Posts Tagged ‘Wind’

The rain came down
Like cartoon anvils,
Spending itself on the cement
In an assault on the town.

The parachute-less troops
Gathered in the low-lying spots
And took over the streets
In order to regroup.

Rioting raindrops,
Seething and churning,
Swallowing curbs and sidewalks
And the floors of a few shops.

En masse, they moved
Like a swarm of fluid ants,
Chewing up the asphault,
Around, under, and through.

They occupied the intersection
Several steps from my domicile;
A congregation of soldiers
Moshing in misdirection.

The storm drain was debris overrun
By the midnight attack,
Mouth buried in what was handy,
Gagged by the silver-headed ones.

They celebrated down the gutters,
Their comrades swept down from the hills,
Retreating, they left for the ocean
Until their cries became gutters.

Discontent and garbled threats
Of heavy grey clouds yet to come,
Of their shock troops, the hail.
Big drops, little drops; they’re all wet.

Promises of thunder, their drummer boys
Their standards of lightning
And the wind-demons who bear them;
This I hear in the storm’s noise.

I stood in the lee of my apartment
Water draining from my hat and jacket
I watched the fury of the rain banshees
With a certain amount of excitement.

I love the rain and the wind; all weather
Which drives people inside to read books.
They boil kettles and build fires –
An opportunity to be together.

But I like to be outside in the dark
Of wildness and wetness and the glory
When the streets are reclaimed by the Mardi Gras rain
And the world’s turned into an amusement park.

Sailing to Byzantium

Posted: December 19, 1994 in Poetry
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I perch upon a basalt wall,
12 feet high; it surrounds the port
Separating the rough-hewn blocks
Of the well-travelled docks
From the slopes of the mountains lost
To the predations of much-prized rationality.
Many a sailor I watch disembark
From cutter or barge or sailing-ship;
They wind their way from wharf to within
The city whose walls I’ve scaled.
Young and old who, unfamiliar
With the burnished minarets and golden spires,
Wander lost amidst the buccaneers
Who have been here many a dream-time,
Stride winking to their carts and kingdoms.

coming calling

Posted: December 13, 1994 in Poetry
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The snow has touched the mountaintops
And the leaves drift on the ground.
My breath is grey before my face
As I’m walking into town.

I left my car parked in the drive;
I wished to go on foot.
A whim the moon brought to my thoughts
When I laced my father’s boots.

When I come calling at your house
I’ll check to see that your light shows.
If it’s off, I’ll admire the frost
A moment, then I’ll go.

Sometimes I won’t see one car pass
Going either way.
The wind spins papers through the dancing trees;
They keep my footsteps gay.

The silent night and the Christmas lights,
The pine-bough’s fresh perfume;
The ribbons and wreaths and lost Autumn leaves —
They all point my way to you.

When I come calling at your house,
I’ll check to see that your light’s on.
If it is out, I’ll leave without
Telling you that I have gone.

The walk back home is always long,
But the beauty still remains.
I imagine a sleigh, two horses; some hay,
And my hands upon the reins.

The moon is calm in the darkened sky
It silvers the windowsills.
I climb into bed with you in my head;
Stuff for these poems I build.

When I come calling at your house,
I’ll check to see if you’ve lit your light,
For if it’s not, then I guess you forgot,
And I can’t come and say goodnight.

Target

Posted: December 9, 1994 in Poetry
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Look around you
at the wrecked shelves,
the damaged or opened merchandise,
the floors littered with tags,
sale shelves half-empty
with slower-selling items or
taped up single boxes
priced as marked.
See the hanging advertisements,
the red and yellow eye-catchers,
the signs leading to popular departments:
Toys, Electronics, Sports;
Christmas Trees in our Garden Section!
Follow the heavy traffic lanes
by the shopping cart wheel skids,
the grease marks from boot heels,
the ravaged end-of-the-aisle shelves.
This place is empty now —
the midnight wind whistles outside
the blinking store front
on Christmas Day.

To the hip-hop rhythm of my break-beat bounce
I sing sun stars surf stoopid something amounts
To a funky fresh freestyle flowing fast and far
from the breakers to the speakers in the trunk of your car.
I get a little sparkle like the wind in my eye
When the sun is shining steady from the stretch of the sky.
Outside doubles dating skating surfing and tanning
Hacky-sacking frisbee throwing bubble blowing — outstanding!
Groove, move and schmoove like a rubberband.
Take a dip in the drink and dry out on the sand…

I
I love you most
when you are sleeping
and around the corner
I am peeping,
shadow in the box of light
that falls from the living room;
I hear the rain is coming soon
from the whish of the wind
‘round the corner of the front porch
lifting the edges of your hair
while you sleep tight.

II
time alone, quiet and silent
a peaceful drizzle outside
and a long nap under my belt
is good for a busy soul,
bustling with errands:
remember the value of free time,
lazy time: laziness is an
art form that can be productive
in its own sense — money
is not everything.

III
the Elves are gone.
it is the Age of Man;
can we continue
pointing arrows
at everyone
until there is
nothing left?

For Galstephus the Mage

Posted: November 6, 1993 in Poetry
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You dream like a king
on a throne;
you are not like the serfs
and servants of this existence.
This world doesn’t want kings and heroes;
rather, normalcy is enshrined
and page homage to with certificates of merit.
You are a nobleman
and your heritage is not acknowledged –
there is no room for the likes of you
among the jaded and the complacent;
these powers wear blinders purposefully
to destroy the talents
that could change their status quo,
that could threaten their idols of stability.
These same closed eyes cannot envision
the wondrous sights you see;
they cannot hear what runs through your mind,
the musical scales of rivers and windstorms;
they cannot feel anything anymore,
walled into courtyards, shut out from the street,
unmoving –
they cannot even dream on their thrones
where you, my lord,
belong.