With blazing, electric blue thunder
(after Pablo Neruda)
With blazing, electric blue thunder
the morning is alive in this summer.
The wind tosses the threatening clouds like washing
torn from the line, waving goodbye without hands.
The mouthless harsh voice of the wind
howls right through our blissful silence.
Thunder bolts rock exploding in bright white light
while the wind rips leaves, branches and trees
as if in remembrance of long gone battles and wars
while it tosses squalls of pattering buckets of rain
sounding like the roar of a havoc orchestra
from the very gates of destruction, right from hell
while big oak trees sway as if only twigs,
some topple torn right out from their roots
and against me storm tossed in passion you are laying,
coming weightless full of fiery blazing desire,
with tender sweet lips that are kissing bringing bliss
and outside the wind roars as if its power is endless.
[Reference: “Es La Mañana Llena” “The Morning Is Full” by Pablo Neruda.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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Related quotes
The Morning Is Full
The morning is full of storm
in the heart of summer.
The clouds travel like white handkerchiefs of goodbye,
the wind, traveling, waving them in its hands.
The numberless heart of the wind
beating above our loving silence.
Orchestral and divine, resounding among the trees
like a language full of wars and songs.
Wind that bears off the dead leaves with a quick raid
and deflects the pulsing arrows of the birds.
Wind that topples her in a wave without spray
and substance without weight, and leaning fires.
Her mass of kisses breaks and sinks,
assailed in the door of the summer's wind.
(a pablo neruda collection)
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Sun Is Hidden (Terzanelle)
(after Lewis Turco)
The sun is hidden, huge shadows gather
while the wind rocks branches blow the leaves
and milling dark clouds draw together
this is the moment when thunderbolts cleaves
when rain drizzles, then pours down steadily
while the wind rocks branches blow the leaves
when full of superstition old people speak guardedly
of branches of thunder, sheets of blue-white lightning
when rain drizzles, then pours down steadily
and the bolts of thunder comes down somewhat frightening
when people draw curtains, sit in the semi-darkness, are afraid
of branches of thunder, sheets of blue-white lightning
and without power at candlelight the table is laid
while the acts of nature, its sheer power we cannot ignore,
when people draw curtains, sit in the semi-darkness, are afraid
and we have experienced this kind of weather sometime before.
The sun is hidden, huge shadows gather
while the acts of nature, its sheer power we cannot ignore
and milling dark clouds draw together.
[Reference: 'Terzanelle in Thunderweather' by Lewis Turco.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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Mother Natures Fall Dress
The wind came up and started to blow
A sky filled with dark and rain coming slow.
Trees swaying touching the ground
The rain still coming but now surrounds.
Lightening slashing the fabric of the sky
Exposing the vestitial virgins colorful eye.
The river was in a turmoil with patches of wake
Falls first weather and summer heat, to break.
The wind picking up almost to a gale
Thunder and lightening with enough rain to fill a pail.
I sit among natures eventual force
Wind, ligntening and dark clouds of course.
More white caps on the river below
In a few short months we will call them snow.
The butterfly with flapping wings in haste
The wind takes no excuse for being late.
Disneyland could put on a replica of this endeavor
Wind, rain, thunder and lightening and be very clever.
poem by chuck Hurley
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The Storm
The clouds turned to gray
The air turned to cold
And I knew by that day
Some evil would unfold.
It arrived without a warning
Along with the pounding rain
And it was gone by the morning
As violently as it came.
But for that night I lived in terror
That night I lived in fright
With every sound I heard
With every flash of light.
Violently came the wind
Terrorizing with no form
Then came the thunder and lightning,
Arriving, was the storm.
Many trees I saw bent
Then God clapped his mighty hand
While many trees were refusing to fall,
But then, a tree didn't stand.
Rushing came the wind
Pounding came the rain
Crashing came the thunder
Quickly, came my pain.
Underneath my bed I hid
From the terror of the storm
And in pain and terror I cried
In horror and pain I moaned.
