Wreath twisted by handwork combined
A wreath with strands of holly and vine.
A seasonal sign the withy willow with blood beads red
With branches by hand, a woven wreath design.
Wreath writhing wrists work wildly,
Wildly within a world worn worthy, winter wanted,
And work-ed wreath, to enliven winter whitened door or walls,
Wreath in the wild winter will wild wishes fulfil.
©Joe Maverick 12-2010
in participation & support of
Dr Rams Christmas wreath contest.
Snowy days cover mornings of solitude as birds are flying in the sky. Gold flutters
adjusting the wind's blow for the cold winter to remember this touch. Snowflakes in the
night's terrorism, in fields of dreams they rest. Let those who can fly escape, as it is
their chance to feel free this time, as clock is ticking and the hours are shrinking back to
their corners, let those who can run in clouds be blessed. These snowy days the Sun
rests upon a white flame, murmuring light. These days birds are leaving for another
land to find treasures they are missing, holding a map into their nebs. Yet, there are
some that wait in the cold for the winter to pass it's veil to another world. There are still
some that pray in darkness of a freezing season, warming their heart with tears, not
leaving their home.
Obliging black arms, their crooked
specter fingers, cut freezing as
they reach for winter greys, blues of skies
untouchable. Shaking, bending- dance,
mulish winds. Sweep lands. Violence
Art, framed with my eyes green as last
summer’s carpeting, where they were rooted.
Embroidered. Weaving native life.
Grounds milled, the purest white hush to
lull earth. Charming. Persistent as
Delicate verdant leaves on the Weeping Willow dance in the brisk wind like a harem dancer's
sheer covering. The sighing of the pines sounds like a cymbal gently playing. As rain
droplets sparse and large touch bounce upon late winter's earth, gray amassed clouds pass
over at a moderate rate speed...Then stillness__Is this the quiet before the major storm or
only a repose giving the turbulance a break from blowing in the storm from the west? The
Star Magnolia that was devoid of flowers yesterday fifteen open in different stages..Will the
harsh wind and rain destroy their beauty and let only such a brief life be theirs? The
Japanese Magnolia has flowers open in different stages with more on it than ever a year
before..The Bradford Pear buds opened during the cold late winter's night gracing all who
pass with their gracious beauty...Yes, as in life the storm did blown with harsh winds and
chilling rain...Damage was done to the lovely spring buds and blooms..After the storm, the
survivors were hanging on with a quiet strenght..
Here it comes again; softly knocking on windows at 2A.M, here comes the winter at a cold silent night, awakening my soul with the smell of dust after rain, the smell of mom holding me into bed, with the voices of my sisters playing next room, here it comes again with painful delights, here it comes again taking me back home.
Let the drops of rain knock on my door and let them ache my heart, let me taste the sweet smell in my tongue like a little boy getting wet beneath the rain, waiting to be rebuked, but none of this does matter because the burdens of life are slipping down with the rains being drifted on his coat, none of this does matter because the weight of life was just not this cold before.
Here comes the winter with empty corners in my head and echoes of laughters in my room, a piece of chocolate I can no longer find and a broken toy I’ve never thrown away, with good sweaters that never felt warm on a cold night like this, let the chilly breezes of winter take me back home again, to smell my father’s smoking cigarettes and my mother combing my hair, and the smell of coffee beans on one cloudy morning to refresh my day, oh here comes the winter, remembering me again and stopping by with few memories to take me home.
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As we approached the ice bergs our ship seemed tiny
they towered high above us as we crept into the bay
we could see the Eskimo's and their sleigh's waiting
now we would complete the next few legs with them
Our goal is to reach and set up camp at the North Pole
loading our supplies onto the sleigh's and getting on
soon we were speeding along, the ground very bumpy
clinging on, ducking branches as they whip back and forth
A wonder world of pristine white and hues of various blues
only broken up by the line of trees glinting brightly green
large ravines off to the side, one slip and you would be gone
to a cold icy grave buried forever in this lost icy world of snow
Onwards over the harsh landscape, we need to reach camp
before its dark, to unpack what's needed for overnight stay
light a campfire settle and feed the husky's waiting patiently
cook and eat our food as we share a few beers and some jokes
All too soon its dawn, temperature is -20% we have to break
things free from the ice, before we can eat and pack up
husky's are linked up and ready, what a din they are making
so excited to get going, this is now the final stage before the pole
We fly down barely noticeable trails that twist and wind slurry
left behind us, half a days travel left not too far to go now
some we leave the tree line behind, in front nothing but snow
ice bergs so big you could lose a couple of houses inside them
At last we see the buildings ahead and people pouring out
they will return to their own lands until it is time to relieve us
six months we will be here recording data about weather
and other things, watching polar bears and noting their habits
All this just for some insight and some data that will get buried
as for us well we have the open space, the freezing cold
each other to help past the long nights, day is only 6 hours
18 hours of dark, and fearsome storms that will be our lot
Cut off now until spring returns and the reindeer return
they have wintered far to the south now coming back
they will give birth here on the icy plains of endless snow
and we will return to so called civillization until next year
He is the sinking of the final red orange sun of the glowing summer
Warmth no longer oozing and seeping into the pores as I lie bare under the skies
Jeweled dewdrops on the morning grass to dampen bare feet all softness under
And the shimmer on the surface of the lakes like the diamonds in your eyes
He is the golden cusp pf Autumn's Fertility
The ritual dance of the scarecrow in the breezes
(Straw coming loose and flying towards you, most certainly
will brush up against you and tickle before he ceases)
And this thinner less lumpy all seeing scarecrow
Seems to be in no remorse: his knowing face will always grin
And his arms will always be raised in a wave to show
He will protect the yellow brown stalks that bend before him
He is the crisp wind that caresses the crinkled foliage
Their rustling like long flowing skirts on a 1940s ballroom floor
These winds chill the fingers and toes and your face with the stinging red roses
Yet when winter beckons the retreating light, we will be frozen at its core
He is silent snowfalls and many winter moons
And the brown earth beginning to expose itself
The uncoiling of green and mud beginning to ooze
And all new life breaking free from its fragile shell
The snowflakes fall,
each one unique and alone,
covering the Earth like returning souls
to mark this winter day.
