This Poem was Submitted By: Mark D. Kilburn On Date: 2002-01-11 11:02:58 . . . Click Here To Mail this Poem to a Friend!

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                      The wind in these hills           makes an eerie sea sound,           while it mimics the groans of great oceans.           Blowing wild and free            as it battles with trees,           has no reason nor rhyme or emotion.                     Starting out in the west           born of Pacific un-rest,           whistling eastward just south of Alaska.           When it finally gets here           ferrying frost with its fear;           crying winters call out to Nebraska.           Then through the Midwest           with diminishing zest           becoming a breeze in Virginia,           it surely must feel           as it loses its zeal           like you do when the whole worlds against ya.           It’s  best not to fight           devil winds of the night,           hunker down and stay put until morning.           For the coyote knows           why the western wind blows,           always borne with a cold winter warning.                      From the Oregon Coast            it blows brag and blows boast,           heading into the deep western canyons.           Wailing frigid mistrust           grows from gale into gust;           the loneliest cowboy’s companion.           Then onto the plains           carrying arthritic pains,           an ice-whip soon stinging Kentucky,           but once in the south           looking down in the mouth           for it’s no longer feeling so plucky.                      Chasing weeks with its wrath           leaving years in its path,           stealing decades from mightiest mountain.           Centuries gone in thin air           the west wind doesn’t care           laughing all the way through to Wisconsin.           From the great western shore           it begins with a roar,           gaining strength while crossing Wyoming.           Takes the hobo ghost trail           sings their songs with a wail,           so their souls will forever be roaming.           I wish I could say            it blows troubles away                    all of mine would be east of Missouri,           and there they would stay           for the rest of my days           wouldn’t mind if the west wind came early.                   The wind in these hills           sings the song of the surf           blowing days as if waves on an ocean,           like the wildest horse           never follows a course,           has no reason no rhyme nor emotion.                                                                                                                                                                            

Copyright © January 2002 Mark D. Kilburn

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