2 Poems
wind on the plains
blow wind, blow
cold, strong, surge and howl
rip a thousand miles
whip and whirl
songs
cold, full of ice and snow
across a flat land
roar of the wind, voice of the wind
wails away
wind of the west
my heart full of ice and wind
feel the wind, power beyond power
indomitably
wrack the land, fix me here
as I am – walk, wait
face-freezing, willful wind
to ice my tears have turned
wind voice of the colossus
without start or end
nature supernatural
when I lean
the wind holds me like a puppet
levitational
skyscraper-swaying
stronger and stronger
reassuringly threatening
older than
thousands of years
millions
wind given as god
I see I hear the wind from the West
it is I who am temporary
the homeless wind is everywhere
she cites the sightless signs
my hat is lost in the wind
the pin on my hat, gone with the wind
the way of the wind, in the way of the wind
the wind continues
it will keep my hat and pin
I am waiting for a ride in the winter wind in 1968, I
am waiting still
the wind still speaks
window rattling, metal warping, earth-shaking
sky clearing
land-scouring
the dust beneath the wind is half ice half grit
when I read the words “when wilt thou blow”, I laugh
so alone
know that the wind blows
whether I ask
I am alone with the white wind and the white sky
I see but I see not, I only hear the restless wind
seen from above, seen from below
seen and felt aside
wind blow, blow wind
blow now!
blow still!
rise and soar fast and wild
far away
aye:
blow
nowhere to nowhere
the great plains
wind that never will stop
the wind has found me here again
Reading Chaucer and Joyce to Parakeets
Jack – blue feathered tempest and Jorma – caged friendly flash of green light love to sing songs that go straight to my heart; (mine to theirs, not so much) but when I recite Chaucer they rejoice, chirp and sing I glimpse the trail medieval: Middle English in birdsong Yet for Finnegans Wake they aver – squawk in loud discord obvious avian sonic displeasure – modernism may not be for the birds o, simple things often are ineluctable, contrarian they exist, just Are (& are not so simple) is the disparity in accord due to my performance? they live (Jack and Jorma) much more acoustically than I I intrude blindly into their milieu and they respond participants in a phenomenology of sound, music, word Unlike are we to birds dull are we not to live and thrive in sound and song and colors streaming our colors mute, our songs discordant, our minds clouded, separate unlikely to know as do they the jointure of things perhaps Chaucer’s bird-sense sustains across centuries or, maybe something even more than that pertains perhaps mixtures of sound, feeling and magic matter more to parakeets than to me! or, maybe they just aren’t Irish birds who sing, birds who also talk in an emptiness of time un-flying, undying birds sing my words alit on my finger birds and words fly together atwitter

John Browning is a poet weathering current times in Flemington NJ with his wife, his dog and his parakeet. He is a 2020 graduate of Vermont College of Fine Arts, a grandfather and a work in progress.