Whimpering Psithurism and Other Future Poems

[sweetcaroline]

Effervescently pace the foliage,
Lithe fairy footsteps careful to step untrodden ground-
The trees shift and tremble, projecting history into forbidden spaces,
Dark, unforgotten places revealing ghostly shadows, distant war heroes,
the selfish plight of war that ignited pain, continues imprinting bloody carbon marks within the roots.
We break the land below our pitter-pattering,
They stomped with chemical-laden boots-
Mother earth cries bitter tears frozen by this winter wind,
biting whispers blowing lies of freedom into her hopeful heart.
Her cracked soil and crisp limbs moan and creak.
Her heart has long ago since shattered,
Only to be replaced by manufactured glass shards shaped and molded by unpaid hands.
Ethereal memories and unpromising futures destroy-
Watch how the dim night struggles to throw her blanket upon our souls dutifully,
trying to entwine, envelope us to mother nature.
Watch how we ignore them.


I claim all rights to this poem, and I do realize there is a DeviantArt User by the name of "exactacrafts" who has posted this. That person is me.

[YesNo]

This has a nice, dark feeling to it. Psithurism is another word I did not know existed. I especially liked the last three lines showing how night wraps us in a blanket that we ignore.

[sweetcaroline]

Thank you so much for your feedback, YesNo, I deeply appreciate it!

[RufusWGriswold]

I think this is wonderful, such beautiful, evocative language and so mournful. I too was unfamiliar with the word psithurism, so thanks for that!

[sweetcaroline]

Thank you for your dear words, Mr. Griswold!

[Tyrion Cheddar]

Thank you so much for giving me at last a word for a thing wot oy've loved for a loyftime: psithurism. Oy'd no oydea there was a word for that. Woy just last noyt oy was sayin' to the missus: "Wouldn't it be grand if there was a word for that whisperin', rustlin' sound wot the wind makes when it passes through the leaves?" To which moy missus reployd, good-hearted but simple-moynded as she is, you'll understand: "Tis sheer fant'sy, that. To think that ever there could be such a word." Thus, you can imagine moy deloyt in learning that there is.

[sweetcaroline]

Thank you so much for giving me at last a word for a thing wot oy've loved for a loyftime: psithurism. Oy'd no oydea there was a word for that. Woy just last noyt oy was sayin' to the missus: "Wouldn't it be grand if there was a word for that whisperin', rustlin' sound wot the wind makes when it passes through the leaves?" To which moy missus reployd, good-hearted but simple-moynded as she is, you'll understand: "Tis sheer fant'sy, that. To think that ever there could be such a word." Thus, you can imagine moy deloyt in learning that there is.

Ha ha, well, I am happy to help! That sounds like quite the exchange!

[sweetcaroline]

Decaying Tea

Skeletal fingers, lithe, aged,
stir evaporated tea
around and around, substituting a misplaced spoon,
stirring up ashes routinely.
Would you care for more, I inquire,
pouring from my rusty cup into yours
lost memories.
Chamomile tastes of happiness,
chai is kind,
and jasmine reminds us both of a time when
life was worth living for.
I convince you you are drinking from a fountain
of youthful juices,
but your sunken sockets are blind,
and little do you realize
each day you are drinking your life away.
Life is very long,
this Mr. Eliot knew far too well,
but laying in these god-forsaken plots of dirt
makes the afterlife
seem longer.

I claim all rights to this poem, and I do realize there is a DeviantArt User by the name of "exactacrafts" who has posted this. That person is me.

[Clopin]

This has a nice, dark feeling to it. Psithurism is another word I did not know existed. I especially liked the last three lines showing how night wraps us in a blanket that we ignore.

You know it's funny, I read an article about a man whose hobby was reading dictionaries, and who listed, after he read the entire unabridged OED, (26 enormous volumes if I recall) 'psithurism' - which my spellcheck refuses to recognize and which probably doesn't even make it into many dictionaries - among his favourite words.

So maybe you're on to something with your diction SC.

[YesNo]

Life is very long,
this Mr. Eliot knew far too well,
but laying in these god-forsaken plots of dirt
makes the afterlife
seem longer.


Unless one gets reincarnated or one isn't stuck in the ground as those who have near-death experiences report. However, cremation might be an alternative just in case.

The way you expressed the time comparison of eternity to our own lifetimes is well done.

[Melanie]

You poetry is wonderful. The first one masterfully repeats words and phrases like "wind", "whispers", "trembling trees", and "Mother Nature's entwining and enveloping" (oh, and Psithurism:), to become the fabric that threads your thoughts cohesively together. I enjoyed reading them both.