Long poem by
Diane Lefebvre | Details |
The strong gust of wind was cut off from its source; a frigid early spring blast that swept across a lofty mountain range, high above British Columbia.
It then encircled one of the lesser peaks and swooped down upon the slippery ice pack below, reaching out with cold, airy tentacles to caress the frozen surface, as it skimmed ever downward, dipping its fingers into each crevasse, only to dissipate into nothingness when swallowed by the vast emptiness of the frigid ice chasms below.
The main body of wind rushed on, over the thick, craggy glacier that had recently become an impenetrable shroud for several unfortunate ice climbers, who for one fateful moment challenged the supremacy of the mountain.
The wind now reached magnificent snow fields. Untouched by the imprint of man; it swirled the fresh offering of snow into powder so fine and glimmering, that the human eye left unprotected, would most certainly be blinded by its glare.
The wind was less bitter now. The warmth of the sun at the lower altitude tempered its bite as it continued downward past a small group of skiers, lending sting and color to their cheeks. It exhilarated them and the memory would help bring them back to the mountain again and again, much as the drug addict must return to that which obsesses him.
The wind had now reached the tree line and was met by green, trenchant sentries waiting in dwindling cradles of snowy whiteness. At first they would bend and sway in deference to the wind, as it attempted to bully its way past. Then the trees became the master, slowing and tempering that which so boldly challenged their strength and stamina.
This left the wind transformed once again, now becoming an energetic breeze, reaching out to the upper meadows of the mountain: adolescent fields now alive with the arrival of a warming season and the promise of springtime’s grace.
The breeze was refreshing in the late morning sun. Its welcoming touch stirred everything in sight: rippling through the young grass, now caressing the immature leaves on awakening trees that harbored mating song birds and caustic squirrels.
The high meadow spring flowers swayed beneath its gentle touch and a hare frolicked this way and that in the beautiful moment called ‘spring’.
The breeze then happened upon a flowing stream. Icy cold and gurgling, the brook wended its way down the mountain side, offering a ride to the transient traveler and carrying it along on its surface, just above the ripples and eddies that danced over boulders and foaming white water.
It tumbled along with the stream, as other small rivulets joined in and soon was hitching a ride with a river that had grown more powerful: over falls and through canyons, now widening out as the steep incline of the mountain slowly vanished.
The river grew fat and sluggish in its mighty girth and the wind, with very little propulsion, had no choice but to lessen once more and become a mere whisper of what it once had been.
The scene was no longer recognizable to the errant puff of air. Everywhere was the beginnings of the trappings of man and fearful in its vulnerability, it chose to remain with the river: skimming along under steel bridges, past little towns and eventually a small city.
It dare not leave the river, for it feared dissipation and the river must wend its way to the sea if the little breeze was to survive.
And just when it seemed that all hope might be gone for the tiny little waft, the languid river gulped in its first salty taste of the ocean and the childlike wisp of air was immediately adopted by the offshore breeze, caressing it gently in its more powerful grasp: nursing it back to health, giving it the strength to survive.
Then, into a harbor that was generously sprinkled with small vessels: some with trim masts that invited the puff of air to now come and frolic, if only for a moment or two.
The regenerated breeze felt stronger now, as it playfully sparred with white sails, while tumbling this way and that, tickling and teasing all that it touched.
It had now reached the ocean, where it would once again be renewed: drawn upward far above the clouds and absorbed into the powerful upper level winds, only to begin another long and treacherous journey, fraught with excitement, as well as adventure.
And in the end, there was and still is the vast and powerful sea, from whence all life once emanated and in its own and very special way, so too . . even the wind.
Long poem by
Therese Bacha | Details |
A Journey With The Wind.
I had a dream that felt greater than reality, lost on earth
wearing a gown bare feet bleeding leaving behind traces
for my sons to find me.
My hand was begging reaching out suddenly, a feeling
I held the wind, yes the wind in the palm of my hand a friend,
to join me through that journey toward the ocean, knowing it
will soon fly away, who can hold the wind and make it belong,
Wind Oh wind, meet my sons, whisper my name they are the
ones who care, they will rescue me even blind folded, they will
smell my bodies odor and sense where I am.
