Long poem by
Robert Ronnow | Details |
Sun and traffic - day economy.
Six a.m. drive to plywood mill. Too tired
to be angry. Each day a step
toward death. What is being accomplished? The
within each day. Book consciously read.
And frustrations. Package dropped, honey jar broke.
One of 175 soil types. With the fifty
comprising the canopy under which Eric and Lisa clean their baby's face.
Sun in winter, old apples.
Inside the school
a brilliant but rebellious history teacher
is suspended by the school board.
wearing armbands and painted teardrops
protest. Another 400
Within each structure
human dramas and routines.
Nancy will not love
any man who cannot do as many push-ups as she.
porcupine scat in snow.
How you earn money is who you are. You are
what you do to get food to eat
and shelter from the winter, summer heat.
Each morning I seek God
by holding still
waiting for the smoke to be black or white
coins heads or tails
wind dark or bright.
Flock of evening grosbeaks
nipping maple buds:
the sign I need.
* * *
Less need =
2/23/89. So much equipment just to sleep.
More than a bare floor.
wash at stream, find a log in woods.
Implements of human existence
unlike the deer or bear who
nip buds, forage berries.
I cannot eat the gum out of balsam fir
or bark from a popple.
I am not Wendell Berry
with a wife, a farm, philosophy.
I like the accuracy
of counting pear thrips in maple buds.
8/bud = complete defoliation.
This insect has four wings fringed with hairs
and is minute, 2.5 millimeters.
Two species within the genus:
one with tubular abdominal segment,
the other with conical abdominal segment.
Sugar maple their preferred food.
All I need
Names and habitats.
Elements, products, decay fungi, egg masses.
Marriage, copulation, regeneration, education.
Machinery, accounting, hand tools, laboratory.
I need your names
Sexual histories, books read, imaginings, unrequited loves, significant
landscapes, broken bones, periods of boredom, favorite shows.
* * *
without mediation, intermediate moments
time in the middle.
Time in the middle
time in the middle.
I'm bummed I never saw a dinosaur, an ice age, a cave man, even missed
the last world war.
Thanks to paleontology, geology, archaeology, history
mind equipped to take
time out of the middle.
It's in our DNA!
Why should she love me, her tenant?
Because I pay the rent on time.
* * *
Excellent. The white sun rose
and lit the frost.
Early February, late March, or in between.
discussing family. Sap starts to flow.
Where the borer spirals in, it comes out wet.
Birch or maple.
I watched from the window. Beautiful
but no desire to go out and touch
swelling buds of elderberry.
Is this shrub crazy? It knows what it knows
with elderberry knowledge.
Come Spring, so much to identify and name.
Insects, diseases and new flowers.
Lepidoptera, root rot, the pinks.
I think I might get married too
and watch the moons pass through the mists.
* * *
Some snow remains
but truck deliveries must be made.
pushing back the dark.
getting softer, slippery
at the cambium. Sap
and spring are here and there
although only winter birds are in the air.
to turn inside out
I too will not break or run
hold hope bound by ropes of discipline, experience
time the magic moments to come
take the last sleet and pain
slap in the face
glad for predictable seasons.
We anticipate however
drought, maple defoliation, increased gypsy moth infestations
which some attribute to our existence.
That may be true.
Or it may be that the universe
has reversed its decision on us
and there's nothing we can do.
But we will do
what we can
and some things we shouldn't
because that is human.
into the space inside me
unconnected to the light switch, plumbing
fairly independent of materials beyond
food and sound.
Where I pray
like an oak
that the light will enter me
and I will live the meanings in the wind.
and friends. And
by which we know our way.
Copyright © Robert Ronnow | Year Posted 2015
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.
© 2015 Diane Lefebvre
Copyright © Diane Lefebvre | Year Posted 2015
Long poem by
John Beam | Details |
Pondering the reflections on this windless day It is so still here peaceful by the mirrored pond How to reach out to you so far across the way A flower in hand a letter to send or a song so fond as I consider a butterfly warms itself in the sun Dropping a pebble the ripples begin to flow The bloom of a blossoming day has already begun In the distant shoals the bells loudly do toll across the blustering sea sitting in small café as the wind blows through her cascading hair I wonder if he will ever come please just one ray as the storm blows across her heart would he share To love and be loved a point of divergency in all its possibilities destiny or chance A slow dance or a glance of urgency A chaotic wind or a sweet romance Only time can tell as a butterfly spreads its wings and the hurricane brings the windswept rain A strange attraction the breeze and heart strings if this does not chime does not mean it is in vain
Copyright © John Beam | Year Posted 2015
Long poem by
Robert Ronnow | Details |
By which nothing is divided.
no Adam, no apple, no marriage, no morning.
no God, no soul, no ear lobe, no Iliad, no Odyssey.
no black hole
no mission, no omission, no fission, no fusion.
no 7:30, no wind, no window, no owl, no one.
