"windward" poems
Whatever you do, keep smiling.
Be nice to everyone and stand up for your rights.
There are many paths to the top of the mountain
but few of them are on the map.
Keep running, never give up,
and watch out for the seriously weird.
Avoid psychopaths, if you can recognize them,
be polite to witches and warlocks, eschew cannibals,
beware of the hippopotamus in heat,
don’t drink the second bottle when dancing the Funky Chicken,
and only massage someone without
pimples or hairy legs.
Never give up and keep smiling.
It's a hard life, it's a beautiful world, life's a *****
it's great to be alive, life is nasty, brutish and short,
don’t give up and keep smiling.
Everyone is a guru but ignorance is everywhere,
and don't mix hallucinogens with depressants.
If someone tells you that they're honest,
treat them with the greatest suspicion.
Live to the limits, we're only alive once,
and that's just as well, because
imagine if people you didn't like were immortal.
Keep smiling, never give up,
always hawk to windward,
and never leave your underpants or ******* behind.
Everyone's equal but only the strong survive,
especially when they take from the weak
because what you seize is what you get.
The meek shall inherit the earth,
but the earth that they inherit will be of
poor quality with no mineral deposits.
Party lots, work hard, never give up, and keep smiling.
Don't work so hard you don't enjoy yourself,
remember that the bird is on the wing,
then it falls off its perch and becomes
a miserable pile of feathers and feet.
The fast lane is the best lane
but it's very smooth and slippery
and there are no road rules.
Watch out for lawyers. Seriously.
They put the devil in the details
while their hand is in your wallet.
Everything comes to you if only you can wait,
but this takes too long.
Clean your teeth, obey authority,
except for arrogant ********
and don't forget that love and pleasure are
most important, despite what anybody else says.
When you panic, other people will panic,
which is good, because
in this confusion, you can make your escape.
Mike T Minehan
Oct 31, 2012
Oct 31, 2012 at 9:14 PM UTC
Forth into the forest straightway
All alone walked Hiawatha
Proudly, with his bow and arrows,
And the birds sang round him, o’er him,
“Do not shoot us, Hiawatha!”
Sang the robin, the Opechee,
Sang the blue bird, the Owaissa,
“Do not shoot us, Hiawatha!”
Up the oak tree, close beside him,
Sprang the squirrel, Adjidaumo,
In and out among the branches,
Coughed and chattered from the oak tree,
Laughed, and said between his laughing,
“Do not shoot me, Hiawatha!”
And the rabbit from his pathway
Leaped aside, and at a distance
Sat ***** upon his haunches,
Half in fear and half in frolic,
Saying to the little hunter,
“Do not shoot me, Hiawatha!”
But he heeded not, nor heard them,
For his thoughts were with the red deer;
On their tracks his eyes were fastened,
Leading downward to the river,
To the ford across the river,
And as one in slumber walked he,
Hidden in the alder bushes.
There he waited till the deer came,
Till he saw two antlers lifted,
Saw two eyes look from the thicket,
Saw two nostrils point to windward,
And a deer came down the pathway,
Flecked with leafy light and shadow.
And his heart within him fluttered,
Trembled like the leaves above him,
Like the birch-leaf palpitated,
As the deer came down the pathway.
Then, upon one knee uprising,
Hiawatha aimed an arrow;
Scarce a twig moved with his motion,
Scarce a leaf was stirred or rustled,
But the wary roebuck started,
Stamped with all his hoofs together,
Listened with one foot uplifted,
Leaped as if to meet the arrow;
Ah! the singing, fatal arrow,
Like a wasp it buzzed and stung him!
Dead he lay there in the forest,
By the ford across the river;
Beat his timid heart no longer,
But the heart of Hiawatha
Throbbed and shouted and exulted,
As he bore the red deer homeward,
And Iagoo and Nokomis
Hailed his coming with applauses.
From the red deer’s hide Nokomis
Made a cloak for Hiawatha,
From the red deer’s flesh Nokomis
Made a banquet in his honor.
All the village came and feasted,
All the guests praised Hiawatha,
Called him Strong-heart, Soan-ge-taha!
Called him Loon-Heart, Mahn-go-taysee!
