Brisk Wind in Chicago' 12/8/08
Just for a moment, I visited you in my imagination.
Words of edification swayed my soul, and drew me into your destine place.
I took in the brisk, soft, smooth wind on my face.
I enjoyed imagining being at your lake.
Snow wraps around you, and the air sings to you.
The trees are bare, however my southern soul longs to be there.
A visit is fine with me.
I heard a lot about you, can I get to know you?
Power is your song for people to be reborn.
Thanks for letting me get to know you a little bit,
I'll check with the airlines, and make sure my mind stays sharp, smart, and fit.
OH! My heart you have lit,
Brisk wind in Chicago...
Sallie Marie Tompkins Copyright 2008
Chosen Poetess...
poem by Sallie Marie Tompkins
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Related quotes
I'm In Love With You
I'm in love with you,
I fell in love with you during a difficult situation.
I adore the brisk wind that lifts up off of the lake,
that pertrudes to my face.
I mean, I'm digging you.
I long to court you, not to marry you,
yet get a spot to get to know you.
Frequent visits stir my heart to believe,
that we could last forever!
Your foundation is deep like the sea,
captivating my emotions for eternity.. wwwwwwwhhhhhhooooooo!
You are the wind, you are the wind, that blows
and stirs my heart in the right direction.
I'm telling you, I'm digging you more than you will ever know.
My desire has been fulfilled, and I've made my confession, and request.
I look forward to giving you my best.
Chicago, I'm in love with you.
Can it be true that I, discovered a city as beautiful as you,
I long to visit you, ever so often.
The wind breathes against my face soft like cotton,
you erase the things that are rotten.'
You protect what's yours.
Your wind tells a story of the night moon glow.
I smell the spring of life as you blow the troubles away from the lake.
They run to you for security, you captivate, motivate them to be better people in the form of a still soft wind.
You rise up their emotions to a different place than what they were in.
You pull them out of the dungeon with your beautiful fall air,
you wave them from left to right, and side to side.
You let them know that everything with the sun hitting them,
will be all right.
Chicago, Chicago wind....
poem by Sallie Marie Tompkins
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Chicago Sestina
I am surprised by the streets of Chicago
when the palm of winter grips them with snow
as if to forgive the city’s mistakes
and give it a canvas that’s new, white, and clean–
its fingers, the branches on all of the trees
kneading the air that blows in from the lake.
I’ve never lived next to the pulse of the lake
(until I set foot down the side of Chicago)
breathing in through the streets and out through the trees
welcoming the cool of the wet, numbing snow.
It lets my mind slip into thinking it’s clean
as if to personally forgive my mistakes.
“But what have you done to forgive your mistakes? ”
Did I ask this? Or is that the voice of the lake?
Some days, not even does it appear clean,
worn down from its tall standing neighbor, Chicago.
It scrapes at the sky, asking it for more snow
to stick to and freeze the trunks of the trees.
If I were a branch on one of these trees
incapable of making a single mistake,
I’d grab at the sky as it shook out the snow
and grow my roots thick till they tasted the lake.
But I wouldn’t bend to the force of Chicago
that’s constantly keeping me from being clean.
And what does it mean to try to be clean?
I don’t understand the stillness of the trees
when they’re being attacked by the size of Chicago
as if to glorify the city’s mistakes
that glisten like stars at night on the lake
before it all froze and was covered with snow.
Ah! To imagine how long there’s been snow.
How can something this old still feel so clean
and dance through the wind that swoops in from the lake?
Is it the kneading by the spiny branches on trees
trusting that there will be no more mistakes
that leaves these the only pure thing in Chicago?
Here comes the snow that seeks out the trees
Am I now clean? Where are my mistakes?
Chicago belongs where it lay with the lake.
poem by Brian Maloney
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Melancholy
I walk in the wind
The breeze wraps about me -
The sunset has begun
And it's all I seem to see.
The melancholy I know so well
Returns as a faithful old friend -
Distant crystal clouds going away
Flow through my soul like an intangible end.
They smiling aglow beg me follow
To a place I'm unsure I know -
The very same place found
Just beyond the rising rainbow.
There is a color in the wind
Not to be seen, only heard -
A voice in the sun's last light
Speaking to the soul in unpronounceable words.
