Gusts thump the windows,
Never seen, but always heard,
Hastening to meet the tallest oaks,
Urging them to sway, bending,
Leaning as if to waltz this way, that way,
Wherever the curls and turns,
Wherever the wind’s song impresses
Them to move – east or west,
North or south, this way and that way,
Every way leads to the lingering burst of wonder,
Amazement found on the crisp edges,
Shadows betraying the notes, the music,
Revealing the laughter of a breathless moment,
When the wind meets the heart,
Silences the doubts and reassures there is hope,
Wherever the wind lays its trembling fingers,
There is the promise of a fresh, cool breeze –
Bold and strong, releasing the moments,
One by one, fading the dark, the fear,
With the dewlike sparkle of a clear joy…
Thumping at the window, impetuous and warm,
Willing to color the world in hues of soft gasps,
Wind’s song invites even the past to hold on,
Because it won’t be long before she is gone.
Just listen to her scream, then – suddenly…
She just up and leaves – the whole world,
Quiet as can be, quiet as the softest grief…
Her death such a mystery!
In the breathless
Winds of March, gusts
Force the daffodils
To swirl, a waltz – the tango,
Disco possibly, the sun
A glistening ball, dazzling
Even the heart who smiles
Past the gales, into
The dawn’s whispery light,
Soft against the backdrop of starlit
Nights, whimsical – alive
Trusting the twisting bends
Spectacular curves, risky rotations
Flourishing like the flowers,
Who bend back and forth, hour
After hour – reflecting
The warmth of a spirit who silences
Every winter sadness with a
Inspirational gladness,
Echoed by the sunlight soothing
Just beyond the racing coils,
Winds meant to welcome
The spring, the new, the first
Revelation of fresh blooms,
Daffodils, tulips, crocus..
Bruising March with their beauty,
Blushing through the voice
Beneath breezes sent to free them
From their still winter graves,
Winds meant to fill them with
Gasping praise!
howling artic gusts
startle flock in snow-clad pine …
frozen boughs snapped off
Date originally posted to Poetry Soup : 8th Of December 2022
Date posted to contest : 9th Of December 2022
How Many Syllables and Poetry Soup Grammar verified
If i was to compare my skin
To sheet of brilliant white
I would say is closer to the blue
Scotland my land of birth
where sunlight never seems to disturb
where sheets of rain
are folded by the gusts
There was once a lady named Babs Bower
Who lived 'cross town on a street called Tower
She could talk you to death
Not coming up for breath
Gabbed with gusts up to ninety miles per hour
strong wind gusts
fourty mile an hour breeze..
rains red oak acorns
These are the latest, unpleasant news...
that I bring you along with my winter's blues:
the gusts of a mad month to make you shiver more,
never thinking of opening another door!
And should I call on the heavy snow,
and make the furious wind whistle...
when you'll step outside with words not too humble?
What else can make you shrill like a soprano?
I'll be unkind and mercilessly rude,
regardless of how you plead;
I been called brutal and wild: as a horse without a harness,
to pillage and destroy with an attitude which is vicious, indeed!
Nobody can win me over by persuasion or guile,
I am easily angered to invoke the intense storms;
and trying to appease me can intensify my vengeance inside...
remember, gentleness s not one of my virtues, but wickedness is!
Snuggle your teddy bear and stay warm,
just hear the gusts of a mad month;
I can't enter where I am not welcome...
but sympathy I must extend to a frightened gal!
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci