As the snow falls around me, I marvel at God’s wholesome and worthy entity.
The Lord, on his special day, has given me a gift so precious and special;
He has opened my eyes to his wondrous glory.
The Lord above all has allowed me to see the beauty in the smallest of things:
The stars and moon at night, and the clouds and sun by day;
The little trickles of freezing cold, yet clean, fresh, clear water
Running down the mountainsides, quenching my insatiable thirst;
The trees in all their grandeur,
That provide my warmth when I gather their branches;
The leaves and pine needles at my feet,
Providing soft beds for me and all the forest creatures.
Best of all of these, however, is the snow.
The beautiful snow in which no two snowflakes are the same.
The same biting cold, yet strangely comforting and fulfilling snow,
In which brings forth light on the darkest of days.
I must thank the all-loving God, who has bestowed upon me this glorious gift.
Me, a pathetic excuse for a soldier who has run away
From the sight of bloodshed because I cannot stand to fight another friend.
Me, a coward who is now running from the law,
And living solely in the forest for fear of being caught and hanged.
Me, a God-believing man who has sinned greatly.
But I have repented. I have asked God for forgiveness of my sins on Christmas Eve night,
And He has replied by giving me snow on Christmas morning,
showing me that I am not alone, and that I should not be afraid.
And, by His grace, when all I have been seeing was darkness and despair,
He opened me up to allow me to see the beauty and light in all his creation.
“I praise You, oh glorious God, for giving me this most wonderful gift!
I thank You for forgiving me, a sinner, of all my wrongdoings,
and for giving me this awe-inspiring gift, for which I have done nothing to deserve!
I exalt you on high, oh Lord, for all that you have done and given me,
and will do for me and give me! I will love and praise you always!
Copyright © Josiah Rutter
Snow sprinkles the ground
as delicate as sugar
crystallizing the exterior with a romantic heritage
only found in the heart of a child's imagination.
Like happiness it can melt in your hands,
and like happiness it can grow bitter like the ice you slip on
Forming miraculously to the curves of the earth
hugging till the land soaks in it's providence
white like the pages I battle with
Falling so passionately you'd think it was falling in love with the ground
And when it lands,
A blanket of perfection
glistening the season to a crisp
gently the sun arises
"there's no where to go today,
I'm just going to sit and enjoy the magic."
Copyright © Madison Caldwell
Read the Bible and the words that are said.
Times of trouble and tribulation are ahead!
All one has to do is read the book of revelation.
To read about this world and this nation!
Days of wickedness and evil that abounds..
Shall very soon. Come
“crashing to the ground!”
For our sin, there’s a price that has been paid!
Many have become sin’s servant and slave!
Many will not escape God’s judgment and wrath!
They’ve chosen the wrong direction and path!
Right now... There’s a path
and a way to “escape!”
Please do it right now! Before it’s too late!
The right path to take, is through Christ alone!
He must be the lord of your heart and home!
Jesus alone, can bring hope to your soul!
He’ll never leave you!
Is what he wants you to know!
Times of trouble and uncertainty
are well on their way!
Christ can help you to overcome!
He can do it TODAY!
By Jim Pemberton
Copyright © Jim Pemberton
snow falls lightly
from the sky up above
soflty falling down
like the feather of a dove
each snow flake is different
like each one of us
falling to the ground
like snow often does
it's steals away breath
this brilliant thing
so pure and refreshing
like the songs angels sing
they sing for remembrance
of God and his sun
throwing down these white tokens
to say winter has begun
white is for birth
the birth of baby christ
white is for hope
that things are alright
each flake that falls
from the sky up above
is a gift from God
telling us we are loved
Copyright © Anne Hessler
My, you’re brimming with eggs, oh singing robin redbreast,
Fly to the mulberry branch with your saffron yarn to build your nest.
And hello, mandarin butterfly, look how anxiously you flit,
Here and there until at last upon the elm branch you sit.
Look on the hickory branch, you can observe a predator stalk,
The neighborhood hawk will hoist his prey to the tower loft.
A squirrel launches from an overhead limb into midair,
It rattles loose an avalanche of snow on my scalp and in my hair.
Copyright © Kim Bond
an icicle dagger falls from above
piercing the precocious snow
remember to look up
Copyright © Kim Bond
I saw a twig from beneath the snow
Yet, nothing from this image proved
That life survived or life let go
The will or jewel or soul less moved
To be described or cherished, no?
What bright sunlight once regaled
The splendor of its name to know
Or girth of shade less height narrated
By friend or foe.
