Best Ankle Deep Poems
Winter Sonata 11-29-23
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Winter Sonata
In grave allegro solo grey gathers,
Strings of winter fantasias
Brewing staccatos of frozen fall remnants,
Downbeats for the first movement
As shivering sleet wipes away bucolic barcarolles
Rocking on sapphire barges,
Harbingers of hoarfrost and hibernation,
When leafless boughs conduct the opening motif
To summon deepening darkness
From restrained shadows of turbulence
To beat warnings on frosted windows
Of snug dens – sheltered hallows.
Sweet solstice flutes sing adagio
Then scatter crystalline mists across snow packed paths
In the movement pathetique when sunglow
Glides between aspen,
Ankle deep in fleecy billows,
Sugar flakes flutter in Heaven’s perfect pitch
Rhythmic silent rests hypnotize crisp midnights
When fluttering flakes of dreamy andantes
Ride on melodic cantabile whispers
In flurries of fleecy decrescendos
Spells of codas, enthralled by idle snowfall,
Glitter in lyric tinsel of sparkling crystal beads on twigs.
Movement presto crescendos in frenzied storms
Snowfall pizzicatos fall in descending measures
When rondos of wind song ensembles
Ascend in frigid notes of icy scales
That pirouette in pulsing beats with resonate strings
Plucked by boreas in thundersnows percussions,
Vivace mistrals whirl in powdery ghosts
That spin in tremolo trills of icicles,
And in whiteout scherzos of blizzard sonatas,
Dizzy with solstice frosty fevers
As winter’s thundering cadence modulates
Into vernal sighs of resolution.
I love to spend my October afternoons walking ankle-deep in dried, curled leaves.
They cover the back country roads, the forest floor, and my own front yard.
But, I cannot bear to rake them away, or burn them.
The dead, gnarled leaves drift down around me like confetti.
Some are in shades of red and maroon and crimson.
The color of country barns you pass by, when you are going home for Thanksgiving.
Or, those crisp apples, waiting to be picked from the orchard's trees.
And, taken, to be pressed for cider, or dipped into warm caramel.
Some are in shades of yellow and gold and butterscotch.
The color of dried corn husks and stalks, bundled together to decorate porches.
And, the fields full of bright sunflowers, guarded by straw scarecrows.
Or, like the buses and the #2 pencils, waiting for the children to come back to school.
Some are in shades of orange and amber and burnt sienna.
The color of pumpkins sitting in patches, waiting to be carved out for Halloween.
Or, like the sun setting on a cool, September, Indian summer's evening.
Or, a full harvest moon when it rises, late, into the night sky.
Some are in shades of brown and chocolate and pecan.
The color of fragrant cinnamon and nutmeg, sprinkled within my Mom's apple pie.
Or, like maple syrup dripping from my pancakes, on a November morning.
And, those acorns, fallen from oak trees, inhabited by squirrels and owls.
Autumn lasts for maybe, three months, but to me it feels like only three minutes.
So, I take it all in while I can.
I look up through the branches,
where the golden sunlight beats between the rustling leaves.
My heart beats with warmth and joy at the sight.
Even though, the wind chills me to the bone.
A long winter will soon arrive, and the world will be nothing but white and gray.
Yet, the rich, unforgettable beauty of fall lingers within me.
Because, sometimes, when the snow finally fades away in the spring,
I can still smell those decaying, dead leaves.
Then, instantly, my mind returns to the autumn days that took my breath away.
snow falls
as silently as sleep
pressed snowflakes
icicle flowers
between the wind and windowpane
melt their way to sill
polished chrome darkness shivers
ankle deep in frost
night’s breath spills
along the frozen glass
its silver shadow rolls
and condenses with the dawn
night’s epitaph
written in blue mercury
trickles down my windowpane
in the light of a new day
SEVEN CANDLES
Balloon hysteria,
Paper hat pandemonium,
Blur of arms and legs,
Dance music deafens.
Seven candles in one big blow -
Almost impossible.
Carefully wrapped presents stripped fast -
Ankle deep in patterned paper.
Same next time;
Except eight candles.
Smell the sweet and salty air
Roam the wide beach without a care
Walk ankle deep in the ocean's cooling foam
Dig in the sand till the cows come home
For the fleeting moments spent in this magical place
Forget the outside world and its fanatic pace
Be a child once more, let your mind roam free
See life not as it is but as it could be
We live but once and time is a but a fleeting friend
So cherish this time from glorious beginning till end
I took off my shoes
and stood ankle deep
in the shallow reach and run
of the waves. I felt a sudden
cold, the slow sink of my feet
into wet sand, the gentle pull
of the outgoing tide,
then a tickle of seaweed
as it tangled around my shin.
There are moments like this
when you become the sum
of your own sensations.
The world was being taken in
through my feet, sipped joyously
as if each nerve was savoring
whatever came in contact
with my skin. It was electric.
I was motion, the deep throb
of breaking waves finding
a resonance, a seashell
imprinting an image of itself
through my heel, the freedom
of wiggling toes. I felt as if
I was being lifted
by a strange buoyancy until
the cold spread its numbing chill
and I stepped out of the water
back into my shoes,
into my own small footprint.
Could I hold your hand in my rough callused own
Walk you through soft Summer rain
Hold you so closely my nostrils explode
In joy so exquisite it’s pain
Wouldst care to go dancing on beaches of sand
Splashing in ankle deep surf
Close eyelids so tightly the red glows and clouds
And dream into softness of safe
We’ll travel together in dreamland of sight
Holding to pleasured delight
Winter wet wonders are yet to unfold
It’s not nice to be lonely at night
HOURGLASS
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sand escapes
from the hourglass of our lives—
each grain a ghost
the future thins
to a horizon line, pale
as bone-bleached shells.
time shifts the shoreline—
what was solid becomes sea,
what was sea becomes stone.
I stand ankle-deep
in the receding now,
watching footprints dissolve.
oldest grains glow
clearest: childhood sunsets,
first loves, last goodbyes—
all sharpened by loss,
all softened by the slow grind
of what remains unsaid.
The hourglass whispers:
“Every fall is a rising
in another light.”
I've been waiting for someone to shed some light,
To take my hand and lead me back
Into the arms of the earth.
I've been ankle-deep in frost-kissed puddles,
Wishing for the welcome mat to sweep me
In out of the rain, and into their flame.
Are you the flame
That I've been looking for? You make my head light
In a way that isn't amatory, but in a way that makes me
Wonder if calling it love would make you send me back
From whence I came, and lick me into puddles
Till I seep straight into the earth.
You beckon me to your earth
Like a lantern's flickering flame,
But you're not burning out. You illuminate the puddles
That used to be my oceans, battle my dark with your light.
You gain ground until I am naked and taken aback,
Because the exposure does not strip me
Raw-- in fact, it envelopes me.
We've got our feet planted firmly in the earth,
Neither scaring easily nor asking for our words back.
And I beg how long it's to last, this flame;
Upon that subject, I squint away from the light
Expecting you to tread through me like puddles,
The way a child stomps on rainy street puddles,
Finally turning on your heel to flee me.
Through the trees overhead pokes a sweater sewn of light
That soothes the permafrost into a softer earth
When the sun's flame
Strokes its back.
Should I hold this back
On the tip of my tongue, till the words form puddles
In my mouth? Or would it be better that the flame
Consume me?
I could live out my years masked by earth
Or brave the touch of light.
I heave my hopes back with me,
A dam oozing puddles, white-knuckling the earth.
If I let go, will the flame leave me a shadow, or a light?
She was the one he wanted
the one "who got away"
no pleading or love making
could make her want to stay
her hair so blonde and golden
with eyes of deepest blue
his heart would soon be broken
to another man she's true
all heads would turn with wonder
as she glides across the floor
a beauty simply flawless
leaving one to wish for more
her kisses still remembered
from moist lips her nectar sweet
as evening comes he finds her
amongst flowers ankle deep
alas he cannot touch her
mirrored only in his sleep...
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
remember.
In spring and fall we were in school in Kansas.
It's Christmas now. Cold and usually snowy. We were in a winter
wonder land.
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.
In one foot of water
Little girl splashes ankle deep
Coffin bay in winter
Maddie, Maddie, mud pie maker,
born to be a beaming baker.
When making mud pies she feels free,
here is her secret recipe:
In the searing summer sun, go grab a garden hose,
then scoop a hole and have some fun, perhaps behind a rose.
There you’ll make a perfect puddle, ankle deep will do,
then add ten scoops of garden dirt, measure with your shoe.
Add some bugs for extra protein, house flies are nutritious,
my pet Bill the Bullfrog says: “they taste so delicious.”
Now jump right in and stomp around, watch for little fish,
use both your hands to scoop some mud, squeeze it squish, squish, squish.
Then place the mud on Daddy’s car, or Mommy’s, on the hood,
where its hot enough to bake a mud pie oh so good!
You can eat it all yourself or share it your friends.
Best to bake on laundry day so as to make amends.
March 16, 2021
Nursery Rhyme 2 Poetry Contest Sponsored by Eve Roper
An old friend for many years,
my cane's ready for our walk.
And yet, I linger a while,
listening to two crows squawk.
Hiking on the trail, I hear
the distinct call of a quail.
And watch the dust devils twirl
as the weeping willows wail.
Far off, rumbles of thunder
warn a storm is on its way.
And as I start to head home,
charcoal clouds turn blue skies gray.
Tumultuous raindrops fall
as children splash ankle-deep.
And yet, from my veranda,
their laughter lulls me to sleep.
In Dickensian time
Upon sunset hour
Overshadowing Thames
Is London Tower
Blackened cobble streets
Shimmer in the rain
Big Ben at Westminster
Chimes an eight bells refrain
At Euston Station
A passenger alights
On Platform 3
And enters the caff
for a nice cup of tea
At the local tavern
Behind steamy windows
The opportunists sit
Gleaning local gossip
Ever watchful to ensnare
Any hapless stranger
come wandering there
Covent Garden
still well lit
As lamplighters
carry out their remit
Striding with ladders
about old London town
With a cheery wave
and a purposeful frown
Patrolling policemen
in forbidding places
Echoing footfalls
as boots make paces
A courting couple shelters
under the arches
Oblivious to passerby's
and dray cart horses
A hackney driver cracks his whip
As high stepping hooves
on cobbles clip
From Westminster
stove pipe hatted M.P.s from
parliament sitting
enter a members club
to continue their
political discourses
unremitting
Mudlark urchins ankle deep
in moonshine glow
watch chugging steam boats
along the Thames flow
Billingsgate Market's
straw boated and
stripe aproned men
are found sluicing
with brooms in hand
the blood drenched ground
Along the West End thoroughfares
Come wealthy patrons
in open carriages with lantern flares
wearing evening attire
Bejewelled ladies in fanciful frocks
And around bare shoulders
Stoles of mink and silver fox
They ascend the red carpeted stairs
And look towards the royal box
A pretty young street seller
of violets and roses
with straw basket on hip
proffers up the scented poses
A peasouper fog blankets from
Thames to chimney tops
As a trader hooks his shutters down
Outside his haberdashery shop
Across London Bridge the East End rabble
Trail homeward to Hackney, Bethnal Green
and Whitechapel
From an open pub door
streams a music hall tune
played on an accordion
in a crowded tap room
Wending amongst the walkers
in the Strand
run beggarly children
with outstretched hand.
And......
Charles Dickens
walks the streets
at night
taking note
of every sight.