Long North wind Poems
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You look sideways at me
I look straight on at you
You glance towards me
I stare at you
memorize the stiches of your coat
they are uneven
it must have been handmade
You look up at the sky
I look at your shoes
They are slim and obviously Italian
You've been traveling in Europe
I look at your cheekbones
You stare off at a tree
It is a beautiful tree
though I cant see why it has captured you
I' look at your hands
they're nice hands
expressive hands
strong enough
big enough but not too big
kind hands
You turn to the left to look out over the gray blank sea
I know we're not going to see each other again
Even the stark greyness of the Cape in late November is more compelling to you in this moment than I am
I am dancing colors
I am a fragrance
of clean smells
I am sauce and sassiness and ideas and concepts
and wants
God how I want you
But you would rather look at greyness
I will never see you again
Thank you for the kiss on the dock
Thank you for the dinner and the dance
Thank you for the moment in the library when you looked into my eyes for one very long minute and I felt alive
Just before you asked me to the dinner dance
But you seem to have lost your moorings
You are like a boat
A buoy
or a wooden raft
floating
you don't know North from South
East from West
Now your sails are not catching the wind
You are sort of flapping
carelessly
aimlessly
I watch you like watching a crab scuttle up the beach
Fascinated
I will never lose my way
( That's a lie)
Tonight
You were simply a dock
that I pulled up to ...tied off
Tomorrow the sun will rise
and I will feel full and excited
I'll move on fast
throw off your bow
You were like the wild north wind for me tonight
for about 5 minutes
The wind is fickle
When the wind changes I tact
While you were in my sails I did love you
Like any sailor is impassioned by the beautiful wind
that suddenly drives him forward
the exquisite unbelievable .... unspeakable
tarp full sail pulling hard
I will miss you
But only like I always miss the wind when it dies
No more and no less
my sails will be full and my beautiful ship will be headed out to God knows where
But you my questioning friend will not know enough to follow
You will be still looking left and seeing only the gray of Cape Cod in Winter and
It is very impressive to go westward
in an early morning of midwinter,
because you will see a full moon
that you have forgotten for a while
in the middle of the western sky.
[The westward moon is, perhaps,
the one that Li T’ai-Po
who was bewitched by
and delighted by a moon so much
chanted poems in praise of the moon
throughout his life,
after breaking a thick frozen ice on the lake,
scooped an August full moon
that is not sunken but still floating
on the surface of water,
and pasted it to the wintry sky.]
Although the air in my car is still cold as ice,
and roadside snow is being melted from salt spray
and messy, covered with splashes of dirty water,
the moon, like a virgin still chaste,
[By manmade machine and men,
the moon, though, lost her virginity long ago,]
looks immaculate and gorgeous as ever.
For the moon
riding high in the western sky
enjoying the honor and admiration that is entitled
only to virgin girls
though she lost it long ago,
the north wind,
because of her envy toward the moon,
was wandering in the frozen waste
pleasure driving a sheer-white chariot
brings a violent snowstorm,
and heartlessly shakes the moon
that barely hangs on the midwinter’s western sky
to fall.
After so much abuse,
kicks, stamps, smacks, and blows of violent wind
that of more than she can bear
the frightened moon flees to south, then to east
with her paled and waning face,
and finally disappears somewhere
where no one will able to find her.
Total darkness covers the earth,
overwhelms to deny everything.
At the edge of this darkness
a somewhat eerie looking hunchbacked creature
[Although he was much intelligent,
yet tenderhearted, a man more sensitive
than the worldly-minded ordinary persons,]
comes and searches for the disappeared moon,
and when he finds
a segment of a shattered piece of moon on the earth,
he embraces it in his bosom with tears of joy,
and falls to the ground with his last breath.
And as a hunchback perishes
a young man with more holes
than the shattered pieces of fallen moon in his rungs,
who always whispered sadly to the waning moon
while leaning against a southward window frame,
comes and carries the hunchback’s remains hurriedly
in the cart to an eastern gateway, with gasping,
to the place where the full moon dwells, with panting.
Dinner was over an hour ago
Counters wiped clean, dishes are washed and dried
I hold my glass up to the light like a color slide,
and see the world, warped, and blurred through the half glass of rosy wine
It makes everything seem clearer, somehow, and sobers my mind
From our long silhouettes, we sit on the lawn, and gaze to the mountains,
talking quietly, and sipping the pink charodonnay
Dark of the shade seems to drink up the light of day
Summer carols being sung by two mourning doves,
are accompanied by a choir of crickets in the dewy grass
calling for reverence in honor of a dying sun
Soft voices are lifted in still air
The pink light seems to paralyze time.
