Wind poems from famous poets and best beautiful poems to feel good. Best wind poems ever written. Read all poems about wind.
Through every nook and every cranny
The wind blew in on poor old Granny
Around her knees, into each ear
(And up nose as well, I fear)
You have to be always drunk. That's all there is to it--it's the
only way. So as not to feel the horrible burden of time that breaks
your back and bends you to the earth, you have to be continually
Like a joy on the heart of a sorrow,
The sunset hangs on a cloud;
A golden storm of glittering sheaves,
Of fair and frail and fluttering leaves,
The dark wings of night enfolded the city upon which Nature had spread a pure white garment of snow; and men deserted the streets for their houses in search of warmth, while the north wind probed in contemplation of laying waste the gardens...
Who has seen the wind?
Neither I nor you.
But when the leaves hang trembling,
The wind is passing through.
I cried over beautiful things knowing no beautiful thing lasts.
The field of cornflower yellow is a scarf at the neck of the copper
sunburned woman, the mother of the year, the taker of seeds.
I hid my heart in a nest of roses,
Out of the sun's way, hidden apart;
In a softer bed than the soft white snow's is,
Under the roses I hid my heart.
Before dawn wind rushes
driving night’s chill westward
so vestiges of darkness
send shivers along my spine.
And the weaver said, 'Speak to us of Clothes.'
And he answered:
Out of the starless night that covers me,
(O tribulation of the wind that rolls!)
Black as the cloud of some tremendous spell,
Now close the windows and hush all the fields:
If the trees must, let them silently toss;
No bird is singing now, and if there is,
Be it my loss.
All day long in fog and wind,
The waves have flung their beating crests
Against the palisades of adamant.
My boy, he went to sea, long and long ago,
At night, by the fire,
The colors of the bushes
And of the fallen leaves,
One must have a mind of winter
To regard the frost and the boughs
Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;
No one can tell me,
Where the wind comes from,
Where the wind goes.
The wind, one brilliant day, called
to my soul with an odor of jasmine.
'In return for the odor of my jasmine,
I saw you toss the kites on high
And blow the birds about the sky;
And all around I heard you pass,
Like ladies' skirts across the grass--
Before man to blow to right
The wind once blew itself untaught,
And did its loudest day and night
In any rough place where it caught.
Dear dream of utter aliveness-
Touching my body of utter death-
Tell me, O quickly! dream of aliveness,
Blowing upon the sea wind felt salty
'No no' it said, went on for something sweet
Blowing upon the hill wind felt foggy
Once upon a time, on a Monday morning sun,
There was a blue wind in the west Rootabaga Country,
Gone with the wind
that love, that togetherness;
gone with the wind
Where is your super mind?
Now you see walking wind,
Walking wind, walking wind,
Where is your super mind?
The nights midweek are secrets kept.
No soul on site, no signal/bars,
and zilch for company except
a zillion bright disarming stars.
I'll flit through ambers, quicker, higher.
I'll break each hamlet's stop or yield.
I'll fix some noodles, start a fire
and climb up to the topmost field.
The stars at first are sparse, unclear.
They surface in that drag between
the darkened grass and stratosphere,
of powder blue and bottle green.
They blossom, thick and fast, in droves.
They pulse, in clusters, magnify.
The smoke that's my potbelly stove's
frays outwards through each needle eye.
I'll head below. I'll char till dawn
some apple logs down to their core.
By pewter light when stars have gone,
I'll do a bit, a little more.
You live inside its sound effects
whole weeks on end: its pin machine,
its cardboard drum, its soft-boiled eggs,
its silent running submarine.
It's like the god of liquid rub-
ber stirred at dawn to slip downstairs
and sip a cigarette, to drub
his fingertips on solid layers
you poured across last summer's drought.
You love it, learn to, as it slows,
and even as you come to doubt
its dribs and drabs and pigeon toes.
Forget the welcome rain outstayed.
For days the leaves are parchment sheet
and wind hangs chimeless in the shade.
Still rain remains the point of heat.
The rain is near. Like everything,
it's best those seconds just before:
the broadleaf 's backwards canvas sling,
the fly strip flapping through the door.
The wind's this ancient bloke below
who chunters "we," who wheezes "us,"
though no one else will come or go.
You want to ask the wind "Who's us?"
but hold your tongue till, in your head,
the wind and him have somehow mixed,
the type of wind that loves a shed
and banging on of things not fixed:
a belt-and-braces year-round wind,
a kiln-dried cobwebbed hardwood wind,
a greenhouse wind, a treebound wind,
an end-of-season car-boot wind,
a padlocked shower unit wind,
an upturned wheelie dumpster wind,
a channel not quite tuned-in wind,
a hollow flight-path thunder wind,
a dog-eared wind, a knocked-sign wind,
a spouseless phantom ocean-blown
autumnal graveyard Scots pine wind
who speaks in plurals, moves alone.
One night last June, in cups, in love
with pickled gin from bubbly flutes,
our clothes in coils about the stove,
we climbed the dark in birthday suits.
It's true! The grass was mown that day.
Like hippies chained in meadow flowers,
we tripped above the cut and lay
in blades of petrol suede for hours.
We listened to the lowing black.
We giggled, kissed. We possumed dead.
We woke as flesh and straggled back
like beasts for parlor, dressed, then read.
We trafficked grass in bedspreads, shoes,
and never spoke of that again
through winter's interregnum blues,
of being spooked by skin, of when
the only care we had was grass,
the only stir for miles around
our freezing bones, our clinking glass,
our dying to be rumbled, found.
Summer is like a wind
Oliver Hua, June 13,2018, Toronto
Summer is like a wind
Ill be the wind, the wind that soothes your soul to bring a smile upon,
ill be the wind which bends away from the mountain tops, ill adjust my sails just to get where you are.
Ill be the wind that cross the deepest oceans kissing the waters just to burn down the fire in your heart.
Writing a poem is not about bringing some words together to create some charming sentences. It's so much deeper than that. Writing poetry is a bridge that allows people to express their feelings and make others live every single word they read. Poetry is to educate people, to lead them away from hate to love, from violence to mercy and pity. Writing poetry is to help this community better understand life and live it more passionately. PoemHunter.com contains an enormous number of famous poems from all over the world, by both classical and modern poets. You can read as many as you want, and also submit your own poems to share your writings with all our poets, members, and visitors.