Best Icily Poems
February Feints
February creeps across the mud
chuckling
knowing it is not her milieu
snickering
as she tats snowflakes
whistling
as she scatters them
icily
on freshly chilled winds.
©2/19/2018
submitted to – STANDARD CONTEST NO 70
sponsor – Brian Strand
My grandson asked if back when I was young
I had ever done anything naughty or wrong
I said shut the door put on listening ears
And Ill tell you a tale of rank shivering fear
One night at midnight I sneaked from my bed
To a neigr knocker fastened a thread
Old Mrs. Murphy, ninety and living all alone
That she was a witch was really well known
I pulled the string and the knocker did bang
Then over the garden wall lithely I sprang
When the old woman limped to the door
Finding nobody there she ranted and swore
Again and again I pulled that on the thread
As over and over tears of laughter I shed
Then the moon clouded and all turned dark
A cold hand of fear icily fingered my heart
A voice rasped lowly filling me with dread
‘I’ve got you now and soon you’ll be dead’
I was then dragged to Mrs. Murphy’s door
Feeling more terrified than ever before
The door was opened I was pushed inside
Nowhere I could run nowhere I could hide
There in the kitchen the old woman sat
Black cloak and hair, black teeth and hat
Our neighbour then sat me down on a chair
The witch held me still with malevolent stare
Pointing long sharp nailed finger I felt the spell
As she spoke of hot flames and rotting in hell
I promised to be good and meant it sincerely
I’ve been good ever since, well almost, nearly
(5th in contest,’Childhood memories’ by Crystal Wilkins)
stellar companion
sparkles icily
a narcissistic twinkle
Held fast!
Ruthlessly trapped in a white sepulchred vice
that slowly, inexorably, crushes all hope.
Starving we wait, with lips black and caked,
all frozen in a wasteland of ice and snow;
revealing desolation and utter despair that
relentlessly flows, to an uncertain death.
We, officers and men, who’d aspired so high,
had failed to spot the strange irony
of our two ships’ names – ‘Erebus’ and ‘Terror’!
Darkness and horror now stalks each soul,
icily gripping us, in manacled madness.
Naked we entered this imperfect world,
born to long suffering and adversity.
Dare we bear arms against this dread fate?
Or, meekly succumb to what destiny holds,
shorn now of all means, to sustain our lives?
In the bleakness and sorrow of that long winter’s night,
we watched the fell stars of mighty Ursa,
circling, like bears, in the spangled blackness,
remorselessly hunting each human soul
…to a grizzled end.
Silently, I view your eyes.
Marbles, moving towards judgement.
So easy for you to surmise.
Where they came, where they went.
Haughty, you ignore my report.
They sadly sit in abject failure.
Icily, you give sharp retort.
Treatment of trash, forced to endure.
Revered only by ignorance,
you continue in your sin.
When did you spoil?
When did the pretension begin?
A pit of incestuous vipers,
you utterly disgust me.
Overpaid and overfed,
worth of service, less than free.
Doing more harm than good,
braggart of your lame degree.
Vomit forth your opinion.
Giving no order without a signee.
You wouldn't last a day on my box.
I would never clear you.
I only oversee true compassion.
Heroes born into the job they do.
So I beg you retire, already.
Put yourself out to pasture.
Your friends already graze there.
In my mind, you couldn't exit faster.
-Angel Fatale-
It was cold.
Death's fingers
Resting on my forehead.
The nail
Scraping, scraping,
Skin scorching
Of pain.
"You want darkness
Or heaven?"
He cackled, losing grip
On the nail
Bludgeoning
For blood.
"Time's a wasting."
The wind stopped blowing a long while ago.
Death composed himself;
Pulled the nail out
'Til the roused red
Spouted out
And the cold resurfaced.
"You ain't scared.
This suicide?"
"Death.
If only you knew,
How much I craved
For this to end."
The frostbite quivered.
Death removed
The deadly weapon
From the skin.
"I'm a murderer.
Not a liberator."
Death.
His charm tensed,
As his tongue rid
The blood stain from his white digit
Forcing exit as a bitter belch,
And a satiated grin
Carved on his
Phantom tint.
