Sunday, March 1, 2009

The Winds Get In, On The Loss Of Our Friend

This first poem is a tale of spirit. It speaks for itself. It neither leads somewhere nor takes much background.

The Winds Get In

I sat at your fire,
Watched you lay out your palette
Of fine colored sands.
I watched as you drew
The designs you learned from him,
From the holy man.
I saw them take shape,
Amazing true shapes in sand,
In my old gray eyes.

My story is told in sand.
The flaps of this tent shiver.
The winds outside stir, get in.


This poem is so universal that I feel no need to say much about it either. As we age, so does everything and everyone. Departures of friends are more frequent than arrivals. This is utterly as it should be.

On The Loss Of Our Friend

Then you are not here.
I wanted to speak with you,
To tell you the truth,
What is in my heart,
How the rain falls near our house,
How the wind blows here
Through my slowing days,
How my lady's older too,
But now you are gone.

This is the way of all things.
The leaves fade, tremble, then fall.


This second poem was written in fifteen minutes according to the time stamp, both poems happening in the early morning one day late last November. So the coming of winter has something to do with them.


  1. Beautiful...both of them, but especially the second.

    Thank you

  2. There is so much tenderness in these poems.
    thanks {{christopher}}

  3. Michelle, I am glad you like them.

    Jozien, Thank you for the hug.

  4. Beautiful, Christopher. Both. I'm there, too, my friend, so I fully understand the sentiment.

  5. Yes, yes, yes. Beautiful poems. Excellent structure, and of course, the meanings are deep. I love them both.

    "On The Loss Of Our Friend" makes me think of a dear friend of mine who is a senior citizen. In a letter he sent me today, he described the sadness of friends dying on a regular basis. I dread that. But like you say, it is a part of life.

    "The Winds Get In" knocked me across the room. Though I love them both, it's my favorite. I love these lines:

    "My story is told in sand.
    The flaps of this tent shiver.
    The winds outside stir, get in."

    If I remember correctly, Keats' grave had the words "Here Lies One Whose Name Was Writ In Water," which was an allusion to lines in a play (I forget whose). Feel free to correct me if my memory is wrong on that one. I think it was Keats. Your line makes me think of that line, but I love the twist of using sand. It's there for a moment, then it blows away. The flaps of the tent shiver.

    How fleeting is the story. BEAUTIFUL POEM, CHRISTOPHER!

  6. Our lives pass slowly and gently, us humans, and we have so much time to contemplate their gradual decay. I wonder if other species do the same; trees, or owls.

  7. i love the scent of spirit tales as you might imagine, for spirits, death and introspect for poets stay in fashion.... here is one of my favorites:

    I knew her for a little ghost
    That in my garden walked;
    The wall is high—higher than most—
    And the green gate was locked.

    And yet I did not think of that
    Till after she was gone—
    I knew her by the broad white hat,
    All ruffled, she had on.

    By the dear ruffles round her feet,
    By her small hands that hung
    In their lace mitts, austere and sweet,
    Her gown's white folds among.

    I watched to see if she would stay,
    What she would do—and oh!
    She looked as if she liked the way
    I let my garden grow!

    She bent above my favourite mint
    With conscious garden grace,
    She smiled and smiled—there was no hint
    Of sadness in her face.

    She held her gown on either side
    To let her slippers show,
    And up the walk she went with pride,
    The way great ladies go.

    And where the wall is built in new
    And is of ivy bare
    She paused—then opened and passed through
    A gate that once was there.

    The Little Ghost
    Edna St. Vincent Millay

  8. A haunting quality to The Winds Get In, one of spirituality and
    innocence of faith expressed
    through creativity.
    The Loss of an Old Friend, again
    the same gentle quality with love
    threading the hem of the poem.

  9. I love how you all find poetry to answer mine, if not someone like Edna, then your own. It is frankly what I hope for, what I do, as many of you know, poetry for poetry. Johnny Applepoem as one friend called me. Your answers are wonderful. I love you back.


The chicken crossed the road. That's poultry in motion.

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