The Calling Of The Trees
The wind.
The calling of the trees,
Whose leaves flow
Endlessly through the wind,
Calling the sound,
Of water,
Like waves
Of the beach.
Beyond.
The row of trees
Standing in line
Along the shore,
Through them
Pass to where
Green grey water
Meets the sand,
In constant push
Through the shorebirds legs.
Crows call, geese horn
And the wind
Flows steady, strong and sure.
The wind smelling of salt and green.
(7.18.7 The View)
poem by Heather Z. Hanna
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Related quotes
Hurricane Watch
Green. Green the leaves,
and waves gray on the forehead of the beach.
As easy as breeze tensing lengths of hair
waves lift, then snap back like springs.
Trees bend and kneel, fling out brown arms
to catch their running children.
Green. Green the leaves, and wind
pours on the forehead of the beach.
See how sand wrinkles in the lee,
and anchors part like lovers
from invisible chains. Ships break
then run their length to freedom.
Green. Green the weeds,
and sea foams on the forehead of the beach.
Women’s names swim to greet the waves.
And sea sings, “Eve. Eve. Eve.” Mermaid
who set her cap for them, she beckons each
figurehead to her pale and smiling reach.
Green. Green the waves,
and spray glistening on the forehead of the beach.
Her arms catch and embrace hulls like shoulders.
Bold as dolphins they leap to her lips before she
slaps away the face of any sailor so foolish.
Gray. Gray the waves, and flotsam
in pieces grinding on the wet stones of the beach.
poem by Val Morehouse
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Tis Breath, Then...
tis breath, then...
wrought with infinite longing,
that called light from darkness,
and being from non-being.
that, spent as wind,
calling forth waves from oceans,
calling forth land from water,
blowing dry and forming.
tis breath, then...
calling male and female to join.
calling trees and mountains to tangle.
defining hill and valley,
both far and near.
calling forth fire from imagination,
calling thought from inertness.
calling music from stillness.
tis breath, then...
calling tribe unto tribe.
creating gods from reflection.
calling souls from dead bones,
naming names, defining eternity,
calling forth desire, hunger, and wonder.
calling forth construction and ambition...
calling forth ego!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Moments At The Beach
flowing water, cool breeze
waves washing a shore
birds drifting in the wind
boats sailing on the water
people strolling along the beach
children playing in the sand
sun bathers laying a shore
swimmers playing in the water
volleyball in the sand
family picnics under the trees
The lake so beautiful
The beach so free
people being friendly
the life so simple for a day at the beach
Strangers, friends and family enjoying the lake
the simple things in life is enjoy nature and ourselves
poem by Michael Peterson
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A Short Story
A wind blows gently in the night, filling the place where I just left. Whistling down the beaten path, through trees that are green and amongst the fallen brush. Is this just wind or is this something else?
The trees bend and bow as the wind gains speed crashing towards me like an animal stalking it’s prey. Faster it comes charging and announcing it’s existence. The wind screams now calling to me, giving me chills.
I turn to run, I don’t want this wind. It will change me. It will mold me. It will fill me. I start to run, banging into trees, as branches slam into me cutting my flesh as I hurry by. The wind does not stop it never breaks course. I hear it closer.
The wind fills my thoughts as I stumble and fall. I look down and see blood streaming from my knee. I get up resilient to the last. I cry out to the Lord for wisdom, but I hear nothing.
I see onlookers scoffing and pointing at me. Some cheer me on as I continue my struggle climbing up what seems like an Everest of a mountain. I look back and see the wind bearing down on me.
I continue forward sprinting with all of my strength. My chest is pounding and my legs are heavy with an aching pain that shoots up and down my whole body.
Ahead is a cliff sharp and rugged. Should I jump or do I accept the wind’s fate for me? I yell out for help and no help comes. I sink to the ground for I am completely broken.
poem by Michael Brown
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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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Until they lose everything
In the Springtime
The wind beats the trees
Until they lose
Their most beautiful flowers
In the Summertime
The wind beats the trees
Until they lose
Their most beloved fruits
In the Autumn time
The wind beats the trees
Until they lose
Their most painful leaves
In the Winter time
The wind beats the trees
Until they lose
Their hope.
And the wind beats again those trees
Until they lose
Their most important spring buds
Again and again
Until they lose their sap
Moreover
The wind beats the trees
Until they collapse down
To the ground.
poem by Marieta Maglas
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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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Music of waves
I see the waves, washing away the steps on sand,
I hear the wind, singing its song strange,
I hear the strings of trees playing it -
A music of waves, music of wind.
Here it is hard to say, where is asphalt,
Here it is hard to say, what is a car.
Here you should throw a water up to hear:
The music of waves, music of wind.
Who could remember about those, that took the wrong way?
Who could remember about those, that were singing and laughing well?
Who could remember, feeling the cold butt, indeed,
Music of waves and music of wind.
song, lyrics by Victor Tsoi, translated by Lyudmila Purgina
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The and My Wind
Swishy air on my face,
blows around,
turning the leaves,
carrying my cry,
for the world to hear,
I am near,
carry the seeds,
Oh wind!
make new trees,
Oh wind!
make the fruit of life,
Oh wind!
take me out of my strife,
Oh wind!
my wind!
my wind!
put us out of misery,
for we are creation too,
you hear me don't you,
don't torment us wind!
poem by Aamir Zain
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The Southern Wind
The Southern wind is blowing
From the south
The wind is very strong
The trees are shaking
The leaves are falling
What a forceful wind!