9.3k
Rub these eyes.
What a misspent night.
I cast one die, tumbled through to light
aimed away from
where I left you
on a corner, towards a ******
...You know...
Hung my hat
on these stupid hopes,
tried to steer us two on an icy road.
Slid through stop signs,
you stopped speaking.
Anyway, I'm flying out tomorrow.
*Tired as Hell
switch planes in Minneapolis
On the way from Richmond to Montana
This far North,
the snow is never far away.
Last one through
the gate
and still sleeping.*
Slug this Fall
down in airport bars.
A snowbound move, but I got disarmed.
so I aim to
where I came from
Gift myself with what's familiar
...You know...
Out here there's
not a lot of noise.
A few pinned dots between the bullet points.
Here it gets cold,
just a few miles
from the real Continental Divide.
*Head dipped down,
and shoulder leaned windward.
Take two steps, try calling in the morning.
This far North,
some flights can get grounded.
Not much
between
here and Seattle.*
*Heavy coats
and fortified spirits
keep us warm between our vacations.
This far North
no Saints to preserve us.
Not much
between
here and Seattle.*
Dec 30, 2016
Dec 30, 2016 at 11:19 AM UTC
a gift for Aladdin Aures H
from his 3rd follower...
<>><<>
the inescapable need,
unformed firmament
inquiring; am I capable?
the impulse palpable,
the urge to urgent,
to gorge and disgorge?
instead of morning prayers,
precomposed and ordered,
morning poem plucked from
morning fog, gusted breezes,
early-on, newborn sun rays,
progeny of disheveled skies
words fused, in irregular sizes,
senses censured by drowsy eyes,
but the chest beating arrhythmia
means bursts of free verses
superimposed on reluctant eyelids,
jigsaw puzzlement be re-conformed
and the first poem of the day,
emerges from the intersection
of mind, pale dreams, and the
first is special till the neu morrow,
when fresh bursts explode inward
to windward, and the first is just
yesterday's mesh of hash,
once formidable, now last,
pinned, yellowing, purely a
**descendant of the recent,
but always, ancient past*^
Jun 19, 2025
Jun 19, 2025 at 3:13 PM UTC
Tall round beams standing
in salty water, connecting
fishermen and star-fish gazers
with a moon-shaped bay
on the eastern Pacific.
They stand on land and step into sea,
as rolling barrels from Arctic grounds
tickle their lower legs.
A centipede of wood, this
outward- jutting wharf.
The fishermen sink expectant hooks;
the surfers haul shiny glass
banana-shaped boards of foam;
the weekenders come posing
baby strollers for picture shooting.
Each passing wall of blue
energy slows at reach of
shallow sand, deciding
whether to keep rolling or
transform into a steep stack
of snapping water. On big days
the sea legs shake all the
fishermen. They lock away
their sacrificial bait in rusty boxes
and collapse their fibered rods.
On calm days I step out to a
wooden bench and hang my
face between the rails. Running
people pass below, between the
knotted hips and creosoted thighs.
August buries this preserve
in such drizzle. Gulls go bundling
inside their sleek robes
of white feather, leaning
windward on worn bent knees.
Apr 27, 2015
Apr 27, 2015 at 10:30 PM UTC
Don’t you like a chocolate?
A foggy morning jog; over the windward side of the snowing hill,
Accompanied by the silence of my lovely girl.
Suddenly a drop; falling from a sky high teak,
Soaking her rose-bud cheek.
Eyes on her cupid’s bow; Were thirsty ‘coz her lipstick frost,
Needing for a lip to moist.
That was the time; I lived up from the day I saw,
This angel, with a dropping jaw.
Came close we two; almost locking a tight lip kiss,
But what made that a chance to miss?!
Confused, my girl; Perplexed by my bizarre act;
Peeping places, I was looking at.
Why did I stop? A Choco Donut shop at left,
The reason for my eyes to shift.
Piercing the bread, I licked the sauces off the knife
What else do I want in life? :P
Aug 20, 2016
Aug 20, 2016 at 12:40 PM UTC
Announced by all the trumpets of the sky,
Arrives the snow, and, driving o'er the fields,
Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air
Hides hill and woods, the river, and the heaven,
And veils the farmhouse at the garden's end.