Oh wind, you are the only one here on this earth I feel your presence,
fly away now carry a tear place it on their cushion and deliver my
message to them, I will wait even forever, bring them back to me.
My friend my wind, search for them, find them knock, on their window
If they are sleeping they will wake up & run towards me follow my blood
trail find their way to carry me softly & cure my scars wipe away my
tears & fear of drowning alone at the shore.
Suddenly the light faded darkness took over covering the brightness
away I pledged, mother nature I am not yet ready, sun do not burn
and light a fire, Oh sun where are you , don't leave me alone, I started humming my babies melody to be heard
and come to my rescue.
Deprived to see them in the morn for years, deprived to look in their
eyes, deprived to eat with them, drink with them, deprived to smell their
perfume, destiny was against me due to the war in our country, for
years they were always flying away around this earth, to settle.
I felt cold shivering, suddenly the warmth of my children's breath
around gave me the strength I needed, Wind! my friend! you
found them and carried them across the ocean,Oh, the look into
each others eyes cannot be describe, for the first time I felt they
were real we fixed for seconds but a whole book can be created
through the emotions and communications that occurred during
those precious moments,
a language of its own.
The echoing of their voices was heard, what can we say mum except
we love you for being there when we needed you,we love you because
of who you are, we love you because you care, we love you for not sinking
during our absence because we needed you on the shore, together listen
to nature`s beauty, birds twittering, fish whispering,
waves dancing & splashing.
We love you because you find life in everything you touch, and if not,
you blow life into everything, we love you, your breath has kept
us alive, your breath is as strong as the wind that carried us to you.
Come on mum, it was a long journey with the wind on this earth
for all of us, lets go home, together.
Contest,Earth Fire Water Wind for Debbie Guzzi (WIN Honorable Mention) Therese Bacha
Long poem by
Wendy Meyer | Details |
I try to ignore the squirming Hyde within
And, with effort still,
I raise myself for the last traces
of sunshine and fun.
What was left of the day, I savor for me.
As the withering leaves of silence
have perfected the petals of stillness,
Such absence of sound
Never a serenity to the mind.
Disturbing solitude haunts.
Loneliness seems vivid as reality speaks
Even the poignant sadness never parts
Solitary confinement paints an art.
Like the spectator in a thousand theatre plays,
I achingly wait for the final curtains to part.
Then, as always expected -
Left were the
together with the late sunset wind.
Tiny golden flecks
imprinting on the soft white
laces and trims.
Catching shadow images
of the last rays of brilliance,
blending slowly in yellow embers,
forming orange coals,
turning into sunkissed glow
of a sad goodbye.
ever so softly fading
into dullness and cloudless cold.
And as the night falls,
its shadowy self dances
against the moonlit music of silence.
I listen and search still
for what is left.
No traces of the sun
whose magnificence and radiance
had touched the leaves of laughter
during my daytime slumbering; children frolicking,
early had the mind sensing.
And, gone astray were the seeds of kindness
the day had grown.
It seemed they were sown
by someone I wish I had known.
If only I could frolic
where little lads had been early today -
in the meadows,
by the pond,
along the shores,
around friendly trees and smiling flowers,
with the meadowlarks and chirpy games,
I’d give away anything.
Basking in the sun on such a lemony day,
someone sulks to find it's an emotional burn.
If only I could catch the loveliness of the sun,
I'd give away anything.
Just for something this grand.
The mind wills but the heart groans.
A moment of joy and laughter, so fleeting.
Forgot me, gave away the troubles.
Today could be A DAY,
If only, ever so softly, I could catch the sun.
Long poem by
kj force | Details |
Standing out in a field alone, a little white flower named Daisy longed for someone to share her world.
One day a blue flower named Bachelor Button entered her world they became friends.
She knew by his name that he was not the propagating kind, but that didn’t stop their relationship she called him BB short for best bud.
