Tumbles Poems

tea

the hearth flickers 'neath a pot
water swirls and tumbles round
dried leaves bloom within the clay
misty cup of calm

From Colorful Day to Night

A beautiful, colorful day elicits fantasy,
beginning with a dawn of tangerine-hued sky.
Envisioning a monarch’s wings fluttering,
into the sky with poetry I fly.

Lovely mellow noon offers pink quince
blossoming beneath a sky clear blue.
I imagine strolling with my love along a lane.
Romance, along with nature, blooms anew.

Radiant sun tumbles unabashedly violet
into its deep, mirroring, rippling sea.
I picture myself as a purple starling.
Winging beyond the horizon, I flee.

Lucid moonlit night opens pensively
as if it were a muse in a robe of bluish-gray.
One of myriad stars I now become,
wishing from Dreamland never to stray.

Lions And Possums

I've carved lions and tigers
but never the possums
or the beavers which
taught us how to build
and better to flee to the
threats of bark.
Shattered marbles,
never roll back
and are done for,
not even keeps
are worth it.
Killing myself
over this,
and yet,
the washing machine
tumbles again.
But this time,
I won't be Christian ed
for your vanity
Obsession
with me.
You can't destroy
the worse of deeds
in the black mirror
Face your own weeds.

Autumn

Autumn

….. is mortally wounded!
It stumbles, tumbles 
across the silken, rouged sky
quivering over rusted hedges
shivering through shouldered trees,
splattering, smattering 
everything in blood-red.

On it goes, on it flows
gasping and grasping
at clouds of bandages,
hobbling, wobbling 
suffering deep gashes;
haemorrhaging life
in crimson splashes.

While winter;
with the sly smile
of an Arctic fox,
coldheartedly waits for autumn’s
shredded, dreaded last breath!

Ian Souter 2025

Inertia

Inertia is a crawling, grappling feeling. 
With eyes. 
And the eyes do nothing. 
Neither his or mine. 

Inertia is mine. 
A glass feeling. 
Attempting to do things. 
Just peeling away instead. 

Inertia. 
A feeling of depression. 
And if you challenge it?
It darts away.

Inertia churns. 
Tumbles. 
Then your eyelashes peel apart. 
Nothing anymore. 

Inertia is someone…
Who didn’t try to take anything away. 
He just looked my way. 
And gave me depression again.

Calendar Girl

You celebrate your Death-Day every year,
a “selfie” trampling on your grave-to-be,
without your knowing. Anniversary?
Through predetermined locks you have to steer.
As flotsam tumbles over each steep weir
in transit to the dark and formless sea,
you’ll pass the date of your finality
repeatedly, before the end-of-pier.
That day will dawn. It really will. The rows
of serried numbers, rigid, unforgiving,
that fill your calendar like Van Gogh’s crows
contain the fatal date. Your body knows.
You’ll dash about, stash cash and call it living,
but all your thrashing counts as dying throes.

I Breathe You In: 300

As the ethereal guitar mesmerises
My soul responds
As if I dipped into a melodic bath
Of perfectly curated
Lovingly tempered 
Heart massaging
Candle flickering 
Water 

A fragrant tune invades 
My nostrils 
Flaring as the warm
Moistened air tumbles by
The world merges into
Perfection
Harmony
Stirring

The resonance
Of childhood memory
Percolating through the mist
As sliding strings 
Caress my ears
My mind drifting
Towards that past
Safer place

Yet this mesmerising medication
This tuneful tumult quelling
Perfect prescription
Is deeply welcome
Somewhere in my gut
My true being
Soothed as we surrender
To this soulful sabbath

May you never grow old
At the joyful table
Where your soul dines
Hear the whispers
Of the small pleasures
Taste the fermented flavours
Of the ordinary delights
Using all your available senses

When the music plays
To transport you
Run to catch the moment
Soak in the vapour
Embibe the elixir
Breathe it all in deeply
Holding in gratitude
Each heavenly moment

GREENSCAPE

A Glimmering veil of mist adorns the dawn, 
Where Rippling brooks through emerald meadows glide. 
The Earth's soft breath in dewy hush is drawn, 
As Eagles soar above the mountainside. 

Nectar breeze through blooming petals weaves, 
Sapphire lakes reflect the skies' embrace. 
Cascade tumbles, whispering to the leaves, 
A silver thread embroidering nature’s face. 
Peace blooms in silence, timeless and profound, 
Every root and wing in harmony is found.

