The leaves move with every gust of wind
Its not hard for the earth to do
Now people on the other hand are like tin
What I'm telling you is true
Every gust of wind picks up the leaves so easily
But for people to do that is hard
People break hearts to the point they need healing
Maybe its because the shards of our hearts are too sharp
autumn gusts arrive—
umbrellas fold like clipped wings
streets mirror the sky
nippy gust of wind
toying with crisp autumn leaves
vortex of a squall
We went for a walk, one windy day,
through the woods, and along the way,
she said to me, "If you please,
let's sit a while, it would make me smile,
beneath these shady willow trees."
Yet, as just then, a gale-like gust blew by,
in apprehension, I asked her, "Why?"
And with a flirt, a lift of skirt,
the lady promptly did reply,
"On my first date, not to prevaricate
or equivocate, I don't osculate.
It's not the wind beneath my wings,
or a draught up the shaft I love,
but the breeze between my knees."
I
languish
beach side on
a blanket by
an azure ocean
perspiring profusely.
Then comes a soothing coolness
wafting its wonder over me.
It fans my sun-drenched face bringing me
refreshment and breathing sweet peace to me.
It whispers in my ear tranquility;
lying on my back, I’m so at ease.
Oh, gentle gust, you are my balm
on this sweltering day of
July. Oh summer wind,
with all the magic
you possess, please
linger long,
blessing
me.
Wind
Stills hearts
Writing light
Into the souls
Who believe the night
Is meant to write her dreams
Into the music who flows
Across the gentle life who sees
Beyond the hills, the trees, into hearts
Who know what it means to give completely
Hearts are meant to offer the sweetest grace
Pouring love out to heal the worst pains
Reminding that love is always
A light, a hope, a desire
To be loved and adored
With the gift of light
Who brings insight
Into those
Who hear
Gusts
“How-do-you-do?” the seminal leaves of Autumn wave.
“When would you like to fly away?” prickles the gust.
Maternal-oak holds on tight as one birdy takes flight.
The gust will have none of this ballyhoo, knowing
what he must do, calls for fingernails-on-chalkboard rain,
for the bad-wolf-wind, for lightning, insane.
“Toodle-loo,” says each spiderling-leaf, parachuting to earth.
They make such a scene; whirligig and wandering,
each drenched in colloquial colors, memorable, forsaken.
Each one in turn catches a potential eye even as it lands
in puddles, whirling and twirling, a final splash. They mourn
as blends of orange, yellow and red bleed into the stream.
Undignified, decomposing, going under, all poetry spent,
dwarfing and drifting; washed away down the drain.
Spring regeneration haphazardly avoids loose-leaf goosebumps.
birds are hidden & tweeting in bushes
until a wind creates a gust of birds
& a gang of sparrows fly across a field
leaving the safety of undergrowth
with wings beating
instinct made them flee the uncertain
& from distant trees they watch
then, the gang returns as one
in a flash of wings
with her boundless reaches
she moves within the crowds
houses with no windows
contemplates the leaves
barrowing with the foragers
wisdom has gone away
fickle with the winds
have reached their destination
the torches watch their gust
Where bold breezes blow a wondrous world awakes,
they swaddle silken scenes that surround so many,
fresh air is an awesome advantageous aspect all told,
it inspires instantly without waver whatsoever,
empowered energetic edge to species human,
and amazing animals as one might often observe,
inhale invigorating images imbued that tantalise the rapt rambler,
magic meadow mindfulness gets a great gee up,
from well-found winds which waft,
woo and weave surreal semblance sumptuous,
when poets pause perhaps divine delightful dizains descend,
iridescence infinite inkling as angel aura atmospheres alights,
gust of golden genesis glad guest most warmly welcome,
shell strewn sea shore surface swept,
kaleidoscopic knots kindle conduits creative channel,
bard on boundless beach befitting benefit,
oodles of ornate overarch saline squall sequesters,
petrichor’s proboscis pleasure pick up post downpour,
quixotic quintessential quest quenched by fabulous fairytale flurry,
daylight dazzle’s deft dip driven by draught
sudden gust of geese
fly past window eye-level -
furious honking
Whispering, often hushed –
through oaks and pines,
jaded hopes, inviting – the music
of a prayer, free as light, glimpsing –
yesterday, breaking through the spirit
intimate and buttery as the sun,
risking every breathless talent –
portraying each smile in a gentling touch
Kissing away the past with a kindness
gasping, sighing, soothing away
each teardrop, the dew in all its delight,
sliding tenderly along the petal, blessings
inspiring the music of the air, brisk in autumn,
soundless, in peaceful prayers,
reminding the spirit to listen to the stillness,
the embrace of a life, bruised by the endless…
need for a moment when the color of hope
wasn’t written on the promises of my laughing
gust, the music – far too magnificent, harmonizing
with sun’s tender spark, night’s soft dark – zephyr song
you better than anyone
know the power of words
their careful selection
their perfect timing
mostly though you know
the power of reserve
of holding back
of innuendo
the suggestion with nothing said
no commitment
no evidence
no trace
the knock
the open door not entered
like the wind there and gone
Published in my 24-page photo/anthology book ~THE RIGHT TIME~ 2023
AP: 2nd place 2023, Honorable Mention 2022, Honorable Mention 2022
*Image of La Bourrasque by FKR.
The Gust of Wind
A gust hath burst,
As she traversed,
A short-cut to,
Broad avenue,
Her black silk dress,
Looped to a mess,
Struggled full-length,
Maintained her strength,
Her matching shawl,
Challenging haul,
Onward she pushed,
Hasty ambushed,
The trail seemed gone,
As she dragged on,
Rounds disturbed leaves,
As the squall heaves,
Determined will,
Since birth instill,
The end result,
Foresees exult,
She soon arrived,
As winds hath died,
Wholly tangle,
Loose hair dangle,
She made no care,
About her hair,
Appointment yon,
Beauty salon.
2022 October 19
*1st Place*
Painting prompted
~~Lisa YY: Judged 2022 October 29
RZ & HMS; 4 syllables per 28 lines.
into side must thrust
wind would come up with a gust
did survive from dust
we knew they were trans
which had been part of their plans
either Fred's or Fran's
we love our mother
is perfect like no other
even another
fire seemed to spread
trees burned up than were dead
dreamed of when in bed
to God we will pray
tornado not come our way
away from us stay
Carolina country
with an iron foundry
along the boundary
Need to have a poetry group at
St. James Episcopal Church.
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