Oh, how I’m longing to float to my death
Not e’er again heave sweet CO2 breaths
Each of us whirl with a dance all our own
Loosed by a mistral and heavenly-blown
All of our lives we’ve provisioned The One
Synthesized O2 with bright from the sun
Tasting the rainfall whene'er a cloud burst
Wetting our folds for the deep-rooted thirst
And now in the autumn endeavor the spring
Let loose our branches to dance and to sing
Trading our green for the shades of the sun
Zanzibar waits when our last waltz ... is done.
~ POETRY AGAINST POVERTY ~
( photographic art created copyright-free by the author with Gemini AI / Meta AI software )
Out of the murky mist
Amidst the mistral winds
The tempest tips the mast
A crippled ship descends
Pain-fated Captain's crew
Rain ravaged by degrees
The cox would steer the crow
Below the savage seas
To dare the darkened depth
Untethered fathoms feared
As harkened angels wept
A weathered wraith appeared
To cast the mastless craft
Amidst the rocky realm
The staff, now pointed aft
While the cox, held the helm
New Captain's crew was calmed
By current, ruby red
A salty sea embalmed
The sunken, drunken, dead
An albatross had mourned
Poseidon's wounded pride
Thrust-trusted trident scorned
Calypso raised the tide
Not the great compass winds, but the lesser,
the local winds, the mapmakers.
Odysseus once bagged them, but they escaped.
Anemoi, like the wind that de-horns goats,
or the Moorish, Melteme,
the ill-tempered one. Simoom, the poisoner
who fills throats with its tainted garments,
or Rashabbar the black wind
whose nocturnal wings blind all men.
Named, visible winds that chisel our faces,
as if we were cliffs at the edge of the world.
The Squamish, the Elephanta, the Williwaw,
time-swirling thieves. They steal the young,
the babes in their cribs and when we look for them,
a swish of a hem or a hurricane are the same.
The children return, a sculpted dervish
spiralling within them.
Tebbard, the fever wind, wanders through our bones,
a sultry doctor adding fuel to the heat
until a storm breaks, then as driftwood we are salvaged.
The Fever-bringer itself dies,
dry now as mottled kelp on carrion shores.
Winds that gnaw themselves into Chinooks and Mistral,
winds that shape and follow us
to the rim of the sky, where those celestial dragons,
North, East, South and West winds
dream fitfully of once being human.
oh tell me what's this ruse my little friend?
proud petals spread and reaching for the sun
did you not think that you might be undone
by all the winter white the heavens send?
I wonder can you wriggle rooty toes
dug deep beneath the frozen permafrost?
and what will your proud exhibition cost
when that chill winter mistral lastly blows?
I think perhaps you're quite a bit like me
not satisfied with summer's briefer tides
how quickly all that magic came and died
not ready yet to set those passions free
so know our meeting isn't just by chance
‘twas no mistake you blossom in the cold
you've given me a message - rich as gold
to make the most of ev’ry circumstance
for life's the grandest miracle indeed -
and you are far too charmed to go to seed.
~ 1st Place ~ in the “Snow Fantasy or Christmas Nostalgia Poetry Contest”, Constance La France, Judge & Sponsor
The middle eastern spell that shames the solemn
In shadowed midden dwells the stain now common
In darkness beaten fell in name of goodwill
Our princess peace repels their pain and blood spill
She struggles selfless held in chains by order
Poor passive tranquil, gelled by blames and borders
The stolen fertile meld of reigns now taken
Where powered egos tell of hope forsaken
Let gentle logic down the dames of warfare
Whose metal madness grounds the games to threadbare
Pray mistral mildness pound and maim their story
'Til peaceful light surrounds regaining glory
Written: January 30, 2025
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Beneath February breath,
a fugue of magic hues—
embers of crimson,
coppered caramel trill
as maples sway
in Mistral melodic mirth.
Amidst the rhapsody,
in strokes of whispered shimmer
a rainbow flares.
In a seamless symphony,
a fresco of shades
unfurls in the sky.
Amid the onyx,
woven in clouds gossamer,
winter moon glows in a frosty sheen.
In luminous rhapsodies,
she hums opal notes
of wistful longings to the sea’s restless soul.
Drenched in ethereal blushes,
the sea becomes a shimmering midnight hymn—
choristers of spectral silver.
O'er the skyline’s silken scarlet,
March dusk in tourmaline blush, twilight lyrics
of a sundown serenade.
Amidst the concerto,
swirling crimson, a swoop of swallows
in shimmering shadows.
They dart off into the tinted eventide,
their wing beats, an echo of lingering silence.
Written: January 28, 2025, for contest
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Maples dance in fugue autumn's breath,
Symphony of mistral whispers,
In rhapsody, crimson embers adorn the sky,
In the musical air, copper leaves dance,
A mirthful, free caramel trill stems from the clay.
