Best South Wind Poems
Down the gradient of meandering verdant valley
Draining down the dregs of the fading dusk
Beyond the threshold of the wild woods thick
My white stallion gallops in the emerald prairie.
Gossamer gloss sparkles on the supple skin
Wisps of silky cloud swirl on the satin mane
Tossing on swinging waves of the south wind
The equine beauty canters out of my heart.
Bent blades of jade grass sway in sinuous ruffle
In sync with the rhythm of the bolting ivory grace
The tilted hooves hover in the transfixed air
Panorama of motion captured in sublime silence.
Soaked in twilight glow we cross the last pasture
Floating on cascading spectrum of the setting sun
Beyond the glowing horizon of grandeur I see
The portal of heaven opens for my horse and me.
March 30, 2020
Contest : Completely Your Choice (42) Any Form Any Theme
Sponsor : Brian Strand
Zephyrus, the god of the wind from the west
Gently blows where the lily grows
He is springtime's welcome guest
In early summer he whispers to the rose
As she sways in his warm caress
He gently blows where the lily grows
The winds of *Notus may give her stress
For he brings the summer storms
But she'll sway in Zephyrus's warm caress
The winds of *Boreas are never warm
He brings the cold winds of winter
While Notus brings the summer storms
Icicles on window sills begin to splinter
As the winds of Boreas make us shiver
He brings the cold winds of winter
His icy breath is upon the river
With gusts that never seem to rest
The winds of Boreas make us shiver
But Zephyrus is springtime's welcome guest
----
12/11/2014
''Z'' Contest, New Or Old - Poetry Contest
Constance La France
*Notus - The Greek god of the south wind
*Boreas - The Greek god of the North wind and the bringer of winter
----
Crazy wind whispers
Into the ears of ‘champa’
A light scented Indian flower
Trees are full of them now
Your love in each and every bough
The breeze is cool
Because it is spring
Because it is south wind
Because everywhere is hue
Because it is warm with you
Blue hills and green plains
My room at sixes and sevens
Red bellied wood peckers drumming
Rhythm in feet nimble
Your twinkling eyes with dimple
Our roads are tremendously red
Ashok Palash and Gulmohar
They call it flame-of-the-forest
Love in red supreme
With you in extravagant dream
Books in eloquently colorful blurb
Beauty steps in every curve
Invitation in every nerve
The spring below and spring above
Your healing love
Goes away alas the days
Of dance in soul in warm sun rays
Goes away your ocean gaze
Life in a twilight haze
Your beautiful craze
Ah if I could have turned the clock
Holding your hand in a Gulmohar walk
Only our hands and feet would talk
Around the clock arm in arm
In your beauty and charm
Alas that is not to be a thing
Our time is as short as the spring
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March 18, 2016
Butea Monosperma or Palash is a species of Butea native to tropical and sub-tropical parts of India and Asia.
Saraca asoca ( the ashoka tree, literally ‘sorrowless’), belongs to the Caesalpinioideae subfamily of legume family, of Indian sub continent.
Gulmohar or Delonix Regia, grown in many tropical parts of the world, called FLAMBOYANT in English, is a striking sight for its vivid red/vermilion/orange/yellow flowers and bright green foliage...Wikipedia
We got some visits from two gods of wind -
fall’s Notus and the winter’s Boreus -
One hot, the other cold; here’s what happened
when they arrived; it was not glorious!
The south wind, Notus, a destructive one,
consumed our crops and left us a small drought.
Old Boreas then, not to be outdone,
devoured our livestock whole and froze us out!
Unlucky Eurus did not come at all.
We really could have used his warmth and rain.
but we were glad when Zephyr came to call.
He brought the spring and lovely days again.
How sweetly Zephyr breezed in from the west.
We welcomed him as our most precious guest.
Source of research: Wikipedia/ Written Dec. 16, 2014
for the Gods of Winds Poetry contest of Shadow Hamilton
Seismic waves shook the ground under our feet
On that passionate morning we could not meet
Little did I understand then
I would soon be crestfallen
Completely a lonely soul in the meaningless street
Beaten broken bewildered battered and bereaved
The other day when you poured me pink and warm
Passion pulsar profuse in grace and exquisite charm
From your purple front door
To my restless slight shore
My tree was in dance as its leaves you gently stirred
The south wind was back together with its pretty bird
________________________________________________
March 9, 2016
Where did you see her? The North Wind asked the south.
The south wind was not forthcoming, for she trusted him not.
Seriously, I have never seen the leaf elf, the North Wind said.
He was not about to see her either, she was not easily sought.
The Leaf Fairy Queen was at his feet, hiding in a pile of leaves.
She giggled a tiny bit, for she got tickled and forgot….
She was not supposed to give her away her identity, said Jeeves.
He was her prissy butler, and caretaker, but a father he was not.
The South Wind bristled up when she heard the tiny fairy giggle.
Luckily North Wind was busy chasing a flighty jack-a-daw.
Leaf Fairy Queen could not resist a summersault and a wiggle.
