Best Snowfields Poems
Days pass into the weakest of loveless nights. The moon blinks.
The stars swirl beneath the colored brush of Van Gogh. He links.
Comets trail snowfields of light pass agonized cypresses, schizophrenic concussion.
On and on, the wind twirls the trees and does not complain,
nor, does the cosmos cringe awaiting reciprocation.
Lightening bugs mimic the starlight, atoms sneer.
Those who spout love and friendship abandon him sneering.
Their images dance beneath his half closed lids, when he blinks.
Though denied visual compass, his soul does not reciprocate.
Through pain, physical and mental, palpable pain, he still links,
with the life which has both absorbed and excluded him not complaining.
Night passes without his mistress, Sien. His mind writhes, eternal concussion.
His torn visage trembles with the brass sounds the storm's ranting concussions.
The butcher, the baker the candlestick maker, derides and sneers.
How unmerciful is this cycle, this God to whom he does not complain?
And, if indeed, lack of mercy is just, may he not know “Why?” Time blinks.
Just the act of thinking causes pain. Only painting connects him to the link.
He must accept both the pain and the art as gifts, choosing not to reciprocate.
Voices always the voices, the paint, the moon, the voices, reciprocate.
He chases the mice. The cheese, pewter plate and all, falls with concussion.
He rubs the backs of gnarled hands across his lids, maintaining the link.
“How? Why?" But, the mice eating his cheese grimace and sneer.
Inside the cottage sunflowers shimmer and wiggle in vases, as he blinks.
Stumbling, he falls in an attempt to sit, the insubstantial chair does not complain.
He had thought God clear, clear as sunlight, yet the damn paint Lord! complained.
He was Not God, and try as he would, the light escaped. He MUST reciprocate.
After all who was he, but a mere man, ashes to dust, life blinks.
“Ah death…le grand mal…no minor concussion,”
He must escape this mortal coil, join the celestial spin without their sneers.
Sick, he was sick, yes, sick to death of not being understood, no link.
Nestled with the glittering elements,
I ponder the immortality of the senses—
my lucidity twirls,
as pirouetting flakes through
sapphire mist amidst cyanic windstorms,
drifting like arctic embers,
towards cerulean twilight skies,
beyond frost covered pains,
littered across glacial clouds that linger,
swirling upon an indigo iced cluster of
topaz teal stars,
enveloping my cobalt soul beneath your
cashmere caress—
we behold the wonder of an
opulent crescent moon,
cradling our kismet love, in
vows of our balsamic destiny, ever
sanctioning icebound purgatories
buried deep in our bones, in
flurry feathered snowfields,
guiding our
souls back home to our halcyon hereafters,
where I’ll sit throned as the
queen of blizzards,
wearing a crown of bleeding splinters.
Skiing Is…
Skiing is…
Alpine thrill ride on four inch boards
Boggy in the bumps – a schuss to the lodge
Carving a turn leaving icy rooster tails in the air
Drag lift to ride on thick moving ropes
Skiing is…
Extreme black diamond runs on endless terrain
Flat hills of green for bunny slopes
Googles of amber for blizzards or flat light
Hardpack and boiler-plate; blue ice and corn snow
Skiing is…
Into the heart of pure mountain splendor
Jet sticks on snowfields under blazing blue skies
Keeping upright avoiding face plants
Lift lines of frustration at chair lifts and gondolas
Skiing is…
Moguls that hide crafty snow snakes
Nordic dance of short swings in fresh powder
Outside skis with a mind of their own
Powder hounds piggin’ through aspen trees
Skiing is…
Quick turns called weidlin from Austrian lore
Runs of legend like K-2 and Exhibition, Wild Child, The Plunge
Sitzmarks the size of a lunar crater
Telemark turns on frosty cross-country trails
Skiing is…
Under the smile of the crystal solstice
Vertical drops into wide open bowls
Weighting unweighting parallel turns
Experts and bunnies apres ski with tall tales
Skiing is…
Yards sales of googles, poles, hats and lost skis
Zest for taking your life in your hands!
2-28-23
I awake, dull crusted in shadows,
to the swelling roar of hard rain on shingles
wetly dripp'd down rusted gutters,
air thick with cool moisture,
ozone sharp razor clean,
somehow, the sod grew a deep green coat in one night
as dogwoods shed blossoms like fragrant dandruff,
when did spring arrive?
my mind still bundled in deep winter time,
ghosts of snowfields, untouched by sun,
blanket my mood in a stiller time
now shattered by detonations of life
melted by pollen infused with wind
scintillate bands of light burn laser bright
through pregnant clouds rain gray
beams play like shining faeries on the sill
as a weird biology compels me to arise
rush headlong onto verdant lea
dervish twirl'd and humid breathed
but lightswitched it's gone
thunderheads roll like playground bullies
smearing runnels on the window
dogwood prism'd to a streak
as I shrink back to a pillow
smelling faintly of grass.