"I'll be back when you have a purpose
Eh?
Ain't no joy for me when there's joy for you."
And he will.
Yes, he will wait.
Patiently,
Waiting
To grace my blood
With his twitching nail,
Edging icily.
For it will only take
The whisper of a smile,
A soundless breeze,
To summon even the remnants
Of his presence.
Billy had a friend
Called Donald with
A face like a donkey
And teeth like a duck.
They used to run amuck
In school playgrounds
And forests where they'd
Hide in trees and launch
Frozen peas at old people
Squatting under home-spun
Canopies.
But aged twelve, Billy shelved affection
For his friend with the distorted face.
He changed his name to Will and started
Having sex and carrying a briefcase.
When Will avoided him at school,
Donald took to ducking classes
And covering his facial anomalies
With sticking plasters.
But Will was not impressed
And left his former side-kick
Alone in his world of lop-sided features
That seemed to have been
Inherited from several different
Alien creatures.
Donald sat vainly in their childhood tree
Where his face grew long and green
With pre-pubescent jilted lover's weeping.
He cried for one week, then fell asleep,
Dreaming mournful cess,
Mouth gaping doomed distress.
It was winter. The peas froze
And slid icily from the leaves
Above, filling mouth and nose
Absorbing breath, choking grief.
He fell without a cinematic thud.
Jagged frame sank lifeless in the mud.
Forty six years later Will
Tried to find Donald
For a school reunion.
The night wind was icily cold.
No herons or olive tree warblers flew,
Only hooded black ravens,
preying on the souls of lost men.
More red-pinkish flowers
dropped from the tree,
leaving the branches bare
until in a few days
the green leaves will sprout,
and the tree will remain flowerless,
an ugly sight, shunned by all.
Suddenly the wind dropped.
He felt despair, sullen and dejected.
Soon no one heard of him anymore.
Some say he hanged himself
upon the very tree that sheds its flora,
Others believed he fell on a stump
that pierced his bowels as he lived
a recluse amongst an unknown tribe.
Others made him their hero
just for the sake of being different.
But he was seen no more.
The icy night wind blew,
the Judas tree shed its odorless flowers,
as true lovers escaped to scented bowers.
A tale of two twins ...
Kit: That sure was a mean swing, Dottie. You knocked it out of the park. You’re the Sultana of Swat. I love the way you ‘round the bases doing your cute duckie trot. I love how you stand on home plate, kissing off the booing fans with your sour whispering asinine talk. You sho’ can swat high nonsense spitballs a lot.
Dot: Aw shucks, Kit, you Putin a smile on my face. But it ain’t me really. I just do what you coached me to do. Follow your lead like a good sibling pup pet is suppose to. I can’t help but wag the pig tale. Everybody knows that bare bosom greed sells. Now sis, you know I never vote swing and miss. I just love lip-crushing abetted ayes. Sending those lying spitball kisses flying high. But half-truthfully, girl I love the wet way you dry hurl. Such vomit velocity ... sending that propaganda puke spinning thru the air with such speed. You’re so lassie Vladdie bad amazing.
Kit: Yeah, twin ... we in a beleagued of our own. We don’t never do no wrong, at least none that we personally have to disown. And the Lady Bolshevik tag-team pocket profits are gonna stay kompromat strong. As long as the I-scream flag vendors keep selling the popular patriotic yellow snow cones. I love hearing the synthesized, trumpy anthem blaring sound, when the seventh-inning ruble donation rally hats are being passed around. It jacks me up, to the Nth lobby Molotov degree. My oligarch strong arm do a Siberian burn meddle poll vault sales pitch; delivered decibel stealth low, and so slow curve icily.
Dot: Serve ‘em up good, twin. Twist the grin like Papa Lenin said: “Never let a capitalist sucker get a free lick. Always snatch the purse from a paper chasing hick. Always foxy scoop the golden laid eggs from a sleeping, loose-liberty chick.” All bad things come in good corrupt Communist time. This czar fate injustice demands. I love the smell of democracy peanuts roasting in the ballot stands. I love hot, dog day debate fry cries doing the mustard squirt dance. So beleaguered and bland. I love the pretzel, fixed victory feel of cash register chance. I love being the pink champagne torch lady wearing no morality pants. Slyly, safely sliding home, skirt up ... silver tongue tush fanning kicked diamond sand. Giving a darkside-of-the-moon kiss to the loser Americans.
