Long Downwind Poems
Long Downwind Poems. Below are the most popular long Downwind by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Downwind poems by poem length and keyword.
There’s the tightrope for you to walk, wire walker —
defying the gravity of reality and the reality of gravity
you know damn well he won't catch you when you fall
as your sticky grip on the star’s razor edge slips
back away from the black back-alley -
use the street’s angles and curves to your advantage
run! from the rouse of his lure
as the lore is as sordid as it is euphoric -
ruined as you are by the ruse of his rune
fade to disappearance with distance
ride the rift of spindrift; a smoke screen
as if you were never here
but the territorial she-wolf knows…
she dreams of pouring rain pooling on a blurry beach
though she may choose not to open sand-puddled eyes
intuition is not blind and instincts are hackled —
for she’s downwind of dual deception
and her elegant nose is one with the yellow-rose winds
her howls now haunt your hurricane
passion’s kite - once blissfully lost in windy swagger
brash in its stellar flash amidst a hazy starlit pinwheel -
has returned a stormy petrel
dark and hovering over self-inflicted wounds feeding on strife —
incised by the rapier side-eye of your conscience
you seek to stem the red flow of guilt washing up in waves
knowing you can’t dye scarlet heartbeats white
there’s the tightrope for you to walk, wire walker;
the bloodline — that which binds
a sinful sister’s envies to the sinless sister
and divides loaves of husband-lies for the bronze bloodless sinner.
1. A Chihuahua, a Pekinese, and a wolf, all circle a tree, sniff, and pee.
But only the wolf circles back and covers its tracks.
2. Even today, there may be more than one species of man.
That might explain why some “develop” real estate
And others are happy to trek across untamed land.
3. What does a tree say about you? (Never mind what we say about them.)
4. If a child was bent on destruction, and later as youth and man, he bullied the rabbit, razed the hill, and broke the creek, then we have us a psychological problem.
5. A fox in a man is not the same thing that a fox around his neck.
6. There are things one can do about gophers and pesky deer.
There are things one can do about men in black suits and shiny shoes
That read your land on a map.
7. There is little that nature can do against raping men except whisper
“Help” downwind.
The luscious, long, green grass
Sways and sweeps and flows.
How far, how fast this wind will travel,
No one really knows!
This same wind could stir up
Whirls and waves in all seas.
This powerful force makes nature dance.
Our senses this does please.
Though it can be disruptive
On a minor or major scale,
It can uproot trees, tear roofs off houses,
It can delay or prevent sails...
It still has its boundaries.
This can be assuring to all, to me and you.
We can't see the wind,
But it's effects are in plain view.
Sometimes this wind teases us,
Playing with our hair,
Or has us swatting at thistles and leaves,
Flying through the air.
The wind can also be so kind,
To tell us our coffee's hot.
Or to move our rude cigar,
From it's blowing spot.
Wind can be a gentle reminder,
To put on our kid's jacket,
Or to lower our voice,
During a downwind racket.
It is always there soft or strong,
And never with a hue, that is...
We can't see the wind,
But it's effects are in plain view.
19-September-2021
Deep in the south, lives the Southern Pine.
I love the fresh pine scent, it’s really quite divine.
The palms adorn the water’s edge, such sturdy summer trees.
As they grow, they will bend and shape up in the breeze.
The Magnolia has a lovely flower; its scent is, oh so sweet.
Downwind in the evening breeze; it makes the day complete.
Evergreens unfurling their new baby greens; will make a fright, Halloween;
when their mass of moss highlights eerie moons scenes.
The Catalpas displaying their long pods; nicknamed Cigar Trees;
create an eerie vision of waving fingers in the breeze.
Pawpaw trees, with their sweet fruits; better than bananas;
These tasty treats are great to eat so, fill up your bandanna!
Southern trees are beautiful, like Cypresses and Red Cedars. You must go south to see them all; yes you must, dear readers.
The sea paints an ever-changing portrait of itself in water colors.
The images roll through your view finder or your eyes as you watch.
Sometimes it is glassy silky smooth, syrupy, reflective.
You get to paint the sky twice, once above, once reflected.
Else, the surface is rippled and dappled with wavelets, like fish scales
Then, with bigger waves the colors darken and the surface roughens to
resemble blue rocks strewn.
It's time to add flecks of white as wind flips the top off small waves,
breaking them.
The scene resembles a meadow with a dense flock of white butterflies on
migration flitting over the ruffling surface.
Now as the waves get bigger more texture and deeper blue hues are needed.
More white is squeezed to paint the white-caps and white horses prancing on rolling hills.
More skill is needs to show the depth of field for waves curling with tops flipped over and crashing down.
Now, as the storm builds and winds howl the sky darkens to menacing.
You now need to convey the rocking and rolling movement of the waves surging up and down, driving downwind purloined with foam.
Then, later, only the huge breaking waves in the foreground are visible, the distant view obscured.
The sky is menacing grey and black, the foreground frothy white with foam.
The painter now transforms from painting seascapes to painting wild waves, curling up, the surf tumbling down and surging spray and foam.
As dusk descends and darkness drops in, the sea packs up its paints and easel.
Time to rest and slumber on seabed, until dawn heralds a new day, a new seascape of marine art to paint.