The sled and traveller stopped, the courier's feet
Delated, all friends shut out, the housemates sit
Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed
In a tumultuous privacy of storm.
Come see the north wind's masonry.
Out of an unseen quarry evermore
Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer
Curves his white bastions with projected roof
Round every windward stake, or tree, or door.
Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work
So fanciful, so savage, nought cares he
For number or proportion. Mockingly,
On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths;
A swan-like form invests the hiddden thorn;
Fills up the famer's lane from wall to wall,
Maugre the farmer's sighs; and at the gate
A tapering turret overtops the work.
And when his hours are numbered, and the world
Is all his own, retiring, as he were not,
Leaves, when the sun appears, astonished Art
To mimic in slow structures, stone by stone,
Built in an age, the mad wind's night-work,
The frolic architecture of the snow.
3.1k
For my muse, I choose the euphoric source
Of my most transcendent -
Lovely
- Muddy
Memories.
Perceptual flashes ― slosh slushing
Approaching an untamed blue-green pond
Just your average amphibian gone blonde.
In sunshine or windward shower.
Loitering around the grassy brim,
On that one slick rock, I stood up
Catch a fish ― oooooh you swift ⁓
Let it back in?
Or you could...
Run screaming like the flaming river rumbling down the mountain.
To the lunulate lagoon?? in the front yard
Hop & stand
Fish in hand You. Have. To. Make. It.
But the gargantuan estate. . . it's too late.
That tiny t-rex gait ― might just seal
That golden guppies fait.
Cause you sprung like spring
And set that little sucker free.
Apr 28, 2017
Apr 28, 2017 at 12:33 AM UTC
I leaned on the rail, stared through
my mental zoom and wondered.
Were ther footprints in the sand
of that island to the windward?
No sign of man. Startled cliff caves
gaped at us, seagulls dived at us,
while whales schooled us and led us away.
We passed by and the North Channel sighed.
Now it's just a floater in my eye,
a landscape's distant daub of grey-green,
a mystery mote that still returns,
but I pass by praising Gaia.
Mar 6, 2016
Mar 6, 2016 at 6:37 AM UTC
I
here alone apart
I realise
we are marked by the tide’s turn
and that drawing back
long aching inhalations
intakes of more than breath:
the very filling of lungs
with white and various
sounds
of beach
of foreshore
floating
in the heavy air.
Its constantness,
everywhere
together
its everywhere and together
oneness,
though with such difference
scoured into the sand
by weather’s hand
by the wind’s rough play.
II
Shield the eyes
against the glare
against the pressing wind
spinning down and past us
out of the light noon-distant high-sunned
light,
glancing the tips of bejewelled waves,
dancing, only to fall to translucent hollows,
only to rise and follow
the wave before itself,
that, even now and finally,
breaks into a foamed lace,
a fragile flower spreading
across the sand and shore,
a coverlet for this bared flesh of land,
wet glossy shiny sun-lit wet,
yet drying beneath our gaze,
leaving the infinitely-tiny
grains of sand’s
dew to glisten,
to sparkle.
III
No pathways here
after the entrance
of footprints splayed
down the slight dune
through the ammophila
down to the hard sand the littered stone.
Only up and down
across perhaps
to the sea - from the sea.
Otherwise it’s up:
to sunward windward,
out out along the jigged line
of surf meeting sand,
a self-similarity,
a symmetry breaking on the shore.
Jul 2, 2013
Jul 2, 2013 at 3:24 PM UTC
Light drizzles gently brushing on my cheeks
Misty pitter-patters
A butterfly flutters
A solitary stroll in the orchard of mystique
The dewy grass glitters
I am Mother Nature’s daughter
I saunter in the womb of the cherry orchard
Light-hearted tip taps
The squirrels take their catnaps
Gaily skipping under the falling blossoms
Spinning with laughter
Time is not a factor
From a distance, a pianist plays a chirpy tune
The jazzy anthem
A tune of welcome
Arm with passion, I caper windward
One with the flowers and trees
The birds and the bees
Mild winds gently combing my tresses
Soft, rhythmic strokes
My senses they provoke
Then reality came in a soothing ring
My baby calls
Oh, my busy, silly goofball!
