When the wind blows true through the land
Rustled leaves hold trees that withstand
Tempered gusts with vicious intent.
So long lives the day when air’s spent
Upon the ridge: that jagged rock,
Unchanged as what the ticking clock
Tries to track but must then accept:
The perfect clock is still inept.
Time will toss and tumble your walls,
Then cause your green thick hair to fall
But know to us, whose lives go quick
Your life’s a day to our one tick.

 

Nathan Cayea is a studying toward an English degree in Upstate New York.

Related Post

‘Letting Go’ by Michael Glassman   The birch, the elm, the aging spruce Cannot restrain the restless roots Of saplings drawn to the silent sound Of brother’s heading skywar...

4 Responses

  1. Durlabh Singh

    SEA SHORES.

    On the seashore where the pebbles toss
    The waves encrusted in their noonday vaults
    The ripples answer forth
    Over the sand dunes of crescent hills
    To recover by pushing around
    The shingles on the silvery sand
    The annals of the irrecoverable past
    Amidst pebbled hands of the time past.

    Shadows across the ship’s mast
    Shadows under the mermaid’s wings
    Shadows over the seaweed’s bark
    Shadows entangled with crystalline dreams.

    All day along the wind
    The wind has been whispering
    To explore
    The leaning buds
    On the stony shores.

    The question whether one
    Should exit or not
    Or to find a way or not
    Out of the emotional contest
    Of wavery wandering thoughts.

    At the death’s gate
    Time stand still
    The laurels of significance
    The points of departures
    Of the perpetual vigils
    The glory of animals
    Lost somewhere
    In the sultry afternoons
    In alcoves of seedy conscience
    Entombed in twilight bowers.

    All day along
    The wind has been
    Instructing me
    To burst forth
    Like the nascent songs
    Beyond things explained
    Insubordination to gravity
    Or to other surmised tones.

    The show of despair
    In the face of stranded thoughts
    An assemblage of mobile fantasies
    In waxworks of delineated dross
    The curvatures of obscure thoughts.

    Do I swallow the shiny presence
    Or perpetuate the sublime sores
    Pour water to subterranean streams
    To the termites or their cones.

    Reply
  2. Reid McGrath

    Such a surprising name to see on the site, Nate. I’m glad to see you’re writing. And choice subject matter. E and I were just up at Mohonk squeezing lemons in early June. Keep it up. Hudson Valley represent.

    Reply
  3. Neal Dachstadter

    Location, location, location

    does not necessarily apply in poetry. Bons Mots!

    Having said that, that location really doesn’t hurt either.

    Reply
    • Durlabh Singh

      TREE TOPS.

      The wind lives in the tree tops
      Visiting plantains at invitation
      Serrating waterfall in eddies
      Fragmenting the sown
      Into shifters of the unknown.

      Into that solitude of curves
      Where expressions reside
      Without end like eternity
      Casting pebbles of fluidic images
      In expanding circles of universe.

      There the verbs
      And the nouns
      Get bewildered
      Failing to root out
      Incomprehensibility
      Lamentations in sounds
      For some sovereign sensibility.

      Demolished by beauty & happiness
      A capability of gestures still to arise
      A challenge for the attempters to try
      An avenge on shaders of the paradise.

      Durlabh Singh.

      Reply

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published.