The seasons of Spring & Summer they enjoyed the sun, laughed in the rain and held on fast in the Fall.
Winter came it was long and hard they were both covered in a blanket of snow, not knowing whether they would ever see each other again or even survive .The snow fell then came the ice, this went on for months.
The Sun shone brightly the first day of spring. A few days later warmth of the sun melted the snow, Daisy popped up .
I’ve been waiting days for you to come out, said BB, they both chanted hooray!
The snow was completely gone in a few days, the birds started building their nests , bugs were crawling around ,butterflies began to visit the two flowers. I wish there were more of us Daisy said, to BB.
They laughed as the sun and wind blew through their leaves. Then it started the sun and rain took turns until one morning the air & field was filled with the smell of flowers.
Daisy and BB looked at each other and asked what kind of flowers are these ? they’re not white like daisies they’re not blue like bachelor buttons. They did not know the birds and bugs carried the seeds from the two of them and the caterpillars buried them under the soil.
The seeds from the new flowers were then carried by the winds many miles away, they landed in fertilized gardens and flourished, although they faced danger everyday.
as they were called WEEDS ..
The Gardener pulls weeds out of the garden so they don’t choke the flowers, which cost a lot of money and require lots of maintenance.
However there was a Gardener who saw her friends spending hours weeding their garden , that they didn’t have enough time to admire and enjoy the labors of their love
So she set out to give a home to all the weeds ,she provided a place where they could fit in and multiply, they required no maintenance, rain provides their water .
The best part of all is their beauty is in the eye of the beholder.
Ask my granddaughter-- What are those flowers in the garden ?
She will answer "WILDFLOWERS " their parents were Daisy and BB
Long poem by
Rosemarie Rowley | Details |
Europe was frozen in a tide of hate
The genius Jew was being persecuted
Bound to the intransigence of fate
His violin played the tunes they executed
Now it was time to think as they electrocuted
The hopes of young people in the dawn of their history
Whose own stories would have so much mystery
Down in the baker’s the story ran around
Hitler was marching to a frenzied tune
He bruised the flowers underneath the ground
And told them works of genius had no boon
While the bridal pair planned their honeymoon
On country roads, a visit to the town
Where they would see wonders and a family found
The day of the wedding dawned so fair
It would seem creation began again
Every single person going there
Wore the best they could, the men
With dark serge suits, and a fountain pen
For Granddad to write to his daughter
Who lived across three thousand miles of water
The wedding Nora had lived for all her life
Now like fate, could be too late to cancel
Nothing would please her more than being a wife
No longer a woman her relatives liked to spancel
They went the evening before to the quiet chancel
Made their vows in private for each other
Far away, war’s declaration on a brother.
His thoughts were far away this harvest morning
The corncrake singing in the flowery ditch
Struck into his heart like a heavy warning
That life was choked with love, so rich
A fantasy dove-tailing in augured pitch
Be faithful to me, the bird sang, my husband
I never want to wear another’s riband
She wore the oyster dress her sister gave her
It was soft and crumpled like a clotted cream
Her veil was raised when he kissed her
And she thought she was fainting from the dream
What could matter now, but what could seem
His handsome face, his hair so fine and black
There wasn’t one feature where he lacked
Her face was lovely as a golden flower
Her dress, a simple thing with fine kick-pleat
It lay like wisps of cloud upon her tower
Where beauty, youth and kindness all could meet
Such tiny pearls slid on her throat so neat
Their hour of tortured chastity was over
Profusion, perfection, they were like gods in clover.
