Tufts Poems | Examples

Inheritance of Wind

Written: September 6, 2025

                  **************

The wind does not knock—  
it slips through the soul’s lattice,  
a breathless envoy  
from the hush between stars.

It strokes the cheek
such as a spirit reliving purity, 
then fades away, 
becoming simply a whisper 
of a melody sewn into stillness.

My terms come apart 
in the string of stems, 
where faint words 
weave between tufts of grass 
that curl with hymns 
that are lenient to say.

Birdsong flows
from lungs in rooms full of people—
a hymn to the untamed, 
to the pain that hums 
simply seeking to be felt.

Love, in its most genuine form, 
surpasses the structure of cognition— 
It resides in the root of air, 
in the rhythm of the intangible.

No note is ever lost—  
each tender tremble,  
each faltering flight,  
is archived in the breath  
between dusk and dawn.

We save our dreams.
In the shaft of the Horizon, 
in sparkles that linger 
on the verge of entropy. 
These are the germs of tomorrow 
tumbling in the blood 
of the eternity we dare to call.

PATTERN BALDNESS

PATTERN BALDNESS
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Stu the squirrel looked in the mirror with a fright.
“Oh no! My fur’s vanishing! What a horrible sight.”
     What’s become of my ‘furdo?'
      Maybe fur I can put on with glue.
OOPS! That doesn’t look right! Dastardly plight!”

He tugged at his thinning tufts with despair,
"Is this really the fate I must bear?
    Squirrel pattern baldness,” they say,
    “Runs deep in my crew’s way,
But I’d rather have fluffy brown hair!"

So Stu bought himself a furry, brown cap
But alas, looked as if he was wearing burlap.
    Discarded it with a single motion  
    Giving up his silly notions.
Smiling, he admitted, “I’m still a charming chap.”

First Cuppa in Morn, Steaming

The air slowly fills
with curly pungent wafts of steam
billowing up from a 
hot freshly brewed cup of coffee.
Raising the baton to 
conduct the dawn chorus 
of bird songs and plans 
mulled to begin.

I love to see and feel
the ringlet tufts of steam
getting up my nose, blurring and 
opening up my eyes,
like a curtain raise,
to conduct the symphony to begin.

The trills and tweets,
chirps and cheeps,
whistles and trills,
caws and chortles,
are all entwined and garnered  
in the first sips, of the first cuppa,
taken at wake of day.

The steam and songs 
unspool a cotton thread of
memories and reflections, 
hopes and fears,
to be weft, warped,
shuffled and shuttled,
through the loom 
to weave the coming day.

Nightscape

Like tufts of cotton colored red and rosy
And scattered through the baby sky at light
Eve’, twilight clouds are whirling around the white
moon, orbiting their spoke, all lush and lazy;

Or strands of cloth sent fluttering a’mosey
through late afternoon drowsying near night,
and circling about, like crimson kites in flight,
a beaming moon, swirling afloat and hazy; 

The heavens, swelling into a wide expanse,
glow splendid. Strewn with stripes of ruby sweet,
engulfing night draws in to drape the day’s
affairs with its dark quilt. So the romance
of a thousand million stars takes its seat
by the moon’s glow, with effervescent rays.

Songs from Grassy Blocks

Written: May 04, 2025, for contest Sponsored by: Constance La France 

Quote: "Let yourself be silently drawn by the stronger pull of what you really love." By Rumi

             **************************
Spring geckos dance amid the early dew, 
Olive snuggles with dulcet dreams as mint.
A duckling settles softly in a shaded view,
Okenite feathers smoke in a dizzying hint. 

Emerald drips flow over the damp meadow,
While May rain pours down, akin to arrows.
Windswept snags utter a rose-scented breeze,
A smooth swoosh paint with oakmoss squeeze.

Purple iridescence widens in spinel phlox, 
Ancient songs reverberate in the grassy blocks.
With the light, a shooting star makes its way,
Dashing over a midnight black onyx display. 

In the embrace of mauve marigold air,
Dandelion tufts sparkle as opals laid bare.
Whispers in the sky, drifting glare.

Soft Clouds

Soft clouds, like swans gliding on the lake,
Like my grandma spinning threads so fine to make.
Though you drift back and forth across the sky,
Don’t tease us like a mouse with a cat nearby.

You swim like a school of fish passing by,
Rushing together, soaring up high.
Yet with the sun’s burning rays on our backs,
You barely shield us; protection poor lack.

Shifting shapes in countless forms you play,
Drifting like tufts of wool across the skyway.
Even if you don’t bring rain to the ground,
Your presence alone brings hope all around!

Strayed Sheep - William Holman Hunt

Straying away from the straight path
in search of sumptuous grass, 
Me and my friends meander to the mountain top
on a crisp clear sunny day, 
The cottony white clouds mirror our soft tufts of wool,
The sea is calm today, unlike us, who are restless;
Raff rests his weary head on Walter, 
Sophie and Sara lay down side by side, 
While Nero dares to stare at the 'deserter' in defiance... 
We don't know where to go, what to do, 
And so we wander around, 
What if we fall down the ravine? 
I am scared and edge back, 
Whereas Nero and Terry fearlessly forage for food, 
Browny wishes to follow them against my warning,
Most of my friends group together, 
What next? Where is our leader? 
I don't know, we have no idea, 
We're all looking for our lost shepherd to lead us... 
                                                         ...back to safety

Just Clouds

Just Clouds

They seem just ordinary fill
for a background, a fuzzy white
or gray that doesn't grab the eye
and distract from the more deserving
stuff like trees, sweeping ocean views
and mountain lakes. Clouds lack
a clean line.

