The eddy pulls hard against my torso
panic rises and surfaces, my vsion starts to zigzag
I swim harder in the strong currents of confusion
How did my life become a battle
My father once seemed to love all his children
Now where is the love?
We have to be the dictator to prevent suicide/murder
Begrudgingly he submits to the will of the family
Unforgiving, ungrateful, rebellious
time has the last laugh, my son shouts
I hate you, I never loved you, you are so mean!!
My father shouts, you don't love me, you just want my stuff
You are so selfish!
Tears fall....A heart breaks!
Will this trial end?
Mother says, my daughter has not been to see me in so long, I want to see my baby.
Mom I am here, I was here yesterday! I brought you food! don't you remember?
Life cycles around the eddy, swirls and swirls with no end...
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.
Check out my writings at:
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.
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
There were seven Indian Government schools. All built alike. The
one I'm writing about is Spring Creek. He Dog, Soldier Creek and White River,
Grass Mountain, Two Kettle, and Black Pipe were the other schools. The
Headquarters for these schools was at Rosebud, South Dakota.
On some summer evenings we were able to talk our mothers into
hiking to the lookout tower. We followed the ankle deep sandy trail road to the
cliff north of the school., A canyon lay at the foot of the tower but we climbed the
bluff. I don't know why we didn't explore the canyon unless it seemed dark and
sinister. The footing was better once we reached the summit. The closer we got
to the tower the taller it grew and standing at the foot of the steps looking up was
easier than getting to the top and looking down. My mother didn't usually make it
to the top because she didn't like heights. But she didn't mind being left behind
this time. We never could get into the building at the top because it was locked,
but we could climb the steps to the very last one. Even my little sister managed
to elude mom and followed us to the top.
From the bluff we could look down on the garden. My aunt grew a
huge garden and canned the produce for the hot meals served the school
children. We kids didn't work in the garden very often, but we looked for the arrow
heads and fossils. Which, I suspect the adults probably considered the best
place for us.
At the end of the road, living in shack, was Old Lady Grease. I have a
vague recollection of seeing her. Tiny, frail, wrinkled and gray headed is all I can
In spring and fall we were in school in Kansas.
It's Christmas now. Cold and usually snowy. We were in a winter
I'm standing at the fire escape window. The ghostly pale full moon is
illuminating the naked arms of the trees as they shiver in the wind, swaying to
and fro as if dancers in a ballet. I listen to the winter sounds. The frigid air
enhances their sharpness. The ax's thud echoes up the canyon as one of the
Indians across the river chops another supply of wood. One of his peers beats
on the drum. It is one-thirty a. m. but the thin walls of the tents do not keep the
cold out. Day or night this chore must be attended to for survival.
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.
Winter is upon me
Gray and fragile
Life blood flows cold
Decorate frozen bones
Yet my dormant heart beats
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.
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
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
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.
LIKE FALLEN LEAVES…
Here in the winter of my long lived life,
the leaves of my head now fall to the ground.
Destined like leaves of trees gone dead,
the winter winds will soon blow my dust around;
and like fallen leaves, I’ll be done with this world’s strife.
Oh but when the scythe of time snips my thread,
would if I could be like leaves of trees---
who in due season, go happily to their death:
leaving their wooded---naked bones with nothing left
but the bark of reason guarding their earthy homes
through whose lonely arms, the chilly breeze freely roams.
Yet, for these trees, another season comes like the mornings’ dew;
And they shall rise up from winter’s purgatory and begin life anew.
And though the sojourn here has had its moments of despair,
the flames of love, faith and hope have always been there.
So when I’m gone, weep only tears of joy for me;
for I know why the empty cross was made of the wood of a tree.
Can't seem to get off to sleep tonight, thoughts buzzing around my old head,
It's dark and quiet, the cat has gone out and the street lights have gone out too,
The odd car passes by maybe coming home from friends or a night on the town,
Could be on the way back from a restaurant a Chinese, or picking up family?
Looking at the calender I see we are getting into mid March and days are longer,
Could it be that the winter has lost its sharp teeth and the might of frosts gone,
A thousand welcomes to Spring but it cannot bring back youth or thicken my hair,
Or enable us to offer the first gathered violets to dear souls in their heavens.
The fowled of the farm yard lay, the pheasants crow in the copse the ring dove coos,
The linnet and the gold finch sing while man looks to fences and drains and water levels,
Next is ploughing and sowing, pruning and planting and talking of good years gone,
Spring stirs all with her mighty influence from the depths of the soil and heart.
So spring is with us and she will throw off one dark and gloomy coat after another,
And spring will chase away winter with his hardly wrinkled face and keen eye for beauty,
It is march rough yet pleasant, vigorous and strong with hope and strength and lovely voice,
His gales will come rushing and sounding over forest and lea and shake nature wide awake.
The tacamahac shows off its long furry green catkins, the mezereon its clustered blossoms,
Then the splendid red China rose unfolds itself to the fresh air, and green pastures return,
Coltsfoot and cardamine embellish old fallows and the star of Bethlehem gleams in the woods,
Crocus spreads around like a purple flood over the old established meadows, spring is sprung.
Warm hearts thumping in rhythmic pattern
all together in a chorus so divine,
that it speaks to the soul and sings to the heart,
and we join hands and dance in the winter paradise
of such beauty in the changing of the world.
As we all dance and sing,
we show each to each a beautiful thing
that makes us all sing.
Warm hearts we are and warm hearts we do have;
all we do is love and love again,
in the times of different seasons
we dance and sing and love,
for our warm hearts they love one another,
and together they shall beat together,
one by one-
and with the taking of a springtime storm
we shall indeed enjoy such beauty
our warm hearts produce.
WINTER TIME GRIEF…
The long hot summer has disappeared over the horizon,
Yielding to the arrival of the cooling Fall.
Despite their approaching fate---the annual leaves’ excision,
the tower trees proudly stand firm and tall.
The steamy sticky sweaty nights have all gone
giving way to the cool ebony breeze;
horny crickets and frogs no longer sing their eerie mating song;
squirrels organize their cupboards in the hollows of the trees;
and mushrooms grow on the graves of the Fall’s fallen leaves.
In the early evens’ mist, sun of change ushered in the close of day
leaving flickering shadows hovering over time’s footprints.
Birds---angels of the sky, have spread their wings and flown away;
leaving behind empty nests to catch the winter’s coming events.
Strange, how nature’s circadian rhythms bring about change;
but in the winter season of humanity, so much remain the same.
Even in the winter cold, sable blood flows from the rape of justice:
No matter the season, the blind goddess remains a scheming mistress.
went is cold
they get more bold
in there suite tights
the bike at night
there plan stand
thyer up hill hiker
fresh white snow falling
into his black hair
he sips his caramel coffee
and smiles up into the sky
The years passed, things never did get better..
Her Garden Club was the only thing that held her together
The mental abuse had taken it’s toll...
As far as he was concerned he owned her soul..
She now felt she had no recourse..
And decided she had to find a source..
To end this life as she knew it..
And move on without the commitment...
It was a Friday one cold winter day..
He told her he was going to Vegas to play..
But we have no money, you said yesterday..
No, YOU ! have no money he said and...
I wish you were dead...
He had bragged for years, this day would come
When he would choose another one..
But before I leave...he had a request..
Make me my favorite dinner...for me and a guest
She is younger than you and oh what a catch..
So she went to the freezer to find and fetch..
A suitable roast for he and his guest...
She found just the right thing for his favorite meal..
A large leg of lamb, or was it Veal ?
It was heavy, about twenty pounds she thought...
What was I thinking when this was bought ?
Back in the kitchen, he was still raving...
About how useless this marriage was of saving...
I really don’t care what happens to you...
But I’ll see you get nothing, not even a shoe...
With that she swung the 20 pound roast...
It smashed in his skull, he was dead right away...
Oh my, she said, what a way to start the day...
She grabbed the roast and put it in a pan...
