Whisking Poems | Examples

Blue Fox

The fox slopes warily into the garden,
a sapphire dawn overlay's and
sheens his form.

He trots across
a snow powdered clearing
head low, electric whiskers
seeking trace and track.
Crystalline eyes
turn toward a window
where I watch between
aquamarine icicles.

A white speckled snout
wrinkles in sudden awareness.
A quick curious stare,
then off he vaults
over a frost jeweled fence,
a bristled tail whisking
diamond flecked snowflakes -

blue diamonds.

Because I Would Not Stop for Death: A Homage to Emily Dickinson

after Because I could not stop for Death, by Emily Dickinson

Because I would not stop for Death,
he kindly stopped for me.
A wilted bouquet in one hand—
a reminder of life's mortality.

We began to walk—he knew no haste—
side by side, as we always were.
In silence, no sympathies were spoken,
as he knew I often preferred.

We passed the house where I once strove
to play and know no sorrow.
We passed a creek whisking ashes downstream—
something I was hesitant to let it borrow.

Or, rather, it passed us—
the mist in the air quivering with a dog's final breath—
for only I began to falter
on our beaten and lonely path.

We paused before some foothills that seemed
serene, yet all too demanding.
The soon-to-be graves were scarcely visible here—
urns in my arms notwithstanding.

Since then, it has been decades, and yet
it still feels shorter than the day
Death first took my warm hand in his own
and his comforting coldness became mine for eternity.

The Silent Visitor

It comes whisking in when least expected,
Its steps silent, its grip too cold.
It slips through cracks, unseen and unchecked,
No whistle blown, no stories told.

Whether the doors are opened or locked,
It doesn't knock to take its due.
Whether the windows are open or closed,
It cares not for the clear sky or view.

It will one day meet us all, face to face,
Perhaps today, perhaps tomorrow.
It visits only at its chosen time, regardless of place,
Carrying both peace and sorrow.

May the heavens be pleased when the last breath is drawn,
For it is a phantom force we can never deflect.

Windy Words Within

A silent storm rages on in my head
winds whisking into a symbolic swirl.
Though all alone, I lie here in my bed
spinning wound up words twisted till they twirl.

Peel off outer layers, see deep inside
emotive notions, stringy streaks in strips.
Peer into that space where one cannot hide -
stealth secrets shredded into bits of blips.

Joyfulness whistles by too quick to snatch
pondering the trip to the Pearly Gate.
Calmness lies so still, way too low to catch
crawling, creaking under this heavy weight.

These tortured torrents that may make me miss -
once settled down they turn to inner bliss.



102 words  14 lines  Sonnet  2024

Worlds Within Words

Pages open, worlds unfold, 
Stories new and stories old. 
Letters dance across the page, 
Whisking us from age to age.

Eyes glide left to right with ease, 
Words flow by like gentle breeze. 
Pictures form inside our minds, 
Treasures there for us to find.

Heroes brave and villains bold, 
Adventures great and fortunes told. 
Facts to learn and skills to gain, 
Knowledge blooming in our brain.

Fingers trace the lines with care, 
Sounding out the words we share. 
Quiet corners, cozy nooks, 
Magic lurking in our books.

Reading fast or reading slow, 
Watch your understanding grow. 
Ask a question, make a guess, 
Reading helps us all progress.

Books are friends that never end, 
Loyal pals that time transcend. 
So grab a tome and take a look, 
There's joy in every single book!

Alphabet Poetry Soup, Part XI

Angelic
Bardic
Composers
Dole
Everlasting
Fabled
Garnishments.
Heathenistic
Improvisors
Jostle
Kitchen
Ladles.
Metrical Composers
Nourish
Otherworldly
Poetizers'
Quirky
Rumbling
Stomachs.
Tenacious
Umbelliferous
Versifiers
Whisking
Xysters
Yolk fully
and
Zestfully.

Breeze Poetry

Written: April 19, 2024
                 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A whirl in motion.
In a world of vibrant hues, 
a dream so rich and true. 
visions of colors, bold and bright, 
A sight to behold.
pure delight.
a fleeting existence.
a comely moment, 
that dawned in the distance.

Colored crayons, 
a pulsating candle hue.
a burst of color, glistening
in the morning light.
enchanting auras 
A painting is encircled.
A gentle breeze carries
whispered secrets.
crimson elixir, swirling divine.
Whispering scarlet breezes.

Whispers, whisking away sorrow.
marigolds and azaleas
Amaryllis dances in the breeze.
beneath soft, pale green trees
Bees dance through the air.
A swing gently sways, 
A girl in flight
A scent dances. 
by her flowing locks.

Between the Seasons

White May Blossoms
quake their blushing bells.

Agnostic winds roam,
whisking through,
a chill and pensive sky.

Spring may well appear,
yet today once more,
winter has resurrected itself,
with a sly cold wink.

