birds
in the claws of the wind
torn from sky perches
wings bent to another course
slice through the rain
Tag: wind
Spring wind
Wind winds through cracks and crannies, picking at
the insulation around the frames of window and door,
poking frigid fingers into spine and soup, chilling hot
food with a frozen flap of the hand. Wind whines in
the chimney, rattling doors to get in, riffling the pages
of an open book, rustling like dead leaves or flame-
crackle in the stove. Wind wins the battle with defences,
teasing the cracked plaster apart to whisper with thin lips,
This is the way of spring, the bright promises made, the
singing and the shooting, the sharp cut and thrust of birth.
Wind gogyohka
wind pours
a cascade
from the ocean sky
sweeping leaves birds and branches
in its flood.
The hand that shakes
A butterfly cinquain that doesn’t quite fit the remit for Colleen’s challenge as I have only used a synonym for one of the words.
The hand
that shakes the trees
is the wind’s, the voice that
calls in the night and stirs your dreams.
Listen
to its wild song woven with threads
of moon silver and the
gentle questions
of owls.
Blue wind
This wind full of sheets of rain
pounds the house
as waves pound a cliff face,
and the air fills with the red roar of sea horses,
bucking blue and green as the deeps,
always too elusive to catch
in these sodden meadows
even with the eye of longing.
November
days of wind and lashing boughs
rain slanting from shifting sky
colour of winter half-dark
filling the ditches with running cold
where frost needles will grow
light the stove
and listen to the flames
singing of old tree days
and green springs
filled with bird-flutter
chimney-wind echoes hollow
among the bricks
tree-wind rattles rain from wet boughs
and the solemn tweeting
of chaffinches
Fierce summer
I wrote this gogyohka this morning and discovered that Paul Miltaru had posted a photograph to accompany it. Thank you, Paul for letting me borrow it.
the wind blows hot and fierce
bringing only dry-leaf rain
to this parched land
fissures gape—listen
you can hear the earth gasp
Wind-rushy
I’ve been working on this poem for a few days. Seems like a good moment to post it. For the NaPoWriMo pastoral prompt.
We walk in the dark of the wind-rushy trees,
listening to their wind-rushy voices,
solemn and wise and old as the earth,
silencing birdsong and furtive rustlings
from woods, hedges, field edges
and sleeping gardens.
Hands touch, but can they hold it back,
the something, pale blue and shimmering,
that seemed to fade in the dusk?
Wind rushes, rolling the perfume of lilac along the lane,
playing the woodwind of rose and oriole,
bowling garlic flower notes against the dark.
Wind ruffles flowerheads with gentle hand,
my face, sharper, imperious—listen, feel—
then suddenly the stream,
banked in heavy scents of wet earth,
edged in elm and elder,
alder and willow boughs sweeping low,
calls in the pure ringing voice
of spring water running
and the notes, a seamless weave,
leave no space for sadness.
Not pollen
the air gold-streaked
rain-grey full of poplar seeds
silk-soft birdlings
migrating west determined
to reach the setting sun
Listen
I’m not sure about this dverse prompt—punctuating silence in poetry. To me, words are indissociable from the silences between them. I have used this as an excercise in emphasising silences rather than marking them. I hope I’ve got the right end of the stick…
Listen—
the wind speaks,
and in its voice raindrops drum on fallen leaves.
Listen—
earth hums to the beat of rain and wind,
leaves fall and cup the falling drops.
Silent drift—
birds, buffeted and bent-winged, blow
across the field of vision, criss-crossed by the rain.
Listen—
storm air sings, plucks the strings
that hold the bent-winged birds
in balance with this blast
of silence.
Listen.
