Best Driveways Poems
River’s Arising
By Michelle Waters
River’s arising. Danger’s on hand.
Gather up your kinfolk and get to high land.
The campgrounds are empty, RVs are all gone
Tourists packed up their bags and headed back home.
The storm clouds retreated for less than a day.
For on the horizon, they’re making headway.
Torrents of water and mud surge down from the ridges,
Wash out the gullys, and ravage the ditches.
The creeks are all swollen; their banks have been breached.
Winds tear through the trees, wild and unleashed.
Muck and debris cover roads and driveways.
Surplus of water sweeps cars off highways.
Weatherman's warnings- often unheeded
In times like these, good sense is needed.
Destruction continues, flood water advances.
The wise take refuge, the foolish take chances.
Those who live in the valleys will stay to repent.
Once the floodgates cut loose, there’ll be no defense.
River’s arising. Danger’s on hand.
Gather up your kinfolk and get to high land.
Cotton flies like summer snow
Through the little city with no one to clothe
Descended from giants whose purpose long forgotten
That even in this fabricated world...
Nothing feels better than cotton
Fluffy clouds carry the tiny seeds
Across the wind with no one in need
The white puffs dance and twist and weave
Like tiny sprites in the summer breeze
Till finally they must hit the ground
Or whatever else happens to be lying around
They line the dirt trails and driveways and streets
Sticking to everything that they meet
They give a soft feel to month of June
But of a light white dusting nothing is immune
I saw my dog salted and thought into what has she gotten?
Then laughed and said "Oh!"
"It's that cotton pickin, frickin cotton!"
Cold winds, the assassins of startled vegetation,
blow in with late autumn. Snow arrives
to cover the terrain with blankets
of white, pristine feathery snow; meanwhile,
some bodies of water turn into ice.
As the sun hangs low in vales of shadows,
December silently creeps in.
Skunks, raccoons, squirrels and other small mammals
also have crept in silence . . .
to hide inside secluded spaces against the cold’s encroachment.
Their breathing, heart rate, and metabolism slow down.
Waking periodically from their torpor,
they feed and then go back to sleep.
As cold-blooded as the enveloping snow,
snakes slither instinctively into crevices of rocks
as turtles and frogs burrow into mud.
Bears, having feasted in the fall,
now hide in their dens in a state of deep slumber.
How silent and tranquil is the realm of nature’s creatures
hidden from the prying eyes of us humans.
Some of us become almost as sluggish as the animals
squirreled away in their nests of twigs and leaves.
We feast like the pre-hibernating bears.
In a festive mood or perhaps feeling sadly forlorn,
we are more likely than in any of the other seasons
to hide away inside our own abodes,
especially when soft pearls twirl from twilight’s sky
and winter lays down a thick quilt of snow
beneath a canopy of sparkling stars.
We waken, at times like this, to our world abloom with snow,
grumbling at times about having to shovel our driveways
or to travel on roads slick with ice or snow.
Like the hibernating bear, I prefer in winter
the tranquility of comfortable slumber.
Nights in winter stay dark longer.
Our heart rate, breathing, and blood pressure drop low
as drifting into the deep of dreamy sleep we go.
Ah, winter, let me sleep in your quietude
as though I were being buried in the wondrous snow
of your slumber land.
All night unto dawn
a gentle sadness
a comforting...
there is a dreaming rain falling
it is younger than morning mist
it is the first and last teardrop
as the world recalls its ancient roots.
I rest in the backwash of my own ebbing waves.
My breath cleansed in the light-stepping rain.
Distantly I hear soccer moms backing-out of driveways,
the last moment rumpus of heel-dragging kids.
I listen as a mail van trundles-by,
hear it pushing messages into gawping spaces.
Trains merge with geese
in long slipstreams of sound.
Plants fold fronds and leaflets
while dripping blooms bathe.
All is well, all unspoiled.
The world is a child again.
It rains gently now within.
Some of the neighbors
Complain about the house across from me
It stands apart
From the neat lawns
Wide driveways
And picket fences.
Some say
The people who live there
Inherited the house from their parents
Years and years ago
When the area was marshland
And it was common to see
Hunters and fishermen.
A winding street
Wide enough for two cars to pass
Serves as a boundary between us.
