Best East Wind Poems
We lived in a crooked house.
Built on a muddy mound of hope with the corpse of yesterday half buried beneath
Sad eyes and smiley faces. A gilded countenance to pair the four walled fiction – Painted thin; only just enough to cover our cracks.
Widening like morning eyes; a mirrored reflection.
Dancing in a zigzag to the tune of the tremors. An ugly soundtrack coaxing ugly art.
Those damp walls. The cracks swallowing torrents from eyes in the sky
Wide eyed boys watching sliding droplets crashing into droplets. Swallowed like pride.
Doors jammed in water seeped jambes. Knotted and gnarled. A need for a greave
Trees weeping at what they witness from the outside looking in. Shedding leaves for tears.
Oft trampled floor boards creaking and crying in solidarity with those that walk its back
Whisper and scurry light-footed like mice in a hurry so easily scared by the wall breaching wind
Trying hard not to wake the monster sleeping downstairs - Breath held like tongues, voices low
Like the swing in the garden tied to the tired branch of the hunched tree. Seat sunk in mud. Ashamed.
A tip toe down the slippery stairs; in fear of drowning in the basement swimming pool. A watery hell
Festering in the bowels of this building ever since the burgeoning moat breached the ramparts of this faux castle.
Lopsided family photo frames hanging by a thread. Nailed to crumbling walls. A slipping semblance of home.
The rising cigarette smoke staining the walls like those words from the same pursed lips from the mind so hard to rid
A cloudy plume with no silver lining; an excuse for eyes to water; blurring those family portraits.
That poisoned smog escaping through the chimney. Blown out over spluttering trees aghast at what this house concealed.
The wind once blew from the west. The house had many faces then but when the east wind struck its walls, the face it pulled it stuck. Doubled over, bent and crooked.
The trees perished like dreams and time brought change
But this crooked house remained the same.
Der Wind aus Osten
Treibt schon Schnee über das Land
Am späten Herbsttag
The wind from the east
Drifts already snow across the land
At late autumn day
El viento del este
Ya flota nieve a través de la tierra
En un día de otoño
Through the whispering pines, down the valley's deep
And wide, do they call unto one another, the brother's
Of the winds.
North chases east to west, as south's warming breath,
Begs to play also, once around the world, over land,
Sea, and mountain tops vast divides.
Tag your it, not I says, the three, as they roll, and duck,
Shifting thus for cover's airy currents, above, below one another.
The east wind is the trickster, mischievous fellow, seeking
Up behind his brethren, than laughing with sheer delights
Gleeful pleasure, until his companion’s kindred, catch up with
Him and pick on him later.
Latitudes unto longitudes, these spiritual pirates,
Of freedoms quest, to remain as liberation's
Outcasts, to conventional reality.
Mother nature's wild children of the untamed,
Swirling divinities whom never rest or settle in
One space, air spirits tasting the everlasting flavor
Of abandonment's desire, beneath their wings of flight.
Soar with destiny's favorite sons, brethren beyond
Human reproach, except unto one another calling,
Come excel with exhilaration's, mischief makers
Extraordinaire.
Ariel acrobats ascending, descending at wills whim,
Concurring the heights currents as invisible eagles,
Than free falling towards the earth beneath.
Gliding dare devils challenging the open air,
Testing the fates of destiny's sails, to imagination’s
Boundaries without fail.
At night fall a whispering voice, she calls unto
Them, mother nature, come my sons, it is time
To finally rest.
Yawning with their blustery breath, these tempestuous
Mischievous lads, float a loaf towards the cave
Of the winds, and dream of the chase to come,
On the marrow's sunrise.
Illusion's dreaming realm tosses aside, it's veiled
Currant unto these ideal God's, whom play with
Raw power's force, using it's strength as if a game at play,
These brother's of the four winds, set adrift within
This realm of imagery.
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
Where do roses birth their petals
when Spring gardens disappear
Where do petals bloom in Winter
when white snow falls everywhere
Where do snowflakes melt in Summer
On silk lips brushing the cheek
Where do lips steal out first kisses
In between the cherry trees
Where do cherries share a secret
of bare branches in wild dreams
Where does autumn burns the fire
On carpets of yellow leaves
Its the romance of four seasons
Florescent fragrance fills the air
the East wind keeps breezing softly
Midnight bells greet each New Year
And the robin keeps on tweeting
butterflies flutter their wing
the cricket rattles all evening
the pide-piper plays and sing
And the mistle-toe keeps hanging
Coloured confetti chase the moon
And the rainbow keeps a pathway
a stream cascades in the dune
And a dove flies above star dust
as the white swan pirhouettes
and the fire-flies keep twinkling
in the lake of honey-zest
Charma
words left unsaid
drift upon the east wind-
freeze in my heart
Where do roses birth their petals
when Spring gardens disappear
Where do petals bloom in winter
when white snow falls everywhere
Where do snowflakes melt in summer
upon lips and blushing cheeks
Where do lips steal their first kisses
Just beneath the cherry trees.
