March Evening
Blue through the window burns the twilight;
Heavy, through trees, blows the warm south wind.
Glistening, against the chill, gray sky light,
Wet, black branches are barred and entwined.
Sodden and spongy, the scarce-green grass plot
Dents into pools where a foot has been.
Puddles lie spilt in the road a mass, not
Of water, but steel, with its cold, hard sheen.
Faint fades the fire on the hearth, its embers
Scattering wide at a stronger gust.
Above, the old weathercock groans, but remembers
Creaking, to turn, in its centuried rust.
Dying, forlorn, in dreary sorrow,
Wrapping the mists round her withering form,
Day sinks down; and in darkness to-morrow
Travails to birth in the womb of the storm.
poem by Amy Lowell
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February
THE trees stand brown against the gray,
The shivering gray of field and sky;
The mists wrapt round the dying day
The shroud poor days wear as they die:
Poor day, die soon, who lived in vain,
Who could not bring my Love again!
Down in the garden breezes cold
Dead rustling stalks blow chill between;
Only, above the sodden mould,
The wallflower wears his heartless green
As though still reigned the rose-crowned year
And summer and my Love were here.
The mists creep close about the house,
The empty house, all still and chill;
The desolate and trembling boughs
Scratch at the dripping window sill:
Poor day lies drowned in floods of rain,
And ghosts knock at the window pane.
poem by Edith Nesbit
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Wind Of Prediction
As the trees play in the breeze
Do you wonder what it may mean.
Does the wind coming from a certain direction
Mean something we should heed.
North wind blows cold and dry
Originating from the elements of earth
Read as the wind of death, colour black
Time to abondon issues no longer needed
Heed the news from the North.
West wind blows moist and fertile
Elements of water, coloured blue
Soothing, sensitive and healing.
Touch the cleansing power of the West.
South wind blows hot and dry
Of element fire, colour red
Usethe initiative and passion
To boost the ideals
Haste to feel the southern breeze.
East wind blows from the orient light
Assaulting with cold dry feel
Symbol of air, coloured white
Trust new starts from the East.
North South East and West
Thus the world changes
From whence it blows
That is what it will show
Predictions blown around.
poem by Alison Smith
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January Morn
Bare branches of each tree
on this chilly January morn
look so cold so forlorn.
Gray skies dip ever so low
left from yesterday's dusting of snow.
Yet in the heart of each tree
waiting for each who wait to see
new life as warm sun and breeze will blow,
like magic, unlock springs sap to flow,
buds, new leaves, then blooms will grow. Like heart and soul in every man
who let their light grow ever dim
a spark still burns low within
longing to burst forth, to shine again.
Like bare branches on a January morn
don't feel cold don't feel forlorn.
Our Heavenly Father like warm spring sun
like gentle warm wind
when called upon
will make each light burn bright again.
poem by Nelda Hartman
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... & The Mouse Police Never Sleeps
Muscled, black with steel-green eye
Swishing through the rye grass
With thoughts of mouse-and-apple pie.
Tail balancing at half-mast.
...and the mouse police never sleeps ---
Lying in the cherry tree.
Savage bed foot-warmer of purest feline ancestry.
Look out, little furry folk!
Hes the all-night working cat.
Eats but one in every ten ---
Leaves the others on the mat.
...and the mouse police never sleeps ---
Waiting by the cellar door.
Window-box town crier;
Birth and death registrar.
With claws that rake a furrow red ---
Licensed to multilate.
From warm milk on a lazy day
To dawn patrol on hungry hate.
...no, the mouse police never sleeps ---
Climbing on the ivy.
Windy roof-top weathercock.
Warm-blooded night on a cold tile.
song performed by by Jethro Tull
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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...and The Mouse Police Never Sleeps
Muscled, black with steel-green eye
Swishing through the rye grass
With thoughts of mouse-and-apple pie.
Tail balancing at half-mast.