In 773, at Al-Mansur's behest, translations were made of the Siddhantas, Indian astronomical treatises dating as far back as 425 B.C.; these versions may have been the vehicles through which the "Arabic" numerals and the zero were brought from India into China and then to the Islamic countries. In 813 the Persian mathematician Khwarizmi used the Hindu numerals in his astronomical tables; about 825 he issued a treatise known in its Latin form as Algoritmi de numero Indorum, Khwarizmi on Numerals of the Indians. After him, in 976, Muhammed ibn Ahmad in his "Keys to the Sciences," remarked that if in a calculation no number appears in the place of tens, a little circle should be used "to keep the rows." This circle the Arabs called sifr. That was the earliest mention of the name sifr that eventually became zero. Italian zefiro already meant "west wind" from Latin and Greek zephyrus. This may have influenced the spelling when transcribing Arabic sifr. The Italian mathematician Fibonacci (c. 1170-1250), who grew up in North Africa and is credited with introducing the decimal system in Europe, used the term zephyrum. This became zefiro in Italian, which was contracted to zero in Venetian. - Wikipedia
After my father's appointment by his homeland as a state official in the customs house of Bugia for the Pisan merchants who thronged to it, he took charge; and in view of its future usefulness and convenience, had me in my boyhood come to him and there wanted me to devote myself to and be instructed in the study of calculation for some days. There, following my introduction, as a consequence of marvelous instruction in the art, to the nine digits of the Hindus, the knowledge of the art very much appealed to me before all others, and for it I realized that all its aspects were studied in Egypt, Syria, Greece, Sicily, and Provence, with their varying methods; and at these places thereafter, while on business, I pursued my study in depth and learned the give-and-take of disputation. But all this even, and the algorism, as well as the art of Pythagoras, I considered as almost a mistake in respect to the method of the Hindus (Modus Indorum). Therefore, embracing more stringently that method of the Hindus, and taking stricter pains in its study, while adding certain things from my own understanding and inserting also certain things from the niceties of Euclidxs geometric art, I have striven to compose this book in its entirety as understandably as I could, dividing it into fifteen chapters. Almost everything which I have introduced I have displayed with exact proof, in order that those further seeking this knowledge, with it pre-eminent method, might be instructed, and further, in order that the Latin people might not be discovered to be without it, as they have been up to now. If I have perchance omitted anything more or less proper or necessary, I beg indulgence, since there is no one who is blameless and utterly provident in all things. The nine Indian figures are: 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1. With these nine figures, and with the sign 0 . . . any number may be written. - Fibonacci, Leonardo of Pisa
Copyright © Robert Ronnow | Year Posted 2015
Long poem by
Walter T. Ashe | Details |
"Two Trees: Mr. Oak And Mr. Bamboo"
A terrible wind storm was approaching and blowing everything out of it's path!
NOTHING....not one thing at all, could withstand it's awesome wrath!
Two trees saw this storm coming! YES!....it was coming their way!
One was Mr. Oak, the other Mr. Bamboo and very different things did they say!
* (Oh yeah, by the way, these two trees could talk!)
Now Mr. Oak tree was strong and mighty and was so solidly planted.
When in the distance he saw the wind storm, Oh!...he raved and he ranted!
"I am a mighty oak tree and I'll neither budge nor move,
what does this wind storm think it is, it's power I will disprove!"
"I don't move for any reason, and couldn't care less what that reason is!
I am the mighty oak tree and move in a breeze!!!...What madness is this???"
My stubbornness will see me through and when all is said and done,
I will still be standing right here, Mr. Bamboo, with this battle won!"
Mr. Bamboo looked too in the distance and he just so simply smiled.
It was as though he hadn't a care in the world,
though the wind storm was away less than a mile!
