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 woosh,
and my mind decompresses, destresses;
this is my peace, my serenity.
I am home.
There’s a constant hammering
Alongside my bedroom window
Repercussions of a corrupt gutter
The maddening drain
Obstinately and persistently has refused
All rehabilitation efforts
There are no
drip drip drips
Only
Pound Pound Pounds
As water clashes with wood and metal
The clangor must be amplified
By a loudspeaker
To make such minute water drops
Sound like a crazed gongsman
Locked in a metallic chamber with a battle mace
With no distinct pattern
The piercing pattering
Thwack Thwack Thwacks
Proclaiming,
“You will find no peace here!”
And yet
Its constant monotone irritation
Somehow
Lulls me to sleep
Oh thwacks of pain,
You made slightest of my optimism go vain!
Swirls, oh I feel momentary,
Made my actions in a longer run to be involuntary!
The tree does not at the hewing suffer
Albeit the callous thwacks all edges raining down
Nor the tons of muscles befalling on its cadaver
But savvy ing a bisection of the axe stems from her own
She protractedly taught him to target archery
How his bow bends unerringly
When he at last imbibed the art secrecy
Betrayingly shot her uncompassionately.
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