Best Parka Poems
Frigid, knife-edged winds from the northwest
sweep down like hungry raptors on
pewter gray skies. Feral eyed, keen on destruction.
Late May. Sullen skies discharge sleet and glacial,
stinging rain. Threatening each newly exposed
green leaf and sprout. Frozen rain. Unrepentant.
People, startled by the velocity of a winter-spring
storm put the parka back to work. Vibrant summer
birds topple dead from their refuge or tree limb.
Daffodil, crocus, and lilac suffer the slow suffocation of ice.
Hedgerow and tree leaf are burned by ice' frozen fire.
The sun, moon, and stars hibernate for days.
Frail light and little warmth. Bleak optimism.
Grim moods darken. Wildlife endures.
An emerging cycle of life has been altered.
Days are lived in half-tone and sepia.
The sky makes no act of contrition.
The unseen parallels, the lands, ice and cold
north of the Arctic Circle visit their wrath upon us,
erasing much of a slate-gray board of life.
A new and boundless spring is cast aside.
Souls pray and await warmth and golden light
to renew and reincarnate a missing Spring.
(Part 2 of Trilogy for My Father)
We stand on cemetery Astroturf
strategically placed to spare us the dread hole,
snow scaling the tops of our shoes
to compete with the ice in our hearts.
The old priest’s boots peek from beneath
a cassock that dangles below his parka.
He jokes gamely about the weather,
reading prayers for my father, a man he never met,
with shaking hands and chattering teeth.
He is a stranger recruited by the others lest someone
discover the shame of self-inflicted death.
Numb in every way it’s possible to be numb,
we await the blows of a grief that suicide denied us
and summon memories that refuse to respond
while, in their place, we have
Astroturf
and snow.
When winter months become morose
And everything around is blue and froze
Gets disheartening even for the eskimos
Their morale starts to dwindle and decompose
They tread most lightly on cautious tippytoes
For fear their neighbors will become bellicose
They bite their tongue rather than use such prose
As ‘up your nose, my friend, with a rubber hose’
It is uplifting to dream of colorful scenarios
Any warm place where the blazing sun glows
Where the desert air gently blows
While ocean waves roll in sultry rows
All agree a trip down south would be most grandiose
Trading bikinis for their parka and heavy winter clothes
By pools they’d feign being divinely comatose
Drink in hand adopting the hot vacation pose
Stretched out on their hammocks eating pistachios
Laying back being busy counting colored rainbows
Hey CabanaBoy we’d truly really hate to impose
But would you please massage us from our head to our toes
Before their fair skin burns and redness undergoes
They all head back to their respective bungalows
Wondering should they dress go catch one of the shows
Or rest in bed before calling on one of the local rodeos
While visiting the souvenir shop one decides to propose
To send home a postcard showing tropical buzzards and flamingos
With a heartfelt message that needs not be verbose
For sure they’ll be the envy of both our friends and foes
AP: 1st place 2021
Submitted on January 9, 2019 for contest BUZZARDS AND FLAMINGOS sponsored by ANTHONY SLAUSIN
THE EARTH BLEEDS
We need a little light and dark.
Our eyes but blur infinity blue,
as a cradle robs us of our spark
when we visualize variety’s few.
The white nest of my sparrow skin,
a scintilla reflection of the Holy Spirit.
He distributes wisdom from within
a dark parka, grass skirt, winsome fan skit.
Proud to be white with ruddy sensation,
as my multicolored Sethian kindred,
adore, the beauty of their own pigmentation.
In this world, as God so chose, we are bred.
Pure white of virginity, of celestial wings
we lose. I ask do we really resemble right?
All are but pain and scars, disjointed things.
Honestly the earth bleeds red not white!
1/13/2018
What is white/Debbie Guzzi
On Snow Shovelling
A foot of snow fell by night
With no let-up in sight.
(“Brrr, it’s cold out there.”)–
A mutt rebounds past my window,
As I contemplate the morning weather,
While sipping my hot cup of coffee.
By the street-lamp’s hazy glow,
I make out my neighbour:
Clad in a scarf, tuque, and parka,
With a winter implement
Grasped in her mitten covered hands,
Bravely confronting the heart attack weather,
And tossing snow over her shoulders,
To clear the driveway from garage to curb
For the mechanical beast to enter
The unplowed street.
She stops and calls to the mutt.
(No doubt, an excuse to catch her breath.)
The dog, tail wagging, rushes to his master;
Who brushes the snow from his fur;
And I venture to guess,—an “Atta-boy!”—
As if the dog had accomplished
Some great endeavour.
