Wind poems from famous poets and best beautiful poems to feel good. Best wind poems ever written. Read all poems about wind.
Blow, blow, thou winter wind
Thou art not so unkind
As man's ingratitude;
Thy tooth is not so keen,
O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being,
Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead
Especially when the October wind
With frosty fingers punishes my hair,
Caught by the crabbing sun I walk on fire
And cast a shadow crab upon the land,
Who has seen the wind?
Neither I nor you.
But when the leaves hang trembling,
The wind is passing through.
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--
The wind, one brilliant day, called
to my soul with an odor of jasmine.
'In return for the odor of my jasmine,
With no companion to my mood,
Against the wind as it should be
No one can tell me,
Where the wind comes from,
Where the wind goes.
The wind whistles eerily, as the storm approaches,
it gradually encroaches, taking over
like some unscrupulous military machine,
giving way to no one,
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.
Oliver Hua, Toronto
Season is like a wind
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.
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