Best Turbines Poems
with bitter winds of sand and spray
and flecks of rain against my face
how different this land looks today
a drenched, vast, unforgiving place.
as turbines veiled in mist offshore
first fade then vanish out at sea
the sun, it seems, shines here no more
with frosted air surrounding me.
yet how could light forever shine
upon a beach, its sea and crowds
when storms have always over time
obscured the sun behind the clouds?
such weathered moments on the land
can help cast magic with cold seas
- one day this broken glass and sand
may form warm, precious memories.
Categories:
turbines, beach, rain, sun, time,
Form:
Rhyme
H2o, showers does cause colorful flowers on earth to greatly bloom
It is on the atomic table: this of 2 hydrogen atoms and 1 oxygen
It being the transportation medium for all nutrients needed
Vital for all living cells absorbing their daily organic sustenance
H2o, in fruits juicy gushing gushers are oranges and watermelons
It assist us with our hygienic health and cleanses clothes
There in the sea we can do swimming, snorkeling and surfing
Grapes, of red and white wine fluids facilitate taste bud pleasure
H2o, in a human’s body is about 65%; that is liquid water
Steam vapors are in turbines and in steamboats and ship generators
Rains at cold temps produce unique snowflakes that falls to earth
Rivers and lake reservoirs are fresh water access and storage
H2o, in life, love, living and leisure, all is connected
Recommended is the drinking of it at eight ounces per daily usage
Medicines and milk and mangos all contain this wonderful substance
This transparent, pure, refreshing, and very much liked and is needed
A dedicated ode to “the gloriously created and greatly used H2O
Categories:
turbines, life, water,
Form:
Ode
Lovely lady you know I am a drifter
Life didn’t need to move any swifter,
So many tales over the years,
A drifters life doesn’t consist of fears.
When I told you all about my days,
I’d hoped that in so many ways,
I could take your hand and sing to you.
Caress you with my songs with a view,
You asking me not any more to wander.
And having you grow so much fonder.
That didn’t happen as I hoped it would.
My wanderlust held me as only it could.
Now I am older, my songs echo the sound.
Of perpetual wind turbines going round.
I guess a soldier of fortune I will always be.
A weary traveler, wandering aimlessly.
So many times I looked for something new,
In reality I was just wandering without you.
Days n nights were cold, you weren’t here.
Songs echoed but were no longer clear.
My heart jumped when I saw you near.
My mind played tricks you were not here.
Now I have grown old, nights still cold.
I lament as I see now my life unfold.
In reality, I just wandered without you.
The songs echo in the distance so blue.
A soldier of fortune I will always be.
If only you had agreed to lay with me.
If only you had agreed to stay with me.
Now a soldier of fortune I will always be.
Categories:
turbines, song,
Form:
Quatrain
Thirteen ladies dancing
By Throckrington Moor’
Each movement stately
Each movement sure.
Stark against the sky
Each single girl,
Feet firmly planted,
Arms all a whirl,
Moves to the wind
In a slow rhythmic way,
Dancing consistently
Whether night or day.
Really only dancing ladies
In my minds inner eye,
Really just wind turbines
Outlined against the sky.
Spare and sparse in their design
To me things of simple beauty
Unceasingly performing
Their appointed duty.
Just by Throckrington Moor
Each one proves it’s worth
Providing clean power to
Help save our wounded Earth.
Each time I pass that moor
Those girls are standing there
Stark in their beauty
In that clear moors air
Categories:
turbines, beauty, earth, environment,
Form:
Rhyme
I've been doing my current job for 32 years; lots of travel, places and people. A few memories stick out; my own Book of Hours, it would be almost one per year.
The first job I was on was Four Corners Power Plant, near Farmington, New Mexico, on Navajo Nation land, where the turbines brought electricity to the people, and the smokestacks brought death to the indigo plants in the area. Shiprock, the volcanic mountain, stands to the west. I was working the nightshift, and one day went to see it. After sleeping in the morning, I drove west along US Highway 64, toward the mountain. On the way, I passed a slower moving vehicle, a red pickup truck with lots of people in it, four in the cab, five or six sitting in the back. Locals, Native Americans, Navajos.
The mountain was superb in shadowed relief as the afternoon sun went lower. I got good pictures in the clear air, under nothing but blue sky. At 8 p.m. I'd have to be back in to work, so the time came to return east toward the hotel. After a few miles there were flashing lights in the distance; as I got closer I saw they were Navajo Tribal Police vehicles.
There had been an accident - the pickup truck I had passed had run off the road. It was where the highway went through a cut in the hills, red rock walls rising on either side, red sand and dust below. Bodies wrapped in white sheets, out of place against the red; blindingly white, impossibly white, shouldn't be.
