The wind off the cold North Atlantic ocean
smells of piquant seawater on its breath,
agreeably pungent, brackish and moist.
The legendary Nor'easter off Newfoundland,
the bane of so, so many ships at sea,
is not a breeze with a soft, caressing hand.
It kicks and knocks and slaps and whacks and thwacks,
pummels and punches, pinches and pushes.
The stolid, sturdy imperturbable island
sits there and puts up with the abuses.
The northeasterly wind is very resentful
of its odiferous reputation.
At night, it simmers and seethes and smolders,
writhes and trembles, weeps and whines, stirs and sulks.
But, like the song says, the wind and sea smells
are "perfume to my soul". I stand alone on shore
and listen to the ocean's roar, wind's whoosh,
and my mind decompresses, destresses;
this is my peace, my serenity. I am home.
“over the waters blue the night winds sigh,
the breakers roar…”
—Lord Byron
Thallosophile, my lass, listen to me.
Emergent, I do wade in your blue depths,
where subfluvial eyes view your splendour
and I’m jealous, as glow of moon directs.
Northeasterly, your locks of golden sand.
The land breeze blows in mystic sweeps, as I
let go my strength, my will; succumb to you.
In sighs, I’m trapped…your bod’, my map and more.
Entwined with breaker’s score, dear lass, hear me.
Amidst its deafening, your back to me.
My tongue will surge, give a reprise, and shock.
The ghostly moon, a shadow cast, halts me.
The turquoise gown, its ebb, its undertow.
You had me at “hello.” No need to drown.
You begged me, follow you, into your sage.
The wind, pleased by perseverance, ghosts me.
A caravan of pink and white vapor
Saunters northeasterly
Across a cerulean forever
Green boughs below
Bow as it passes
Lake sky mirrors
As July arrives
And June is set adrift
For another year
This entire afternoon
As the cold spring rain drips from tiny spring green leaves, birds quietly hide
in nest and eaves. The roosters crow encouraging the sun to shine through the
clouds but the depths of the clouds' moisture and gloom reach to the earth's core.
The illusion of sunshine radiates from the Forsythia's brilliant yellow blossoms like
an impressionist's painting radiating through the fog. The windchimes are gently
stirred by the northeasterly cold damp breeze.
a bird warbles
love notes to his mate ...
no answer
A throaty cheer-up, cheer-up, cheer-up or maybe he was sent to entertain
just me..
As the pines drip with fog's waterdroplets and their flowers drip with pollen's stores.
The moisture helps keep it from being blown about to cling to all building, cars, and
shores..
a quietness coats
spring grasses...
crow's caw stirs silence
The time out on the porch enriches the day. Thank you Lord for a few minutes
to pray..
A bitter cold cuts through the bone
Piercing to the marrow
Rain sounds like ice pellets echo_
'Pon each brown leaf an arrow
Then a few days after the rain
Jack's 'oar's frost bright white lies
'Pon hill and valley thick as ice
Sun's diamonds glistening prize
A cold northeasterly wind blows
Stirring the tingling chimes
As Jack's 'oar's frost settles 'pon ground
A clear sun reflects gold lines
Deep is the valley; high the hill
I've climbed up and raced down
Only short stops atop the peak
There great joy I have found
In the valleys lessons I've learned
Deep truths that now sustained
Those mountain top experiences
Are most times unexplained
Finis'
northeasterly wind
whips the surf palm tree branches...
shore birds catch flight soar
The day started
as a breeze without tracks
in the dew of a fresh mowed lawn;
But days come without warranty,
of things starting right,
remaining that way;
For soon after sunset
this breeze had metamorphosed
into a locomotive,
following a northeasterly path,
its only tracks, were of devastation in its wake;
Dawn, brought with it, sightseers,
and of course, a feeding frenzy of Shad
seeking cash for services,
from the aftermath of this great wind;
The area,
now resembled a war zone,
absent of bodies,
and for this I was thankful.
Then, God put a rainbow in the sky,
above Church steeple;
Was this His way of saying, time is short,
to His people?
Perchance a sweaty brow should brush your skin
a crumpled linted jacket strong of aroma within.
You....a fresh flower..... your fragrance wafting freely..
Swarthed in your mothers steady gaze lest you roam.
Her soothing voice with gentle hand on your cheek
Barriers once formed now lay lax as the moon waxes
Nay, strong aroma of exotic food nauseates the palate
Vitamins absorbed in pellets replace masses of fibre
Soaking in a warm bubble bath of fragrant radox froth..
Gentle strains of Creedence Clearwater piping forth
sends one a slumber "hey!" "Wake up! Dont go under!"
The cycle of the day, the night and repeats back to the
circle, day again into night, a moon, a quarter, a season.
Nay a year had passed like this without much excitement...
Disshevelled hair combed with the hope of tommorow.
Lets celebrate the future, the stars neath the cloudy sky
A northeasterly wind blows in echos of fond memories.