Quietly I watch Nature perform
Her trick of purity and grace,
grateful for my solitude,
communing with my soul.
The flakes become small,
like dust motes in an old room
with sheets thrown over furniture
and the curtains drawn tightly shut.
I watch the snow fall and tempted, I venture out;
wind stirs branches in the park
and I crunch the soft snow underfoot
as a dog would crunch on a bone.
My footprints leave a mark and I tread backwards,
retracing my steps to the back door,
pondering as I retreat the ying-yang of snow
nestling on the top of a black wheelie-bin.
From an upstairs window I look at the ghost
of the park, covered in white winter's shroud,
the park is empty, devoid of life's bustle.
Downstairs I watch steam rise from a kettle
and take it outside to pour over dead covered leaves,
the evaporation is instant, steam rises from snow:
I marvel at the incongruous sight and step back inside,
Satisfied with my experiment and my silent, pale visitor.
Spring is on the distant horizon, another month has gone, now just a memory
Seasons flow seamlessly, path's of time seem faster, now in my golden years
The month of March is vigorous and piping, the month of new life in nature,
The coldness of our winter very gently fades, birds sing high in the trees,
But beware of gales as they rush through our woods, over meadows and glades.
The wild wrath of winter eases, March winds are fast, chasing the cold away,
Branches bend and groan, dead wood falls, ruining thatches and old buildings,
The wind bites but wild flowers spring from black soil in meadows and glades,
Measure the difference of the solemn fitfulness's of autumn, and March winds
As People gingerly look out on mild days time to begin work in their gardens.
The last days of February sees the frost less severe, the slushy snow melting,
All in keeping with ancient character the month is wet from thaw and dampness,
A time for floods as snows melt, rain and sleet pours, this is our wet season,
There is movement in the woods, leas and the forests nature starts to wake up,
Now as sap is stirring in trees, buds begin to show green on bushes and boughs.
Even in our winter season the soul of the coming year bursts through hard thick frost,
Even in high piles of purest white snow, buds grow for our future of the next summer,
Blow flowers stir and seeds my mind with flowers of the rarest beauty of our nature,
It is a miracle of this world a characteristic of not understanding natures jigsaws.
Every leaf every little flower and grain will enrich the earth to sustain its many needs,
It would take too long to enumerate all the flowers, buds the insects in each new year,
A Christmas rose expands its white chalice undaunted by the sharpest of crystal frosts,
It blooms amid overwhelming wreaths of snow and the hardest ground but it never fails.
In the valleys of high mountains the ground is covered with these hardy beautiful flowers,
January has a dear old favorite and my old friend the snowdrop a delicate mighty force,
White aconites, the white leaved colts foot flower grow in the milder months of our winter,
In the woods and hedges insects begin to recommence active life under barks of old trees.
Every advancing day presents us with a fresh and cheering symptom of a clean new spring,
Hedge sparrows and the thrush begin to sing, wren pipes lay, we see a golden crested wren,
Blackbirds whistle and linnets gather and little lambs appear in cold snow covered fields,
The house sparrow, a bold courageous bird, renews his brisk chirping a challenge to cold.
So when we look through white frosted panes of spun glass and look across winter countryside,
When we moan we are bored but it is too cold to take a walk or play in the clear open air,
When we come home from working and complain that their feet are wet, cold and badly wrinkled,
Nature is busy getting her armies together to make meadows wonderful and glades beautiful.
There is no season without a witness of a higher greatness which I cannot understand,
In the cold iron depth of winter nurtures the whole vegetation of our future summer,
Like germs of faith and hope in the heart of man that cannot and must not ever fail,
Little buds grow on a bough, corn peeks from frozen earth, nature has moved a mountain.