My snowblower really blows.
Was it the rain, sleet or snow?
Did it not have enough choke?
Or was it the pullcord that froze?
The electric starter plays tricks on me.
Turns out it just had two screws to lose.
Putting it far from the free-will to spin.
Waited two days for the weather to thrill.
Work my way back to the heart of the problem.
Drumming through the drama I found the solution.
for Tanka-Haiku Poetry Contest-Sponsored by: Oliver Mckeithan
--------------
the southerly blows
chilling the depths of the soul
icicles, hang low.
daytime turns to night
sun hidden away inside
heavy clouds of grey.
hibernating till the days
of warmth, will rise again.
As long as the wind still blows
His words will still reecho
In the dreams we forget when we wake
In the thoughts that dip and surface.
"Africa must unite
We have the resources
We have the manpower
Only unity remains"
These words will fly with the Monsoon
Across the plains of South Sudan, Cameroon
Climb the hills of DR Congo, walk the lonely deserts of Libya
Drift through the woods of Mozambique, through Ethiopia’s.
They will reecho in Somalia’s savannah
Breathe through the Sahel, Nigeria’s deep oil fields
Flow with the Yenge River of Sierra Leone
Until we hold them close, and call them our own.
And maybe then, in silent knowing
We’ll find the meaning we kept postponing.
The wind blows fiercely tonight, carrying with it cold whispers,
And my thoughts fly to the boys in the forgotten row of life,
I hope some of them find solace in a bottle of red wine,
For on the edge of that world, you clearly see how everything is locked and barred,
You realize every corner already belongs to someone, with locks on the gates,
That's how our democracy works, a well-directed play,
Where you get what you can, keep what you have, and maybe add more,
If luck wills it, if the wind doesn't scatter your dreams,
That's how dictatorship works too, only there slavery comes to life,
And the lost are swallowed, forgotten like shadows in the dark,
But we have forgotten our own, let them disappear into the wind,
In both worlds, you feel the cold, harsh wind piercing the soul,
It reminds you of our collective loneliness, of indifference,
And in this wind, which knows no borders or regimes,
I realize we are all lost travelers, without shelter.
The North wind blew, ominous, nights now longer,
testing resolve, deepening dread, the fear of
darkness stalking, time to distil impulses …
lighting lamp of love.
The East wind blew, promising warmth of sol’s touch,
proximity to the source enlivening
heart, thus bringing boons of grace, that gratitude …
lights the lamp of love.
The South wind blew, caused on soul choosing to shift,
resting thought forms, magnetism stirring within,
kundalini dissolving karma, that we …
light the lamp of love.
The West wind blew, last life breath, teleporting
presence from earth to heaven, making soul’s eye
synced with divine consciousness magically …
lighting lamp of love.
A bruised mind from blows of thoughts,
A heavy heart, with emotions caught,
In a maze of reflections, I wander and roam,
Searching for solace, a place to call home.
The weight of worries, a burden to bear,
A constant barrage, of fears and despair,
The mind a battlefield, where thoughts collide,
Leaving scars, and a soul to hide.
The echoes of memories, a haunting refrain,
A reminder of joys, and loves in vain,
The whispers of what-ifs, a nagging pain,
A bruised mind struggling, to love again.
But still I hold on, to hope's thin thread,
A glimmer of light, in the darkest dread,
For in the silence, a voice whispers low,
"Healing will come, and peace will grow."
So I'll tend to my mind, with gentle care,
And nurture the wounds, that thoughts have shared,
And though bruised and battered, I'll find a way,
To rise above, and seize a brighter day.
In a chariot of fire in the sun
blew a pale horse and pale rider’s last breath,
and on your grave sings a boding raven
in the shadows of the valley of death.
Where no graven image rise from its bones,
only a cold wormwood wind on death row
pipes through the rushes beyond the tombstones
where time cut short above stood still below.
But far more does sound a haunting in me
as if your faint voice my ear passing through -
and I trapped betwixt next world and earthly
sit this day communing with God and you.
Yet I fear death itself I shall not mourn
when diviners blow its fiery flamed horn.
Written: July 1995
without adjectives and adverbs the wind would just be ....well...the wind
Consider this carefully,
The questions which I pose:
Do you study which way,
Which way the wind blows?
Do you try and battle against it,
Or just go where it goes?
Or do you prefer just to wait,
Wait till it eases, wait till it slows?
Or just continue in the direction,
The direction YOU chose?
Of all the insidious signs
'Abortion is Health Care'
just blows my mind
for Abortion is 'Women's Self-Care' ~
the infant's murder sealed and signed
___________________________________
Abortion, however, is normally warranted
in cases of rape and/or danger to the health
of the pregnant mother...
There's a wind that's mighty blows
There His breathe that's subtainted life so
This mighty, mighty righteous wind flows
From my Father into me so
Growing mghty Wind
comes down into me again
in an abundant grasp fills me
Growing mighty Wind
lets me be rooted and standing
tall boldy everlasting
From my Father into me so
This mighty, mighty righteous wind flows
There His breathe that's subtainted life so
There's a wind that's mighty blows
From my Father into me so
There His breathe that's subtainted life
Elohim grand creator grace
say your piece
in a gentle flow
that the reader’s
heart feels aglow
beauteous bubbles
soft stirrings surface
that vast void be held
in warm embrace
say your piece
melodious emotion
as an effervescence
of love’s magic potion
My heart is cracked
..it aches
I use it carelessly
..it shakes
I must be wise now
..it’s sore
It can withstand the blows
..no more
I let it fall so hard
..again
I must shelter it
..from pain
I should be more aware
..it’s sad
From all the heartache
..it’s had
I’ll never fall again
..so hard
I must once more keep up
My guard.
is it better to sh*t amongst the pigeons ~ or poop amidst the doves
cries a chick gull to its mother ~ god does not build in straight lines above
when a tree desires
to doff its withered dress,
~it whispers to breeze
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