But, they both seem to derive pleasure
From the brief encounter.
The Master resumes her shovelling,
And the mutt to his romping,
And I to thinking
While sipping my hot cup of coffee;—
I too will have to face the inclement weather:
Clad in a scarf, tuque, and parka,
And commit to the task of snow shovelling.
Long ago, in the fastness of the north
lived a people known as the Inuit.
They lived in perpetual darkness.
Although they had heard of light from Crow
they at first would not believe him.
They made him repeat this fairy tale
many times, for it sparked imagination.
Imagine how long they could hunt.
Imagine seeing polar bear before he saw them.
They begged Crow to find and bring the light.
“But I am too old and daylight is far to the south”.
After much begging the old crow relented.
He flew through many dark miles of the north
and just as he was about to change his mind
he saw light - - - just a speck on the horizon.
Suddenly light burst upon him as the daylight
world exploded around him in brilliance.
He had to stop and rest and comprehend
this wonder of wonders called light.
He noticed the blue sky, the blue stream
and the young girl walking back to a village.
She carried a pail of the blue water as she passed
beneath the tree in which he rested.
Turning into a small speck of dust,
she did not notice Crow as he drifted into her parka.
As they neared the village, Crow saw a young boy
playing with a ball of daylight, bouncing on a string.
Crow flew from her coat, and grabbed the ball.
He flew into the endless blue sky,
the ball of daylight trailing along behind him.
Waiting impatiently, the Inuit saw a tiny speck of light
moving towards them in the darkness.
Soon it grew brighter and brighter
and Crow dropped it in the center of their village.
It exploded into a burst of light, revealing everything.
It illuminated every dark corner and chased away shadow.
But as the Inuit danced and celebrated
Crow told them the light would not last forever.
The ball of light would have to rest for six months
each year in order to gain its strength back.
“Half a year of daylight is enough” the Inuit said
and to this day they build their lives around
six months of day and six months of night.
An Inuit myth retold by S.E. Schlosser,
made into this poem July 15 2012
By: Charles Henderson ©
Nihonzaru waits for the sun, in the valley where steaming pools warm. This is the north, the far north of ice and snow and trembling bones. He will survive as he always does.
Thick greying hair, flecked with flakes of snow, protects from frostbite sting. Anxious and fatherly, he browses the breeze with his nose and eyes the surrounds. Pins and needles prickle numbed skin, unrecognized. His family eases in to the lake simmering slowly just off the boil.
I tell him he looks like an Eskimo, wrapped up in a woolly parka. Face pink from the bitterly cold. He is tired and wary, but content.
happy winter springs
cold touch hands on warming hearth;
burns like summer sun
Snow monkey, throw me a snowball.
ROOFLESS
Incommensurable conditions
without shelter nor food,
winter storm clouds overhead
frigid chill deep within my bones,
a haphazard zipperless parka
down feathers withered ages ago,
trembling in the frost sans fire
hoping in the very least for
the kindness of a stranger
offering me a steaming
hot cup of coffee,
sole thing affordable is nostalgia
if even that, dauntingly recalling a time when - -
snowflakes were still charming
Beng Homeless Contest - Seeker
A snowball bobbed upon the waves
That raged just like a fireplace,
And as it rested for a while
A breeze blew in its face.
His friendly Salmon, all cod eyed
Ate laughter from a can,
And having had a belly full
Then chuckled some to Stan.
Now Stan, whose nose was Hering red,
Knew something was afoot,
And clopping like a boot on heat
Began to tut tut tut!
A parka with a sandal shore
Good fellow, dim but sweet,
Puffed out his dinghy lips in jest
And sailed off with a Greek.
And there they met all one an’ all,
Together bound by string,
And little bits of shaving foam
That made a noise like sing.
At a giraffe like height, with eyes in clear view, from a cold icy frosty windowsill, 3 stories high. I see a city forest full of snowy powdery pillows packed and stacked high and also patches of icicle drops. These now all drenched in a natural inked white-out made by and from winter's chest and best.
There also views of the white sheets of frozen tundra and piles of pearly, ivory, fluffy, flaky, chalky, tall mountain mounds. This causes great white high zenith peaks to greatly abound. There in the quaintest of small shy snow-bound town.
Trees are huddled and covered in pure white parka snowflake designed fleece. This creating like a blanket canvas for me the artist. Hidden in an icy little village: A living ice sculpture painting of nature's frosty experiences.
Youngsters do enjoy wintery weather games in their childhood play. Adults in this season has winter’s life priorities of plowing and snow shoveling. The town’s people chat in igloo like shops. This to have hot mint coffee with some toast and a little bit of a great boast!
