My life's mixed up with logic, gnarly.
I admit I'm confused. I sure do.
Every picture tells a story,
but stories paint a picture too.
Am I looking at Wuthering Heights,
or reading The Starry Night?
The high moors slant giddily over gritstone edges
where torrents overflow gallons of sky.
Grouse are blown sideways
by a bone-twisting gale.
The land is harried by fishtailing winds,
a sparse tufted earth blown beyond its roots.
In the valley, cats crouch; dogs snap the air
their barks as full as storm-drains.
Torrid echo’s outrun stampeding frights.
In the village pub,
locals move away from the smoke grimed
rattling windows,
gather around a coal fire in the taproom,
speak about past storms, compare and contrast.
Street sparrows survive
by doing what they always do,
though nobody knows how, what or where.
Watch that big moon,
It smiles far away.
It's brighter than ever,
It has so much to hide.
The queen among the stars
takes care of its castle
with all the secrets inside.
A princess with no name
has its moods to show,
sometimes feeling full,
sometimes feeling blue.
Listen to that big moon
when she talks to you,
she has so much to say,
so many whispers,
so many songs to be listened to.
Look at her best show
when you are in the wuthering heights or when you are in the clear valleys.
It will always be bright for you to admire it above the wuthering heights.
Whether Wuthering Weather
Whether ebb or flow.
Weather blows trees like oceans,
Wuthering waves... roar.
by Martin Braun
August 30, 2023
In memory of my dear mother-in-law, Bea, who was a tremendous poet and an inspiration. A book of her poems was published. She watched Wuthering Heights for countless continuous days. Heathcliff!
From centuries in the sands in woods
In rivulets oceans boat of love
It Rowan Rowan from Day first
With cuckoo, seagull wounded dove
O hazy phantom speak with us
Like blood in heart thou circulate
Thy chamber in the niche of soul
From maddening world so isolate
Thy Laila, Juliet, Romeo Qais
Wherest they live wherest they go?
They live in desert of the earth
Or they in Eden ocean row
O wounded love , thy haunted lanes
Are filled with graves of tears and woe
In search of Thee, in burning world
From ages people come and go
From centuries in the sands in woods
In rivulets oceans boat of love
It Rowan Rowan from Day first
With cuckoo, seagull wounded dove
O hazy phantom speak with us
Like blood in heart thou circulate
Thy chamber in the niche of soul
From maddening world so isolate
Thy Laila, Juliet, Romeo Qais
Wherest they live wherest they go?
They live in desert of the earth
Or they in Eden ocean row
O wounded love , thy haunted lanes
Are filled with graves of tears and woe
In search of Thee, in burning world
From ages people come and go
From centuries in the sands in woods
In rivulets oceans boat of love
It Rowan Rowan from Day first
With cuckoo, seagull wounded dove
O hazy phantom speak with us
Like blood in heart thou circulate
Thy chamber in the niche of soul
From maddening world so isolate
Thy Laila, Juliet, Romeo Qais
Wherest they live wherest they go?
They live in desert of the earth
Or they in Eden ocean row
O wounded love , thy haunted lanes
Are filled with graves of tears and woe
In search of Thee, in burning world
From ages people come and go
Torrents overflow a rocking sky.
The high moors slant giddily over gritstone edges
dark are the claws of calamity.
Small birds are blown sideways into scant
bone-twisted trees, crooked branches spear each other.
The land is harried by low and high fishtailing winds,
the tufted earth blown beyond its roots.
In the valley, village cats crouch; dogs snap the air
their mouths as full as storm-drains.
A banshee wails in our hearts
while we listen to its silent screams.
We are nothing but torrid echo’s run through
by stampeding feather-light frights,
guttering lights that seek a less bruising way
to escape grip of this blustering day.
While watching windswept willows weeping,
Wild winter winds were wailing with woe.
Without words we wisely wondered why,
Whither who would wander weather-wise.
2/ 20/ 2021.
For the Liberum Divisa 4 poetry contest.
Sponsor Gregory R Barden.
Entered for an alliteration contest 11/ 27/ 2017.
Sponsor Barry Stebbings.
You get to a point where
you can’t read them anymore
and consider yourself a grown-up.
But it wasn’t until I was fifty-two
that I threw them away.
How long could they hide
in a high school brief case
next to a box of sweaters
in the attic?
So…into the Dumpster Doodle-Doo
they went: her Wuthering epistles,
and my Heathcliff’s angst
Risen to the “beep beep beep”
of a trash trawler’s chaw.
By then she was a preacher’s wife
in Pennsylvania, and I was running
Manufacturing trades for a defense
plant in Rhode Island,
a job for which I was
wholly unsuited
They were two new skins
for the both of us
only one of which
had been redeemed.
Star crossed lovers strolled together
over moorland fields of heather...
Tragedy unfolds
Emily Bronte wrote thereof...
She, too, lost chance to find true love...
Death, again, grabs hold
__________________________________
For Black-Eyed Susan's Contest: Tail Rhyme
5/1/12
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