So folks out there, come down in morn to the seashore, and watch the sea paint dynamic seascape self portraits.
Bring your paints and easel.
Join in. Its Free!
My poem is a metaphor.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
We went swimming in total passion beneath the moonlight. The reflections of love drowned by the eye of God. Your attempts to dry me left me breathless, my reputation saved on the bridge before us.
I walk wondering why I deserved all this, tasting teardrops in the early morning rain. The storm it fills the lake beneath the bridge, leaving me downwind to its fresh scent.
Ladies of the evening tease the lake, their toes dangling from the bridge. The eye of God turns away. "Look at me gal, all I can do is tell you I'm sorry." "Look at me boy my lips are burning with fire, so is the bridge."
Can you get home by yourself from here?
I will try, I will try, I will never give up,
God will guide me from here.
The flames burn brighter,
I can see the lake clearly now.
Kananaskis is
four-fifths a line of haiku
Kananaskis is
With spring’s sudden warmth
serial avalanches thunder
one triggers the next
Winter’s snow melting
laughing, leaping, running to
valley far below
Green slopes banded red
dying lodgepole pine, memories
of last year’s Chinook
Golden larch quivers
as the first storm of winter
passes close tonight
As a boy, I came
to know this quiet valley
father's special place
Leaving highway to
where mountains reach to heaven
we drove the stone road
Fishing beaver ponds
dad came on bees, lost his specs
on return just bees
One night as we camp
a timberwolf comes to call
returns to dark night
On the upper lake
clouds mask the solar eclipse
but fish go crazy
One spring’s discovery
drawdown pools, teeming with trout
who won’t touch anything
A five pound rainbow
beached chasing Peter’s lure
red stripe - jealousy
Late autumn, Lake B
big browns cruise downwind beaches
only we know where
A ski resort appears
wonderland needs paved roads
we protest in vain
Twenty years later
returning with my children
to an unknown place
If you slow to look
irate traffic leans on horns
rushing to their lodge
My kids and I fish
a borrow pit now a“lake”
tourists' put and take
To a grizzly bear
roads are barriers wider
than flooding rivers
Kananaskis is
four-fifths a line of haiku
Kananaskis is
MM
Listen...
The night seems paused,
Like the hunter downwind its happless prey;
A silence crouched in a quiet.
It lend to itself a stealth that in these shadows lay,
We may be better off to follow its lead.
Let us duck beyond the reed,
Let the gentle brook bicker over us,
And lend our tongues to monastic solitudes,
And vows of silence,
And speak not till nature finds herself
A newer cause,
Or the dawn vanquishes the need.
And the cock crows,
Midst the hollow stems and lovage weed.
Ah, the life of a cut-purse—
Ere such audition e'er dreamt the need rehearse.
"Life accompanies error,"
And we are full of its merry bliss
How ere it come to this?
A frog atop its lily
Staring at us, so silly.
By so late an hour,
Clowns before rogues—
"And all wet."
The clever night has made us its jest
Let us retreat from fen to den:
A warm hearth and dry clothes,
And conceal our conciet,
For ere the wind of rumor blows
And give nock to doors and wake windows,
Inviting eyes to spy our predicament,
And see where our path lent tself
To such wasteful end
Disappearing: A List
• Leave for no destination in particular.
• Plastic surgery.
• Burn my wallet and shoes.
• Buy or steal an identity;
become another.
• Run into the forest,
wear a wolf’s skin,
look and smell
wolfish downwind.
• Yield my being in
an intimate exchange,
to the thrall of
scotch or peyote or cocaine
or intense pleasure or pain.
• Be subsumed into the
collective mind of a cult
or the Secret Service
or the Carthusians
• Become young rather than old.
• Die, just because.
It’s just a list of possibilities.
Nothing more.
Not a complete one at that.
Wood's voices are loud, and the wind is weary.
It hurts and hurts as the fall leaves turn dreary.
On the saffron-robed eastern dark tally swarm.
Sheets dropped in a thin line from a massive storm.
November arrives, and a cool breeze follows.
Cheer meals and fireplaces are roaring bellow.
Warm passion beguiled the blizzard and brief days.
And December ushers in cool breezeways.
The sun had fallen, and the moon was nearing.
The dawn brings fresh vitality and jeering.
Lights wander into the night without remorse.
Skylights rejoice, and azure woven waves hoarse.
Winter winds sweep across during November.
It was the first snowfall I can remember.
At dawn, a mystical miasma peeks through.
A blade of grass has silvery drops of dew.
The sound of the rain is soft hum on the roof.
Tinkling against the glass window of my woof
Abet me figure out where the muse came from.
Both gentle and substantial rain seems to come.
Tenderly tethered snowflakes flutter downwind.
The realm of presence enters its dozing bind.
The land is fully coated in sparkling white.
Let's remain indoors, where it's nice and quiet.
Sounds and recollections are being consumed.
Dewdrops in the mornings of winter are doomed.
Unmet sorrow, your gaze snatched my breath away.
Winter winds obscure the sun's buoyant display.
1st Place Contest Winner
Written: November 10, 2022
Checked by HMS.COM/11 syllables per line.
November or December Quatrain Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Caren Krutsinger