Mr. Bamboo looked at Mr. Oak and said quite philosophically,
"You know, sometimes bending even a little bit can help with flexibility!"
"See I do bend rather than resist and I come back stronger each time!
This helps me to avoid becoming stiff, even well into my prime!"
Mr. Oak glared hard at Mr. Bamboo and said "I don't bend for ANYONE!
When that wind storm gets here, I'll show it who's the boss,
and this will be over and done!"
The wind storm arrived with great intensity and everything was blown to and fro!
Mr. Bamboo was yielding and bending, Mr. Oak was shouting "NO!.. NO!!... NO!!!"
Mr. Bamboo was bent so far down, he was literally kissing the ground!
He then heard a "SNAP!", a "CRACKLE!" and a "CRASH!"
and Mr. Oak tree then fell down!
The wind storm moved on and the worst was over,
the clouds blew away and the sun came out!
Mr. Bamboo started rising up slowly, he moved as if he was a young sprout!
Mr. Bamboo looked over at Mr. Oak, who was clearly broken in half!
He was lying on the ground splintered and shaken,
the ultimate price paid in the storm's aftermath!
"I don't understand what happened!" Mr. Oak said, "I was so mighty and strong!"
"Nothing!...NOTHING could move me! Why did this go so wrong?"
Mr. Bamboo was empathetic and looking for the right words to say!
He sighed, looked at Mr. Oak, and this reply he did give that day....
"Yes, you were so strong and mighty and determined to stand your ground,
but there are some forces of Nature that will dumbfound and truly astound!"
"I tried to tell you about yielding, which is the natural way!
Yes, you will bend and be bowed down, but you'll spring back stronger and stay!"
So I wish you the best in your new life, where you will be surely stable,
and you will most definitely stand sturdy and strong,
as a new oak dining room table!"
Copyright © Walter T. Ashe | Year Posted 2016
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
Copyright © Therese Bacha | Year Posted 2013
Long poem by
m.n.i.w m.n.i.w | Details |
In the frame that hangs upon that wall resides
an image taken from the previous century.
The jubilant smile on that kid's face reflects
a time similar to a world of fantasy.
Superheroes were real,
good prospered over evil,
and the clock of life
would never cease to tick and tock.
But like the weather,
things change and then that cold,
spine chilling breeze passes through your body.
You soon realize that the only thing that you were right
to think as a child was to be afraid of the dark.
Often the darkness will swallow you up, and just as often,
the meaning of light that you clung to will diminish from existence.
I known that feeling for a while now.
Rooted with the spirit to thrive like blossoming roses.
Childhood is like a cool summer breeze.
The way the wind gently massages your pores
until the scorching heat becomes a fable.
It serves to remind you that fire doesn't always
burn if you know that opportunity
will soon extinguish its flames.
The future holds many luxuries is what most are told
and others learn that sharp jewels cut deep.
Like a diamond in the rough,
we grow up trying to discover our self-value,
while others try to dim the light that flourishes from our ability to shine.
And during that journey,
many of us are left to crumble
as if we were uncompressed lumps of coal.
The realities of life step from the shadows and reveals itself.
A misconstrued image of what's real and what's fictional.
This is around the time that the winter's blizzards
begin their reign of terror.
The pneumatic wind chills make the temperatures even colder
until the blood flowing through your veins become opaque.
Like roses in the winter,
eventually our beauty becomes a mirage,
the sweet sensation of warmth becomes a facade,
and we become fragile, wither and die.
The great-grandmother who loved kodak moments was a rare flower,
but frigid temperatures preceded demise until death reigned.
Every time I visited her as a child I'd greet her
with a subtle, shy grin and she'd greet me with a full smile.
As time passed, while being in her presence, my lips would soon mirror hers.
It's been a long time since I've seen that glamorous smile.
Because now she's gone in the wind
and every time I feel a breeze,
it haunts my thoughts.
Life, like the wind, comes and goes.
Sometimes a warm breeze, sometimes a cold breeze.
Sometimes howling an unearthly tone
and sometimes whispering smooth jazz.
But it'll always blow even as one day
we won't be able to feel it tickle our skin.
Copyright © m.n.i.w m.n.i.w | Year Posted 2015
Long poem by
Gerald Dillenbeck | Details |
time for sabbath sacraments.