Alabaster sky sparkles with magic flares,
Rainbow frescoes flash at times,
Butterfly sylphs mutter arias into floral seas,
Abalones on a velvet tide stir sunlit petals.
Nature's fairy chorus sings slightly,
A frosty canopy awakens chrysalis dreams,
Iridescent hues paint blue skies with magic.
Each hue speaks, from rosy dawn to auburn sunset,
evoking fall-fading charm and whispered secrets.
Alabaster dreams soar as frost kisses farewell,
The chrysalis trio dances to the fading light,
Each leaf and shadow carries rhapsodic sounds,
A nature-painted fresco with hues that merge into twilight.
I've found a Haven, a hidden space to breathe
Where emotion permeates into a mistral breeze
So lofty are her cumulous clouds of inspired thoughts
Leading all who wander in to explore wondrous walks
Inside, lend an ear to whispers of notes and chords
Plunge into the caldron with the welcoming hordes
Now Chant...Bubble...Bubble...Toil...And Trouble
Stir, fold, blend, mash, whisk the undefined puddle
Then, find the round table where soup feeds solace
Let others feed you. Do not forego this key promise
Most of all, partake wholeheartedly in the collective conscious
Members, all Souls bare, will grace you in satisfying kindness
Mariah’s Return
Mistral wishes
blow hope
to tomorrow
Intention
most sacred
— ushering wind
(Dreamsleep: June, 2024)
Cupid’s Bow
Indifference
and hatred
are blind
— but not love
(Dreamsleep: June, 2024)
Godot Waits
Minding his business
biding his time
Dodging the bullets
— fate preassigned
(Dreamsleep: June, 2024)
Divinity’s Wind
Masters of War
Victors of Time
Sultans of Glory
Martyrs Sublime
(Dreamsleep: June, 2024)
Three sister winds,
Ephemeral progeny,
Spawned by the sun's relentless
But passionless heat,
And the earth's inexorable
Grinding rotation:
Sirocco dances across the vast emptiness of the Sahara;
Mistral roams over the rolling plains and briny lagoons
Of the French Camargue;
Santa Ana, mistress of the paradoxical
Lush aridity of Southern California.
Solitary nomads these three siblings,
Never meeting,
Rarely resting,
Always appearing unannounced,
Creating with cold dispassion,
Then leaving in their wake,
Their own ephemeral progeny:
Summits and trenches,
Hills and valleys,
Crags and craters.
Sad reminders of their brief visits
And lonely passing.
Continually shifting,
Eternally sifting,
Maternally treasuring,
Methodically measuring,
As if carefully counting each precious grain
In the sands of time.
Oh mighty mistral winds
Fill my sails and take me home
This voyage never ends
Over countless seas I roam
On this ship I'm but a slave
Still I struggle and I try
I fight each giant wave
As it blackens out the sky
The unrelenting sea
Pitches wildly to and fro
It won't get the best of me
No matter where I go
If these mistral winds prevail
Then no peril can befall
Till it carries ship and sail
To my final port of call
Driven by the Mistral wind
My soul vanquished by the sea
On a course that has no end
Still, where I was meant to be
Mesmerized by ocean tides
As if Heaven here on Earth
Lonely though, my heart abides
I sail further from my birth
Weathered by the salty brine
Now my life's adrift and free
Cradled on this boat of mine
Mistral Winds still carry me
Foolish whims scatter
I played at life, but life played me harder,
Lived bet to debt, in life's Russian roulette
I place a wager, speed into danger
My foolish whims, scatter in mistral winds
Now tossed by waves, by blind forces of fate
How they orchestrate, time, distance and place
For bite size poetry contest
Line Gautier
Anemoi, the wind that de-horns goats.
Moorish Melteme, the ill-tempered one.
Simoom, the lung poisoner.
Rashabbar the black swirling.
The Squamish, the Elephanta, the Williwaw,
thieves that steal babes in their cribs.
Tebbard, the fever wind, it wanders through our bones;
the sultry doctor who adds heat to chills
until, like driftwood, we are salvaged.
Chinooks and the Mistral they follow travelers
to the edge of a world,
where the great four Celestial Dragons,
North, East, South and West,
roar like thunder in our sleep
until we dream fitfully of being human.
Hidden deep within the trees
a whispering tomorrow
Buried in their shadows
voices fall and take new breath
The midnight wind blows silent
carrying hope into the future
Words caught up and venture forth
to seed unspoken times
New spaces wait, the inkwells full
as prophets guard the entry
The mistral gales of seasons past
new zephyrs push away
Stanzas form, the future saved
as yesterday approaches
Saplings rising, breezes felt
—new forest closing in
(Dreamsleep: June, 2022)
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