We have found kindness here,
and somehow the grueling trials of the year
seem smaller than they did yesterday
Now the day turns toward the darkness
and we have rid our taste of the dry and bitter dust
of everything that has been said and done
The north wind shakes the trees
and the last leaf that clung so fast and tight
releases its grip, and disappears into the dusk
We shall never need to see where it lands
for we are forbidden strangers to the dark
Let us remain friends with the light
Let us unclench our old resistance
And after we have finished the last drop of wine
we will turn, and go inside
and thank our stars
for the pungent taste
that yet lingers
on our tongues
in case
we might
need
proof
that some years will harvest a bitter taste....
and
some
years
will
harvest
a
crop
blessed
by
the
sun
_____________________________________
For Deb's Contest: "Referential"
reference: Chris Aechtner's Poem: unclench fists
The Spring Queen.......
Delicate blooms
Fresh and new
Emerging colour too
Her dress.....
The colour of new green,
finished off in blue
Edged in snow drops
They follow her too
A walk through the trees
The lightest touch of her hand
and the leaves come forth
Banishing the winds from the north
That special bond...
With spring honey bees
The colour................
All from the Spring Queen's wand
A crown wrought from gold,
set on flaxen hair
Set with jewels and leaves
The colour to unfold
Such magic the wand weaves
Spring Queen.........
budding colours........
to be seen
Fresh and green
Spring Queen, touching summers day
The full blossom
Summer Queen
Tumultous green
The colour at play
The summer flowers
The colour glows
The Summer Queen walks through
Forests and meadows
The colour changing too
Summer queens' crown
Finest gold............
Bejewelled in flowers
A caress of hand...............
Petalled land....
All around
Dense leaves
of forest green
Gild the brocade.......
of the Summer Queen
Summer beginning to fade
Autumn coming.............
Autumn Queen,
sweeping through the glade
Leaves turning,
the sun , no longer burning
Rich orange and red
Yellows and browns too
Colour changing,
with Autumn's tread
Shades of brown and red.........
on her cape
The leaves begin to fall.......
With a toss of her head
She makes her way to the hall
The quiet rustle.......
Of Autumn.......
On her bustle
The colour to fall.............
As she walks to the castle wall
Her crown of bronze......
and turning leaves
Scattered trail...........
To the hall
Welcoming hail
The end of Autumn
The Autumn Queen grieves
The passing of...
The wand so...
North wind..........
The first winter snow
Winter crown..........
of the Winter Queen
Platinum and fox fur.........
The finest seen.......
The wand changing too......
Once bronze.......
Now blue,
chased with silver.....
The stars flew
Quiet fall of snow.........
From the north wind
So long ago...........
Lost reasons..........
The changing seasons
The four Queens
Within.........
Natures ring.....
Natures call
The castle wall.........
The wand that binds them all
Smooth wood
Worn by water and air
Never polished
Escaped by the hands that touched it
Ropes and tackle attached streaming up towards the sails
All foreign to a land lover.
When tied at bay she seems so tame and easy to control
But set her free among the briny sea and you will see what she can bring
And bring it she will and take it with pride and gusto
For the winds were made for her sails and masts that anchor them to the deck
The seamen go about their business as though in a dance or a jig perhaps
But one not for feint of heart
They cuss and scream and talk about ones mother all in a days work
Unless of course you cross a line then there’s trouble about
In the night of the galley or the berth were there may lay trouble can find a weak man
And leave him there till day.
But it only takes a warning for each man has a job to do
And without him that means more work for the others
And less sleep between call
So they sort out their business and carry on as one must
But don’t think you can sleep the day away and not get a lump on the head
For they are watching you and you them and never in between shall a man lay his head down before his time.
Now the sea’s rolls in and o’er the bow tis time take on ones rest. First call comes early and some men like it the best. I prefer four bells in the wee hours of the morn’
When the rooster crows if you can imagine that at sea and the Southern Cross is high in the sky. I’ll take my chance with the wind and the sea and see what God brings. And I’ll swing her around and head for the China Sea if that what fancies me.
For we have been on this ship for more than five years and yet to make land for a day.
