Windless Poems | Examples

The Pier Can't Always Keep You Where It Wants You To Be

You stand with your suitcase like a buoy,
bright, bobbing in the shallows,
and I am the pier—
rooted, barnacled, smelling of old salt and rope.

You tell me you’ll stay
if I keep my hands wrapped round your ankles,
but I know the tide you carry in your ribs.
Even on windless days
it pounds against my palms,
shouting for the open mouth of the horizon.

The gap is a sandbar—
we could walk there together,
let our knees sink into its damp skin,
pretend it will hold us longer than a season.
But I have seen what happens
when the sea grows impatient.
It chews through land like bread,
swallows the footprints before we can name them.

I want to say go after the storm has passed,
when our nets are mended,
when the gulls return to roost in my hair.
But your moon is full now.
It pulls at your water
even when you swear it won’t.

And I—
I cannot anchor you
without learning how to drown.

Candle

There he was still as a windless night,
As if adorned in the drapes of the stormy sky,
His shield covering the faintest shimmer's plight.

The candle held on to its whispering glow,
On the shores of the unending sea,
It held on in the ruthless wind's blow.

Why the ritual of protecting a such memory,
In the great winds of every new spring,
Having slightest the light of the star's treasury?

"It must live on in the dark, in the light, 
It must live on in the sun, in the rain,
For she still lives, still seeks this sight."

It Snows in Spring, Again Sometimes

I lit a candle on a still windless night,
yet still the flame snuffed out of sight.
I spoke your name into this quaff of breeze. 
It answered back with sounds of fallen leaves.

Sometimes
It Snows in Spring,
Again and Again!

You left before the thaw had come again.
Before the apple tree dared to bud.
For Spring was early, Winter not left behind.
Green shoots frozen in what could have been.

Sometimes
It Snows in Spring,
Again and Again! 

Each Spring I remember the snow,
That came sometimes, way too soon,
To sing of Santa's sleigh, and 'Auld Lang Syne'
To you, my April Snow in Springtime.

Sometimes
It Snows in Spring,
Again and Again!

That is why

I have the wings, but there’s no sky, that’s why,
Feathers fall if I fail to fly, that’s why. 

Will’s there, there’s wish, but not much can be done,
Kites idle lie in windless sky, that’s why.

Wealth vie within and still lands lie barren,
Bare coffers cry for lack of try, that’s why. 

Reasons why prodigal sons waste their wealth,
Given free, goes off gifted pie, that’s why?

Tears agonizing still well in my eyes,
Pain’s too familiar to defy, that’s why.
_____________________ 
Ghazal |17.01.2025|

Inspired by a Gujarati poem by Pankaj Vakharia, no translation.

Creek-ing

The muddy water creek-ing along pines
meandering, windless scene
absurd, acerbic, honed.

September mood

September evening.

late September, the eve
is hot and windless
to warm for walking
as darkness descends 
dust on pavements and
fallen leaves bear witness
to nature's tiredness
the local shop saves light
ashen faces
optimistic summer tan
does not last long
a folded plastic bag
four bottles of beer, please 
and crisp

Or Windbag

The windbag fiddler
felt windless and
bent idling nigh
some trees.

It was after a time
had spent that
he heard an
amazing
sound.

A frog was propped
half-way upon his 
fiddle strummed
all the way up
and down to
the ground.

Musical chords are 
timely struck and
all the while the
windless aka
windbag just
fiddle idle.

Melursus Ursinus

Brown, terrifying, evoking horror.
It sleeps for winter: windless plus serene.
Eminently powerful explorer,
Now juddered in its reflective routine.

Winter’s wild violence ends—spring does chime;
ferocity dwindles, some circumvent.
The cold soldier concludes its trimonth prime.
From it, the brown furry does supplement  .