North Wind saw her and winked, to let her know he saw.
dry brown cracking fields
at noon south wind touch cloud peaks
fresh start adventure
(c) Olive Eloisa
2:32pm
July 24, 2014
Stillness sweeps horizontally, then
Swells vertically. It is zero below
South wind meshes with north wind; it
Sends us clamoring for feathers of goose, we're
Secluded in layers. Closer and closer we seek
Somebody; a lover, next of kin, The Mighty Comforter.
*
I'll hear the birds crying as Auster weeps
And see dead leaves bend, while carried about
Dove's wings flutter, as the Autumn sleeps
and skies turn grey when Boreas comes out
He touches all when he finally shows
To bring the coldness the sun never owns
And shows no mercy as his power grows
Covering landscapes that crackles and moans
To be caught by Boreas chilly veil
and face its shear strength so frightful and cold
To watch the sun move with its Winter sail
and seek Auster's breath as seasons unfold
I'll feel the time pass until Auster comes
And count the days till' Boreas succumbs
Boreas...North Wind
Auster....South Wind
contest Gods of Winds
12/18/14
on bone chilling days
wet winter winds sigh and moan
grieving over you
If you have some gout
Read about what gout's about
Pee in a South Wind.
He hung there, a sobering sight,
like the full moon on a misty night.
John Riox, smothered in slime,
ghastly ghost adrift in time.
He wrestles ropes of rubbery kelp,
his sunken eyes pleading for help.
The sight of him will leave you numb.
He moans for mercy that never comes.
Eleven sailors lost their lives,
left their children, left their wives.
The Saxby Gale tore up the shore,
shaking hands with Tidal Bore.
Sardines knew a storm was near.
The fishermen found empty weirs.
That should have given them a clue.
Across the waves a south wind blew.
Grand Manan lost every ship.
Forests fell, rooftops ripped.
What wicked witch could cast a spell
that wiggled through the gates of Hell?
If you're ever down near Dead Man's Cove,
so the story's often told,
a pair of legs might wander by.
So keep your wits when specters fly.
The ghost of John appears to some.
Perhaps you'll be the lucky one.
He's waiting for a friendly wind
to come and blow him home again.
At last the shivering stops
as the sleeping bag, air mattress
and tent warm from body heat.
Later I stumble from the dark tent
into a full moon, coldly glowing
over a forest of silhouette trees and
a deafening silence broken only
by the call of a distant Barred Owl.
The silver stream of piss steams as
it splatters on the ground; a quick shake,
then bag to a warm bag to sleep till dawn
which brings blue sky and a south wind
to fan a reluctant campfire and heat
a soon to boil kettle of coffee water.
A pair of loons surface, close enough
to see the bars of their necklaces, before
they disappear under the dark water.
As the sun crests the eastern hill, I move to
the shore to greet it, basking in its warmth
slowly spinning like a Crookes’ sun mill.
My hope was my delight boundless,
Unfettered, unbridled!
It unfolded a conformity in my life
Albeit many stumbles and
Discords of life I survived,
Life’s evil breaths had scalded my redolent hope,
My silent words were hardly heard,
Hardly understood!
From life to life I pursued the hope,
It was crumpled, dead and alive again!
A south wind once blew over me, it brought the
Herald of hope, my hope was enough to affright
A dystopia filled with greed and elitism,
Unwavering were my subdued instincts to my hopes
And desires in delights and despair,
They evoked me desperately to sojourn
For a while in this chaotic earth to acknowledge
Its rendition of humanism, its entente with mankind,
I found for certain, my hope had to
Strive more to win out!
A Sequel
To
The Weathered Old Barn
By: Tom Wright
11-3-04
A stranger came by just the other day,
with an offer that set me to thinking.
He had seen my old barn from the state highway,
and up my driveway he sped just cranking.
He was typical city, I could tell by his clothes,
from his hands, his car, and his talk.
The old barn leaned as the south wind blows,
and its distance not too great to walk.
It was a handsome barn back in its day,
before years of snow, and howling winds.
Its paint now gone and wood is silvery gray,
Its tired old tin top flaps, sways, and bends.
It set me to thinking as eyes surveyed the field,
and I asked, ”for this barn why such a yen?”
He replied this old barn would have ample yield,
to line the walls of our new home’s den.
He said, ”try buying paint that looks like this,
weathered from storms and summer’s scorch.
In our new home it would bring pure bliss,
with planking left for planters on the porch.”
We’re much the same, you and I, you know,
but it’s the inside in us where beauty grows.
Our hair turns silver gray and our steps slow,
and why we’re left, rest assured, God knows.
As our years pass, he uses our hard wealth,
laboring at beautifying our spotted souls.
We should thank him daily for good health,
as we endeavor to play life’s given roles.
But some day soon the time will come,
when our tabernacle too, will be hauled away.
So forsake him not, as is the manner of some,
but faithfully serve him until that day.
Then we may add beauty to our father’s realm,
because of past seasons that have gone by.
Friends, are quiet angels, keeping us at the helm,
when our wings have forgotten how to fly.