A gale bumps and beats

branches away, gates open --


bears into their caves.

may we have some nicer weather please?
At least some sunnier days than these!
It's been so cold and unbelievably wet,
it's horrid enough to get upset.
It's a bit like April but in reverse,
instead of better it's getting worse.
Can't make any plans to go outside
for a short walk or bicycle ride.
Whenever I get ready to leave the house,
heaven looks like I'm in for a douse.
Sometimes I go out in spite
and realize I'm not watertight.
Then I get drenched to the bone,
it even destroys my mobile phone.
Worse yet after it's been warm,
the sky rips open a nasty thunderstorm.
That's the part when danger lurks
with thunder lightning and the works.
Because holding up an umbrella
can sometimes torch a poor fella.
But wait, before I get into hail,
earthly tempests like heavy gale,
tornados, hurricanes and the likes.
It's definitely not worth it, yikes!
Instead of giving myself a permanent frown,
I put the kettle on and try piping down.

“Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,”

“And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I 've heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.”

-Emily Dickinson.

Words are wind
is a thing you used to love to say
when I would start "defending"
him
"Words are wind, Mandi!
Anyone can give you words!"
You would leave the air silent
only then with your own.
The space between us entirely empty of you.
This was not the vacuum of last spring.
There would be no side of highway hand plucked wildflowers.
No phones vibrating with your messages between thighs in sessions.
No intertwined sweat soaked limbs in the sauna of a midday tent.
I was thankful of it.
I longed for your nearness but not your misplaced romance or hope.
No -I would have you now in the Autumn.
Too depressed to breathe;
you would never draw me close.
Your words only came with
alcohol, ***, or some combination of
supposed truth serums.
As you had said though:
"Words are wind, Mandi!"
And your words somehow both too abundant and too few
blew through that space between us
like a winter's Gale.
Seeking shelter from the elements you created
meant leaving you to find your own  way through.
The only way out for either of us.

It is nearly spring again now.
I know it must be because
I can see primrose
defying all logic with it's
near invisible courage.
I champion it on with its
welcomed heralding of a needed
new season.

I hope that we both get to be
Ok.

I want to take the hat off
And then wave my goodbye.

I am a child with a suitcase,
A woman with a crane
Taking each step with little strength,
then falling over again

I am a child that ran over,
A man with no name
Helding my hands in the sky,
begging for the rain

I was the falling paper,
from the tree of neglect
Rushed with the wind,
heavied by water, loved by the pain

I became the small pebble
that talked to little grains
Ignored and dumbfounded
and stinged by bolts of gale

I went to take the hat off,
with a smile that never fade
Soon, I will take this hat off.
So long! To you my friend.

(2017)

O' marshes!
Swallow up the gale
Which farthest I could hear,
Ne'er I belong such privilege
By myrtle over there.
Recollecting where the pod
To whom I left behind,
The continent,
The humble swamps,
Surpassing us again.



E.

A gale tramples over fallen doors,
And desperate faces cling to a quivering flame, yet
No wall can reach their shadows.

I stand there  shuddering with each lash
from the ice beyond the hearth,
A slow trickle from its toil dyeing the rubble at our feet. But still
No heads turns to face the dark.

I only know every spark withers and dies as it drifts from our circle, though the brightest voyage furthest into the night.
Looking beyond I am neither trapped nor free, but destitue
It is not resolve, courage, or despair that now turn me; I am lulled and must wake.

All thoughts deceive. Thoughts of men inspired, of gods deranged, echo in me,
And which is worse I do not know.

So tonight I will follow the sparks into gale,
Let the lash scour my ears of every voice,
And hope no man foolish enough to follow.