Rasping Poems

Thrill of Late Summer

The noon heat no longer burns like dog days,
Storms now caress the leaves with care and grace,
The roughness of summer night kept at bay,
'Stead calmness, peace and comfort take their place.

The air is hazy, lazy, filled with fun,
Awaiting the chill and darkness of fall,
Now missing kisses of mid-summer's sun,
And cricket's early morning rasping call.

The sky billows brilliant blue with glamour,
The ocean's coolness purifies the air,
Tempting sunbaths silently clamour
For my pale skin on the beach to bask bare.

Frozen side of the sun

The sun having a frozen side~
  a wish like a snowball in hell,
or netting the wind while oceans b o i l
  in  f i r e. 
The rage of its heat needs curtailing.

  I'm melting...
like chocolates and candles~
  roasting like chicken in an oven.
How then
  do I hide the cry of my fat?

With the frozen side of the sun,
  snowflakes fall but never thaw,
    painting my doorstep in white,
      chilling my bones dry,
        shaking my limbs stiff.

Birds hide their faces...
     and songs become faint echoes in snow-draped distance,
while rasping hoots of early-rising snowy owls
  mimic the whispers of restless winds—
    announcing the coming of an impending
dark sky
  that will not abate...
    the ceaseless dropping of white flakes.

I'm  b o i l i n g—
 a tempest brewing...
   not as a boiling frog syndrome
     but like a fish out of water
        in a slough of despond.

My skin scathes,
           heat burns leave sores on my soles.
  Long rays of shine pierced my sunshade;
   sweat formed oceans on my skin.
And I  w h i s p e r e d—
  in the absence of ears~
    "I need the frozen side of the sun."

Rock Steady

He played a rock steady beat,
That rumbled as a train on its tracks.
The echoes rebellious stark.
Moving the nicotine in the chest.
Siphoning joy from the very air.
Distilling it down to a sound.

He played a rock steady beat,
The snare rasping like sand on grass.
Hip swaying and ecstasy led.
A blur of microphone humming.
Distorted and redacted down.
Making sense only to the senses.

He played a rock steady beat. 
When summer heat promises darkness.
Sweat crawling spider like.
Unable to think through the noise.
A dream of bass note vibrations.
And white lightening feedback.

Bony Fingers

Bony fingers, thin and white,
Scratching at the moonlit night.
Shadows dance, a twisted play,
Where whispers haunt and secrets sway.

The wind sighs low, a chilling moan,
As cobwebs cling, and leaves are blown.
A hollow laugh, a rasping sound,
From where the dark and shadows bound.

A chilling touch, a ghostly grip,
On trembling hearts, a fear to slip.
Bony fingers, cold and stark,
A chilling omen, leaving their mark.

Through misty veils and swirling haze,
They reach for souls in a macabre maze.
The night descends, a haunting scene,
Where bony fingers, dark and keen,
Will claim their due, come Halloween.

You still look up at me

An Ingle Farm house on night shift 1984 …..

You still look up at me

You still look up at me 
Down through those long year ago
Rasping and struggling for breath
Your one good eye still stares back
And I wonder what you thought

The gun is still there near your feet
It’s done its deed for you
As you lie on your back
And I wonder what you thought

We do what we can 
But it’s not good enough
Your one good eye still stares back
And I wonder what you thought.

© Paul Warren Poetry

Barren Shadows

Written: May 26 2024

                            ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dark, drizzling recesses that pulse and flow. 
A nebulous haze of nothingness, a sad show.
With rasping tears of seabirds, in silent cries.
They uncover comfort in various forlorn sighs.

Horizon depicts a snapshot of dreary gray.
Raven rainbows trance in barren dismay.
Why are you grieving, my wounded heart?
Why are you missing vivid spring impart?

Birds in scarlet, saffron, and cyan hues,
Glorious in the skies, so ariose views.
Yet, time slips by and you head away
Remote star casts me out of abyss sway. 

I maunder amid dry gloom, forlorn and alone.
Chuckles echo across my passing groan.
In grief of shorebirds, I learn of my plight.
As I long for your arrival with all my might.

But hope lingers, akin to a glimmer at night.
We will return one day in a pure love light.
I will wait for that juncture, my soul ever true.
In bleak wilderness, memories will renew.