...and the mouse police never sleeps ---
Lying in the cherry tree.
Savage bed foot-warmer of purest feline ancestry.
Look out, little furry folk!
He's the all-night working cat.
Eats but one in every ten ---
Leaves the others on the mat.
...and the mouse police never sleeps ---
Waiting by the cellar door.
Window-box town crier;
Birth and death registrar.
With claws that rake a furrow red ---
Licensed to multilate.
From warm milk on a lazy day
To dawn patrol on hungry hate.
...no, the mouse police never sleeps ---
Climbing on the ivy.
Windy roof-top weathercock.
Warm-blooded night on a cold tile.
song performed by by Jethro Tull
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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An Autumn Landscape
No wind there is that either pipes or moans;
The fields are cold and still; the sky
Is covered with a blue-gray sheet
Of motionless cloud; and at my feet
The river, curling softly by,
Whispers and dimples round its quiet gray stones.
Along the chill green slope that dips and heaves
The road runs rough and silent, lined
With plum-trees, misty and blue-gray,
And poplars pallid as the day,
In masses spectral, undefined,
Pale greenish stems half hid in dry gray leaves.
And on beside the river's sober edge
A long fresh field lies black. Beyond,
Low thickets gray and reddish stand,
Stroked white with birch; and near at hand,
Over a little steel-smooth pond,
Hang multitudes of thin and withering sedge.
Across a waste and solitary rise
A ploughman urges his dull team,
A stooped gray figure with prone brow
That plunges bending to the plough
With strong, uneven steps. The stream
Rings and re-echoes with his furious cries.
Sometimes the lowing of a cow, long-drawn,
Comes from far off; and crows in strings
Pass on the upper silences.
A flock of small gray goldfinches,
Flown down with silvery twitterings,
Rustle among the birch-cones and are gone.
This day the season seems like one that heeds,
With fixed ear and lifted hand,
All moods that yet are known on earth,
All motions that have faintest birth,
If haply she may understand
The utmost inward sense of all her deeds.
poem by Archibald Lampman
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My Angel (In Response To A Poem Called My Knight)
Sometimes what we love the most will never see the light.
Not in a way most people understand.
A occasional midnight cry that is only heard through words.
A plea for help and understanding.
A calm steady hand in need of a little bit of mending.
That angel still whispers to me on a scarce night.
One where the wind blows a certain way.
As prayer for a better day.
With the stars glistening under the twilight.
And the flames burning bright.
I don't need her.
When the stars dim and the fire fissile out.
When the darkness engulfs my own since of being.
She is my angel and she is always there waiting.
poem by Ace Of Black Hearts
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A Compilation of Memories
Newspapers are wet
on the cold cement
in bits and pieces
they speak from under my shoes
the ink
flows into the gutter
swimming with the rain
and captured industrial smells
I love this city.
The light from storefronts
seeps out
from the windows and doors
trying to warm
the streets
spills over onto the sidewalk
makes puddles and pools
one with the water
I love this city.
The wind sings
as it blows
the cold on our faces
ice does what it is told
it hurts
and then loves
embraces us in its strong arms
but we already are free
I love this city.
The rust on the fence
smiles at me
as i silently pass by
on my way across the world
the map
in my shaking hands
is wet and smeared
but i can find my way and the rust is happy.
I love this city.
The sun comes out
slowly like she is afraid
but no one will hurt her
she is their hearts
my feet
are tired
the city’s sorrows found them
and told them how it feels
to let it all fade and die.
poem by L'Angley S Delmonte
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As the cold wind blows
As the cold wind blows
I smile and laugh
As the cold wind blows
Im warm and safe
As the cold wind blows
The fire inside is hot
As the cold wind blows
My love is not for naught
As the cold wind blows
My love keeps me warm
As the cold wind blows
I feel only this love
Warming me making me
The man I am today
As the cold wind blows
I know soon this cold wind will blow away.
poem by Troy Nichols
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[The Trash Can Fire]
The Trash can fire burns worm.
