The deadly white of winter had descended.
Mountain high piles of snow braced the phone poles.
Mufflers donned we left for school unattended
for mother lay crying in her bed, we were not whole.
Father left many nights ago it seemed
we did not know the why, the what or when, just then
what would we do for Christmas, mother screamed.
In this earthly sorrow two little girls cried again.
All of eight was I, and she was but three,
No tree was dressed within the cold, white, rented farm house
only paper chains no sweet cane candy
the kitchen cupboards were bare even for the mouse.
The night bleak, mother pulled us on a sled
to Gran's we went, through snow and cold for dinner time.
Ma's heart had gone, when Father left her bed
Downcast, we trudged without Daddy's car, we climbed.
We came home and settled in, night brought surprise
our Daddy had come home, and it was Christmas night
he brought me a bike, a green and white prize
But all I cared about was the smile in his eyes.
Copyright © Debbie Guzzi
We lived in shoeboxes
Where the full moon didn’t show
Jerked beneath blankets and the night
Waiting for the snow.
Mother sewed for coins
Through squinted eyes, blind tears
When she slept we added more stitches
Embroidered in our fears.
It was always winter
In our tile of world caught in the pane
We taught the babies how to pray
The stories kept us sane.
One day the stitching stopped
Why was she crying, we didn’t know
I cannot see. She could not see
So we waited for the snow.
Copyright © Grace EunSong Lee
It took three whole days
for Jack to build a snowman;
he's as tall and strong
THRILLED BY SNOW
They are thrilled and scream..
playing in the deep, fresh snow;
they cannot their mom
Heart, take a quick look:
isn't winter's glittering snow
Copyright © Andrew Crisci
Three flakes of snow fell on the village, there might
have been a few more, but those I saw landed on
the roof of the car and I saw them melt to droplets
of clear water. On each droplets a tiny rainbow and
my mother´s face when I called and asked for her to
throw down a sandwich with marge and sugar on.
She did, often- I´m not a football keeper- it landed in
the snow which was more than tiny flakes; so what!
Bread and sugar, I was hungry and fighting against
children who had invading our street. And when my
hands were frozen I came up warmed them by the stow
and remember how it hurts to get the circulation back
into my hands.
Copyright © jan oskar hansen
The moon shines down on the newly fallen snow,
casting a beautiful heavenly glow.
The winds blow so swiftly through the trees,
baring the branches of autumns fallen leaves.
I stood there gazing looking up at the stars,
admiring their beauty and the whole scene at large.
I though of my childhood through past years,
there were some I remember that brought me to tears.
I rememer my mother playing with me in the snow,
oh how I miss her it was so long ago.
We would decorate our house for the Christmas season,
we would laugh and sing and not need a reason.
Our house would smell of cinnamon and spice,
for all of our sences it would surely entice.
I looked forward to our Christmas each year,
it was always so full of happiness and cheer.
Copyright © Shannon tackett
I write this as I watch the storm.
A blizzard if you will, although I enjoy it.
The ice encompasses the trees.
Melting away, it drips from each branch.
The storm rages on...
I hear the cries of the whipping winds.
Mother Nature's screams of anguish flood my ears.
As the snow falls from the sky, it begins to devour the land I once knew.
The storm rages on...
As if attempting to be malicious, limbs of the trees began to fall.
Her power seems to be immeasurable.
But her destruction is done with a sense of elegance.
It is as if, it is her own personal form of art.
The storm begins to calm...
As her devastation lessens, beauty emerges.
The snow gleams bright with the reflection of the sun.
Almost blinding, but breathtaking nevertheless.
It seems to me that in the end, love has come from her fury...
A true mysterious ending to such simple horror...
The storm ends...
Copyright © Dylan Shea
My body shutters as the chiily winter wind blows in my face. Snow flurries dancing there
way to the earth from the heavenly skies. Watching the angels cover up mother earth in a
beautiful glittery blanket. My eyes light up like a little child as i tip my head back and feel the
cold snowflakes land on my tongue. I close my eyes and hear the sweet sound of the ground
crunched beneath my feet. Jack frost has arrived and greeted the earth snowball wars and
building silly snowmen. The tree branches are covered in snow and the snow sickles are
hanging from the porch. Shining like chrystals in the sunlight it is a wondrous sight my
mother yells from the house "Okay children it is time to come in for some hot chocolate."
Before I go to sleep I watch the snowflakes light up the night sky I hear my mother whisper
"Okay my snow angels goodnight and good dreams."
By Julie Rene leek:)
Smile God love's You:)
Copyright © Julie Leek
She's never seen snow
living in Florida
but every once in awhile
her mother throws her a snowball.
Splat! Right in the face
Mom gets out the blender
puts in the ice
runs the thing
until the ice is dead
but in its place
is the perfect thing
for her daughter's face.
She scoops it out
balls it up
sometimes they toss it
back and forth
till it falls apart
all over the floor.
of a mother
in teaching her daughter.
It can be fun
having a snowstorm
in the kitchen!
Copyright © Sheila Kathryn Barrera
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
I do not know?
She awakens in a cold room,
Letting her eyes adjust,
To the swaying bulb above her,
Shivering as she lifts herself upright,
Climbing to her feet,
Feeling her knees bow,
As she steadies them.