The house once had a broken window
A gaping hole
That gave the house a reckless character
Like the missing front tooth
Of a mischievous young boy
Now it’s been covered by wood
Nearby, inexpensive white plastic chairs
Thin, stained and unused
Line the side of their house
Inviting phantom guests
To sit down.
In the upstairs bedroom
A curtain drawn as blinds hangs
Brightly colored
Defiant in the face of poverty
Inside a girl hides a diary from her parents
And dreams of the day when she is grown up
Young lovers kiss in the darkness
A hungry baby’s whimper is heard in the night
A radio
Left out on the front stoop
Plays a familiar song
To an empty street.
The people living in that house
Are proud
Keeping what they have
Admiring their courage
I ask myself
Who am I to complain?
Mornings are beautiful at the screen door!
Trees swaying with the gentle breeze
Birds are chirping their hello
Noise of a busy street - steady zoom of cars
Apartment life across the way - yard sales just beginning
Balloons bouncing on a sign proclaiming move-in special of the week
Nearby stores abuzz with their business
A man on his daily walk - lost in thought, but still waves
Mother walks with her daughter-backpack dangling a Dora keychain
Two ladies stride by, discussing evening plans, or last night's secrets
Ladybug lands on a budding flower
Motorcycle roars by, startling a passing dog
Garbage truck noisily approaches
School buses go by, faces pressed to the windows
Familiar cars parked in driveways
A waiting bench in the yard calls my name
Standing at my screen door, a daily life unfolds
The corner house with a perfect view of stories daily told
Looking up at the blue sky, poignant memories of others at this door
A past generation of observation, by those who stood here before
As we slept, in the depths of winter
in the dead of the night,
cold temperatures and icy wind
moved in with howling sounds.
Piling up snow drifts over the ground,
we wake up at dawn to a magically gifted playground
of a sparkling crystalline carpet of snow.
Taking away the sun's warm glow
silver icicles hung bonded to the peaked
shingle roofs as dripping water froze.
Dressing warmly, running outside to play
delicate feathery ice flakes,
dusting our faces, making our cheeks rosy red.
Snow spades are dug out of the shed
to clear driveways and sidewalks.
Pushing and shoveling,
spreading the snow aside.
Chattering teeth, tingling fingertips,
feeling the bite of cold—
it is time to go in.
The warm fireplace draws us near its charm.
Around its cozy, gold ember crackling fire,
away from the cold
It's a welcoming bathing warmth of comfort.
Snow is calling,
"Come and chase my snowflakes around,
or turn me into a snowman,
or ride that thrill on the sled down the snowy hill."
We bundle up and run outside to have some fun.
Even snow angels join in the fun.
We would love to be out all day,
but the sun is running out.
Time to put aside the chores and fun.
Our spirits need to slumber.
To do it all again tomorrow.
12/1/2016
People call it a winter wonderland
I call it a lack of green
Not that green's my favourite colour
But it beats keeping driveways clean
As soon as we think our shovelling is over
Another storm hits with a blast
The grass was showing only two days ago
My hopes once more have been dashed
Silly of me to wish for such kindness
I live above the 49th parallel
To entertain such wishful thinking is folly
Keeps turning, this world carousel
Realize the gods have their own agenda
They decide on the weather we'll get
Winter is punishment for all the damn wars
Mother Nature doesn't forget
Don't think this is how it's supposed to be
It should all be sunshine and flowers
We're being punished so let's smarten up
Not worry bout who's got the power!
© Jack Ellison 2015
Often after the fallen snow is swept, glory
Is found when the treading surface is clear.
A light dusting is a breeze to remove. For heavy slush I trade
My broom for a shovel. It is foolhardy to pretend
That things with bristles can glide
Between and expand the substrate/snow interface.
Between the air and my skin there is no interface
Even my coon skin cap only provides small glory
Reminding me that menthol shaving cream enhances the glide
Of my razor and the sting of the cold air, but also makes clear
My ambition to clear the snow away and not pretend
To scatter dandruff from the icy landscape. It seems I must trade
My alter ego of a cosmetologist for that of a cosmologist. Such a trade
Will enable me to outgrow this climate. Then my interface
Communication skills will improve so I won’t use silence to pretend
I am a solid, deep thinking woodsman and I can just enjoy the glory
Of making small talk about the weather, thus allowing me to clear
My conscience about past regrets and glide
Through interpersonal interactions moment by moment. Ah! To glide
Like snow from the blade of a shovel, I wouldn’t trade
That social grace for 10,000 driveways clear
Of snow or ice or volcanic ash. Interface--
That common boundary, the transition from disgrace to glory
As I become a cosmologist and no longer pretend
That people are stupid zoo animals and hopefully not pretend
That I am a stupid zoo animal. Seasons of the year glide
Together and glide apart. Midwinter ice in all its glory
Is dangerous and fun. Will you trade
Your cramp-ons for ice skates? The seasonal interface
From spring to summer is never clear.