Oct 20, 2011
Oct 20, 2011 at 4:54 PM UTC
Sweet Sister,
I feel the sanguine-ness of age upon me.
I feel I understand the things which confused me in youth.
I have a sage satisfaction in being pleased to have reached this juncture,
In being able to look out the window and see the beauty of a desolate beach of dunes with the course grasses snapping to windward.
There is immense pleasure in seeing my children find their place in life, maturing with the years and the travails of work, love and responsibility.
I miss old friends...but such is life.. we all move on.
Colour and texture and sound mean a lot to me, they are the patterns of pleasure which paint each day.
And the steady warmth of love for an enduring wife who is the shining light in, my otherwise, subdued and essentially, muddy existence.
One thing which does **** me off is the penchant of the Inland Revenue Dept’, to lean on developing young businesses to pay for the sloth and layabouts
Of our society who have no endeavour. This is a travesty of social justice and an unnecessary retardant to the progression and advancement of our struggling young nation.
I think the Chinese have the right answer here...You don’t work.. you starve.... You bend your back and produce... you prosper!
As I grow older the shades of gray diminish, things are more definite, more black and white.
My work in construction, is constant and demanding...and ****** enjoyable!
Like a cat, I seem to have fallen on my feet once again??
The pleasure of the written word is my pastime and interest, I rejoice in the creativity of my fellow writers and bask in the glow of their company.
The Eagle’s Nest at distant Taranaki is looking green and tidy, landscaping is progressing and the rhododendrons are about to burst into flower.
Life is pretty ****** good!
Love to you and yours
M
Marshal Gebbie
Storeman
Sep 9, 2011
Sep 9, 2011 at 7:46 PM UTC
Far off in the distance,
a thousand dreams or so,
a winged syren beckons
of land, of hope, of home
An alluring vision rises,
between port bow and port beam,
above the windward gunwale,
above the Devil's seam
The main and mizzen struggle
against the howling wind,
the staysails strain
against the sheets
hauled taut and closely in
But the course we follow
cannot reach our destination true
We must tack and then again,
until our bow is set dead on,
and find a steady
wind and fair
to fly above
the pounding waves,
to free the maiden's hair
Just beyond the bowsprit,
a thousand leagues at sea,
the flying jib will lead us where
our spirits find their peace
Mar 1, 2010
Mar 1, 2010 at 7:48 PM UTC
Tiny things that strike your fancy
Any verse which hits a note,
Messages from all and sundry
Extracts from your favourite quote.
Moments from a treasured movie
Recollections from the past,
Sunday roast from Grandma’s oven
Sights and sounds and smells that last.
Memories of moonlight saunter
Arm in arm with newfound love,
Barefoot where the sand meets water
Lost to all... but stars above.
Walking in the hills at daybreak
Crispness of the frosty verge,
Feel the pounding pulse of living
Feel the joy of being... surge.
Tomatoes from the garden plot
Rich and biting, acid red,
Delicious on hot buttered toast
With liberal salt and pepper, spread.
Gazing at your baby daughter
Softly pink in muscled arm,
Wondering what future holds
For her in love and wealth and harm.
See the grasses thrash to windward
Hear the pounding surf cascade,
Lines of gulls in steady hover
Thunder breaks at lightning fade.
Old friend’s letter, unexpected
Tells of hardship over time,
Loss and sadness unconnected
To good fortune, found in mine.
Tremor in her frail, white fingers
Dancing of her rheumy eyes,
Sharing yesterday’s good tales
To bring a joy to aged disguise.
Lavender in gentle velvet
Serves the honey bee her gold,
Nodding in the balmy breezes
Reminiscent perfume, old.
Cup of tea for all the Aunties
Dear old Fred has passed away,
Sadness... but we all agree
He made the most of every day.
Sun ball on the far horizon
Melting orange, richly gold,
Sinking to the seascape, gone
To let the moonlit night take hold.
Marshalg
Sitting on the Taranaki sand with my love, with nibbles and a glass of wine
Watching the enormous, Autumn sun melt into a flat, flat sea.