I drove past the scene very slowly, and now I don't know if the three Navajo Police officers were moving or not. I see them standing stone still, burdened, slightly bent over, heads looking at the ground, with that big, beautiful blue sky above them. Shock and sadness stepping down from above, grief being born. Navajos are quiet mourners, and I wonder if in the great cycle of all things, of which death is a part, the spirits were then walking away, softly, across their hearts. Law enforcement is no stranger to traffic accidents, and tragic loss of life is sometimes seen, but this was more - this was their people.
Categories:
turbines, bereavement, death, native american,
Form:
Prose
Day and night, I trip time while crossing datelines.
Slicing between stars, my ride purrs with speed turbines.
To Walden’s Pond, I frequently, eagerly go
for chats with my hero, the first hippy, Thoreau.
I journey to philosophize with Abe Lincoln
who inspires me with his profound, wise opinions.
Endless destinations light my fertile, bright mind.
Each person or place, my traveling ways will find.
I do not believe God, my Father, is bitter
that I trekked far to kill a real young Hitler.
I rushed my yell to tell Native Americans,
unite tribe might to defeat white-greed veterans.
That past and future melds are firm in my grip,
I take no suitcase for private day travel trips.
Seeing John Lennon sates my rock n’ roll dream whim -
always I bring warning attempts to leave with him.
With sway, I journey to stay with Helen Keller
And talk of all her accomplishments, so stellar!
Inside my wander-compass, wanderings commune
to gift my roaming feet a light trippy-travel, tune.
Categories:
turbines, fantasy, time, travel,
Form:
Couplet
Beautiful scenery, rolling hills with craggy cliffs adorned with winter scrub clinging to impossible places. Narrow winding roads, leading somewhere, maybe nowhere, finding out when we get there. Rounding a bend just enjoying the scene, finding an eyesore almost obscene. In the ground in front, towering high a plague of of wind turbines I did espy.Not the Quixotic or Dutch that are nice. These huge monstrosities seem to crowd the very sky, killing birds by the score with their whirling wings. The race is on to harness the wind for soon the earth will cease to give up its treasure just so we can enjoy our leisure. Here rivers do not flow for most of the year and our island needs power but not nuclear. So the turbines have come to march over the mountains like a white army of whirling dervishers that sadly will be the future, unless they can harness the suns free power much better.Time and nature will tell, if only we let her.
Categories:
turbines, business, power, science, social,
Form:
Some say they can smell the spring
... Is it possible to smell December?
A scent of something can hit you
anytime and anywhere
The frost sneak up on the night
and color the landscape white
Northern Lights with its spectacular light
dancing in the sky
Beautiful music, has no borders
Creating a sense of meaning
So stop fighting against wind turbines
December is the month for reflection
Joy and peace ~ when darkness falls
"A child is born in Bethlehem"
07.12.2016
Sun :) - A-L Andresen :)
Copyright © All Rights Reserved
Categories:
turbines, beauty, december, peace,
Form:
Free verse
O sprey's circuitously scan the sandy bay
N esting gulls turn warily, then crouch to lay
T rippers emerge from beach holiday huts, some part clad
H orizon line now obscured by wind turbines, how sad
E agerly swim suited children race down to the sea
B ody oil glistens on sun bared backs along the quay
E asterly breezes caress the sand dunes pampas grass
A vid eyes search the rock pools as the fish species swim past
C aravanners fill the beach with sun breaks and towels
H olidaymakers' cars double park, flouting rules
Categories:
turbines, beach,
Form:
Acrostic
Rain falls on granite.
Glaciers unwind.
Snowflakes decrystallize.
A murmuring stream collects,
in the confluence of the melt.
A river is born.
Her banks expand.
Nutrients collect in the torrent.
Rocks tumble in the frothy white water.
Speed and power intensify,
with the reshaped swell of common elements.
A river grows.
Transformation is slow and muddy.
Men build obstructions,
harness the river with turbines.
Irrigation canals siphon liquid gold for crops.
Barges navigate goods over current.
A river is tamed.
Sediments build in the depths.
Reflections dominate.
A serene shoreline nurtures abundance.
The hasty flow has noticeably slowed.
Every mile traveled increases breadth of verity.
A river ages.
Some vanish with anonymity in vast deserts.
Others clash violently into endless seas.
A few form rich, braided deltas.
Inland lakes, without drainage, capture some.
Geologists and children are in agreement.
All rivers end………
Categories:
turbines, liferiver,
Form:
Personification
The word is Catadromous
just in case you need it for
your Final Jeopardy and if
I was writing rhyme, this is
where I’d throw in cantankerous
for Eels are a contrary lot, and
unlike salmon who spawn in
freshwater; eels spawn in the
ocean, the Sargasso Sea to be
precise, then the larvae catch
a ride on the Gulf Steam and
the elvers ascend rivers on both
sides of the Atlantic, where they
grow for twenty years or so before
the mature eels head downstream
to their faraway mating ground.