(c) Rosemarie Rowley from "In Memory of Her", 2004 Dublin
Long poem by
john beharry | Details |
from a clear blue and white sky
with fleecy white clouds
edged with wisps of mist
like giant grains of popcorn
drifting slowly by
way up in the sky
bathing the sugar cane fields below
with golden sunbeams
saturating the texture
of its long grass-like leaves
with its radiance
enlivening them and
transforming the fields into
an emerald sea
of brilliant green
swaying the sugar cane leaves
gently caressing them
making them dance in unison
like the waves of the ocean
The dancing leaves
vibrating in harmony
with each other
create a murmuring sound
that builds in intensity
and reaches a crescendo
like the roar
of the waves of the ocean
setting the leaves
in a wild dance of ecstasy
and then gently subsiding
to the soothing sound
of a gentle breeze
inducing a state
At such moments
alone with nature
one can feel a strange unity
with everything around
Unity that is so strong
that one loses consciousness
of one's individual self
one has no consciousness
of time and space
but only of that moment
- the infinite eternal NOW
One's consciousness seems to merge
with a deeper consciousness
of the unity of all things
in nature and the cosmos
One experiences an awareness
of a deeper reality
that is impossible
to describe in words
One makes contact
with one's cosmic roots
in a dimension where
time and space
It is the synchronisation
of one's consciousness
with the absolute
and ultimate reality
of the cosmos
As a young boy, around nine or ten, I used to love to be in the sugar-cane fields in my native tropical island, Trinidad. I got a natural high, being dazzled by the brilliant sunshine and listening to the sighing of the sugar cane leaves as they swayed in the breeze like the waves of the ocean. I felt that Nature was speaking to me, transporting me to another world where I connected with my cosmic roots, becoming part of the unity of all things.
Long poem by
Paul Callus | Details |
Notus comes creeping furtively from the south
hot and bothered from the blazing summer sun.
The wind of change...concealed it launches sudden storms
as clouds pile up across the sky, dark and towering,
lightning flashes, thunder drawls, torrential rain descends;
rivers swell to bursting point; fields are swamped, crops destroyed.
Then once again he sneaks away, planning his next move.
His neighbour, Eurus, wants to show he’s no less able.
Bearing his inverted earthen vase he goes along
clumsy in gait and spilling water on dry soil.
His forays from the east tend to be unlucky.
Autumn fades with a sigh on Aura’s gentle wings
as ice-cold winter rushes in impatiently
from northern frozen lands to take its place
goaded by the domineering force of Boreas
who moves ahead with strong, intense authority,
his violent temper uncontrolled. Despite his age
he pushes his galloping stallion to the limit
riding forth relentlessly, cloak billowing behind,
his white beard curled; shaggy hair spiked and frosted.
Roaring, across the land he speeds with utmost haste,
a sacred conch shell grasped firmly in steely hand;
tremendous power he exerts and blows aloud
while humans cower in dark caverns, shivering.
They know his moods and fear his devastating wrath.
In their minds, princess Oreithyia’s forced abduction,
rape, and carnal satisfaction are still fresh.
They yearn for winter’s bitter ally to move on
so that the gentle Zephyr enters from the west
bringing with him rainbows and showers of spring,
calm serenity, greenery, flowers, shades and hues,
romantic feelings, fiery passion and intense love.
Ultimately, all four have to heed and appease
King Aeolus, firm ruler and keeper of the winds.
*Aura = breeze goddess
*Oreithyia = mountain Nymph
18th December 2014
Contest: Gods of Winds
Sponsor: Shadow Hamilton
Long poem by
Drew Rutherford | Details |
In the void, sipping the zoid,
with mental properties of tripping on the spiral.
Falling down the tail of lions, awkwardly spinning.
With upside down tunnel vision leaking through.
Solidifying all matter that matters,
melting into the walls of your brain.
It tickles all the raindrops dripping in your eyes,
satisfying your desire of a synchronized pattern.
Bleeding purple from the rainbow,
and turning into swirls of diamonds.
Slipping exuberantly beside you; driving you wild.
Where the shadows stop the spirited scream.
Devour yourself into the omniscient grip.
Icy cold finger tips scratch the surface of your divinity,
bringing you closer to the God who whispered in your unborn ear,
situated in your flesh from birth to death.
It embeds itself in the pupil of your eye,
dancing with your spirit and licking your soul.
Black shapes of madness wrapped in chaos and euphoria.
Twinkling and blinking dust of a cloud.
Haze filled skies and blood filled smoke raining from the clouds.
Envisions of clowns and demons laughing at our demise.