It’s Melursus Ursinus, so you see.
Spring is discernible in this fixture,
Yet the evil monster lurks, winter’s free.
Flowers plus evil combined in mixture:

Virtue with vile, well known rugged tension
Good mixed with evil, whole there’s to mention

Don't be afraid of

On a hot and windless night
I lay in bed quietly with a bit sad
Looking back on the journey 
A shadow appears bashfully on the catwalk 
As shy as debtors for a grace time hide
I feel odd suddenly about that
It happens for no known reason
...

Or like a criminal carries a shackle
Escorting a soul of exile
The self-torture of 
Suffocating in the dust 
Being stirred up by passers...

Fairly, it represents nothing 
In a world shared less or more 
If equalizing goodwill with goodwill
And evil with evil...

Say it loudly, I'm truly worthy of
Standing between earth and heaven 
And facing by person to person...

Not much time will be left 
For flying Spiritual whiskers in the wind
And singing virtually among the mountains ...

The Wind Carries On

The wind carries on, seeking a peaceful place, to muss hair and raise Cain.
With no friends to meet, it invites the flowers, to scent the summer breeze.
The birds draft its thermals, to far-away places, where sunset calms the wind.
To rest and dream of flight, where the lavender haunts, the windless way.
Then to resume the search, for wild horses' manes, and the whispering pines!

We are the Fluid Wind

Wind touches the earth. Pushing a branch, and jiggling a leaf, sometimes to points of breaking both. Forcing an umbrella to push sideways against it, or a wing to twist to stay steady. Sending a jagged spore into a weightless path, riding an eddy to stop when touching the lee side of jagged bark. Lifting silt, and the occasional sand grain, to a sudden drop into a more stationary, windless pile. 

Forcing wind vanes to reveal its direction as a clue to prepare, only to abruptly switch position as a hidden cycle manifests itself. Or, on calmer days, filled with smells from afar, that satisfy or alarm, and push us in a new direction (salivating or holding our breath).

We are in the wind, as fish are in water. It directs us to go, where we feel it tells us, happily or distressed. Its push moves us where we can’t avoid. We can't think without it. Within it, we live. Without it, we can't. 

We are the fluid wind.

The Eagle

The Eagle

An
eagle
in a tree
cocking its head
scans its surroundings
searching for meat to eat
amid the torridity
under a cloudless summer sky
while the sun’s rays reflect from the lake
on a windless day in the wilderness.

Kamuning

You make me a small land using body
Providing peace and hiding privacy
My heart thus stretches with relaxation
And quietly tasting your strong fragrance  
As holy and sweet as pure honey 

You define me as being a windless river 
Sucking the fragrant milk from the sun
She likes the lover's kiss and her whisper 
Trying to ripple the wiggling stream of mine

How much could confusion lose a man?
Taking on the moralities and obligations 
To be sanctified as a qualified human 
How many options should one be given?

Mucked Up Moon

Erroneous mirror scatters his face
        Mills his skin into thin porous powder
        Muck which gets stuck under tongue in a paste
        Mouth stuffed with rubble cement rancid sour


       Embalmed motorbike tennage champion 
       Mist cobwebs in his chest, windless clothesline
       Murdered dreams dumped, tight vertibre cramp them
       Measure of failure in winnings' decline 
       
       
       Engine never to rev segments ego
       Mourning whip lashes languish in his lungs
       Molten moon drips millions he forgoes
       Mortality unknown among airborne young
       

       Moonbeam diamonds stall, star status dements
       Ebb of ignition rides midnight lament 


      

               Sixteen year old Hero, Matty

A Haunting Moon

One moonless night
she walked with ghosts.
The doctor said it was her meds.

She kept here silence.

Days later she began to speak
to the voices in her head.
Her meds were again adjusted.

Then one late and windless night
there began
a rattling of our garden gate,
it kept me awake
while my aunt slept deeply.

I had to go,
had to see for myself.

Opening the back door
I swear,
a full moon rushed in
as if searching for her cure.

Hours later
back in my own bedroom
I overheard her
confiding with that ghost moon
as if it were her Doctor.

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