Winded

I’m sitting on my lawn chair
Outside the night is cool
I hear the trees swaying
The breeze chills my skin
It knocks on my hippocampus  
Am I here or where it blows?
Breeze, you are timeless
From queens to divas, the same
You carry me back to my childhood
You go from high to my lows
You leave me bereft as you leave
You come at my like a windmill
Alone I’m ash on your windy night
It takes a Starry Night like tonight
It takes a Van Gogh to go with you
I would go mad like the wind
I would chase that lonesome boy
I would ride his Sirocco to him
But I am too sane to be a zephyr
Enough wind, it’s time to go in
Make sure the windows are closed
No wind, you can’t get to me
No, you will not breeze through me
The nostalgia you profess is shuddered
The lonesome boy is here within
I wish you would take him with you
But, that would mean we are you
When I’m dust we’ll both join you
We’ll chase the highs to lows
Come and visit me next time
I’ll bundle up and be ready
Just in case you carry me away
I won’t repeat what Vincent did
When he met you on a …
Starry, starry night

childhoodnightnostalgiastarstormfree verse

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Susan Ashley

June 9, 2024 at 7:58 PM

Dear Triny, your impassioned poem draws emotion up from a deep well of sad beauty. I adore this piece, so rich in sensory imagery, raw introspection, evocative language.. I was deeply touched by your verse, especially, "I wish you would take him with you/But, that would mean we are you/When I’m dust we’ll both join you/We’ll chase the highs to lows". Like the wind, your poem goes somewhere, straight to the heart and soul! A fav! A superb, haunting piece that lingers. Warmest wishes.. ~Susan

Jeanette Swan

May 27, 2024 at 6:13 AM

'Am I here or where it blows?' - This is like going in the looking glass here, yet escaping without quite being caught. The lonesome boy, the wind, the dust all blow through the journey. I catch the sense of mystery and feeling whisked up in transience. J :)

Triny Xiang

June 7, 2024 at 5:24 PM

I don't know about you, but when the wind blows I feel too corporeal to be breezy. I feel Vincent ushering me on a draft but I have enough sense to write a poem instead.