On the wind-vane is pointing towards the south....
poem by by unknown author
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Mystery Obscured
Far away from nothing,
The trees in the sky is what I see.
I hear the wind - it's coming,
Stirring up the pine trees.
I hear the ocean behind -
Smell salt in the air.
The wind it finally reaches me,
Mixing pine with salt air.
The sky is steely grey,
The sun obscured by clouds.
It casts a mysterious light,
On trees and ocean alike.
poem by Aimee Nell
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The Shore Down Under
Lonely
As lonely as I can be
Slowly
As slow as time can be
I stared into the sea
I stared out to the waves
Slowly as slow as waves can be
When will you come to me
When will you come to me
Where the summer burns blue and green
Here on this burning sand
I listened to this hungry sea
Its falling on the level shores
And the wind blows through the trees
And I think of you
And I think of the days
If only I could see your face
The price of a holiday
Hope the wind will carry me away
Hope the wind will carry me away
Listen, listen
Listen to the siren
Hear your voice
Your voice cried by the river
Slowly, slowly
It flows to the sea
When will you come to me
When will you come to me
song performed by by Xymox
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Looking Back At The Greens
i too look back at those green things
from the point of view of my
green thumb
a vegetable garden without an aphid on a leaf
a row of roses, lush green leaves
and red blooms
some petals falling due to the
wind
a line of green mint trees along the path
leading to the highway
sounds of motors threatening what green there is
i come back and settle on this patch
of green meadows
and grass and gray shade
my own shadow cast
on the huge gabi leaf.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Meditations after Li Po for M lady Helen
I
I follow in the footsteps
of old poets of the past.
As geese fly south in autumn.
Instinct is my only guide.
My attempts to emulate,
may not bear such worthy fruit.
I can only do my best
II
The trees discard all their leaves
and face winter nakedly.
I ask myself why this should be
but I receive no reply.
Winter winds pass freely through
the leafless twigs and branches.
Dead leaves return to the earth.
III
The trees stand as sentinels
coated with white bitter frost
Bowing in submission
to the power of the wind.
Better to bend than to break,
the trees know instinctively
the wind dies as spring returns.
IV
Only when the time is right
the geese will return once more.
The trees will put forth new leaves,
flowers spring up underfoot
The spring sunshine will inspire
Poets to take up their brush
and ink: To write poetry.
21-Oct-07
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Working of the wind
Wind doesn't always topple trees
and shake houses to pieces.
Wind plays
all overwoods with weighty ghosts,
in swing in thousands
sinsing from ever branch.
Wind doesn't always rattle windows
and push, push at walls.
Wind whistles
down curl de sacs and wrorries,
dry leaves and newspappers to leap
and curl like kite tails.
Wind dosen't anways
dry out sweaty shirts and blouses.
Wind scattters
polllen dust of flowers, washes
people's and animal's faces
and combs out birs feathers.
Wind doesn't always whips up waves
in to white horses.
wind shakes up
tree shadows to dance on rivers,
to jig on grass, and hanging
latern lights to play signalman.
Wind doesn't always run wild
kicking tinny dustbin lids.
Wind makes
leafy limbs bow to red roses
and bob upand down outside windows
and make desk papers fly up in doors.
poem by Bethany Ford
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True Kingdom
The wind storm blew,
The green leaves flew,
Creakingly cracked the trees,
They tumbled with blows of the wind,
The turbans were blown away,
From the heads,
The shawls,
Entangled on the acacias’ thorns,
And the damsels moved mourning.
Ah! The wind storm blew,
All around the dust flew,
Only the kingdom,
Of the wind is the truth,
And all other is falsehood.
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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We walked on the beach
We walked on the beach
my shadow and I.
Rocks protruded
out of the sand
and a big ship passed by.
The tide was high
and the angry sea crashed
and slapped spray
upon the rocks.
a Strong wind scratched
me with buckets full of sand
and I wondered what had happened
to a perfect day at the beach,
but later the wind died down.
a Single gull surfed the air
and suddenly it wasn’t there
and only the green sea,
the white-hot sun,
surf crashing on the beach
and I remained.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Spring Morning
Where am I going? I don't quite know.
Down to the stream where the king-cups grow-
Up on the hill where the pine-trees blow-
Anywhere, anywhere. I don't know.
Where am I going? The clouds sail by,
Little ones, baby ones, over the sky.
Where am I going? The shadows pass,
Little ones, baby ones, over the grass.
If you were a cloud, and sailed up there,
You'd sail on water as blue as air,
And you'd see me here in the fields and say:
'Doesn't the sky look green today?'
Where am I going? The high rooks call:
'It's awful fun to be born at all.'
Where am I going? The ring-doves coo:
'We do have beautiful things to do.'
If you were a bird, and lived on high,
You'd lean on the wind when the wind came by,
You'd say to the wind when it took you away:
'That's where I wanted to go today!'
Where am I going? I don't quite know.
What does it matter where people go?
Down to the wood where the blue-bells grow-
Anywhere, anywhere. I don't know.
poem by Alan Alexander Milne
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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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Whispering Wind
Standing amid the forest trees
I feel so insignificant.
Small and unimportant can be
Very humbling among the plants
And underbrush that are dwarfed by
The regal, deciduous trees.
Quiet is defined by the sigh
Of the wind breathing through the leaves
And serenity thrives beneath
This lushest leaf-green canopy.
I walk along an ancient path
Once tread by aborigines.
Then, out of the blue, the soft wind
Whispered, ” you're home again my friend.”
poem by Albert Ahearn
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