Rubbersoled
dog invisible tags me
fugitive on empty street
sun keeps us in spidery web
my sequins caught in silk
his eight eyes unblinking
sombre harmonies of
sluggish sound
under high notes of
whistling wind
Poems on the topic: wind
Poems on the topic “wind” on Poets.by.
Another Cold Day
Another cold day
snow along the fence
escapes in the wind.
Still No Wind
Still no wind
this long dreary winter,
solitary bird.
Seventy-One
Hear the difference
when there is wind
against a new house
and against an old house.
Twenty-Two
The mountain wind
comes to me,
speaking your
wild thoughts.
Sixteen
We plant fir
seedlings across
icy slopes.
Trees yet standing
scrape and worry
in moaning winds,
showering us with
bark and cones.
Will I see you
again, should one
of these fall
while my back
is bent?
Ninety-Nine
This world's events
pass over me
like summer showers.
In my old mind
wind and sun
go free.
Eighty-Seven
Even as I came
to a suitable cliff,
clouds opened
to a hawk,
riding wind.
How to Read the Wind
My mother did not die of old age,
nor did any illness lay her low in bed.
Her worries for us, the fugitives,
broke her heart,
and one day she decided
to not breathe anymore.
Her last breath became wind,
and it’s blowing wild
on this November day,
whistling and singing to my ears,
sometimes as a lullaby,
other times a lament.
And very often the wind
says to me:
‘Why so late my son?’
Tom Tac's Running Sonnet
Like I'm a tongue in the mouth of the wind;
In my face or at my back it moves me,
A mouse in its pocket, or a weasel
According to what present song it sings,
Low and limpid, high or hollowly.
It's seven minutes now; I'm still grinning
Since no breath opposes in all this whirlwind.
Let this my hide be brown sun gold. Let this
My body make a melody in muscle,
Elevated quick when love crooks her thumb
To the exit that's an entrance to sky kingdoms.
As long as any snuff of wind can tone a whistle
To thrilled ears, I'm a note in that mad chant.
Calling 10
Spine recurved into a bow almost humble
Voice jumping to be bowstring
My weight just before you raise me to your arm’s taut radius
Shuddering like the bow of a ship ready
At the thought of what you aim me at I nearly swoon
And stay awake to a hissing twisting knifewedge wind
Avenue in October
The deities of dream
Take their afternoon stroll down this street
Leading to the sea.
This avenue is neither
Broad nor beautiful,
But the African-born wind rises
And leaves something here
Akin to the warm
And domestic happiness
Of those who don’t ask why.
The clouds sketch
The outline of the travelers
Who discover the waves and pray
For their dead children,
Or for the ones that never arrived,
Like this treeless street
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