I come from a musical place
Where they shoot me for my song
And my brother has been tortured
By my brother in my land.
I come from a beautiful place
Where they hate my shade of skin
They don't like the way I pray
And they ban free poetry.
Out of the cradle endlessly rocking,
Out of the mocking-bird's throat, the musical shuttle,
Out of the Ninth-month midnight,
Over the sterile sands and the fields beyond, where the child
leaving his bed wander'd alone, bareheaded, barefoot,
Down from the shower'd halo,
Up from the mystic play of shadows twining and twisting as
if they were alive,
Out from the patches of briers and blackberries,
From the memories of the bird that chanted to me,
The leaves are blowing away
Up, up, and away they go.
Swish, swoosh, they go.
Like a dancing ballerina
Up, up and away they go
Way up , in the sky.
The trees standing there,
Their branches all bare.
The wind whistling throughout empty branches,
Here is this vale of sweet abiding,
My ultimate and dulcet home,
That gently dreams above the chiding
of restless and impatient foam;
Beyond the hazards of hell weather,
The harceling of wind and sea,
With timbers morticed tight together
My old hulk havens happily.
The dawn exultantly discloses
Reader! what soul that laoves a verse can see
The spring return, nor glow like you and me?
Hear the quick birds, and see the landscape fill,
Nor long to utter his melodious will?
This more than ever leaps into the veins,
When spring has been delay'd by winds and rains,
And coming with a burst, comes like a show,
Blue all above, and basking green below,
And all the people culling the sweet prime:
frosty stars are out
pink moon wanders into night
with its fragrancies
summer's chasing fall
in its ripe, lonely old age
they'll dance at the ball
both dressed up in hues
blending the old with the new
The wind is blowing harshly against my window pane.
Its sound is rough and daunting,
as it whistles through the lane.
The old oak tree outside is swaying to and fro.
The leaves are swirling past,
not really knowing where to go.
The little blackbird finds shelter under the bush.
The majestic swan is gliding,
not even in a rush.
sailing on fresh breeze
my hat is off for a ride
alluring blue skies
fragrant flowers cringe
until gold moment all's clear
windsongs at windows
a determined quest
from orange clouds to the ground
Violent and raging
O! The force
The tempest it came
And the tempest it threw us off course
We're high, we're low
We ebb, we flow
Said the TV’s weatherman,
a bright bloke on grey suit,
and with weeping eyeglasses,
“There’s probability of precipitation.
It’s going to rain from coast to coast.
Umbrellas, raincoats and rain boots
Are cheaper on Ebay.
Order from Amazon . . . galoshes and
It shall rain from Jerusalem to Jericho.