Daffodils spectate,
wait and shiver,
on the sidelines.

Small dogs sniff the nippy shoes,
of brisk walkers,
then hurry onward -
their tell-tale tails
halfway up
and halfway down.

I Cannot Think of Anything to Write

I cannot think of anything to write a wanna-be writer said.
I suddenly spotted a large white crocodile on her head.
She was out of ideas again this imaginative Tuesday.
I saw a space ship from Venus whisking her rapidly away.

I am a terrific writer without a clue she told me.
I thought up a pink chameleon drinking daffodil tea.
My life is not interesting enough to write, she said at last.
I saw her walking the plank below my pirate ship’s mast.

Grandeur of Fall

Fall leaves tumble to their slipshod decay,
oozing from the crowns of tedious trees.
A mephitic scrunch with their latter sway,
as they are raked into wide whisking seas.

Coral-hued yew berries grace the yard's path,
late hollyhocks, and sunflowers shine bright.
Marigolds adorn door homes with gold lath,
thorn twigs in crimson holes dapple faxed sight. 

As the bounty of nature sparks strange start,
saffron periwinkle countless bright shades.
Giving a boost to the Fall grandeur art;
the hues of oak trees fluctuate by glades.

Topaz leaves stuck in a sapphire whisk breeze;
fall reveals deep facts, a sprint ember squeeze.

A Wicked Sense of Humour

“You have a wicked sense of humour”
Someone recently chided
Twisting what seem like serious events
Into silliness quite one sided

That's why I'm here to lighten things up
Adding sunshine to the group
From the great responses coming my way
It seems everyone's happy as poop

It's a tough job but someone's gotta do it
To counter the doom and gloom
That permeates the airways every day
Whisking them away with my broom

A broom of happiness of very good cheer
Coz life's a very short trip
Just live love and laugh at the world
With a happy-go-lucky skip

“You have a wicked sense of humour”
Had it since I was a young'un
Now decrepit but still chuckling away
Every day is for funnin'

Imbibing the Cliffs Enthrall

Heart

Pulse throbbing, breathlessly imbibing the cliff’s enthrall. The crashing of momentous waves against the bolder rocks. The passionate heaving of whisking foam and the swollen coolness of seaside air.

Mind

Blown, for I am not a fisherman, nor reside near the cliffs. What is a haven and harbor to many is a far-fetched tale to me, but here I stand as if Liberty over the seascape. I could walk these rocks, forever in my figment, roll the scene over and over again, watch the washing of the rocks. 

Soul

The lighthouse sign, missed to one’s detriment. I take the warning sternly, with compassion for souls lost to the rocks. Resplendently wet, inviting adventure, departure into the lapping incisors. A cork bobbing, sinking, subsiding. Out of sight, I see ghosts clearly. Only fools tread onto the wet rocks. I want to be foolish, but it is not a good day to die.

Wind Tossed Memory

Written: September 22, 2023
  
______________________________________________________________

A realm of echoes, as olden and topical cascade
Lacking them tears my heart in the palmy shade 
The wind howls, annihilating both virtue and vice 
Whisking away remnants of love's dulcet spice 
My vision and voice are hindered by the haze 
I shirk all I've loved and split, with a tearful gaze.

A Wicked Sense of Humour

“You have a wicked sense of humour”
Someone recently chided
Twisting what seem like serious events
Into silliness quite one sided

That's why I'm here to lighten things up
Adding sunshine to the group
From the great responses coming my way
It seems everyone's happy as poop

It's a real tough job but someone's gotta do it
To counter the doom and gloom
That permeates the airways every day
Whisking them away with my broom

A broom of happiness of very good cheer
Coz life's a very short trip
Just live love and laugh at the world
With a happy-go-lucky skip

“You have a wicked sense of humour”
Had it since I was a young'un
Now decrepit but still chuckling away
Every day is for funnin'

Vinaigrette Touche

I had put our meeting off so many times for fear that it would fail, and be a waste of time. I prepared a lovely salad. Thought I'd make some mayonnaise. The kind I thought you liked, with a yolk of free-range eggs, gluten-free and ovovegetarian. Low-carb to be on the safe side as well. Not the bottled commercial stuff full of preservatives and chemicals, but hand-made fresh from scratch au naturel, sweet, tasty, tangy and lovely. 

I gently beat the egg yolk and slowly drizzled the vegetable oil into it a few drops at a time, while whisking, relatively not too briskly. I thought all was going ever so well. But the mixture became clumpy and lumpy as the emulsion broke, fell apart, and separated. I started again, mixing ever so slowly this time to bring the immiscible oil and yolk slowly together to meld and combine. But I failed again and again and again.

Out of eggs, with no time to get more, I made a vinaigrette instead! Oil and vinegar, smooth and rough, sweet and sour. They meld so well, despite their relative quirks and differences. No yolk this time. Touche.

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