That night I lived in terror
That night I lived in fright
With every sound I heard
With every flash of light.
And the rain just kept falling
More tears I began to weep
For the wind just kept calling,
Then that night; I fell asleep.
Then morning she finally came
I awoke to the sound of peace and birds
The sound of thunder and rain was gone
Which had awoke my sleeping world.
Then outside towards the sky I stared,
To the clouds God he did call
I saw Gods hand moving the wind
Commanding the rain not to fall.
Then the sun began to shine
So on my knees I fell to pray
Then again, I began to cry
Thanking God; the storm had went away.
poem by Randy McClave
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Impundulu
When in summer
stormy clouds gather
and chains of blue-white thunder
comes flaming down, sneaks nearer and neared
Impundulu is flying,
souring high into the air
with its blazing eyes looking everywhere
and something has disturbed its resting place,
in the giant tamboti tree
that roots in the cliffs,
into the very heart of the earth,
that branches into the clouds,
the place of the upper waters
and when the rain starts pouring
as if without end, the medicine man,
the witchdoctor, the Inyanga
puts secret herbs, magic spices
coming from the dark cliffs
in a cooking pot
that he applies to every doorpost
of the native village
believing that it has the ability
to keep the bird of thunder away
while it's exploding voice is drawing closer,
small bolts frizzles, fire erupts where it gazes
and the power of its claws and beak
shatters even the hardest rocks
and in the village huts the children
are scared to even breathe,
their mothers and fathers pray
to the Almighty God,
to Unkulunkulu, the Big-Big One
to keep the bird of thunder away.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Mother Nature's Fall Dress
Mother Nature's Fall Dress
The wind came up and started to blow
A sky filled with dark and rain coming slow.
Trees swaying touching the ground
The rain still coming but now surrounds.
Lightening slashing the fabric of the sky
Exposing the vestigial virgins, colorful eye.
The river was in a tourmoil with patches of wake
Falls first weather and summer heat to break
The wind picking up almost to a gale
Thunder and lightening with enough rain to fill a pail.
I sit among nature's eventual force
Wind, lightening and dark clouds; of course.
More white caps on the river below
In a few short months we will call them snow.
The butterfly with flapping wings in haste
Wind takes no excuse for being late.
Disneyland could put on a replica of this endeavor
Wind, rain; thunder and lightening and be very clever.
10-28-05 Aho speaks.
poem by AHO Speaks
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Wind, wind everywhere
Wind here, wind there, wind wind everywhere.
In the trees, in the grass, wind comes to pass.
It cools off in summer, freezes in winter, and all in between.
Wind brings clouds and rain for the drain.
poem by Hannah Barton
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After Ventersdorp,4 April 2010
In storm language the wind talks
blind full of thunder
that draws blue lines
over the tar road
and the Jacarandas wriggle,
washing on balconies are jerked
and now angry
the wind howls and cries
and I see lightning bolts
slamming down near the Union Buildings.
Rows of maize fields greet me
where the knobs stand green
and there’s no peace
coming from the greeting
and in vain is waited on the murdered farmer
and somewhere there are cattle bellowing
but not for long anymore
as the slaughterers
are sharpening their Panga-blades
and have already violated the farmer
his wife and daughter,
have stolen what they can
and nobody can stop the plunder and pillage
of the country
as a swarm of locust are descending.
poem by Gert Strydom
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The Rain Is Like A Man
the rain this early morning
has an accompanying wind
i look at them by the window
my inner world divided by a thick glass
the trees are swaying and some leaves
begin to fall like some kind of a dance
the rain like a man carries the wind
on his arms and the wind leans down
i catch a glimpse of how they passionately kiss
it is sad and lonely and then the rain stops
the morning sun comes and the leaves
are at the feet of the trees kind of wet with tears.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Sonnet: The Wind
What shakes the trees so violently? ’Tis Wind;
What moves the clouds hither/ thither? ’Tis Wind;
What takes the tornado around? ’Tis Wind;
What brings the sandstorm on the earth? ’Tis Wind.