He steps into gusty wind,
some fat splatter sweeps of raindrops,
fall across his porch roof
on down through roaring river valley,
forceful push, then ebb,
February wind storm with rain,
a wondrous primal pair
Neighbor birds start liturgical dance
and ritual songs of regeneration
Already flying quick floating dives
into drama time,
singing back to Brother Wind
howling on his way.
Calling, chanting cantors, conjoin
swelling sacred anti-gravity songs
co-arise blissful sweeping sound,
karmic atmosphere swirls time-rich
sacred rites across his house-bound skin.
Sound of incense sweeps down his river,
north to south with warmer hopes and economic intentions,
remind him time for political baptism.
She incants from the bathtub
in short gusts of warm blast enculturation,
joining his internal gospel choir,
chirps her oppositional descant
challenging and prophesying and occupying
in full-voiced roar of need
and seldom bothers a please,
much less a thanks
for caring as best he can
to hear her appositional rhythms and patterns,
irritating flows of hard-blown breath
Storm and brew
birds cheer rage in her brain
shouting at co-arising gravity
to blow another way
within her exegetical universe,
the only way
she can imagine
to function in a reverse and upside down
political world of unheard powerlessness
she can only find her loud-voiced demands
to turn life around,
spin this slippery wind of Earth
to blow in her right liturgical way.
Baptism completes this wind drenched requiem
of full-life as anti-death survival
to cooperate this week's regenerate vocational intent
and ecopolitical practice.
She joins her dad
for one last look
through jaundiced eye
at drenching rain that could fly back
from whence it came
if only wiser timed to start this day.
Birds now pray their benedictions
quietly in wind-protected nests
while he listens to swollen postlude protest
against eco-agitating time,
uprooting old gnarled systems
decayed for newer holistic use
as compost fades into swaying trees
flown back to join upriver's grace of windblown time,
and forth to rejoin downstream's centerous roots
through winter purging Earth
He closes his door to time's external grace
to watch a smile warmly cross her chronic face
like a gust of refreshing wind
through a rainy karmic life.
Copyright © Gerald Dillenbeck | Year Posted 2016
Long poem by
curtis johnson | Details |
The Wind Can Dance
By Curtis Johnson Sr
I know it’s easier to catch a breeze or two, once we have been around the bend
We should take the time to watch the leaves among the trees every now and then
We should take a moment to smell the roses, and observe the motion of the wind
God gave us the beauty of roses, the beast of hurricanes, and the sting of bees
As I was driving along a busy boulevard, I looked up and stared into the trees
I did not see an acorn, a blossom, or a butterfly, nor yet a bird eating seeds
I saw the leaves and the limbs on the trees swaying, and in the wind swinging
I am certain the birds and the bees saw it too, as they were humming and singing
That’s when it occurred to me, that it was the wind with whom they were dancing
Although I didn’t see the wind itself dancing, I tell you, the wind can dance
When the wind grabs a limb here, blows a flag there, or takes charge of a sail boat on a gusty lake; it’s dancing
When the wind catches a loaded plane high in the sky, forcing man made birds to shake; it’s dancing
Though you don’t see the wind, you ponder the motion of its dancing partners
And see the perils of its powers
There are countless movers and shakers, making mighty tunes with the wind
The waters of the rivers, the lakes, and the high seas, hand in hand, making rhythm with the wind
When a dark funnel cloud forms, and starts spinning and twisting with the wind, it’s dancing,
Sometimes it’s a wild dance, but when a beastly hurricane stirs violently across the sea, and goes blasting along the ocean shores,
Creating havoc with the wind, it’s dancing
When a gentle breeze, always pleasing, starts turning in the dust, making melodies with the wind, it’s dancing
When those ocean waters come slowly flowing, and waving ever so gently to the shores, they are slow dancing with the wind
When the high seas get wild and windy , the splashing strong waves get rough and tough, and high tides come raging and soaring and racing to the shores, it’s a wild dance, but they are dancing with the wind
Listen to the wings flapping and the humming of a bumble bee passing by
The wind doesn’t brag; nor does it claim to be the best dancer in the sky
But you might believe it so, if you watch the wings of an eagle flying high
You know that the wind kicks up dust, and sometimes it makes a fuss;
You may be busy, but taking a little time to observe the wind is a must
Believe me it’s true; trust me when i say, the wind can dance
Copyright © curtis johnson | Year Posted 2015
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.
Copyright © Wendy Meyer | Year Posted 2013