Wind, clouds, sunlight
Everything lives, leaves, and moves through -
Sooner or later each human
Has to take notice... and go along too...
poem by Smoky Hoss
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Melancholy Song
-believing that humans are made in the image of God
has its implications;
living life here, while looking There
brings about the most precarious, melancholy situations-
There's a sad song singing
In the soul of the wind,
And yet a joyful wind blowing
Through every soul's song.
It never stays
And it never goes,
Calling our hearts onward
To wherever it flows.
It's a song of sadness
And of good cheer,
A song of great warmth
And no small fear.
The song of the masses
And the song of one,
The sound of breaking darkness in the night
And the music of the rising sun.
It's the melancholy in me
And great joy,
It's the deep desire to stay
And yet homeward go.
I know this song
And the tears it brings,
I hear this song
Within my heart, where it sings.
It leaves me lonely
But, never alone,
For it's ever with me
Singing of a place, called Home.
poem by Smoky Hoss
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Face The Wind
Face the wind
Feel the pressure
It blows me away
It rushes past to God knows where
When I turn my self to stand in its path
Feel it Almost like
Radiant fingers Invigorating
Strokes energy through my flowing hair
Filling with joy my heart
Soul overflows with passion I feel
I hear nothing but the wind
It is everything in my ears
And when I finally speak
Words leave my mouth
And all leave presence
As wind captures them and
Steals them from the listening
To hoard them in its vast secret place
Far away beyond most imagination
Feel the wind
Speak into it your secrets
Taste, Smell its messages
Hear voices it carries
From animals and trees and
Storms and lovers
See it, watch its patterns
Where it comes from and goes to
Look at its journey, its traveling
But can’t
You can’t see it
But you can feel it
Somewhere it is deep
And its colours would be beautiful
Face the wind
Full-force you feel it and
It blows you away
Feel its soothing power
Breathe in life
Feel
Face the wind.
poem by Zoe MacRae
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The Song of the Wind
Have you heard the wind blow
Through the leaves of tress
That sway and bend
In reverence to the wind?
Have you heard the lonely song
Of the wind
As it searches the world
Looking for its love?
Oh, the song of the wind,
A melancholy dirge,
Singing in time
To the funeral march
Of a forgotten soul
And the song of the wind
Howls mournfully...
The song of a heart that is breaking
And can no longer live
Without his love.
poem by Thomas Noel Smith
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Between Sun & Moon
Words by neil peart and pye dubois,
Music by geddy lee and alex lifeson
There is a lake between sun and moon
Not too many know about
In the silence between whisper and shout
The space between wonder and doubt
This is a fine place
Shining face to face
Those bonfire lights in the mirror of sky
The space between wonder and why
Ahh yes to yes to ahh ahh to yes
Why the sun why the sun
There is a fine line between love and illusion ---
A fine place to penetrate
The gap between actor and act
The lens between wishes and fact
This is a fine place
To hesitate
Those bonfire lights in the lake of sky
The time between wonder and why
Some need to pray to the sun at high noon
Some need to howl at the midwinter moon
Reborn and baptized in a moment of grace
We just need a break ---
From the headlong race
Ahh yes to yes to ahh ahh to yes
Why the sun why the sun
This is a fine place, shining face to face
These bonfire lights in the mirrored sky
The space between wonder and why
song performed by by Rush
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Wind Child
The Wind has a voice,
A sad, sweet voice
I've heard it sing
Long and beautiful
Like Wind should be,
Carrying forever
The singing Wind is rarely heard
It's quiet and soft and
Unnoticeable
I am a Wind Child
I hear the Wind as
She sings her sad, sweet song
I am a Wind Child
And I sing with the Wind
Wind Children are rare as
True Hope
Special as Love
Wind Child
Is me
poem by Sahar Alive
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The Wind
I saw you toss the kites on high
And blow the birds about the sky;
And all around I heard you pass,
Like ladies' skirts across the grass--
O wind, a-blowing all day long,
O wind, that sings so loud a song!
I saw the different things you did,
But always you yourself you hid.
I felt you push, I heard you call,
I could not see yourself at all--
O wind, a-blowing all day long,
O wind, that sings so loud a song!
O you that are so strong and cold,
O blower, are you young or old?
Are you a beast of field and tree,
Or just a stronger child than me?