A ghost ship you may call us. Lost at sea and never found. But our wood is smooth and berths are clean and we never lie about love and women. For Captain Peterson was an honest man taught us the books of the Lutherans. But we buried him in an island town about ten years ago. And since then I have sailed this ship to heaven and to hell. It’s time to rest and bring her to shore but now no one wants to leave. Our land legs are gone and the desire to walk with the weak leave us less than desire. So shove off again and head to the seas and I’m sure the wolf of the north wind will find us. And we will laugh and cuss till she brings us under.
The Ghost Train
North Wind, it was a howling, the sky was black as guilt
Malevolent the sheen, where upon her moonbeams spilt
Through the murky distance, her belly glowing bright
Roaring down the line, she was roaring down the line
Charging down the line, the Ghost Train rolls tonight
She glides along the platform, where haunted faces wait
With dreams of grand ambition, that only she can slate
The driver in his blood red suit, turns a skeletal grin
Toward the hungry hopefuls, then ushers each one in
From store to fire, his actions deft
The fireman twisting on his plate
Stokes the engine right to left
He fuels the fire of fate
He mutters and stutters, “We can’t be late”
For time is money and money won’t wait
With shovels full of human desire
He fuels the fire of hate
The whistle cord is pulled, the flag flutters all clear
The engine she is plied, starts the journey into fear
On it goes a rumbling,
On it’s round iron feet
Inside the folk are tumbling
From every leathered seat
Amid the laughter and the chants
What life, what love, what times
Everyone is held entranced
By ghostly railway lines
Tittle tattle chatter, ash from the chimney pours
Natter rattle clatter, onward the Ghost Train roars
Strange games are played
Some win some lose
Sincere thank you’s become mislaid
As each the other use
Beneath the load the earth she quakes
As all aboard debauch
Done deals and shady handshakes
On every carriage porch
Kerching-kerching-kerching, the till bell rings
More-more-more, the engine softly sings
From store to fire, his actions deft
The fireman twisting on his plate
Stokes the engine, right to left
He fuels the fire of fate
He mutters and stutters, “we can’t be late”
For power is waiting and power is great
With shovels full of human remains
He fuels the fire of hate
In never ending search, she roams across the land
Controlled by the evil, of the blood red suited hand
Through the murky distance, her belly glowing bright
Charging down the line, the Ghost train rolls tonight
If it pulls into your station
Will you jump upon its frame?
Will you lose all inhibition?
On your way to wealth and fame
For when the ride is done
There’s no-one else to blame
If you find you become
Another furnace flame.
Faridah a name that blings I goose bumps
The fairest of them all my constant love
Free in spirit and soul she beloved of soul
My soul in her presence ignites in ecstasy
She is tall dark and lovely with a sweet charm
Her voice leaves my innards desiring for more
More of her lithe and athletic pretty ones body
Her abode a place of beauty where damsels visit
She makes them look pretty she's a beautifier
When I mention the fires she ignites in me
I cant but help promise her a coastal holiday
In a resort where we will sample margaritas
As sweet refreshing red wine is served unto us
...Rimi I cant fathom a life without my promised one
Faridah my sweet and lovely essence of an angel..
Her name I whisper liltingly lest fate hears of my love
And full of jealousy drives her from mine safe hand
Beloved is blessed with swit lips that taste of honey
Her perfume reminds me of pomegranates essence
They come from all over the ridges trying to woo her
But my beloved listens not to their wanton placation's
In my hands she knows she is safe and contented
With Abu I sent gift to Maaha our courtship taking root
Given the green light go ahead she is now my fiancee
..My Krall being full of goats I intend to fully pledge
Myself to her.. My Faridah making her fully Mine..
I intend to make her my sweet princess my only one
The one Queen who will rule the seven parallel realms
At my side.. as I mirror manage.. I muse in swift dream
..Oooh my beloved of Rimi Open the doors of Bashan
You're prince rides in seeking you're sweet presence
Do haste lest he leaves and is waylaid..
By them that guard..The cities fortification..
If you hear the voice of my whisper
...Open the door for me to gain calm entry..
..Am reminded of Rams of Bashan when they danced
With pleasure beloved of Solo..
...I send the south wind..And North wind
With them gland tidings of mine proposal..
Open the door for me My sweet lover do not hesitate
In you're hands I melt and merge into yo sweet entity
You're moans and mine groans fill our inner sanctum
As a game of time replays in all earnest..
You're One RIMI..
Code 254.. Acode Stronghold 013..
October 1, 2021
My Vagabond Heart, wherever you are in place and time...
This morning, upon waking, I heard the sounds of Autumn calling.
A North wind rattled my window panes, russet leaves were falling.