April 2012
© 2012 Marshal Gebbie
Apr 13, 2012
Apr 13, 2012 at 8:21 PM UTC
*Quite a child
she makes me one
mind windward wild
flies gazelle run!*
On the shore
she’s something more
than picking pearl
opens door
once more
she’s a little girl!
She picks seashells
of sea she smells
she looks alien
free she sails
in her spell
i’m child again!
On the sea
wild carefree
she paints me joy
make hills on sands
small grow my hands
i’m again a boy!
Oct 14, 2014
Oct 14, 2014 at 9:14 AM UTC
There it looms, a life like mountain/ sheathed in fynbos, all shades of green/ while the cape drags in reluctant seaweed/ and the wind makes contrails of my hair/
I ascend too with the heather, the rooibos and the hottentot/ We climb/ now a collective of exaggerated beauty/ defiant in wind, spray and fire/
There are leaves as prone as a flat lined heart/ reeds as resilient as a returning pulse/and we all watch the hope of yolk/ of a Sunday sun dipping into the ocean/promising to rise again/
We creep up the leeward and the windward/ ensconced in the spiral of a soul entropy/ determined to survive every rock and crevice/ to hoist ourselves up the flagpole of the cosmic plan/
Mar 8, 2021
Mar 8, 2021 at 2:45 PM UTC
I could write messages to the sky
climbing to the top of this summer mountain
digitalis pink, swirling sweet with bees
this place, tangled all in green
At the overlook, I am with trees
windward hanging on, dream
to fly away, a seabird ocean soaring
my mind of paper kite, adrift
through clouds of sky
Smell of moss and cedar
release of incense
in the warming sun
footsteps, fragrance
soaking deep
within
This must be Eden's
color of azure water
glinting flecks of sun
transforming turquoise blue
that my reflections go
diving in
Mar 13, 2014
Mar 13, 2014 at 10:07 AM UTC
There was control and Excession
A master Use of Weapons.
Inversions without as well as within.
The Culture looking to windward
At the light of a dying war
Played to the tune of a Hydrogen Sonata
What mattered then Matters no more.
Phlebas played his games
All things considered
Yet played them far too well
Against a dark background
The Feersum Endjinn tells
Of better times.
As Algebraists count,
Passing time on the abaci of the mind.
They divine the nature of the heart,
Given up in offering
To the State of the Art.
Dec 21, 2014
Dec 21, 2014 at 5:53 PM UTC
oscillating back and forth
head tilting from leeward and windward
an abstract puzzling my imperial gaze
a Van Gogh in waiting
perchance a reflection illuminated
in broad mesmerizing strokes
some tantalizing insightfulness
else a superficial escapade
do the color menageries
stray my mindfulness or hold attention
each vivid hue enlightenment
to soothe & provide enrichment
is my inspiration desperation
to find meaning in the simpleton
gravitating and debating
between beauty and gargoyles
does incredulous creativity scare me
or woo me into submissiveness
the artist plying servitude
into mine cavernous cavities
Alan Scales’ exhibit of
Turquoise Abstract Landscape II
provides fodder for my mind
to exponentially explode
Andreas Simic©
Apr 22, 2022
Apr 22, 2022 at 10:58 PM UTC
You sat on your
perfect tree limb...
near white out snow
falling.
You leaned
windward, alighting
your form.
One hand clapping...
you unified sight
and sound, then there
was Zen.
Jan 24, 2016
Jan 24, 2016 at 11:48 PM UTC
Rigging taught and water bilged,
Sails snap stubborn in the face
Of Gaia's force.
Sailors gripped in terror forlorn,
Sailing round Tierra del Fuego,
Cape Horn.
Limes are long since rotten
And the *** is watered down,
At least three men overboard
Shot to depths where all will drown.
The captain stands to lose his crown
Cursing into the storm.
Cursing at the ocean wall
And the day that God was born.
Tacking starboard long into the dawn,
He releases rudder and draws his Sword.
As if the world his steel had hindered
He grabs the wheel and turns to windward.