Beneath its benevolence survived
The warring tide of greed and pride
In selfish arrogance revived
The fate of many to provide.
Long ago, days less renowned
Witnessed steadily nature’s tide
When forests grew tall and sound
On healthy unpolluted ground.
Those days were numbered by God alone
Who created everything known
That one day this tree would die
In corruption lie.
No longer proud beneath the snow
Only memories would we know
To place in mind that like our kind
We share this fate to find.
Copyright © Jonathan Bellmann
Snow Angel in white,
She can never fly,
She can only lay,
still like a squished bug,
Then why exist?
She longs to make
Copyright © Kim Bond
Science can’t save you, neither can religion,
at least Popper and Niebuhr, philosophers and poets,
are entertainers, which is why actors and athletes
are paid so much. Thanks for the summaries.
I was teaching Shakespeare’s 92nd ridiculous sonnet
to my student who lays blacktop in the off season
Shakespeare bellyaching about dying without her love
a feeling foreign to a modern adolescent sensibility
although many teens are pretty far gone searching
for their mothers or fathers in their dazed lovers’ eyes.
Which is why we call it “the wound that never heals.”
Or the lesion that’s always lengthening. And bleeding.
Muslim fundamentalists and their Christian counterparts
are a mystery to me. Pews and prayer rugs, the airless
indoor environment of religious worship, reading
scriptures, hypnotized by hymns and fainting from staring
at candles through stained glass windows, almost certain
the preacher is faking his certainty about the afterlife.
It’s not my problem. A more immediate concern:
receding gums and tooth extractions, swollen joints,
poor lubrication and circulation, wave after wave
of viral infection, the occasional antibiotic-resistant
bacterial attack, usually urinary, and who knows
what internal organs are dividing and conquering
without mercy or cease, i.e. the wound that never heals.
It is wise not to overvalue your continued existence,
good not to be innumerate, unable to compare
a mere 80 years with say 6.0 x 109 or all of time
(to date) times the multiverse. Conversely,
it is interesting all of space and most of history is contained
in your little mind (realizing of course it’s just a map
of the cosmos not the cosmos itself, or is it?). I’m
unable to wrestle free, tongue in that cavity
and locked in my memories, so separate and disparate
from the biomass in the crosswalks, even my spouse.
Alone, so alone, even your doctor can only devote
limited thought to your situational mortality through
the redress of poetry—also a wound that never heals.
Snow for eternity, that’s what this February’s been.
All to the good, for someone it’s the final February
so enjoy it to the extent you can. By that I mean joy.
Joy at birth. Joy at death. All joy. All times. Anyway.
That was Shakespeare’s message: even tragedies are comedies.
May, a Buddhist, chants each morning.
Her husband, Marc, who’s Jewish, plays league tennis.
Their son, Aaron, will soon make Eagle scout.
How does it relate to your wound that never heals?
Luck runs out. For D.H. Lawrence in New Mexico
or Ulysses S. Grant in Ohio or Yasujiro Ozu in
Tokyo or Satyajit Ray in Bombay or Rabindranath
Tagore in Bangalore or at the Battle of the Atlantic in the Azores.
The night is a poultice, winter or summer solstice.
My anonymity will not effect the anomie ghettoside
seeing for myself how season by season
vacations and accomplishments accumulate, late in life
and early on, sunrise over mountains or moonrise over Bronx.
Masturbator, prisoner of war. Hospice of the Holy Roman Empire.
Numerous blue notes: the 3 flat, 7 flat, 5 flat,
the 6 flat and the 2 flat too. I don’t get
what Wallace Stevens means by imagination.
When groundhog shows up as a totem, there is opportunity
to explore the mystery of death without dying.
This then is the purpose of purposelessness (and of eating less)!
Now what about that wound that never heals.
The Skeptical Observer column in Scientific American
was somewhat alarming when he accepted a paranormal
explanation for how his wife’s grandfather’s inoperable
transistor radio played music from its hiding spot
in his sock drawer on, and only on, their wedding day.
Now I’ll have to believe my father (or mother!) is watching me
perform private sexual acts with (or without) partners
or that they could even know my thoughts. Or aliens
are attending our committee meetings and making
perfectly reasonable decisions given the available information
and the world is rotating just fine without humans.
These possibilities–angels, ghosts, aliens–are better
than holocaust and genocide. In this way,
and only in this way, does doom become endurable.
The wound that never heals in the end is all you’ll feel.
Copyright © Robert Ronnow