As they collected on the ground, I remembered a day of long ago,
another October morning like this, before the first Winter snow.
With a bit of trepidation I write of this, hoping you recall as well,
jumping into piles of leaves and laughing when Dad let out a yell.
The reason for my hesitation, maybe it's just worrisome unease,
is that at this moment in time, I live in fear of a dreaded disease.
I'm healthy for now, but I want to write about what's in my heart,
hoping that in the future, your world has not been torn apart.
I have no way of knowing what path your journey led you to take,
but I want you to know that I regret my faults and each mistake.
The sorrow of lost love left me afraid to open my heart again.
I'm betting you're braver than I am and you've risked that pain
to find an everlasting love, I want to think you took the chance.
Your happiness will be mine, so in sincerity, I wish you romance.
I've learned from my mistakes, but stopped dwelling on them all,
so rise up and keep going each time you stumble and take a fall.
It doesn't matter what we've done or said. Leave it in the past
for time moves much too quickly. You must remain steadfast.
Don't measure success by material worth. I know you're clever
enough not to take life for granted. Rejoice in it now and forever.
Forgive the ink blurs, but as I write to you on this chilly morning,
tears are spilling from my eyes, having arrived without a warning.
I'm melancholy, wondering if you are a Mommy, and if you are,
I'm certain your children are blessed, each will be a bright star.
Treasure the loved ones in your life, and to yourself be true.
Be happy and have faith in God, for He is standing next to you.
I'm thinking positive thoughts and believe you're reading this,
found in our box of keepsakes. To you and yours, I send a kiss.
October 1, 2021
Letter to your Future Self Contest
Sponsored by Silent One
LATE NOVEMBER
Now a season
for desolate ambers to quilt worn pastures
as harsh north wind songs
scold lonely Sycamore boughs,
Whose
ghostly silhouettes beckon endless horizons
arching gaunt fingers
to one lonely but swaying colding sky,
Heavy
grey-misted clouds
threaten a promise of yet to be,
I
see withered grasses
embrace worn tangled corn skeletons
to toss to dance
silent whispers
upon an earth, carpeted
so void,
so barren,
All
awaiting shrouds of hoarfrost
soon
sprinkled to their bosom,
This dismal stage
defied by stark whiting birches
astep soft firs, there
and there,
But beyond
nothing, but nothing stirs
save some eternal vow of golden days
that will yet
-NO !
must… to be,
But now
of my dearest of mine children
repose
'tis your time only,
Only,
that thee must slumber.
I warned you about Mother telling her stories.
I warned you,
but you wouldn’t listen.
I warned you about the magic
of golem and djinn,
about lilac walks
and mysterious circuses.
Stranded mice,
abandoned mice,
runaway mice,
unexceptional princesses,
all fodder for the worst sort of daydreaming.
I warned you,
but you wouldn’t listen.
Sisters telling stories in bird language
as they browse bookstores in Paris
and tapestries of tales
told by women who are unicorns
invite all sorts of imaginings,
nothing practical,
all frivolous flights of fancy.
I warned you,
but you wouldn’t listen.
Leave Avalon to lie in the mist,
allow the city of chains
to fall into the abyss,
let wolf-women run
through Rome’s seven hills alone.
Close your ears to Mother’s stories,
cover your eyes so you aren’t ensnared
by the magic of gesture.
Let the story end,
leave the queen encased in crystal
and the flower-maiden weeping
in underground halls;
don’t send the children out
to peek under toadstool and
fern forests for wee wicked folk.
I warned you,
but you wouldn’t listen.
Tell them no,
you’ll not hear the hoofbeats
as the horseman stalks the village,
rabbits don’t wear watches,
mermaids don’t dance,
fillies don’t fly.
Tell the children no,
abandoned princesses don’t wear crowns of stars,
maids don’t marry monsters
in return for a single rose,
they don’t marry the north wind,
they don’t spin dynasties
on outlawed spinning wheels.
I warned you,
but you wouldn’t listen.
See what comes of Mother’s stories:
the children run wild through the wood
seeking musical menageries,
they wade into seaside caves
singing for selkies.
They ask for tales told
by orphaned princesses
hiding in palace gardens
and songs sung by shieldmaidens.
They want stories
of women made of glass
and sagas sung by lionesses,
princesses who save miners’ sons
and princesses who save themselves.
I warned you,
but you wouldn’t listen.
No good will come of Mother’s stories,
I said,
and now all is topsy-turvy
and the children have run off
to the goblin market.