And began to figure out a plan... of what to do with this man...
She thought for a moment and remembered the strife..
That went with her ordering that “ Ginzu “ knife...
It was a TV offer she couldn’t pass up, never needed sharpening....
and cut thru bone..order one now and get one free..
It was the first and last time she used the credit card and that was in 1963.
The knife worked well, she thought , now that was a bargain
Placed the parts in a bag and headed for the garden...
Body parts were buried in the dirt..
And she smiled upon the burning of her shirt..
She took the roast to her Garden Club meeting..
It was a special event and guess who was speaking ?
The Chief of Police and his subject was on spousal beating..
And by the way he said he would like the recipe for his wife..
The weeks went by, she was happy everyday...
And then it happened, is was the first of May..
The big event she had waited for all year..
Her entry of the “ *Amorphophallus Titanum “...
Oh how proud she was...when awarded top prize..
A very rare plant, said the Judge...and has a very weird odor..
And it’s not very pleasant...as a matter of fact
It smells like rotting meat , said another, sorta sour.
Which is why said the Judge..it’s commonly called the ...* Corpse Flower..
* Native to the rainforest, flowers are rare and if it blooms,
Is one of approximately 140 recorded in history...
Most recently on display in New York City in 2012...
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.
you can tell
by the smell
cold weather stuff
and the cloth line
FOR THE REASON
People are like flowers,
they stay and enrich our lives in the summer ,
and then winter comes.
you know winter makes way for new flowers in your life,
even though it's very cold, you just have to wait.
Don't worry Katie summer will come again
You have to be strong!
You need to survive the cold winter to see summer again.
The days are dark and short lived.
Yet,I love this season ever so much.
The air while crisp,somehow feels warm and cozy to me.
I adore the aroma of a fireplace and other holiday fragrances.
Enjoy this festive,family time.
That's what winter means to me...
Our winter love ruins; I was once scolded by the hand that taught me
but now it leaves me cold and,
although our brief candle has nearly burnt itself out, I love you too much,
and it still isn’t enough.
I’ve had a thousand loves but they’ve all died a thousand deaths,
soon I’ll be left with nothing again;
unpicked and overripe in our frosted bed; there is nothing left to feel
when you have lost all hope.
Where do you go if you’re already on your knees?
I gave you my heart but you took my mind in the process,
so now I’m left solid, a glass glacier of dreams,
and I can’t stand your frigid abortioning; I want to ignite myself to feel again
- my doctor does not recommend that.
Cadaverous kisses simply prolong our illness but our parts are frozen together
forever, all still and dead with our ice-covered hearts.
On a cold frosty December morning snow has already visited the land so bare so dreary,
With its mighty sword it has cut down dahlias and made us look after any tender plants,
In the north sky the aurora borealis, flashed, a winter tale says it is a sign of cold,
So once more we prepare for hoary frost and snows, a sharp slap from an evil east wind.
Those who wrap up in warm cloaks, coats, and fine furs they will bare the bitter chill,
For those fortunate people, a fire blazes in their homes, a table well spread are glad,
But put you hand on your heart and tell, how many will miss these things in the winter,
The many with the huge burden of suffering and freezing how they must yearn for spring.
For those who can we must lend a hand to lighten distress that will certainly prevail,
We must brace up our hearts, forget our own troubles to assist others when called upon,
We must rouse all the slumbering humanity in our nature and collect warm coats not warn,
How much better will they be on the backs and beds of our suffering in the cold winter.
AURORA'S AURA OF WINTER COLD
Aurora’s aura of winter cold
The sun’s beaming rays from the azure sky
drifting ecstatic shining slowly through milky ways
blowing chilly air fondles the shivering Nature
emerald pendulous grapes under the leaves
dripping with diamante glistening mists
The year gets older storms streak the skies I am told age is a quality of the mind,
Do I sit indoors and watch the fog, the dirt, the rain and wind splash on my windows,
So I wonder around indoors in a depressing influence of a winter with its suffering,
Muttering to myself and to others that old age has made me leave my dreams behind me.