What makes the cool and gentle breeze? ’Tis Wind
What makes the boughs and leaves to dance? ’Tis Wind;
What makes the autumn leaves to fall? ’Tis Wind;
What makes the honey-bees to fly? ’Tis Wind.
What makes pollen reach in showers? ’Tis Wind;
What makes the dust to climb towers? ’Tis Wind;
What spreads the perfume of flowers? ’Tis Wind;
What makes the rain-clouds advance far? ’Tis Wind.
What makes the Wind to blow? ’Tis God;
What makes a Tempest stop? ’ Tis our Lord.
7-18-2001
poem by John Celes
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NO more SUNSHINE
A new morning arrives but I can't see the sun rise.
All I see is the darken clouds in my light-less skies.
Heavy rain pours down from the clouds on my worn surface
Lighten strike thunder roars another hard hit to embrace
Wind so bitter my skins feel like it's being slice with a razor blade
Everything is being up rooted by the wind that won't fade
I am hold on for life but I seen no end to this destructive force
It's not a known storm; no weather man could've seen the source
It's more like a predator/a carnivore and I'm the main course
Eating at my heart and soul nothing left no remorse
It's the darkness of storm on my most terrifying of days
I prefer my skin get slice repeated with Chicago wind's razor blade
No more tears can fall from these dark clouds of this rain storm
I must accept this faith/find my shelter, and move on
It's easy for me to say now but without you my divine
I feel the rest of my days I will have NO more SUNSHINE
poem by LoKis White
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The storm...
A breeze enhanced becomes a wind, nature is aroused.
Clouds accumulate, skies become grey and hostile.
Rain drops fall like tears of life without emotion.
Electric streaks explode from a scowling sky.
Thunder rumbles follow closely, the voice of life echos.
Rain intensifies to become a torrential orchestra.
A crescendo of raindrops beating out lifes rythm.
Fingers of lightening stretch down to mother earth.
Thunder follows closely behind, a deafening cry.
The wind now a tempest showing tremendous power.
The sight of such power makes me feel so small.
The smell of natures energy purifies my soul.
The sound of this incredible event so monumental.
The taste of the rain on my tongue so pure.
The wind battering my body feels so perfect.
I laugh at the storm, show me your best.
As life moves around me, I wait and witness.
The storm so breathtaking, makes me feel reborn.
In this moment i am caressed by the hand of nature.
The storm is my life... My life is the storm...
Spread the love... The peace will follow...
poem by Cosmic Dreamer
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Daybreak is A Glowing Bright Ball
Daybreak is a glowing bright ball
from which the fiery rays shine,
sometimes drops falling along with thunder,
with freshness embracing me when I go outside.
Early morning is a bright sun hanging in the heaven
when the colour of the bright blue
catches you with something full of mystery,
with the wind sometimes clinging to you with fingers.
Spring is flower upon flower
that is spread over fruit trees,
the beauty that astonishes you
when the garden of God stretch into the fields.
Summer is fruit that waits ripe and luring
when everything becomes adult,
sunny day upon sunny day
where the prettiest flowers are still flowering.
Autumn is coloured leaves that are everywhere,
the summer still lingering for the last time
and everything has a secret knowledge
that winter is coming, even every sunray
and nowhere I can find the words of a child,
while I am blinded by the glorious world from being young.
poem by Gert Strydom
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The Month of June
The month of June brings wind that’s strong,
Which blows fiercely for long;
Through narrow lanes, it howls and wails,
Clapping aloud, boat-sails.
The trees both tall and huge too sway,
By wind’s brute force all day;
The leaves and twigs are carried high,
And heaped by road-sides dry.
The rain though scarce is pleasant, oh,
And cleans the wind and bough;
And all turns calm quite suddenly:
The wind loses fury.