Chilling sensations of sickening mannerisms,
mechanisms and mechanics sought out to destroy the tiny creatures.
These creatures running crazy into acceptance of demise.
Deprived of life, scared of death but giving into it's taste.
Taste buds quiver as the taste grows sweeter.
Death, oh death, tell everyone who you really are...
Too long have you been hidden in the shadows you cast,
too long have we rendered your pain.
The world grows sicker as the hairs in my head grey.
I'll never surrender as demons always circle.
Today, begins a new day of our fight.
And I have a good feeling about this day.
Onward, we have united our minds and gathered ourselves within.
Always ready for we accept our fear.
We accept our hate and everything in between.
Accept it all for what it really is.
No amount of doubts will over throw us.
Onward, to peace.
Long poem by
Nicolette Holness | Details | . You can read it on PoetrySoup.com' st_url='http://www.poetrysoup.com/poem/the_travellers_unclaimed_land_482896' st_title='The Traveller's Unclaimed Land'>
He says he loves me then he says he loves me not
He loves me today but by tomorrow I'm forgot
He runs from my love but returns wanting more
I guess I'm to blame for letting the traveler explore,
See travellers just wander and are never here to stay
They admire the scenery and enjoy the display
They tour the land and ride the attractions
So memories become their only subtractions,
They search for an experience that is what they yearn
The condition once they leave is none of their concern!
So how can the land be devoted and true
When travellers come and go out of the blue.
The present is now and where he's travelled to,
But the past he calls home so he must return soon
Most likely just a visit although time can only tell,
But what he lusts is in this land and he knows it very well
He may call that place home but its this land that he seeks
Travellers on a mission never realize until they hit their peek
He continues to damage this land down to its core
So what's left to offer when their is nothing left in store?
The resources were depleted and the land left bare
He comes and goes as he pleases it doesn't seem fair;
See this land has been abused time and time again
Seeds that were planted, were means to an end
But pleasure and satisfaction was always accomplished
Because this land provided where the homeland was disadvantaged!
But despite the history and despite the trust
Submit to his urges is something he must.
So this time around his departure is permanent
Lack of faith and loyalty was the final determinant.
The damage he caused cannot be rendered,
So his visitation rights he has surrendered!
So leave this land I say and never look back
This is the path you chose I hope you can stay on track,
Cause travellers have memories of the lands they have stained
But the land only remembers the one that remained!
Long poem by
Sergio Silveira | Details |
It was a sultry summer day,
The air lay thick and still.
The leaves hung flaccid on the trees,
As if slumbering in a deep sleep.
No birds were to be heard
For they were hiding from the heat.
The awful quiet was deafening,
And the utter stillness unrelieved.
She pondered about her life
As she stood silent in the field.
Oh, there is nothing new, she thought,
There is nothing but an interminable ennui.
Immense clouds hung still above her
Like enchanted continents in the sky.
Yet she missed each single one of them,
Her eyes might’ve well been shut.
There was just emptiness, she thought,
And a tedious town, and a hollow life.
Her mind was made up about that place,
She was right, she thought, and she would never budge.
She hardly noticed it at first,
For she was pondering her woes and fears.
It first tickled her earlobe,
Then it softly blew into her ear.
Likely a vexing fly, she thought,
As she swayed her hand next to her head.
But then it fondly stroke her neck,
And slowly crept beneath her dress.
It tenderly caressed her legs
With the subtle touch of a satin sheet.
She scarcely felt it, and then dismissed it,
And returned to tallying her hardships.
But it had come for her, from so far away,
To be so readily refused.
It had rushed across valleys, ascended great mountains,
As only a fervent lover would.
Rejected yet not dismayed,
It refused to be dismissed.
You are my great love, it breathed, and I am yours,
And enwrapped her whole body with bliss.
Seized from her cares, and in extreme delight
She swung her arms open wide.
And as she did, the aged world,
Now a little new, appeared before her eyes.
But the merciful breeze had moved on.
It continued on its broad track.
The lover, foreteller of change,
And defeater of heat and murk.