O wind, a-blowing all day long,
O wind, that sings so loud a song!
poem by Robert Louis Stevenson
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Mauthe Lake
Long scenic drive to her
a beautiful park and lake
enjoying the crisp fall air
the beautiful fall landscape
the peacefulness she brings
the huge lake so calm this time of the year
a lone canoe with two fishermen afloat
trying to make a few late season catches
the waves so gently wave
the beach deserted, a few hikers here and there
the scenery so gorgeous, mother nature at her best
as I stroll the trails, you could hear a pin drop
the slight wind blowing thru the trees
a few birds still chirping, a few heading south
a squirrel here and there
the brisk air feels good on the face
the smell of fresh rain tingles the nose
as I walk the fishing pier I notice a few fishes
enjoying the lake without hooks harms
so peaceful to walk her mighty landscape
clears the mind and makes you think
how such a wonderful place survived man
as the sunset on the lake, it brings a chilling breeze
night to all who came to enjoy her
maybe I will be back, who know
Mauthe Lake, mother nature's wonderland
a Haven for all to to have peace and mind
poem by Michael Peterson
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A Song For The Journey
A SONG FOR THE JOURNEY
Sometimes you may sing in your heart
or have song running through your head
but there’s always singing’s in your soul
and it’s on this song’s journey you’ll be led.
Towards a distant point, as yet unclear
your singing soul will lead you on
to find that place of understanding
with all your preconceptions gone.
Yet we sometimes meet more questions
Hard, hash decisions we must make
So the Soul song leads you onwards
along the pathway you must take.
The road can be both rough and smooth
its horizon hidden from your view
But the power within the singing
gives you strength to see it through.
With every step upon the road
the soul song keeps its tune and beat
and from its verses courage comes
to face the challenges you meet.
For some the song is understood
they come to recognise the voice
and in the facets of their lives
they use the song to make their choice
Some feel of the sound of singing
but don’t care, or know, where from
The song it doesn’t differentiate
into each soul it still sings on.
If we can listen to the message
and the true meaning in the song
Our footfall becomes much gentler
down the paths we walk along.
It’s the soundtrack of the life we lead
of the choices in life we make
The pragmatic or compassionate
a search for beauty, greed, or hate
Somewhere wthin the soul song
are great sacrifice and pain
and a promise ever present
of eternal peace and life again.
In the silence and the stillness
between all the bustle and the strife
listen carefully and you’ll recognise
the first and last love song of your life.
poem by Bill Mitton
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Song In The Wind
There's a wind in the air
Filled with song
A gentle voice
Low and long -
It sings life
And it sings time
It blows so easily through
Hearts and minds -
It's the word of wisdom
And the entirety of the ages
Embracing all being
From the audacious to the sages -
It sings out
Lifelong
Continuously calling
In a soulful song -
It's always there for everyone
Blowing free
Even unto our very last day
As it carries us, one by one, into eternity -
It is the Song in the wind
The Voice of the soul
It's the living sound
Every heart mysteriously, somehow does hear and know -
poem by Smoky Hoss
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Stranger In The Wind...
Stranger in the wind...
Beckons at my door.
Stanger in the wind...
Wanting even more.
Stranger in the wind...
Hard to really ignore.
Stranger in the wind..
Making my heart ache, as sore.
Stranger in the wind...
Rapping at my door.
Stanger in the wind...
Who knows i am so poor.
Stranger in the wind...
My time here-has me bore...
Many aches and pains of a thirsting heart...
Can only be quenched by ye, your remembered part.
Stranger in the wind...
My heart, you'll win.
Stranger in the wind...
Yon soul so deep.
Stranger in the wind...
My heart you'll keep.
Stranger in the wind...
my soul you'll reap.
Stranger in the wind...
You make me weep.
poem by Michael Gale
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A Ballad of Dreamland
I hid my heart in a nest of roses,
Out of the sun's way, hidden apart;
In a softer bed than the soft white snow's is,
Under the roses I hid my heart.
Why would it sleep not? why should it start,
When never a leaf of the rose-tree stirred?
What made sleep flutter his wings and part?
Only the song of a secret bird.
Lie still, I said, for the wind's wing closes,
And mild leaves muffle the keen sun's dart;
Lie still, for the wind on the warm seas dozes,
And the wind is unquieter yet than thou art.
Does a thought in thee still as a thorn's wound smart?
Does the fang still fret thee of hope deferred?
What bids the lips of thy sleep dispart?
Only the song of a secret bird.
The green land's name that a charm encloses,
It never was writ in the traveller's chart,
And sweet on its trees as the fruit that grows is,
It never was sold in the merchant's mart.