A frosty winter small hometown scene: yet, a very, very, warm community feel;" and a Yule-Time dream.
Through the Venetian's I spy the world
The well dressed lady on the way to work
An accountant or banker I guess
The man in the green parka and jeans
I reckon he's a barber or painter of sorts
A car goes past with dubious occupants
They're here to case out the houses no doubt
Burglars or robbers or just wrong doers
The world is there to be judged by me
Decisions made with no substance to back
Imagination in overdrive
It's great thinking like this
Prejudice is fun
Cletus considered himself an expert angler, handy with reel and rod.
He'd landed ever'thing from wily rainbow trout to North Atlantic cod.
He'd fished the streams, rivers and lakes from sea to shinin' sea,
But he met his Waterloo on an ice fishin' expedition as we shall see!
He bought a tidy little fishin' shack that was really very nifty,
That he could haul aboard his pickup, a beat-up old Ford One-fifty.
He purchased a parka, gloves and boots to weather the fiercest storm,
And took his pals Jim Beam and Jack Daniels along to help keep him warm!
He drove upon the ice and set up his shack on a North Dakota reservoir,
Settled back anticipatin' a nibble on his line and then he lit a fine cigar.
He took a snooze but was awakened by a growin' rumblin' sound.
At that he pulled on his boots and got up to take a look around.
Alas, a huge crack in the ice was creepin' inexorably t'ward his Ford!
He espied a beckonin' floe passin' by and quickly jumped aboard!
Cletus shivered as he saw his truck and the shack sink in a trice!
"Damn", he mused, "I reckon I misjudged the thickness of the ice!"
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
The cold changes
the weight of my steps.
Each door opens with glass.
Dogs bark in circles.
Milkfloats whine in electric.
My parka tired with old dirt.
The early moon carelessly ignored.
My hands are dark with print.
Nearly in another life
I discover the inner life of gates
and how to dance
around plants and bikes
and how to grow
into a morning.
Please help me forget
The stubborn nostalgia of a long'-gone ardor
What magical pill have me to get-
To ease up this cussed disorder?
Our sweet long-gone ardor of the days
Was as sweet as perfume of roses
And as enjoyable as ice cream in the summer days
Or need I list to you its amorous doses?
Under that canopied tree, above with intoning birds
You were tearful as you implanted the potent "I love you"
The sincerity of your face evinced the words
And my nerves they numbed like dawn dew
Don't you remember the wintry evening chill?
When you quivered against the biting weather?
Didn't my only parka cover you for a thrill?
I in cold, you in fervor but we still bantered our blather
Oh! And the Chaka tour jog!
Fool! I wanted to forget the glitzy moment
When you slipped and got stuck in the bog
Like a baby I lifted you to arms, my sheer atonement
In that silent arbor at the bell-flower garden
You nudged and I turned to your blue eyes
And there, secret ties of love were harden
With tender kisses and vows laced with cries
Can't forget those endearments close to that river
We cuddled as we vowed the fidelity of our bond
For the joy of armor we promised to be one's giver
And for our future success our dreams were fond
Uh-uh! You were a cheeky teaser baby
The day you challenged me to make a frosty dessert
And for recipe you could beguile me, maybe!
But didn't I unearth your tricks that made you assert
Oh baby there were much we did
But need I list these your scraps that are olden?
Out of your mind these fond memories are rid
Even by their ecstasies you're never embolden
Now let me beg for that magical spell
To forget like you and settle at last
For in my own bearings I wish to dwell
Please help me too to forget our past.
She watched her move
The potted Chinese Hibiscus inside,
Sliding it over the not yet frozen ground,
Hefting it slowly over the six wood back steps,
Resting and breathing,
Hands on hips.
Each year she would think of helping.
But she didn’t
And this time she could tell,
She was really struggling.
No one was there to help her.
Years ago she had told her-
“Scarlet Rose Mallow.
Only plant it. Cut it back late fall
And leave it in the ground.”
But her friend hadn’t listened.
She hadn’t listened to other things.
But they were neighbors
And she was from the west.
They don’t listen,
Everybody knew.
Her neighbor had even been surprised
When she had buried her husband
In the back
With a simple stone
Next to a row of them.
She could see them bloom,
Five petals for each of their children,
And sit with him anytime, any weather.
Her western neighbor
Had to go all the way to the
Church cemetery
And shiver or hide under a parka.
So today,
After the struggle was over,
She made some tea
And walked the distance
Cups and saucers on a tray,
Imperfectly matched and unbalanced.
It was about time
They put differences aside.