The
reaper
comes to all.
No heart has he,
for he steals away
not only the old and
infirm, but also the young,
icily gripping them in their
trepidation when he’s in their sight
though some he takes as they sleep through the night.
If he should appear when you are conscious,
you should not fight against him, for if
your time to meet him is fated,
your prayers will go unheard.
Surrender to the cold
embrace of Death. He
shall carry you
to the warmth
of God’s
light.
Had those eyes never locked…
A fragmentary man I…
A love of my life lost…
Soul Mate…
Inimitable…
Without that stanch passion…
Apathetic existence…
Lives drifting disjointedly away
Corridors leading into the present
Our waters perpetually abound
Farther reaches than the shoreline
Love ardently remitted is my peace
Carrying to me sweet scented melodies
Of shadowed moments icily fading
Had I never melted of your gaze
So secluded within only our time
An incomplete soul drifting forlorn
Accursed on the winds impulses
A love of my life lost…
Soul Mate…
Irreplaceable…
Never forgotten…
Snow falling softly o’er the meadow
Banking against the old rail fence,
It creates a magnificent afterglow,
I haven’t seen like it before, or since
This display formed by the recent snow.
Ice crystals forming on dried stalks
Creating a wonderland of fairy castles,
Shining like bubbling neon on a jukebox
Tall gray goldenrods becoming tassels,
Glistening droplets on the dried phlox.
With the waxing sun, it shimmers
Tremulously as the wafting breeze pants
I recall in summer the meadow simmers
Full of vibrant, living warm weather plants
But now the meadow only icily glimmers.
Written December 1, 2022
Revisionist lies sold as materialistic truth
American tagged merchandise
voter bazaar discount barter
Stars and Stripes twenty-one gun salute
Intellectual dishonesty ... shifting core values
Leave compassion at the border,
separate the parents
from their sons and daughters
Patriotic homilies be the verbal proof
of wavy cloth loyalty
Stock-in-trade inventory
historic laden with broken promises
Scarlet splatters on the red clay
turned to native blues on a snowy day
Left a weeping trail
trodden down by immigration wagons
Surrendering fiery wails
doused by the conquering wine flagons
Assimilation arrows
pierce separated hearts
Grieving tears levee
swept away
by a bow flood
of drunken pride and conceit
Stone face archers standing at the top of the towers,
got their lip quivers full of
pointed poison gargoyle eviction power
Assimilation arrows
don’t wanna change the color of manifest destiny
Let the hawks chase away the sparrows,
give the hate crows the bald eagle iron claw victory
A pale pastime tale ...
American rote homogenized
Graven hope tossed down a wishing well,
Roman Republic truth bought as jingoist self-evident lies
E Pluribus unum ...
Assimilation arrows on a frigid, melting pot Mephisto fly
Immigration rejection
pierce the divided hearts,
whose pledge of undying love has been icily denied
The one who controls the wind.
As a cushion for her feet
Drifted the dead dry leaves
Before her on the street,
Playfully lifted
A lock of her hair,
Caressed her cheek
With tender care,
Helped her along with
A following breeze,
Sang her a song through
Rustling boughed trees,
Escorted her unseen to
Her Lover’s embrace
Then silently turned
To leave that place.
Turned to face the wide sea
And with a despairing wail
Whipped up that ocean
With a tempestuous gale,
Worked out his rage
With one last desparate cry
Culminating with one
Last accepting sigh,
Lashed the waves
Against the shore
Then let peace
Reign once more.
Never looked for her again
Just breathed one icy breeze
Causing the town one
Early unseasonal freeze,
Causing she and her lover
To snuggle up in a tight embrace
As his goodbye breath icily
Kissed cool her face,
Then the one who controls the wind
That lovelorn one
Resolutly turned its back
And silently moved on.
trees statuesque
flowers icily still-
March on standby
Brian Strand 28 Feb