The swallows of dreams through its dim fields dart,
And sleep's are the tunes in its tree-tops heard;
No hound's note wakens the wildwood hart,
Only the song of a secret bird.
ENVOI
In the world of dreams I have chosen my part,
To sleep for a season and hear no word
Of true love's truth or of light love's art,
Only the song of a secret bird.
poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
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The Wind
I listen to the wind
To the wind of my soul
Where Ill end up well I think,
Only God really knows
Ive sat upon the setting sun
But never, never never never
I never wanted water once
No, never, never, never
I listen to my words but
They fall far below
I let my music take me where
My heart wants to go
I swam upon the devils lake
But never, never never never
Ill never make the same mistake
No, never, never, never
song performed by by Cat Stevens
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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So Much To Do
The face of the world is a homely face,
And the look of the world unkind,
When harsh on your arm a hand it lays
And bids you into the grind,
That 's little to your mind, my dear,
That 's little to your mind.
But it 's work that counts in the world, you see;
Not what we dream, but do:
For the dreamer of dreams, whatever he be,
If he 'd have his dreams come true,
Must be a workman, too, my dear,
Must be a workman, too.
So much to do; so much to know;
So much that life would shirk!
But each is one of a hive below,
The world's great Hive of Irk,
Where each must do his work, my dear,
Each one must do his work.
A song, a look, a word of cheer,
Will help more than a sigh!
For this is the law of the hive, my dear,
That every bee must try, my dear,
And all the drones must die, my dear,
That all the drones must die.
Oft-times it seems that the end is far,
And the work we do, in vain;
That night will never reveal a star,
And day bring only rain,
To trouble our hearts again, my dear,
To trouble our hearts again.
But ever the stars are shining there
With ever the old regard;
And be it foul, or be it fair,
However long debarred,
All work has its reward, my dear,
All work has its reward.
Could summer come without the rose?
Or morn without the sun?
And thus shall toil bring soul's repose
To each and every one,
Whose work at last is done, my dear,
Whose work at last is done.
For the face of the world is a homely face,
But the look in its eyes is kind
To him who sets his heart's brisk pace
To the work he has in mind,
And turns not with the wind, my dear,
And turns not with the wind.
poem by Madison Julius Cawein
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Her Song
Can you hear how she sings her song
and how it contents her so?
Can you tell when she sings it
where it has her go?
No, I think only she can say
as it takes her to a place
beyond this world, beyond this time
to somewhere out in space.
There she finds the comfort
that her soul is searching for.
There she finds the enchantment
that her fingers are aching for.
That's why each day she sings her song.
It's a transport for her mind.
For without her song she would always be
in a place her heart can't find.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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Ending [Final]
The memories invade my brain
As crows in poplars build their nest,
While clouds go by and come again,
Like smoke, above the lake and plain,
And never rest.
It's gone the autumn with its shine
Of faded green an vivid gold,
With purple grapes, which look so fine,
And now the park, my soul divine,
Are bare and cold.
The frozen lake will be resigned
When the last leaf falls to the ground
And wind through branches gently blows,
So that you know you left behind
A field of snow, which makes no sound,
And wailing crows.
poem by Al. O. Teodoreanu, translated by Octavian Cocoş
Submitted by anonym
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When the Wind Returns
a soft strong voice called me,
a voice i'd heard before
but couldnt quite remember...
and my spirit rose from my body,
and left through the bedroom window
without looking back...
there is a space beyond the stars
in the darkest sky... a place
beyond the mind's understanding...
when light returns to darkness
and is reborn.... in tiny particles
of dust that gather and are formed....
a song that has no human words...
but is known and knowing... and
can only be played by human hands...
i do not know... dont have to!
but i know beyond knowing...
and have drank water from that brook...
when the wind returns, so will i...
i need no name, no familiar face...
you'll know i'm there when you breathe!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Sonnet: Brisk-walking For Health
Brisk-walking’s the secret of his fine health,
A man almost a centenarian!
Keeping fit, he considers his sole wealth,
A doctor and pure vegetarian.
He walks both in the mornings and evening,
When the sun is still shining not so bright;
Thinking in his heart and mind the right things;
An ex-military man marching left-right!
Though old, he walks straight and is not much bent,
Swinging a walking-stick, not using it;
Wearing brown goggles, oh, he’s a gent!
Cheerful always, he doesn’t worry a bit.
Brisk-walk man and keep fit throughout your life;
And if possible, take with your wife!
poem by John Celes
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