For another dog left out in the cold.
Glistening streets,
where the dark allies meet.
Another dog without a bone.
Once loyal friend to his master.
Now master of disaster.
His only friend is where he roams
and the only home he now knows.
Is there by the trash can fire.
As rain comes down in sheets.
His matted fer soaks to the core.
Steaming his sole, like water on hot coals
He begs by the trash can fire.
The trash can fire burns worm,
little embers that glow in the night.
Def and blind is this dog.
Never will he belong,
to anything but the trash can fire.
poem by Seth Morrow
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Lines
DAY gradual fades, in evening gray,
Its last faint beam hath fled,
And sinks the sun's declining ray
In ocean's wavy bed.
So o'er the loves and joys of youth
Thy waves, Indifference, roll;
So mantles round our days of truth
That death-pool of the soul.
Spreads o'er the heavens the shadowy night
Her dim and shapeless form,
So human pleasures, frail and light,
Are lost in passion's storm.
So fades the sunshine of the breast,
So passion's dreamings fall,
So friendship's fervours sink to rest,
Oblivion shrouds them all.
poem by Joseph Rodman Drake
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The Widow's Lament in Springtime
Sorrow is my own yard
where the new grass
flames as it has flamed
often before but not
with the cold fire
that closes round me this year.
Thirtyfive years
I lived with my husband.
The plumtree is white today
with masses of flowers.
Masses of flowers
load the cherry branches
and color some bushes
yellow and some red
but the grief in my heart
is stronger than they
for though they were my joy
formerly, today I notice them
and turn away forgetting.
Today my son told me
that in the meadows,
at the edge of the heavy woods
in the distance, he saw
trees of white flowers.
I feel that I would like
to go there
and fall into those flowers
and sink into the marsh near them.
poem by William Carlos Williams
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Dance Of Love 3
September wind blows into me,
like a lover
whispering sweet nothings n my ear,
n i shake out my blonde hair,
as the trees shake out there leaves
i dye it red,
red as the summer sun burns
as its heat lies dying
burning its embers across the dry and yellow grasses,
n i stretch myself across
his waiting arms,
fragile
n lonely,
while my soul prepares for
the cold darkness
of winters glittering nothing,
n mourn the sun,
the budding flowers of new love
have matured into this,
dying phaze,
his face now burned across my memories,
a melody that plays itself across my being
poem by BladesongRaven Gehrig
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The Four Places Of Sorrow
There is sorrow for me in the North, where the black wind blows,
(Hush, O Wind of the dirges, O Voice of the restless dead!)
The ache of its cruel keening thro' my heart like an arrow goes,
I see in the tossing waters the sheen of a dear bright head.
There is sorrow for me in the South, where the white wind sings,
(Hush, O Wind of all lovers, crooning a laugh and a cry!)
On the pain of a dream love-haunted breaks the music of wings,
Seagulls, sweeping and swaying, saw ye my dead drift by?
There is sorrow for me in the East, where the red wind burns,
(Hush, O Wind of remorse, O Wind of the scourging flame!)
Under its slow cold dawning the soul of the drowned returns
And wan, in the startled daybreak, a ghost from the sea he came.
There is sorrow for me in the West, where the brown wind raves,
(Hush, O Wind from the bogs, O memory-freighted Wind!)
