The Wind

 
The wind does not exist to do your bidding,
Throw a kite into my arms and I will tear it to shreds
 
I am in the lungs of the stumbling climber, gasping for breath on the Goatfell ridge,  
Below the far wide sky,
Above the endless sea.
 
I am the rhythm in the Poet’s voice,
As he struggles to control the overflowing words,
And phrases,
And twists,
And turns
But I can also be found in the harsh words of a scorned lover, as they threaten revenge.
At weekends, I am in your stuttered obscenities as you reach a state of ecstasy, trembling in her bangle covered arms
 
During 1994, I could be found in the breath of a Rwandan child, crying out at the grave of its Mother,  
“Why did you leave me alone?”
Oh, I am many things.
 
Sometimes, I am the angry wind that fights with the rain in the black of night,
And, quite often, you tell me that I exist merely to steal the tiles from your roof, again
At dawn, I am the soft wind that raises the Fulmar’s wing above the rising, breaking wave
And, after years of struggle, I am the breath of enlightenment that issues from the nose of the meditator as he sits in Satori.
 
And I will be in your mouth-hot and stale-on the day you die,
But you… [Laughs]
You will not remember that
 
 
 



Thanks to Jeani Rider for publishing three of my poems in the August 2017 issue of The Horror Zine (this was one of them):
http://www.thehorrorzine.com/