Boxes in the wind,

rolling on, getting one kick --


after the other.

winter warfare
torments our dwellings brickwork
night of casualties
aggressive plague on my dreams
wakes me  to be visited

The forecast on the radio
I didn't need.
I felt it coming
In and through the threads of my light sweater
Tickling my skin so my arms embraced
One another.

The barometer falling
As are the remaining Ash leaves
Of yellow, like canaries rushing about
Certainly saying goodbye
To the past
As they must
When the wind picks up.

Hurling chilly
whips of wind
down
The East canyon
Announcing its arrival
I think of my warmest coat
And how long I'll have to wear it
As I sit on the porch in my shivering
Bare feet listening for what is to come
The seasons change
How will I?

A poem for cyclists with tech.

When one is by-cycling,
And the wind is anything but charming.
The direction that doth wind blow
Is the SAME as on your Garmin.

When one is by-cycling,
And the wind propels you like a teen.
The direction that doth wind blow
Is OPPOSITE as what’s on your screen!

Slow and heavy
Ball of worry
My hair is falling
I should be starving
Happiness is the wind
All around but out of reach
I feel everything draining out of me
I want to lay down in the sun for a while
I want to remember I can smile
Time is happening all at once
Life is a second
So why do I suffer?
Self soothe like a mother
Find shelter, take cover
Pray the worst is over

Slap my face cruel wind
press hard upon my cheek
with fingers red and rough as any farmers hand
you bend the struggling trees
and whip the waves to beat the land
is it any wonder
that I fail to understand
how one so gentle in repose
could be so angry when he blows

~ For my darling Isabel on her twelfth birthday~

Dance there upon the shore;
What need have you to care
For wind or water's roar?
And tumble out your hair
That the salt drops have wet;
Being young you have not known
The fool's triumph, nor yet
Love lost as soon as won,
Nor the best labourer dead
And all the sheaves to bind.
What need have you to dread
The monstrous crying of wind?
Has no one said those daring
Kind eyes should be more learn'd?

Or warned you how despairing
The moths are when they are burned,
I could have warned you, but you are young,
So we speak a different tongue.
O you will take whatever's offered
And dream that all the world's a friend,
Suffer as your mother suffered,
Be as broken in the end.
But I am old and you are young,
And I speak a barbarous tongue.