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.
wind off the great lakes
reminds me who is in charge
chills my bones brightly
wind off the west lake
gray cottonwood trees shuddered
too cold for august
Do you remember going to Bald Head Island? Must have been 13 years ago now. Well, I finally went back & the wind off the ocean was working overtime. It was blowing in streams, kicking the dunes around like paper. When I stood up out of my chair, I caught the stream square in my sternum. It pushed me back 2 inches, 2 feet
10 feet,
10 years–when time still hadn’t ground the pink and yellow seashells down into brown sand. When you were still alive.
It took me a moment to realize where I was. I couldn’t see my chair anymore, couldn’t see the waves. I took one step forward then another, 2 feet forward, 10 feet,
10 years.
and I looked up through the breeze, into the setting sun and caught a glimpse of you smiling. It was nice to see you again, even if it was just for a moment.
The wind chill is thirty-two degrees below zero in Chicago
Snow is being pushed around by plows that are burying cars
The wind off the lake is adding to our discomfort, but taxis are moving
Marshall Fields is open, and there are Christmas carolers
Gorgeous nativity scenes light up windows
Bright sun lit the sky and I lit a joint
and the mood was gay and our spirits free;
when headed for the coast, Te Arai Point,
on that long dusty trail through Forestry.
Back to an age of “substance” over style -
a DB or ten in the tussock grass
but the gulf wind off Great Barrier Isle
blew waves to the shore and sand up my ar-se!
Soon a campfire did blaze a windward chill
when long into the night its flame we’d stoke,
and gazed at the stars till we had our fill
with magic silver bullets up in smoke.
And when the sun rose over the beachhead
it fell the dunes and raised the living dead.
Written: March 1995
The year was 1977.
DB is a brand of beer
Our hands were restless
holding detectives brooms
with hope of sweeping storms
And our isolation have been exchange
with ecstasies
lurking around medallion of ease
to wind off doldrums from our feet.
Alas! Our ears had forgotten their fiendish
songs
& sundered our head from our neck;
plucking sad remix with tobaccos pipe.
Shall we forget this brooms
that swept our joy, & dust our dreams
into the turbulent zephyr?
Shall we cook the ears
that sold our head to affliction
in the pot of its unruliness?
"I can't breathe please!"
A voice sobs in a mumble,
begging in pain for his life.
Another black soul smothers,
beneath a savage white knee.
His rights traded for brutality,
his freedom gone with the wind.
"Please! Please!"
A man whimpers, in a voice that accentuates,
a trembling flesh, a failing heart
and a spirit drifting from the hands of life.
Come one! , come all!
Come to the bank of Mississippi.
For the river has puked another soul.
Come oh!. Gather round Minneapolis,
run to the shores of minnesota.
For there's yet another willow shrub,
dragged six-feet deep beneath the mud.
He is black and not of us,
He is white, our very own.
Bigotry has ruined our hearts.
Blocking love's magic,
just before it could start.
The thread of tolerance,
is in continuous wind off the spool of life.
Come all, mourn at the pyres and wail at the graves.
Rise as one for true justice.
Be not divided either by colour or by race.
For we might into sight be of different hues,
but it's no fallacy we emanate from a common spectrum.
Sand in the wind off the desert,
Burning my face in the breeze,
Sand in the wind is a demon,
Scaring the leaves off the trees.
Sand in the wind knows you’re leaving,
Hammering my window-pane,
Sand in the wind without mercy,
How many weeks without rain?
Stuck in a South Oregon cabin,
Hiding my eyes in the sun,
Sand in the wind says it’s over,
‘Wonder which one of us won?
Sand in the wind blowing angry,
Hope you’re some place where it’s cool,
Sand in the wind dry and dirty,
Maybe I’ll go back to school.
Bathed in
serenity
caressed by oceans of
aesthetic, calm, spiritual
secrets.
Merry
carousels spin
from the wind off the wings
of the wispy, soft doves that sing
to me.
Velvet
corollas drift
and each perfume the air
with the essence of creations
soft breath.
Graceful,
mute swans indulge
the breeze in the silent
beauty of nature's trumpet and
power.
Fragile
wings tickle and
wrestle typhoons within
vast tombs of perfect nature and
my soul.
Sand in the wind off the desert,
Burning my face in the breeze,
Sand in the wind is a demon,
Scaring the leaves off the trees.
Sand in the wind knows you’re leaving,
Hammering my window-pane,
Sand in the wind without mercy,
How many weeks without rain?
Stuck in a South Oregon cabin,
Hiding my eyes in the sun,
Sand in the wind says it’s over,
‘Wonder which one of us won?
Sand in the wind blowing angry,
Hope you’re some place where it’s cool,
Sand in the wind dry and dirty,
Maybe I’ll go back to school.
A canyon junction west of Soledad
and south of Mint (named for purple sage) –
this scoured maze of Canyon Country
where I rode bareback
down arroyos, leaving hoofprints in sand.
Today, I’ll stop at the general store –
does it still sell bubble gum and dry goods?
Recollection is so fuzzy in 9th grade.
Who cares for canyons
on the late-bus under stars?
Today, my map shows no way
to get there. Everything’s re-engineered,
highway widened for commuters;
interchanges. Do canyons still exist
under terraced multi-something homes
and quick stops? Where is Solemint?
Next off-ramp, I’ll drive
to the end of the road. Walk
till I find sand unbulldozed, eroding
like time.
I’ll listen for birds in the arroyo,
a promise of water. I’ll climb higher
and look for purple sage. Sniff
deeply. I’ll feel cold wind off the passes.
Can I still taste Solemint?
These things you hide
I can find,
with the outgoing tide
For,I know your mind
All to find
These things you hide
I can find
The sea of your mind
The turning tide..............
leaves the exposed you
All to see too
Every wave
The moments to save
These things you hide
I will hunt far and wide
Wind off the sea
blows you.............
to me
For you cannot hide
The minds tide
All to find
Receding tide
All to find
Your exposed mind
Nothing left to hide
These things you hide
For I know your mind
Your moments hidden on the tide
I can find