He is spindrift hither and thither, sport of unweary waves:
Would that my heart were close on his heart, my eyes on his eyes were blind!
poem by Anna Johnston MacManus
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Dying Embers
It’s the end of a fiery passion
The birth of dying embers
Our hearts know this can mean only one thing
The goodbye of dear friends
It’s the new found silence we share
The birth of dying embers
We drift apart helplessly
The inevitability of the end
It’s the many secrets and lies
The birth of dying embers
Buried and forgotten are trust and truth
The destruction of life’s vital bond
It’s the days we never touched
The birth of dying embers
Gone forever are the intense pleasures of light fingers on rose and velvet skin
The goodness of friendship forever lost
It’s the distance and space between us
The birth of dying embers
Our souls grow weak without each other, yet destiny is happily gratified
The goodbye of dear friends
The embers die out forever
Who can make them glow again?
poem by Rafael Yaw Kumi
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Winters Tale
I sit inside a warm dry room
And peer outside at darkest gloom
The wind is howling blowing hard
The leaves all dancing round the yard
The rain just pours and falls at will
The wind exerts the fiercest chill
The willow's flowing branches twist
And dance a dance that can't be missed
For here inside my safety lies
As winter plays before my eyes
No ill I feel from natures wrath
As she selects her chosen path
The glowing fire as if alive
While wind and rain just duck and dive
The warmth of embers glowing bright
cascade around me hold me tight
To me this is my perfect storm
As if upon this moment born
Forgetting all that's in the past
A place of safety.. home at last.
poem by Dave James
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The Comfort of a Storm
I sit inside a warm dry room
And peer outside at darkest gloom
The wind is howling blowing hard
The leaves all dancing round the yard
The rain just pours and falls at will
The wind exerts the fiercest chill
The willow's flowing branches twist
And dance a dance that can't be missed
For here inside my safety lies
As winter plays before my eyes
No ill I feel from natures wrath
As she selects her chosen path
The glowing fire as if alive
While wind and rain just duck and dive
The warmth of embers glowing bright
cascade around me hold me tight
To me this is my perfect storm
As if upon this moment born
Forgetting all that's in the past
A place of safety.. home at last.
poem by Dave James
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A Spell before Winter
After the red leaf and the gold have gone,
Brought down by the wind, then by hammering rain
Bruised and discolored, when October's flame
Goes blue to guttering in the cusp, this land
Sinks deeper into silence, darker into shade.
There is a knowledge in the look of things,
The old hills hunch before the north wind blows.
Now I can see certain simplicities
In the darkening rust and tarnish of the time,
And say over the certain simplicities,
The running water and the standing stone,
The yellow haze of the willow and the black
Smoke of the elm, the silver, silent light
Where suddenly, readying toward nightfall,
The sumac's candelabrum darkly flames.
And I speak to you now with the land's voice,
It is the cold, wild land that says to you
A knowledge glimmers in the sleep of things:
The old hills hunch before the north wind blows.
poem by Howard Nemerov
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Love Is A Cold Wind
Black/bourke
Love is a cold wind
When it blows away from you
As you watch it go, it hurts to know
Theres nothing you can do
Youre all alone again
And love is a cold wind
Love is a rain storm
But it only rains on you
And theres no one there who seems to care
No one to pull you through
And inside youre never warm
cause love is a rain storm
But when she was here
Love was a breezy morning
Filled with the sun
Warm as her smile
But now its done
Love is a cold wind as it blows away from
So you find your way, to yesterday
What else is there to do
Youre all alone again and love is a cold wind
But when she was here
Love was abreezy morning
Filled with the sun
Warm as her smile
But now its done
Love is a cold wind
As it blows away from you
As you watch it go
It hurts to know
Theres nothing you can do
And youre all alone again and love is a cold wind
Youre all alone again and love is a cold wind.
song performed by by Roy Orbison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Color Of The Wind
The wind blows blue
when it misses you.
the wind blows red
when it knows your dead.
the wind blows green
when it it sees you being mean.
the wind blows white
when your about to take flight.
the wind blows black
whenever it knows your not coming back.
the wind blows pink
whenever your blood is ink.
the wind blows orange
whenever you cant rhyme with orange.
the wind blows yellow
whenever you cant be mellow.
if i am black
then why wont you ever come back?
if i am red
then shall i weep because your dead?
if i am blue
then should i miss you?
if i am green
then must you be very mean?
if i am yellow
then why wont you be mellow?
poem by Jasmine Appelhaus
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