Depression

I miss things sometimes. 
When you take a drink of water.
And it tastes worse than ever and makes you cry for no reason. 
As if water has died. 
Nothing is stagnant. 
But it feels, hurts, smells stagnant. 
I miss eating random things. 
Random tumbles and stumbles. 
Random aches and pains. 
Raining randomness. 
Nothing is stagnant. 
Water died in my throat. 
Every blade of grass feels harsher than ever. 
As if the grass is taunting me. 
I don’t remember when my depression got so bad. 
I just remember being young, I think. 
Now. 
I miss things sometimes. 
I wish I had something in mind. 
I promise, I’ll think of something soon.

Led by Dawn Bringer

*Phosphorous, Morning Star, has overcome
night’s stellar reign and its *lunar embrace.
Awakening, I can hear nature’s hum
while *myriad flowers are showing their grace.
They *lilt in a breeze that’s beckoning me.
I follow a path worn and *serpentine.
Across some long grass on my way I see
two garter snakes *slither; round rocks they twine,
but brief is my fright. I’m anxious to get
to the place Dawn Bringer has called me to,
a spot that I never have tired of yet.
Like a billion drops of radiant dew,
clear water tumbles down in a *cascade
and trees around me shine emerald jade.

The Drunken Clown

On the day of your party 
Please be sure to invite
The Drunken Clown.

He offers steady humor 
At a pace everyone can measure.
His drinks, give love and laughter ,
his expressions: love and empathy. 

In a graded lawn he falls and tumbles,
His eyes red and bleeding,
Look to him to point and laugh.

Our drunken clown gets his payment 
In full, pursuing the right wingers, 
And guffawing with the left.
His sincerity bobbles in an ocean of booze.

Cheers and Slaintè to our drunken clown. 
Salud, and Prost!
To our home
And I sleep the sleep
Of a thousand filtered souls,
In ungracious betterment,
And a hope to die by my own hand.

Vicious visions of a youth undocumented, 
And a prayer I never have the balls to do it.

Life is short make it work

When I was serious
You took for granted.
Totally ignored my requests
Treated them like games.
Used it to against.
And support your anger.
Flying those Fs words
Towards my simple world.
 
Once, I tried teasing you,
You found it too offensive.
Ended our very unstable friendship,
While behaving insensibly and immaturely,
When thing has gone dead,
What would you do instead?
Long for many new days,
So I could stay away.

Faith let you and me meet.
Trust built confident while strenghtening friendships.
With respect, honest, polite and courtesy,
Helped keeping the relationship long lasting.
What you did to others "Karma"
Love makes most things go around,
Hatred tumbles people to the ground.
Life is short to muck around.

Sanctuary of Eternal Escape

Quietly, waves from the sea wander ashore
in a slow, perpetual motion of calm white foam
washing the sand as it tumbles back into the sea
leaving wet sand that turns pink from the rising sun
as the horizon becomes a wide red ribbon of light
Slowly, the waves' rhythm leads me on a peaceful journey
that beckons a realm of stirring, wondrous dreams
washing over me from the mists of liquid foam
drenching my soul in spiritual beauty
granting me a sanctuary of eternal escape
to bathe in with silent reflection

urban decay

In a deep indigo night, bright 
sliver moonlight shines across a barren land.

On a lonely hill, a manor stands…
its windowed eyes to a world blind.

Staring into the void, sublime 
wind tumbles desolate sands.

Broken, old, dried skeletal branches sway
the last fleeting remains of a harsh day…

A figure bare in bones n thin pale skin
standing in the pouring rain.

The ancient station grand…

The rusted hulk of a train haunts
this arcane barren land.

Deep in the infinite indigo night, bright
sliver moon rays fall on bleak house
stands in a blind world with broken windows.

As eyes of a shadowy form watch 
as windows call for the coming storm 
old skeletal branches sway.

In the humid night
in a deep indigo night.

A lonely voice echoes…

The Basement

I am organized.
At my brainstem.
The smells are underground. 
Like bricks and her amazing cooking. 
She turns her head. 
Her hair flickers. 
A crumb tumbles. 
Beneath it all. 
It is cold. 
But there’s steam.
From homemade casserole. 
I am even more organized than most.
Clumps of dirt in piles. 
Organized by date and time. 
I am in the basement.
Nothing is furnished. 
Just me. 
A creaky ceiling. 
Pipes that could burst. 
And my phone by my side. 
It’s 3:45 am. 
And no one is calling me upstairs.

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