The month of June’s when all schools start;
And children all books cart;
They wear new shoes and uniforms,
And learn as per new norms!
poem by John Celes
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Anemos Cries With The Wolf
The lightening clashes in the sky
thunder roars
rain crashes to the ground
dark clouds consume the all
a cursive wind blows
critters take warning
Luna has vanished
midnight is upon us
wind chimes sing
leaves dance in the wind to their tune
the anemoi are displeased
their howls echo
the wind has a mind of it's own
It calls to me
guides me
a wolf crawls from his den
as untamed as anemos
he cries to the moon
Sol soon begins to rise
breathless and tired
the wolf stumbles back to his den
and awaits another moonless night to sing his lonely song
poem by by unknown author
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Summer's Wind
Be weary, Lord of the summer wind,
Lord of the heat that you blow in,
Away with flowers, land and trees,
To stay them not, least all the trees.
Listen to this, all that I say,
Our land does die, and drift away.
Our living born upon the wind,
All of ours, and those of friends.
So we called upon the leave-filled wind,
The autumn one, of which were friends.
This wind of cool and gentle hand,
Not like the wind that stole our land.
And the heat did melt into the leaves,
And turned them colors from the trees.
Then the leave-filled wind bore them away,
And upon the land, they came to stay.
And stayed them there, till land-hard cold,
And then the land, the leaves they stole.
And after the harsh cold wind had blown,
And living soil again was sown,
Summer's wind came again to prey,
Upon our lands, most every day.
But our living land, the leaves did save,
And the summer's wind did blow away,
Never to re-live, the seasons day.
The cool soft wind now blows so free,
Upon the land, and through the trees.
All through the people, and over me.
poem by Sandra Osborne
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Spirit of Poetry, The
There is a quiet spirit in these woods,
That dwells where'er the gentle south-wind blows;
Where, underneath the white-thorn, in the glade,
The wild flowers bloom, or, kissing the soft air,
The leaves above their sunny palms outspread.
With what a tender and impassioned voice
It fills the nice and delicate ear of thought,
When the fast ushering star of morning comes
O'er-riding the gray hills with golden scarf;
Or when the cowled and dusky-sandaled Eve,
In mourning weeds, from out the western gate,
Departs with silent pace! That spirit moves
In the green valley, where the silver brook,
From its full laver, pours the white cascade;
And, babbling low amid the tangled woods,
Slips down through moss-grown stones with endless laughter.
And frequent, on the everlasting hills,
Its feet go forth, when it doth wrap itself
In all the dark embroidery of the storm,
And shouts the stern, strong wind. And here, amid
The silent majesty of these deep woods,
lts presence shall uplift thy thoughts from earth,
As to the sunshine and the pure, bright air
Their tops the green trees lift. Hence gifted bards
Have ever loved the calm and quiet shades.
For them there was an eloquent voice in all
The sylvan pomp of woods, the golden sun,
The flowers, the leaves, the river on its way,
Blue skies, and silver clouds, and gentle winds,
The swelling upland, where the sidelong sun
Aslant the wooded slope, at evening, goes,
Groves, through whose broken roof the sky looks in,
Mountain, and shattered cliff, and sunny vale,
The distant lake, fountains, and mighty trees,
In many a lazy syllable, repeating
Their old poetic legends to the wind.
And this is the sweet spirit, that doth fill
The world; and, in these wayward days of youth,
My busy fancy oft embodies it,
As a bright image of the light and beauty
That dwell in nature; of the heavenly forms
We worship in our dreams, and the soft hues
That stain the wild bird's wing, and flush the clouds
When the sun sets. Within her tender eye
The heaven of April, with its changing light,
And when it wears the blue of May, is hung,
And on her lip the rich, red rose. Her hair
Is like the summer tresses of the trees,
When twilight makes them brown, and on her cheek
Blushes the richness of an autumn sky,
With ever-shifting beauty. Then her breath,
It is so like the gentle air of Spring,
As, front the morning's dewy flowers, it comes
Full of their fragrance, that it is a joy
To have it round us, and her silver voice
Is the rich music of a summer bird,
Heard in the still night, with its passionate cadence.
