Simultaneous translations

After Acts 2:1-13

It is a polyglot of nations

represented, people from

everywhere living

in one place, this city

at this time, people

hearing the wind

thundering and rushing,

a mighty river cascading

down mountains,

a waterfall of sound.

They hear the wind

and come running,

called to see and

called to witness

this event at this time,

what none have seen

before: the languages

of nations pouring forth

from men who know

only own, their own.

Photograph by Zac Ong via Unsplash. Used with permission.

A rushing wind

After Acts 2:1-13

It is the wind we hear,

the rushing sound,

the mighty roar filling

the space around us,

the space inside us.

Tongues of fire appear, 

divide and rest above

each of us, a singularity

translating into tongues

all could understand.

The sound brings men

running to where we are,

shocked to hear languages

flowing from tongues of men

and from tongues of fire.

Before we miss it, though, 

there is a preamble 

to all of this, a presupposition

or possibly even a pre-condition:

we were all together.

Photograph by Mahkeo via Unsplash. Used with permission.

A shape defined

A shape defined
by the contours

of what resists it,

what it resists. 

Unseen, it smooths

and roughens

in simultaneous swirls,

depending upon its mood. 

Wraps itself before

dissipating, disappearing,

its shape defined

by absence, loss

before arrival. 

TweetspeakPoetry has a poetry prompt and playlist with the theme of wind. To see more poems on the theme (and listen to some cool music), please visit the site. 

Photograph of snow and wind by George Hodan via Public Domain Pictures. Used with permission.

Advent: Listening to the wind

Look at what I did,

not at why I did it.

I may not know why,

and the reason why

is unimportant, a single note

(a G? a C? I can’t hear it)

in a wind storm. No one

bothers to ask why, didn’t

you know?

Now I can’t recall

what I did. It seemed

to matter at the time

but no longer. All

that’s left is to climb

the trail to the top,

and consider the vista

set before me, purposely

set before me, to provide

the silence so I can hear

the symphony in the wind.

Photograph by Consuelo Suarez via Public Domain Pictures. Used with permission.

The Wind from India

I heard the wind from India

   its cacophony of voices

   dialects and languages

   street cries and noise

I saw the wind from India

   its explosion of colors

   a rainbow streaming

   past and down my face

I smelled the wind from India

   saffron and incense

   blowing, radiating hot

   from glowing pots of iron and clay

I am washed by the wind from India

I am become the wind from India

I am the song of the wind from India

Photograph: Varanasi, the holy city on the Ganges, by Piotr Wojtkowski via Public Domain Pictures. Used with permission.