The same is true for the other seasons, let’s be clear
About that. I have stressed this before and will again; to pretend
Is to deny. Everything solitary has an interface
With something else and therefore is not solitary. To glide
Is to not experience friction. At some point you may want to trade
Slip for grip. Never bask in glory
Unearned. The web interface has clear
Flaws, don’t be ignorant. Glory may never pretend
To glide toward despair, but neither of those would I be willing to trade.
I was born in a snow storm,
and for that very reason I seem to love winter
with all the lovely filigree snowflakes falling
from the sky.
Outside my window,
is a pure white winter snow blanket.
Some would like to just stay warm inside,
not me- I want to walk in the snow.
A quick breakfast and I dress for winter
with a hat, scarf, mittens, and down-filled coat
oh, and my warmest socks and high boots,
see, I am Canadian and I know all about winter.
My cat wants to follow me out the door,
but I tell her NO, you will get frostbitten!
Oh, the air is crisp and it is bitter cold
and the trees are frozen soldiers
standing silent guard.
A snowflake kisses me.
Already a snowplow has cleaned the street,
and people are shoveling their driveways.
Across the street,
some kids are making a snowman
oh, this brings me back to winter memories
when it was I and my friends playing in the snow.
Turn, turn back the clock to those winter days,
of yesterday skating, sledding, snowball fights
and making snow angels and later hot chocolate
with gingerbread cookies,
and we all had rosy cheeks.
But even nowadays, there is plenty to do,
my city has many outdoor festivals all winter long
and horse carriage rides through downtown!
There is a huge Christmas tree lighting event
and we boost of the longest skating rink
in the whole world.
Where you can get beaver tails to eat (not real)
but a delicious pastry and maple syrup sticks.
Oh, have you ever gone horse back riding in snow!
I love the Christmas craft fairs,
and the chilly walks around my neighborhood
looking at the flickering house lights and decorations,
there is a peace like no other
when your feet are creaking in the snow
on a winter night.
__________________________
November 17, 2017
Poetry/Free Verse/'My Winter'
Copyright Protected, ID 17-9620-11-0
All Rights Reserved. Written Under Pseudonym.
Written for the contest, 'My Winter'
sponsor, Viv Wigley
Third Place
Under The Ducky Moon
The Winter had been Harsh, Harsher than Most. Now cabin fever had taken its toll.
I was beginning to act a little bit weird, but so were others I know.
Then suddenly the sun revealed itself, its warmth was beginning to show.
Ice began to melt from the chair in my back yard, and yes it tempted me so…
And then I snapped, its true, I know, with the melting of ice and snow.
With every single drip… drip… drip… my mind began to go…
I’d been stubborn and frozen to the core on many a winter’s day.
As I had stayed by the window, while I’d typed my poems away.
I had counted every icy day… toward those beautiful blessed Spring Rays…
Then one day the temperature went from 8 to 78, and that took my breath away…
I threw off the blankets that kept me warm and I danced…a lot I say!
No matter how crazy it looked… I’d enjoy the January thaw, making hay!
It’d soon be winter again, so I ran outside and chiseled the ice from that chair.
Then in defiance I sat there as my dog slid over sheets of ice with flare.
To our neighbors we must have looked crazy, like we didn’t have a clue.
But they quickly turned back, to chiseling ice from their driveways anew.
But my dog and I continued to stay disposed quite nice.
After all there was only 4 inches of deep blue ice.
Yep, I sat there and watched as water began streaming down the street so
precise…
I continued to sit there until I saw that the full moon had finally come out.
Then I began to wonder if perhaps we should beware of the nutty people running
about…
As if!!! I answered. The Full moon’s got nothing on cabin fever. No doubt!