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Earlier Poems : The Spirit Of Poetry
There is a quiet spirit in these woods,
That dwells where'er the gentle south-wind blows;
Where, underneath the white-thorn, in the glade,
The wild flowers bloom, or, kissing the soft air,
The leaves above their sunny palms outspread.
With what a tender and impassioned voice
It fills the nice and delicate ear of thought,
When the fast ushering star of morning comes
O'er-riding the gray hills with golden scarf;
Or when the cowled and dusky-sandalled Eve,
In mourning weeds, from out the western gate,
Departs with silent pace! That spirit moves
In the green valley, where the silver brook,
From its full laver, pours the white cascade;
And, babbling low amid the tangled woods,
Slips down through moss-grown stones with endless laughter.
And frequent, on the everlasting hills,
Its feet go forth, when it doth wrap itself
In all the dark embroidery of the storm,
And shouts the stern, strong wind. And here, amid
The silent majesty of these deep woods,
lts presence shall uplift thy thoughts from earth,
As to the sunshine and the pure, bright air
Their tops the green trees lift. Hence gifted bards
Have ever loved the calm and quiet shades.
For them there was an eloquent voice in all
The sylvan pomp of woods, the golden sun,
The flowers, the leaves, the river on its way,
Blue skies, and silver clouds, and gentle winds,
The swelling upland, where the sidelong sun
Aslant the wooded slope, at evening, goes,
Groves, through whose broken roof the sky looks in,
Mountain, and shattered cliff, and sunny vale,
The distant lake, fountains, and mighty trees,
In many a lazy syllable, repeating
Their old poetic legends to the wind.
And this is the sweet spirit, that doth fill
The world; and, in these wayward days of youth,
My busy fancy oft embodies it,
As a bright image of the light and beauty
That dwell in nature; of the heavenly forms
We worship in our dreams, and the soft hues
That stain the wild bird's wing, and flush the clouds
When the sun sets. Within her tender eye
The heaven of April, with its changing light,
And when it wears the blue of May, is hung,
And on her lip the rich, red rose. Her hair
Is like the summer tresses of the trees,
When twilight makes them brown, and on her cheek
Blushes the richness of an autumn sky,
With ever-shifting beauty. Then her breath,
It is so like the gentle air of Spring,
As, front the morning's dewy flowers, it comes
Full of their fragrance, that it is a joy
To have it round us, and her silver voice
Is the rich music of a summer bird,
Heard in the still night, with its passionate cadence.
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Epiphany
Outside the surge of the wind, the wind in the trees,
The rush of leaves, and the sighing in the pine-needles,
Outside the sound of the sea-shore, distant, remembered,
The waves breaking on the gray rocks, and the evening approaching,
The restlessness, and the interminable noise.
Silence in the room, and solitude,
A sense of spaces, remoteness and nearness, and the soul's awareness,
Desolate is the hearts desire
And the loving knows no end,
When the morning in the clouds breaks across the sky,
And the forests sway and bend.
Outside the wind, the wind in the trees,
And the sighing in the tree-tops.
Noises from the town, heedless, unthinking, indistinct,
Recurring, fading,
And silence in the room, and solitude,
The shadowy dimness, the darkness of evening,
A pause in time, and the soul's awareness.
poem by John Thorkild Ellison
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In A Dark Night Of A Cape Winter
In a dark night of a Cape winter
fog rises from the plantation of pine trees
of which the scent is suddenly sharp everywhere
while the slight wind does not even stir the leaves,
or the sieving rain that is falling days without end.
Days later the southeast wind howls like an angry beast,
whipping trees to and thro, pulling even big oaks
right from their roots, throwing squalls of rain
splattering like continuous buckshot against the roofs,
against window panes and the coldness creeps in
and like a child you wonder when the angry beast
will again go to rest; go back to its hidden lair.
poem by Gert Strydom
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