Where do cherries share our secret
On bare branches in wild dreams
Where does autumn burn the fire
On carpets of tarnished leaves.
Its a romance of four seasons
Florescent fragrance fills the air
The east wind keeps breezing softly
Midnight bells greet each New year..
And the Robin keeps on tweeting
Butterflies flutter their wing
The cricket rattles all evening
The pied-piper plays and sing...
And the mistletoe keeps hanging
Pink confettis chase the moon
And the rainbow makes a pathway
A stream cascades in the dune.
Soft feathers flow against stardust
as the white swan pirhouettes
And the fireflies keep twinkling
on the lake of honey-zest.
On high-back benches
weary shoppers clutch their parcels
and slump.
Wrapped in a yellow green haze
Van Buren station sleeps
beneath Chicago's vibrant streets.
Outside, on wood-plank platform
we drink-in the coffee warmth
of October's fleeting sun.
"South Chicago, 23rd, 47th, 53rd, 57th"
Like some unraveling mass of I-beam steel
the tracks begin to rumble and shake.
The slant nosed Metra comes and goes.
Across the tracks in autumn plume
Grant Park displays her rows of golden elms.
A nor’ east wind dances bow upon bow,
with a gentle sway that shears away
a sifting rain of harvest leaves.
"Park Forest South, 23rd, 47th, 53rd, 57th"
On the slant nosed Metra
I hurry home.
Rose fingered dawn appeared early today
at the island, East Brothers Light station.
From Benicia hills I caught the first ray.
Now, absorbing my share of sun's ration
on this islet in San Francisco bay.
I early watched the night, battle, and chased
by the minions of a bright new day.
On the East wind, a train's horn as it raced
to who knows where or what destination.
And I wondered, too, as to my endpoint.
Sitting here in mellow contemplation,
face filled with the solar afirmament
of a life not without worth and valued
at least in the number of good years totaled
Down in the crypt where the caskets lie
And dust stirs up when trucks go by
Giggling sounds, not moans and groans
From the tomb of Skelton Bones
When the trucks go by no more
No light peeks beneath the door
Bony feet on an ice cold floor
Skelton Bones inspects his claw
Skelton Bones was a pirate, old
Sailed the seas in search of gold
His right hand by a dragon took
Now its claw is Skelton’s hook
Once, he’d dressed in silk and cotton
Skelton’s clothes are long since rotten
All that’s left, a belt and buckle
And his hat which makes him chuckle
He’s Skelton Bones; a pirate, nude
But not intentionally rude
He says, “Ahoy!” in pirate tones
That’s the sound of Skelton Bones
But now he has a yen to be
Once more sailing ’pon the sea
Been too long; three hundred years
Skelton calls his buccaneers
When the door creaks open wide
Ghostly pirates lurk outside
But with no seas to sail nearby
Skelton’s ship takes to the sky
Hear that Jolly Roger flap?
Or the canon hatches clap?
Keep a firm hand on your riches
Or he’ll steal them… and your britches
And as he rides the clouds and skies
A crew, undead, that never dies
In Skelton’s wake the east wind wails
It’s in his bones and in his sails
She stands on cliff’s edge in her skimpiest nightie, not caring who sees.
Feeling her connection with the east wind which has always protected her.
The shale-like red rocks have settled, they give her a firm grasp of herself. She goes to the edge.
Peers down, wondering if she should have brought someone else, so there would be a witness.
It is only thirty-two feet to the water, her Dad used to say, before he dove off this cliff.
She watched him do it at least six or eight times during his lifetime, he was 78 the last time.
She had never tried it, never feeling that her swimming was good enough, but today felt different.
She felt invincible today; she had a dream about this, and she knew she had to try as a tribute.
In her father’s honor she takes a dive of faith,
falling rapidly toward the water below.
There is a crack as she hits it, she feels like it has
slapped her face. She is coughing and sputtering.
Underwater, she feels scared and cold, ‘Just like Dad,’
says a whispery voice, startling her.
It is not until she is sitting near a warm fire,
in her home that she remembers a sister she never knew.
Dad always said the cliff had magical powers,
but to develop them, you had to take the plunge.
Her sister was killed in a freak accident when they were little;
she had been a few months old.
