side of tomorrow
I still have a chance to change,
So that tomorrow's yesterday
Brings no memories of pain
And the tomorrow that today
defines
Will be yesterday's refrain.
While yesterday's tomorrow
Has but one chance to win.
As the darkness will fade into
light
And a new day will begin.
Still the time that's called
someday
Has no time to blend.
While tomorrow's yesterday
Is only yesterday's today
And tomorrow, yesterday
Is but a memory away.
The shadow of tomorrow
Is what we call today
And yesterday keeps me
dreaming of a time known only
as someday.
And tomorrow may never come
my way
If I'm only looking for that time
called someday.
So don't be deceived by
"someday's" lies
Tomorrow exists not
And yesterday has died
So today is the only chance
you'll have
To live your life.
Stress, strain, grief, anxiety, dejection, and depression
Like tempests, they wrecked the hearts of common humanity
Though it seemed to be from the sea, it's not a transgression.
Each calamity creates squalls that wreck tranquility.
Didn't the disciples put their total trust in Jesus?
Could they not walk with him as children, trusting the father?
Amidst his miraculous acts, why did they feel grievous?
Though they were bodily with him, did their minds flee farther?
Can't God, amidst trials and tribulations, bring about peace?
Isn't the divine power of God active here on earth?
Jesus was sleeping. He was, like a relaxed Zen, at ease.
Couldn't Jesus, despite destruction, bring about rebirth?
Trust! Jesus said, Men of little faith, why are you afraid?
Calm! He said to the storm:. Like a docile steward, it obeyed.
Hidden quote by: Jesse Jackson
As the daze lifts, dirge ogling at blurring.
Squalls can still be stifled by soft roving.
Heaven's pinions may rattle the birdcage.
If tame grip, end up spotting candor wing.
Conveying of the most critical stage.
Toe-to-toe quicksand slogging on the rage
We aught stark faith in our dominant muse.
Shut eyelids bury the day's grin assuage.
We, a whiff of peace, must be shining wise.
Naught deems but that you go forward to rise.
In its purest awe, love with hope bestow.
Our scheme provides a zingy gap in size.
Grin never sink out, and not backward show.
Allow it to rise, by wings swell hefts grow.
Fear and division are ousting cross-glare.
Close fetch key vibrations to the shallow.
Written: January 28, 2022
Keola Secret Poetry Contest
Sponsor: William Kekaula
Syllables: HMS
Rhymezone
The leaves, long gone, each golden child carried
on autumn draft to reach a season's death,
portends bitter squalls will blow the harried
vines with long, cruel winter's icy breath.
Now slumber long beneath the warming banks
upon your tender roots deep in the earth.
All while stillness patrols your sentried ranks,
you strengthen sap to bring a new year's birth.
The spice of burning wood pervades the air
as gentle snipping of the pruning shear
sets free your limbs for summer fruit to bear;
from tender newborn buds, which soon appear.
And so the cycle starts for wondrous vine
to once again turn sunshine into wine.
Iintsomi
1. Awé awé
2. Woken by a distinct raucous of fellow farmers
3. Pilot holes whistling Atlantic squalls and the mourn for last supper.
4. I’m sardined into a bakkie.
5. Eks Langa Mathews. Coloured
6. Too white to be coloured, too coloured to be black .
7. I lay my head in Khayelitsha
8. Sometimes
9. Once, the crypt pipes egoli
10. Bon fired by faith
11. Today’s pick should fill my cup
12. I’m certain only wealthy deserve to live
13. Groomed in Genadendal
14. Bobotie umphokodo , the half-full primus and ma’ se houtlepel set the sun for a better tomorrow.
15. Age 16 picking the fruits of labour with no return of flavour
16. hopes fermented into yesterday
17. Drunk from the thoughts of tomorrow
18. Shosholoza Meyl, Jozi Maboneng!
19. 30
20. Finally, a ceramic roof, face brick wall and skopo for supper ema roomini ase Eldos
21. Neon lights dime street life reality
22. Palesa seeks refuge at the tip of the ‘alpha’ mans’ ego
23. Forgotten teachings from the dining table as we said amen.
24. Wasted.
25. Sigidla va?
26. Thabo asylumed from haven off the curbs of Hillbrow to Avalon, ancestral calling that maybe this time he’s found home.