As a student working on the
Ottawa River, we’d always get
a few in the night seine hauls.
But now they’re on the Endangered
Species List, at least in part because when
heading downstream, the adults must pass
through a series of Hydro dams, where they
get chopped up by the turbines and while
changing to dear old Archimedes’ screw
could reduce the chopping, the mods
are too expensive, and other factors like
PCB’s, dioxins, and other nasty chemicals
might be involved factors as well or
maybe shifts on the Gulf Stream
with Global Warming have made it
harder for the larvae and elvers
to find their rivers and probably
it's all of the above - nobody really
knows and it’s all eels under the dam..
Categories:
turbines, environment, fish,
Form:
Free verse
scorned sailor's warnings
turbines chewed November gales
writhing hawsers coil
swirl purple sundowns
cackling, taunting, demons deep
scaling mountain waves
last love message sealed
nod to comrade's final fate
flashes up ahead
Split Rock Lighthouse near
Superior's saving light
Davy's Locker scorned
loved ones exhale fear
raise a pint to brotherhood
distant nightmares sleep
Categories:
turbines, adventure,
Form:
Haiku
the good
The doors to my mind and heart
circle as revolving doors.
A peek inside and you see
happy memories and joyous events,
the loves, and lifelong friendships
A cul-de-sac, though a dead end,
has a circular finish, a merry-go-round
that accumulates happiness as it spins
into a cloud of beauty and nature,
compassion, gods, and faith.
The breathless moments in life,
birth, newness, novelty, exuberance
in being, living, experiencing
laughter, butterflies, and springtime
within my soul, my gratitude.
the bad
The doors to my mind and heart
circle as revolving doors.
A peek inside and you see
the pocks of the years that came
to leave their soured, sadistic truths.
So, like a cul-de-sac you may enter
but the exit is the same as you came.
A Ferris wheel, past the highs and lows
of lost hopes, of murky dreams that end
with more questions than I will answer…
A dead end with death as the prize
for endless dreary days and noxious nights
of sorrow, sadness, misery, and grief
with no hope, no desire, no ambition
faith gone and forgone, abortive.
the ugly
The doors to my mind and heart
circle as revolving doors.
A peek inside and you see
the sear of anger and revenge
spiraling apocalyptically.
The cul-de-sac where giant wind turbines
turn and churn and gnaw at my insides
generating incompressible turbulence
that amasses until it ruptures, spewing
rage and outrage that I will honor…
In and out, inescapable, dead
like my heart, my soul black as coal,
seeking retribution for perceived
wrongs against me, ill-timed and
sanguinary persecution.
Categories:
turbines, anger, dark, hate, life,
Form:
Free verse
Rain falls on granite.
Glaciers unwind.
Snowflakes decrystallize.
A murmuring stream collects,
in the confluence of the melt.
A river is born.
Her banks expand.
Nutrients collect in the torrent.
Rocks tumble in the frothy whitewater.
Speed and power intensify,
with the reshaped swell of common elements.
A river grows.
Transformation is slow and muddy.
Men build obstructions,
harness the river with turbines.
Irrigation canals siphon liquid gold for crops.
Barges navigate goods over current.
A river is tamed.
Sediments build in the depths.
Reflections dominate.
A serene shoreline nurtures abundance.
The hasty flow has noticeably slowed.
Every mile traveled increases breath of verity.
A river ages.
Some vanish with anonymity in vast deserts.
Others clash violently into endless seas.
A few form rich, braided deltas.
Inland lakes, without drainage, capture some.
Geologists and children are in agreement.
All rivers end……….
Categories:
turbines, allegory, river,
Form:
Free verse
I can't blame the teenage girl for being forward,
then passive aggressive. It shouldn't make one angry;
she has her interests and that which bores her.
Or the adolescent boy for being antsy, a little loopy
and aloof. Under that hat he wants to be good,
is deeply disappointed with the world (and the food).
Robert Francis: the finest poet no one reads.
We care not. Such prisms of philosophy need
no acknowledgment. The catamount is only believed
to be extinct. The wildlife tree, a mere bole,
deep in the forest, far off the road, when it falls
takes many squirrel turbines and spider spans down with it.
Noon, Julian has nothing much to do
and likes it that way. That way nothing much gets done today.
Every man, every tree, lives with disabilities.
Crooked finger, rotten bole, under stars, over soils.
The I in my old poems is no longer me. The one
in this one will be someone else soon.
Categories:
turbines, anger, care, food, girl,
Form:
Verse