I continued to watch until some ducks peacefully flew across the full moon that
night…
At that point, I knew my choice had been absolutely truly right…
For the cold would come back, and I’d always remember my choice…
This day would Forever be the day, when the Ducky Moon brought this story to
voice.
Out of the blue
And into the grey
As the clouds roll by
The sun goes away
As the rain settles down
And washes the air
Tomorrow will be
Light, crisp and fair
Puddles on the road
Mud in the driveways
And grass that is wet
Such are summer days
The sound of the drips
Of rain drop splashes
The rumbles above
And lightning flashes
The chill that it brings
A cool from the heat
Making life fresh
And the air smelling sweet
Then the rain goes away
And the sun peeks out
The kids run outside
And jump, and scream, and shout
Out of the grey
And into the blue
The clouds are all gone
The day's bright and new
The air was unusually cold that October night..
as the children set out for a night of fright….
Dressed in their scariest and mysterious garb..
Running over driveways and yard after yard….
There were goblins, pirates, ghosts and a nurse
Werewolves and vampires that gave out a curse..
And of course the aliens of which there were six…
All screaming out for their bag of treats or tricks…
Some of the neighbors had set up a table..
With cookies and hot drinks and punch with a ladel…
For those that grew weary and chilled to the bone..
And knew it would be hours before they got home…
The wind started blowing, lightening lit up the sky…
That’s when they saw it..it was huge and did fly….
What was that they asked..not sure what they saw..
It turned round and round and spun upside down..
When all of a sudden it stopped and just hovered…
That’s when they noticed it opened it’s cover…
Two very large Aliens from outer space did appear…
Come on children it’s time to go home…Bye ya’all…see you all next year….
Buildings scrap the airborne dust
The hillside charming each brick
And iron girders, shoveled neatly into
Concrete pits, opening this page of
Your mind to the stones of culture.
What can you think of and I will
Buy it for you? Is this my only
Breath. Think of the center that
Lived, nature the grasses and deer
That are now buried underneath the
Driveways.
Loss is the center of being that will
No more touch the living pines or
Wildflowers, only a plastic steering
Wheel or cash in my pocket. Iron my
Only sight on a quiet walk to the green
Path listening for what used to be called
the birds singing.
The Center
Julie Heckman
8/2/2015
Exercising belief about unknowns.
Makes sense to take your best guess.
Using history, numbers, extrapolation.
Getting the trajectory right for re-entry.
Few dissenters left for climate change, evolution.
Nuclear power brings a process to earth
that occurs only in space. Dangerous
but necessary? Not a risk-averse weasel.
One among many mammals is the weasel,
not known for its consideration of unknowns
but, for its extreme caloric needs, considered dangerous.
My wife says in England violent gusts
forced a locomotive off its tracks. One interpretation
might reasonably be that the mother, earth,
has stopped mothering man. We're entering
a period of unknowns and must evolve.
What might this involve
and what adjustments are possibly feasible?
Walking rather than riding to the subway entrance,
using less electricity until more is known,
preserving agricultural soils and forest land,
buying fewer plastic contraptions.
My brother's washing his pajamas less often.
None of this may make the slightest difference
in how the earth and the sun and universe revolve.
But we are human and addicted to action,
the probable less attractive than the possible.
Also, there's no percentage in respecting death
unless it's imminent. Better to remain centered,
focused on food, child-bearing, war and the poem.
All driveways plowed, all lawns mowed.
Just in time before the first snow, I raked our leaves.
Two eight hour days. What percent of all time is that?
Draw a ray with point A the first pile of leaves
extending to the extrapolating end of universe.
.01 of Aaron. Zero of Zach.
Hawks playing, hunting, mating, canaries in the mine.
Having been too many places to count.
Sex bars, infant formulas, fire crews, last rites, permanent jobs, traffic
tickets, judges' chambers, out houses, wedding banquets, boiling
teapots, frantic centuries, facial tissues, presumed innocent, clear
intentions, stainless steel.
Spiderweb glove. Deerfly earring. Daddylonglegs seeingeyedog.
Memorized songs. Privatized loans.
You cannot know what you're doing until you've done it.
Erudite sweep the floor. Articulate make the bed.
Infrared town hall. Crab nebula. Your last crap.
Eye of the tropical January sun. Slouching toward temperate zone.