May 30, 2014
May 30, 2014 at 8:11 PM UTC
#*Lingering coastal fog
climbed up the seaside cliff head
The windward crest-edge
sprawling out
the rolling waves
misty breathe,
shapeless as an ocean
sigh betides;
cloyingly crawling
through the lush
hillside meadow verdure
The clinging mist dissipates
like teardrops soon forgotten:
the Dawning of the day
caressing the evanescent dew;
an ebbing tide
remembered for a while...
Dawn awakening
newly sun kissed Daffodils
animated with felicity and mirth;
lilting ballerinas
gracefully swaying,
contagious with the leavening
serendipity of the westerly
sea breeze ~
Velvet bisque painted
daybreak constellations,
embossed by sunrise
splendor ~
each root bound bouquet,
kismet choreographed ballerinas
in Spring's Rustic Ballet
Jesse*#
Mar 10, 2018
Mar 10, 2018 at 8:24 PM UTC
knots and weaves
windward gales quickly deceive
ever moving the undertow
constant curves dip in the winds and below
blowing off the waters deep
leaving a mist so sweet
hand to cheek
blue waters press further
possessed by the wind
willful turbines stay in sync completing the cycle
shaping and sculpting the swells
creating an undertow struggling to be free
choose to swallow in pleasure
choose to wallow with the pain
an answer returns with demand
beating fists upon the sand
the wind answers back with violent command
to the tides, to the swells, to the surges, hit the rip current
so powerful, so aggressive, she intimidates
all to catch the craze
ocean, she see's and waves
man is met
sized and weighed
Terry D’Arcy-Ryan
Mar 23, 2018
Mar 23, 2018 at 10:15 AM UTC
Lines drawn.
Erasers
kept tucked in back pockets.
I'm circled. I'm shaded.
Smudged out,
separated.
You'll redraw the floorplan
schematics are changing
and I've
got the handbook.
regulations tossed out windward.
Wearing out
all the reasons for more sensible feelings.
The seasons change fast here,
I'm sure you'll be leaving again.
And you'll go
any place
that the latest squall takes you,
expecting I'm waiting.
But I've got blueprints of my own.
"Go anywhere you choose.
I won't care about the news."
The headline that I'm writing
and I wish that it were true.
So roll me up with the rest
of the shabby, used up trash.
Emptied cups and smoked-out butts.
All that's good has been unwrapped.
I'm cellophane.
Life spans.
Placeholders.
Not even a memory.
It's notched up. It's useless.
Refused
and ablated.
I'll toss out these blueprints.
**** all these schematics.
And you
wrote the last word
scrawled out in constructed language.
Wearing out
every patience for these senseless intentions.
I'm fenced off. You flatter
yourself and you're leaving again.
And I'll go
right back home
to my tiny apartment
where four walls await me.
But I still don't want you to leave...
...'cuz it's easy to believe
that you're beautiful beneath
these buzzy, dimming bar lights,
squinting through this hazy scene.
I've seen
this one before.
I know the script
like the way to my front door.
But, with constructed language,
our meaning will languish.
And I'll fade back to static.
Again.
Apr 12, 2016
Apr 12, 2016 at 12:20 PM UTC
The best laid plans of minuscule precision.
He did cast a giant shadow. To see the pores in pock marked faces 500 hundred yards or more.
To reach across vast fields.
to walk a man down. to take his measure.
the final word said.assured was he that this was the golden moment.
Cross hatches that never lie, to zero.
two clicks right and two clicks high.
never mind spin drift. there was no rift.
The reticle spoke the language of
an eye for an eye as the muzzle let it fly.
Scope relief and slow exhale. The reticle
was on your trail. Would walk you in or lead you out.
adjust for drop a half click skyward.
a click to ease the windward push. do all these things and 'gently squeeze.
to never hear the tolling bell. to send a soul direct to hell.
The reticle knew his lines and spoke them well. Unblinking through the gates of hell.
Silence now darkness. nestled in repose. lost in foliage.
a hasty leave. No one will grieve the reticles loss.
Silently atop the knoll. sits the reticle.
left behind. forever. never to cast his chilling stare.
ten thousand suns will rise and fall as he looks down from his perch.
Oh how the might have fallen.
Cold steel. is all.
blink. and close an eye.
forever.
Oct 20, 2013
Oct 20, 2013 at 8:52 AM UTC