Standing by French windows, beaten by tempests, so I shuffle over to an evening fire,
The flowers have gone and longer grass stands among the thickets withered, bleached,
The fern red and shriveled amid the green gorse and broom, even my hope has gone cold,
Plants that waved white umbels to the summer breeze now a skeleton a trophy of death.
The brooks are brimful the rivers turbid covered with masses of foam hurrying along,
Words in my head whisper, if you no longer plan ahead, ambitions dead, you are old,
Our gardens, sad and damp and so desolate their floral splendors are naked and dead,
Decaying leaves have taken the place of verdure and all is gloom and all is silence.
She spoke to me
In winter words
Words she had filled
With ice and snow
Her words of summer
Have long since gone
The way of green fields
Covered in bright shinning sun
There are days
I can still recall
Her weaving a nest
With words of spring
Her love and warmth
Filled our home
With songs of warmth
But these days
In winter words
I should have
Long since seen
Her winter words appeared
Spoke of autumn
In the wintry countryside, January bares her soul and lets little buds grow,
Under drifts of pure white snow, hedge high frost hardened, there is movement,
Shoots of brave winter flowers wake, and they in turn wake our summer flowers,
Then the rarest of all our flowers the blow flower stirs hidden away from all.
With frosted snow lay-ed and the skies clear, it reflects a lapis lazuli blue,
The new snow that has fallen on top of icy snow the breeze blows it into spray,
The binding of the snow beneath there is hardness that allows us to walk on it,
Walking on snow is a wonderful feeling looking over hedge tops and deep valleys.
It's good to feel the frozen mass crunching under foot but we sometimes slide,
Only rivers show themselves, their wintery hues amid the trees and grey rocks,
And because it has been a snowy winter stories circulate around warm firesides,
Of travelers lost in great drifts on the wild moorlands and snow laden forests.
A man walking down a main street the wind blowing snow onto his face,
A sharp wind gusts down upon him but he walks head down marching on,
He is just a shadow in the winter night but his determination scares,
A thin strong man looks like he would knock anybody down should he cared.
Frost has been the harbinger in these cold winter months snow now visits,
We all look for frost and snows followed by a bitter salute of an east wind,
Most people wrap up in warm clothes but this man rushing along is unusual,
The Auria-Boreas has flashed forth in our nocturnal sky, a warning for all.
This traveler drives himself through the bleak heath with frost in his veins,
The hissing east-wind in his teeth the snow gathers on hard square shoulders,
This man is up to no good as the anger in his sallow cheeks spark purest hate,
As he rushes past others feel the whip of his flapping cloak as he looks ahead.
He crashes open doors at a tavern in the center of the town and orders a double,
It disappears in one swig he slams the glass on the counter and demands another,
Someone looks his way his steel grey eyes catches theirs they stare at the floor,
This man is different from the others, he has no fear he is a soldier, he is home.
As one waits for the morning and looks for the first flush in the east,
February strains its eyes and ears for the earliest signs of spring,
The signs could be a slight increase of some birds in their passing,
From mere call-notes to twittering and an occasional song and a flower.
February comes in as a month of thaw from a cold winter to wet and dreary,
It is a month of anticipation, and the birds from the continent regard it so,
Expressing their feeling as a carnival by all sorts of merriment's and gaiety's,
It is also the month of the snowdrop, and sap stirring in trees, buds swelling.
Snow birds begin to sing and dance and a song sparrow joins in from a high branch,
As it sings, a beautiful bird, its bright ruddy breast appears, the first robin,
February, just now and again, delivers a faint undercurrent of bubbling life,
Like a mountainous country, before the sunrise, peak after peak, a rosy light.
Delusive days, a whiff of spring today gets buried under a foot of snow tomorrow,
Magical sounds of the early song sparrow, strikes the first blow, of winter fetters,
Flocks of ceder-birds, called cherry birds, and wax wings dressed in their Sunday best,
Wax wing, is named, because on its feathers and tail bits resembling red sealing wax.