They seldom get prime billing
unless infused with anger and about
to burst, or wear the outrageous 
colors of a rising or setting sun.
Many exclude them altogether 
with a preference for a blue, 
totally cloudless sky.

Frankly, total blue is boring to me.
Give me tufts of purest white
drifting soundlessly across 
an otherwise featureless sky,
big bellied storm clouds, dark
and sagging with weight, 
rumbling with thunder, 
letting their load of water go.

And wrap me 
in the soft, filtered light 
of low, misty clouds that have learnt 
how to weep, keep me safe
from the big towering giants 
that grow with menace on a distant
horizon and bless me 
with the unseen ones
that send down a gentle rain at night
to lull me off to sleep.

Her Fur and Her

Her fur used to fly.
She used to fly.
From the floor to the couch.
Once she settled- 
We’d brush.
For years, it was full and youthful.
Then it was falling out in tufts,
So we’d brush more gently.
She was a little scraggly…
Both her and her fur were becoming thin.
We joked that there was nothing but bones under that fur.
We joked.
When we found her…
We pet her as if there was a heartbeat underneath.
We wanted to brush her one more time.
But there was no need.
The brush went to the back of the closet.

Dandelions

Many lawns are dotted 
With these yellow tufts of gold
And all my life, “They’re ugly weeds!”
Is what I have been told.

Yet dandelions add some pop
Of color to the green
And though they are invasive,
Add some beauty to the scene.

A gardener will argue
That they simply don’t belong,
But since I have no garden,
Such a statement just seems wrong.

Whisper

The balmy breeze wafted over the prairie,
Where yellow cowslips huddled in patches.
And here and there I heard a whisper echoing:
Love her, love her, love her.

     But she seemed deaf and preferred the wounded wind.
     How easy it was to forget and never recapture
     All my wistful whisper, I would always love you. 
     Those sweet nothings of past affections.

We no longer trudged the path made up for two.
Forgotten were those bygone days
When we believed that thistledown tufts
Were really friendly fairies in disguise.
 
     Thus she escaped my clutches
     And like a unicorn disappearing in an eclipse,
     I headed for a dull and empty living
     Blaming her uselessly for I still loved her.

Weren't we the product of our time?
We slammed the doors of love in our own faces,
Building woeful walls around us
Painting it with a tinge of misunderstanding,
When we could lead such a colorful life,
Giving our hearts a chance,
Laughing at ourselves.....
And sending a whisper,
      a woeful whisper to the moon above. 

Placed First

Tule Valley

In Tule Valley, hooves strike the sagebrush-speckled desert floor, 
it is there between the rippling mountains that stocky legs push off
the ground, and take to a gallop; 
A momentum so palpable it resonates with each strike of the earth,  
in this valley where dusting light rain falls across the mountaintops. 
They gallop with volition and stamina, 
here where sunlight blasts the parched grounds, and tufts of rice grass sway, 
in the hot breeze. 
It is a place devoid of human residents, a place where wild horses run 
and rabbits leave their tracks in the rippled sand.   
It is a part of the world where the stars at night sparkle  
with marvelous intensity, a place where one can lay on the sand 
look up at the sky and almost see eternity...

Tiger

there are dew drops on my whiskers,
as I blink my eyes to greet the morn,
I rise to my feet and stretch and yawn,
and saunter down to the shallow lake,
slowly through the tall tufts of dry grass,
they are much the same colour as me,
but my stripes hide me further!
I announce my presence with a loud growl,
making some birds skittle and fly,
a monkey chatters a warning cry,
the cheetal look me straight in the face,
the Sambhal rushes away to a safe distance,
I am in no hurry to start my hunt today,
my last kill should last me this week,
I shall rest and watch my vast lands,
that bear my pug marks and my smell,
the golden Sun lights up my forest,
I am the King of the Sunderbans!

written 20/10/23
Wild Animal Poetry contest
Shadow Hamilton Sponsored
Personification

Hair Out of Place

Little hairs in certain cases,
are expected that we might see.
Arms and legs are common places,
as well as hair upon our faces.
On top of head, if no traces,
accepting bald, is what you'll be.

Lots of time, as well as money,
coif the hair, in styles aplenty.
Some may use in terms of measure,
when found in food, a real displeasure!

Little hairs sometimes on end,
results of cold, or perhaps frightened.
Little hairs grow as brows,
enhance the lashes, we do espouse.

But when we age, some do appear,
as little tufts upon the ear.
We all spend time giving chase, 
of little hairs out of place.

Silly Thoughts

She sees dandelion tufts floating free
atop summer breezes, spreading their seed.
And she whispers, "If only that were me,"
her jittery heart longing to be freed.

She oft dreams of floating high in the sky
untethered from earthly reality.
She is to be married in late July,
and she is not so sure; she wants to be.

She saw yellow dandelions turn white
as time drained their vivid color away.
And it appeared to happen overnight,
making her reflect on her wedding day.

But she soon dismisses such silly thoughts,
for they tend to tie her stomach in knots.

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