Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Paula Swanson Sep 2010
As the windmill turns with the wind,
the storm brings much needed rain.
With each drop, renewal begins,
relieving the parched land its pain.

Sweet water of the Earth, life's essence,
within the wind, the windmill drinks.
Storing the source within a pond,
bringing the desert from the brink.

Noses catching the scent of rain,
wild Burro's enjoy their play.
Turns the windmill as the wind blows,
clouds block the sun, blessing shade.

The land breathes a sigh of relief.
Life is given back once again.
The clouds empty themselves of rain,
as the windmill turns with the wind.
Windmill blades
turn in the sun

shredding air with ease.
The man
looks out

of the window
at the land ahead,
full of aspirations

he hopes to reach.
His wife nearby
sees the same view.

Wishes on display on
this balmy July morn.
London, far away

ticks along swathed in grey
as it did decades before.
The man hopes to return,

sit in cafés, chuckle
as men with briefcases
scuttle around like cockroaches.

Some things never change.
That's OK though
isn't it?

Here with his partner
looking out, content,
a smile appears on his wise face.

Thirty years in the past
he thinks of future times.
Still the same.
Still standing.
Written: March 2012.
Explanation: At the request of a friend, I wrote this poem. I'm sure many more poems about people I know will be written in the future.
Louella Apr 2015
They kissed there for the very first time.
Their hearts pounding as the storm lashed the trees.
They made love there furtively on the grass.
The first humans to ever make love.
Five decades later, their grand kids stood there, a faded b/w picture in hand.

The old windmill smiled.
She could make a cow grow sick and die,
She could sicken a healthy pig,
She could poison somebody’s cottage pie
But she couldn’t harm Tom Rigg.
For Tom wasn’t born of woman
He’d been plucked too soon from the womb,
When his mother lay there dying
From a concoction stirred with a broom.

So he’d grown up broad, and tall and strong
With a warlock cast to his eye,
Whatever the spell she tried on him
He would turn on her, ‘Just try!’
She conjured a flight of vampire bats
To follow him here and there,
But the bats were spurned, and then returned
And they tangled up in her hair.

She would lie in wait by the farmer’s gate
With the graveyard dog in a ditch,
So he’d open the sluice that was not in use,
And soak her, every stitch,
She’d scream, come tumbling after him,
‘You think you’re so fine and big,
I’ll spell that you fall in love with me,
Just see if I don’t, Tom Rigg.’

For deep down under her witch’s pride
Was the beat of a woman’s heart,
And the sight of Tom had sent it, quivering
Shaking itself apart,
But Tom had kept himself to himself
Immune to a woman’s wiles,
Determined to fix the old windmill
On the other side of the stile.

He lived in the ancient tower mill
That he’d bought, picked up for a song,
It hadn’t been used for a hundred years
Since part of the works went wrong,
The sails were seized, poked up at the sky
In a way that said, ‘We’re spent!’
But Tom believed that he knew just why;
The cog on the shaft was bent.

He cleaned it up and he scraped the rust
And he greased the copper sheath,
He checked it over and sideways, down
And he peered from underneath,
But the shaft was rigid, it wouldn’t turn
He was giving up in despair,
When late one night with a mighty crash
There was something amiss out there.

He peered up under a rising moon
There was something caught in the sail,
All he could see was a besom broom
But then came an awful wail,
The witch was caught in the topmost sail
Where she’d swooped in the night unseen,
And now she was clung to the old wood frame
And all she could do was scream.

There wasn’t a ladder that went so high
So all he could do was stare,
‘Now how do you think I could rescue you,
And how did you get up there?’
The mill was starting to creak and groan
As the wind came over the hill,
The sails were starting to slowly turn
With the witch stuck firmly still.

The weight of the witch had freed them up
And she shrieked as the sails whirled round,
While Tom was laughing, joyfully, merrily,
Rolling over the ground,
‘I’ll swear you’ve done me a favour, Jane,
I was going to call it quits,
But now, if ever you come back down,
I’m ready to kiss a witch!’