LIFE IS A SONG

LIFE IS A SONG

Throat cleared and a first breath taken
Life has begun and it’s full of surprises
Soon to sing loudly, but softly at first
A few wrong notes, it’s not the worst
Then keep in tune as the melody rises
From deep within, a voice will awaken

It matures in pitch as the years pass by
From treble to tenor and then baritone
Reflecting life with its twists and turns
But in harmony with others’ concerns
Passionate voice, not a heart of stone
Yet in later years, it takes time to fly

At a certain age, sadly a singing pause
Listening brings back a choral memory
No more solos and a wide vocal range
Remembering a part now feels strange
And a rasping tone sounds like emery
One day, it'll be just residents applause

- Autumn Reverie -

                                   sunrise gemstone glow
                              sound of rasping tangled leaves
                                 landscape through the haze
                             time blessed with the richest hues
                                   reflects the joy of childhood

Album

Rasping like fleas
In August
the barn roof leaked
The plums hummed full of bees
the sweet nectar captivating

The children's heads nodding like flowers
and Mother couldn't care
Her form shrugging away
Presumably she would leave for home, unlit

Ash

Outside the window sprawled an ash
with splayed and scalloped leaves in pose. 

Each veined and blotchy web was stuck
to misted panes as swirling winds repelled
the rush of rust across the open view. 
The heavy trees were bowed with naked bones. 

Translucent leaves revealed their tiny veins
like spider webs that riddled through each leaf. 

No pulse of sap now streams the cindered flesh
nor crimson tones that once enlivened growth
but stretched and tightly taut like brittle skin. 

An open window played a plaintive tune
as grainy gnats then groaned on empty air
and gathering the summer's dying gasp
the wind expelled a final rasping note. 

But birds no longer sang on frozen limbs
nor flocked towards the warmth of foreign shores.
You lay in vigil as soft currents moved.

The Boys

They crawl in a line 
along the esplanade 
between beachfront mansions
and the bay's indifference, 
windows down, elbows out,
hands tapping on doors in time
to the doof doof base
pulverizing air and eardrums
inside their metal sanctums
of pure testosterone.

Throbbing engines ease them
along the street, slow 
and deliberate as if to give 
pedestrians time to admire
and take in such potency.
An occasional pump 
on the pedal sends a roar
rasping out of twin exhausts
and stutters a squeal
of tyres announcing to the locals
and all gathered, the "boys"
are here.

Marooned in another era,
they seem oblivious 
to the derision flung at them
as they pass, misinterpreting 
a smirk for an approving smile,
the shake of a head a gesture 
of wonder rather than a judgment 
on how silly they look.
Their egos blaze like the sun
reflected in polished chrome.

When satisfied 
they've given onlookers their fill
of metallic ****, they hang a left,
plant their foot 
and in a wake of tyre smoke 
and deafening noise, rocket off
back to their own private planet, 
time frozen somewhere 
in the exhaust filled clouds 
on the far side of their minds.

The Ballad of Pedro and Luis

It was hot and arid in the desert
No wind, no breeze, not a breath
And Pedro and Luis were lost 
And so very close to  death.
As they crawled across the sand
As though trapped  in still air
The smell of bacon frying
Seemed to hang around them there.
Slightly ahead of his mate
Pedro crested a dune to see
Loads of Bacon Butties
Hanging on a bacon buttie tree.

Turning painfully around 
He said through rasping breath
The Good Lord, he said, has
Saved us from almost certain death

Crawling painfully forward
Eager for a life saving taste,
Yards away from safety when
All his effort went to waste. 
A machine gun opened  fire
Sending him close to his death.
He tried to warn his friend
With his very last breath:
Luis crawl away from here,
Crawl away man, in a rush,
Eese not a bacon buttie tree
Eese  a  deadly Ham Bush!!!!!!!

Tumbleweeds

Another reminiscence of West Texas. There have been many times in my life when I have felt very much like...

Tumbleweeds,
Lonely searching souls
Adrift on ever-shifting sandy seas,
Roll blindly by.
Spindly, prickly fingers
Rasping, grasping,
Scraping, scratching,
Trailing skeletal ribbons 
Behind them in their wake,
Ephemeral reminders
Of their sad, brief passing
And their desperate,
Vain attempt
To reconnect with earth,
And life,
And each other.
In a brutal landscape of arid desolation,
Under a relentless and unforgiving sun,
Tumbleweeds,
Unwilling vagabonds composed, perhaps,
Of memories of where they've been,
Tumble onward,
Forever impelled by an also searching,
And equally lonely,
But coldly impartial desert breeze.

Water On a Leaf

Water on a leaf held
an offering
above the parched earth.

A moment of concentration
being shattered,
into the rasping dryness.

A small peace
for short reflection
upon the Cherise, clear
and quenching.

A tiny oasis left
forgotten rain
Remembering.

Cuck Holed

in the closed door shadows
listen for her announcement
to precipitate his arrival
cock and sock in hands
for she will make him remove
any excess
splattered on her floor
from behind door
the grunts
have become one
and rhythm ceased its turn
Her rasping  off
as i scuttle back to safety
waiting for them to leave
our room

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