She rarely thought of her or the few photos she had of them.
Had her sister been the mermaid in the water?
She ponders this for a bit, as her toes warm up.
The flames nod in agreement. She feels her Dad beside her.
She knows she must go back.
The night still young at seven,
leaving a warm afterglow
that makes the still sea
a mellow yellow~
mirroring your splendour
as I take a look once more
at the traces of our tryst.
Your smile is etched
upon the silhouettes
of seabirds taking flight.
Your voice is whispered
by the east wind
like the way you did
when you uttered,
"I love you".
Your arms I feel
in the burnt umber clouds
embosoming mountain crest.
Alas, the night is now old at eleven
but the star-studded sky
exudes a harlequin hope
that there will be~
"Time For Us"
One day soon!
22 August 2020
1st place
STRAND COMPLETELY NEW (26) ,any form,any theme
Contest Judged: 8/23/2020
Sponsored by: Brian Strand
On a walk companioned by my Muse along the sylvan meadows
We wandered away to delightful realms in unclouded ambience
Don’t know how long I rambled warming my fancies in sunset fires
Must be for long, all lights were out, the quiet hamlet lay bathed in sleep
Above me, stood the starry firmament and the half hidden moon
Could see the vast plains stretching before me in moonlight, bare
My heart was flooded with joy, my fancies took to wings
Got drowned in Nature’s serene calm, my spirit lost in drunken ecstasy
In the gentle blowing breeze, the leaves twittered and murmured
All else was quiet and nothing disturbed the serenity of the night
But soon I knew the East wind strengthening around into a gale
And across the moon I could see stragglers of clouds moving past
I sat on a rock, lost, so lost staring into the clear night sky
Wondering how the celestial joy, made manifest by the twinkling stars
My thoughts began floating like a ship over the briny waters
And my temporal settings faded away like a cloud in the horizon
From the nearby woods, I heard the song of a lone night bird
In rising cadence, alone and aloud it fell on my rapturous ears
Was it a nightingale that poured forth that dewy delight?
Was it the same song, Keats heard long ago cascading from the woods?
With my Muse in this unearthly hour let me sit awhile in this solitary bower
To my paper, let my fancies in unbroken crystal streams flow
Wonder if I can rightly recreate the image that my thoughts enfold
How I wish, I could like Coleridge, build a pleasure dome in mid air!
First posted on Nov.28. 2021
2022 Poetry Marathon Mile.6.Poetry Contest
Sponsor:Mark Toney
I HEARD THEY THOUGHT THEMSELVES CIVILIZED
Each grain of gorged sand
civilized people —
themselves owned; owned land.
meanwhile the steeple
looked down at the band
of loquacious stock.
each thought themselves well
in front of the rock.
Ozymandias’ plaque —
bleak headstone of hell!
Cain’s ark had a crack —
offed sand of red sea.
Cornerstone cuts back
the billows — sets free.
7/28/2020
Ozymandias was written by Percy Bysshe Shelley. Here is a couple verses:
My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings;
Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!
The bible speaks of Jesus:
On his robe and on his thigh he has this name written:
King of Kings and Lord of Lords.
Revelation 19:16 NIV
This Jesus is the stone that was rejected by you, the builders, which has become the cornerstone. And there is salvation in no one else, for there is no other name under heaven given among men by which we must be saved.”
Acts 4:11-12 ESV
In Exodus 14 verses 21-22
Then Moses stretched out his hand over the sea, and all that night the Lord drove the sea back with a strong east wind and turned it into dry land. The waters were divided, and the Israelites went through the sea on dry ground, with a wall of water on the right and other left.
Few hearts now weep to see you go
O cold harsh naked winter
The last icy tremor of your merciless winds
Fizzling through the choked air
Leaves it's thinning threads in
The oncoming fairyland of Spring.
Winter have you gone, answer me?
A refreshing winter you have been
But how we have longed for your departure
Away away and bury yourself, O harsh east wind
Go now, your season is over
Snatch off your furred coating
And bid welcome -
To a bursting singing Spring.
Welcome, welcome, first lady of creation
Your sweet scented grass sheds tears of dew
Tears of elation, as morning peeps.
As foetal clouds now bathe us
In your new re-birth
Winter threads it's skeleton hand
With it's new love Spring
And with it a new energy is born.
Greenery buds with purity and freshness
The orange canopy floods us with her mirth
While the swelling sun in giant splendour
Can no longer conceal
The first flush of Spring.
The world is awakened by it's mighty arrival
The dance of the daffodils is about to begin.
tiny flakes
drift like flower petals
east wind blowing spring snow