David Lewis Paget
Michael McLean Apr 2014
you used to come home loudly in the dark but

quietly in the day we’d be together

to compensate

we were only in love on Halloweens

you in those hundred dollar costumes worth two

in material and tiny fingers

**** rats and ER surgeons

to me with a pop-culturally relevant strap-on mask

Frankenstein (to the dumb dudes that go to these things)

that chisels me like a jell-o mold

that blurs her infinitely beautiful walking-away

the blooming glances pairing parting lips to talk *******

caking the ***** reeling in our heads

winding round the spindle hooked tight

pulling my hard-hat plastic-green face

to the windmill
Take me to the windmill
that revolves around the sun
let me feel the air move
as the music carries on
hold me as we turn and turn
and never let me go
take me to the windmill that you know.

Fastened to the gentle breeze with
filaments of fun
laughing 'til we cry as
we revolve around the sun
music playing moodily that just
goes on and on
turn and turn and
never let me go.

Take me to the windmill
let us spin in our desire
winding through the universe
we set our world on fire
hold me one more time and turn
the music lower still
take me to the windmill that you know.
theres a big old windmill standing on hill
standing very tall standing very still
with his great big sails spinning round and round
blowing in the wind as the grain is ground

turning in to flour all those years ago
even through the winter and the rain and snow
now the times have changed its just a memory
of the days gone by and how it used to be
cheryl love Sep 2014
At top of the hill
A fragrant hill
Stands the blue windmill.
It has bricks of gold
from the Cotswolds.
It stands lonely, cold and still.
No wind to blow here anymore.
Blood sweat and many tears
once lined the dusty, white floor.
Now ivy of green hugs the door.
No stones turn
no fire burns
grounding flour to make a pound.
Every hour, each second counted.
Hands of the brave
that made a mark to engrave
their time on the hill
where now time stands still.
A Raven who calls to the midnight air
His wings as blue as the blades
His body as deep as the ace of spades.
As old as this story has been told
new hope is about to unfold.
The Raven is about to learn
as once more the blue blades turn
Through the yellow window
a farmer's wife
begins her new life.
Her golden apron, her new dreams
the sparkle in her blue eyes
whips up a wind like never before.
The generator stirs, the life uncurls
like tail from a happy cat.
Except this is tale that is about to begin.
Megan L  Oct 2015
The Windmill
Megan L Oct 2015
Nothing compares
To shaking on top of an old
Broken down windmill
With you.

Nothing compares
To silent summers
Sweating in the sweltering heat
Of love.

Nothing compares
To bright blue brick walls
Bringing about a brightening of bleary bland feelings.

Nothing compares
To dark auburn dreams
Drifting down my darling's cheek.

Nothing compares
To radical rants
On ruined romances
raining rivulets of righteousness
Upon those rotten adolescents.

Nothing compares
To myriads of murals
Of most moved men
In the fields below.

Nothing compares
To falling flat to fear
Fretting and fanning
To finish off
This fantasy.
#t #k
James Jun 2018
Wind snaps through wild grain sprouted along the edge of the harbour
The aching creaks of the windmill over head orchestrate a haunting song
An appropriately ominous farewell to our weary sailors
Just beyond the port, we stand freshly alone and wait
We wait as they begin to vanish into the same fog from which they had appeared just a week ago
We watch as their vessel becomes a mere imperfection against a looming wall of clouds
And as they fade into the horizon, the sky darkens in anticipation of unavoidable ruin
Towering clouds shed foreshadowing tears
Weeks will pass, two months past when they should have returned will have come and gone
The same haunting cries of the windmill will soon be joined by echoing church hymns
Adorned in black veils and white flowers, we will be bathed by the same sorrowful clouds
Oppressive clouds will hang low above a candlelit procession
These fate burdened clouds will begin to weep, raindrops mingling with widows' tears
Painting: Windmill at Wijk bij Duurstede by Jacob van Ruisdael
Jonas Gonçalves May 2014
Words are enough
to love those who
have never loved

The time is enough
to heal who
the love never hurt

Hands are enough
to keep safe
those who
have never been
so scared.

The shoulder is enough
to give console
to whom never was
so sad.

The nature is enough
to surprise who
always lived far from the world
–  the real world.

— The End —