FROM SUNSET TO SUNRISE
Her clinging mermaid-figure, auburn hair - french braid-chaste.
Pearl’s arms circumnavigate his nautical-neck. Strong arms gird her waist.
His hands, like the current, draw her in. She inhales with fingers laced.
Like the sublime shoreline, their outlines traced.
Water and sand swirl around their feet, hearkening to the flautist-tide.
Pearl’s arms circumnavigate his nautical-neck. Strong arms gird her waist.
The sky, stars, and moon vanish - in a lover’s cove, they hide.
Recognized with a full-moon revelation - no disguise,
She is likely to drown in the whirlpool of his eyes.
With the whispers of his high-tide love, she does rise,
Answering in kind - breathing in and out her replies,
As their lifetime stretches from sunset to sunrise.
The aquamarine of Pearl’s eyes match her swimming gown.
She is likely to drown in the whirlpool of his eyes,
Snatched by the undercurrent, of her lover’s seaweed crown.
The shrieking seagull o’erhead, her memory recalls.
The darkened lighthouse, stronghold sinking, falls.
Feet weeping on serrated shells, his footprints lost in sandy halls.
His sea-drenched bodysuit, her frightened squalls.
Inlet eyes, stained red, revere venomous jellyfish - tentacled balls.
A shallow survivor - her lover’s footprints she could not save.
The darkened lighthouse, stronghold sinking, falls.
She dives into the cold abyss of a mourner’s grave.
Pearl will find her eternal love, beyond the sun’s rays.
11/2/2017
Laura Loo’s Rhyme Time II Contest
When the northern wind goes back
to its polar abode,
the glacier strands of cloud fly away
on the arctic wings of winter,
the satin southern winds
compose with the cadence
of velvet breeze an ode
for the sapphire spring.
The humming birds sing
when the dawn’s colors explode
on the dew-drenched meadow,
with the sparkle of diamond splendor,
letting the spring in the amorous air
bloom the beguiled buds of fervor.
While through the sunburst dust
we walk in the sequined dawn,
lighting up the garden’s garnet path,
where the dwindling lines
of floral saplings sway surmounted
in the summer squalls of discontent,
the love-starved flowers wither
with the shriveled essence of my longing.
I feel the poignant crunch
of flowers beneath my feet.
Every step is then an articulation
of my fragile brittle feeling
of the soft collision of yearning
and the wildflowers of my deprivation.
Yet, even if the bruised beauty
gets treaded upon the fallen blossoms
in the storm raged meadow,
I paint their shape-shifted insignia
on the blue canvas of our togetherness.
In the twilight zone they will glisten
with the patina of residual florid rapture
within our opal sanctum inside,
the garden of our real home,
where the flowers will bloom again.
My life's been fine without you -- really has.
A Belgian bar has opened in the square,
and weekends, we do beer and tapas there,
then Malcolm and Elaine's place, for some jazz
and Jamieson's. May in Cortes -- what a blast!
Right now, I'm growing sideburns! Summer hols,
we'll all dress up as bandits and their molls!
I've never laughed so much. Who needs the past?
Yet sometimes, when the lake frowns in the rain,
or April squalls tug blossoms from the trees,
I think of you. This sadness preordained,
like plane trees pollarded, proud amputees
shorn of their plumes, emerges, stark and strange:
and I know then. Some things will never change.
You begin to see yourself
as being shaped by oceanic-waves.
Dressed in the muscle and fiber of restless storms.
A swish of a garment,
the high hem of a skirt pulls you into her flesh.
Sex remakes you into something you do not recognize.
A storm propels you,
a womb once pushed you,
into a tabular rasa, just so all the elements
of fire, air and earth could produce this creature-self
you now are.
Even mere words can madden your mind.
You wonder where and when you will set,
when you will be only the mold and not the molded,
suspect even, that you are but a sail for the wind.
Meanwhile a hermit crab leaves its shell once more
seeking the hunting cries of tempestuous seagulls.