She slowly walks,
With her right hand against the wall,
Still feeling a bit dizzy,
Wondering where she is,
And why it seems so cold,
Moving along towards a metal door.
She touches the handle,
Feeling it's icy grip running through her fingers,
Hearing a faint noise somewhere on the other side,
Sounding somewhat like the wind,
But rather eerie.
"Mother!" she cries out,
"Mother...w-where are y-you" she cries,
Pushing the latch down and pulling it,
Slowly opening the door,
As fresh snow comes flowing in,
Like a billow of smoke.
She puts her hands over her eyes,
And looks out into the winter wonderland,
Seeing something a bit ways away,
Something huddled up in the snow,
Not too big, and not too small.
She pushes her way out,
Feeling the cold snow beneath her bare feet,
And the constant snowflakes,
That fall from above, covering her head and shoulders,
Sending a chill up her spine.
She makes her way through the snow,
Feeling it getting deeper the farther she goes,
Closing in on the slumped over object,
That begins to resemble a person,
As she draws in on it.
Something cold stops her in her tracks,
She looks down and notices large red blotches in the snow,
By the look of it, it's blood,
And the object is a body,
Draped in white covered in large red stains,
From head to toe.
She kneels beside the body,
Slowly flipping it over,
Looking into the cold glassy eyes,
Realizing that it's her mother,
With a small sharp object embedded in her throat.
The girl yanks the piece of metal out,
And drops it,
Small trick-lets of blood fall into the snow,
She looks at the piece of metal,
And realizes that it's a rose,
Surrounded in barbed wire.
She touches it again,
A feeling of warmth comforts her,
She remembers her mother giving this to her,
When she was a little girl,
She told her "No matter how far away I may be,
Mother will always love you".
"I love you mother' she cries,
Gently laying her head on the corpse,
As snow continues to fall,
Blanketing her in it's icy embrace.
A smile spreads across her face,
Closing her heavy eyes,
Being overtaken by the endless sleep,
That will reunite her with her mother,
That she had slain in the wintry wonderland,
That now is their tomb.
Copyright © Robert Needles
What am I doing here?
The wind is blowing
The snow is swirling in clouds of white
I know there are cars out there
I can hear them
See their dimming tail lights
The bag sitting next to me
It reminds me of my warm house
The first I built that you now enjoy
Is it all worth it?
Did you really have the nerve to ask me?
Did you look outside?
Then did you decide to risk my life?
I would have gone in the morning
You know I would have
The snow would have been gone by then
I would still be able to feel my fingers
I think I lost my toes about a mile back
But, I know that doesn’t matter
The wind, the snow, the cold
They are nothing to you
Cuddled in that warm blanket
Before that blazing fire
The one I started
The one I tended from ambers
You say you love me
On a cold night like this I doubt it
Until I get home and I see your smile
As you take the bag
And you eat the first of many sweet French pickles
Followed by that pint of ice cream
I see that smile
And I know all the warmth I need
Until tomorrow night when I get to do it all again.
Copyright © R. e. taylor
Someone said, "Bring back the funny"
But I'm not mentioning any names ( Faleshia )
So if this just ain't your cup of tea
Then she's the one you blame
Here's a story about Mother Nature
Did you know she had four sons?
Winter, Spring, Summer and Fall
But they weren't her only ones
She had an affair with Father Time
And had another bouncing baby boy
Since all the seasons were already named
They just called that poor kid Roy
Now, Roy was kinda the black sheep
He liked to color outside the lines
He always stayed in trouble with the law
And Mother Nature, had to pay his fines
Now, he really didn't have much talent
Though he was born with a silver spoon
But everytime that boy would sneeze
It would snow somewhere in june
Well, they tried to keep him a secret
But the snow was taking its toll
So she told that boy to use his hanky
Everytime he needed to blow
Now remember, Roy was the black sheep
So he paid his mother no mind
He just kept right on blowing his nose
Til he thought he'd surely go blind
So the next time you're on vacation
And it starts to snow in june
Remember this story I told you
About the boy with the silver spoon
Copyright © Larry Belt
She was so terrified,
A phone was continued ringing,
She didn’t dare to pick the receiver,
She ignored the ringing and went to bed.
He had a break down,
When he checked his pockets,
He was strange to know,
He forgot his ballet at home.
Early in the morning,
Someone knocked at the door.
She removed a curtain and looked outside,
Everywhere snow was covered.
She opened the door
And let police to come in.
Your son last night,
Stocked in a snow storm,
We tried to give him a first aid,
But terribly found, he was dead,
We recovered his body;
You can look at him.
She was weeping bitterly,
And crying for his husband,
If you don’t terrified me,
I never thought you are over the phone.
Copyright © Daljit Khankhana
October should have falling leaves
Instead of pelting flakes.
It seems like Mother Nature
Has been making some mistakes.
Perhaps she’s getting senile
And dementia’s taken hold,
So despite the date, she’s sending us
Some snow and ice and cold.
The hay rides all have been postponed,
The pumpkins rimed with frost;
And people who planned outdoor galas
Must feel double-crossed.
There’s nothing we can really do
If Mother Nature slips.
With any weather she doles out,
We have to come to grips.
And so today, I stayed inside
And watched the snowflakes fly;
When crazy rules come from above,
We might as well comply.
Copyright © ilene bauer