I remember the snows of my childhood
Bringing beauty beyond compare
And also how hard it was to breathe in
Mouthfuls of that cold frigid air.
Galoshes and scarves and long johns to don
Before Mom let us out to play.
Too bundled to move and chilled to the bone,
Ten minutes a very long stay.
There were times Dad had to dig tunnels
To get from the house to the barn,
And then perhaps shovel another
Before he could make his return.
For three months or more we were housebound.
We longed for the long summer days.
With spring came the mud and the puddles.
Goodbye to the sleds and the sleighs.
So whenever I'm feeling nostalgic
For those beautiful snowfields of old,
I take a deep breath and remember
I really don't like to be cold.
On this winter's night
beneath sallow skylight
amidst prismic snow mist
wading snow banks that sank like shallow quicksand
beneath it deadened land
Falling snow gleaning grows taller than my height
stretching into snowfields,glowing bright as summer daylight
Yearning winter days photographed
when snow painted cedars cast
black shadows against incandescent snow
Timidly crossing glassen iced paths over frozen flowered meadows
snowflakes falling like flower tree pedals
windblown snow crystals pelt and prickle
Apparition whirlwinds whisper
glowing snow dust stirs and glisters
shattering ice crystals melting
glimmering streams pelting
celebrative seasonal window scenes
reflect and filter pearl moonbeams
through this winter's placid past is seen
winter nocturne dream
sun casts orange glow
fresh unbroken snowfields
birch cast long shadows
The white snowfields of my childhood
are but fond memories today
in mild winters where I live
some fifteen hundred miles away.
Today I wakened to a sight
that carried me back in time,
bright snow lies on the ground,
the trees are rimmed in rime.
In winters of the long ago
my daddy kept a pretty sleigh
and horse or two to pull it
on a splendid bright, winter day.
Over-coats, scarves and galoshes,
all were ours in good supply
to get us through winter
and snow drifts, mountain high.
I wish that I could conjure up
a horse and Daddy’s big red sleigh
that I could take for a drive
on such a sunny winter’s day.
I’d gather up my grandchildren
in my big sleigh for a ride.
to show the beauty of
a wintry countryside.
For Catie's syllable contest won a 5rth place
The day my life changed in one moment
just one cursed moment, time betrayed
An injury they said would now never heal
a quadriplegic ,waist down you're dead.
vibrant colors blurred into onyx darkness
crippled and chained , I lay, caged in bed
in a dark ocean of helpless emptiness
sinks a heavy sack, but floats suffocated
squirmy eyes lift a burden , is it pity I see?
my warped desires , waiting to get rusted.
In sky of mind, fantasy of broken wings
adieu O snowfields, where once I danced.
adamant heart behind a ribcage pounds,
gazing windows with glossy barren eyes.
numbed screams fade in garbled speech,
in my soundproof tavern, no will to live
but tears attenuated , I slowly prepare
Bon Voyage, attuned to my wheelchair.
29th March 2020
Sponsor Caren Krutsinger
Contest Name The Day My Life Went Whacko
A chill wind bites coyly at exposed necks,
not yet draped in tourniquets of wool.
A wrapping of white, buries ribbons of asphalt.
The ways fills with metallic horsepower.
Goblets of slush like spittle fall, splat,
upon once virginal snowfields.
The rape of Winter had begun.
Rutting like rabid beasts in heat,
the roadways lay revealed before the power of the storm.
Cumulous clouds belch from grills of chrome.
As Winter like the Sabine Women, weapon in hand,
pummels the oncoming horde with icicles.
Power falls from an angry, cloud-filled, sky
weighty and white, Winter defends herself.
The surge of day brings forth an endless tide of travelers;
trampling her breast, ravaging, the once pristine vista;
shredding the thin veil of purity, only the Goddess brings;
laying waste, in mounds of mud like filth, The Mother.
She curls inward. Her indrawn breath freezes gears
grinding, screeching, shrieking the earth succumbs.
In snow like ash she lays vanquished.
The snowfields of my childhood
Are but memories today
In mild winters where I now live
Fifteen hundred miles away.
But today I wakened to a sight
That took me back in time.
Bright snow lies glistening on the ground.
The trees are wreathed with rime.
My little year-round garden
Is hunkered out of sight.
Dire warnings on the TV--
There will be more snow tonight.
The schools are closed and children
Are sledding down the hills,
Some partaking for the first time
In a winter day of thrills.
The roads are ice arenas which
Few drivers can traverse.
Cars lie abandoned by the side
Or in the ditch or worse.
In the winters of the long ago
My daddy kept a sleigh
And a horse or two to pull it
On such a wintry day.
Over-coats and galoshes
Were ours in good supply,
To get us through the winter's cold
And snow drifts, mountain high.
I wish that I could conjure up
A horse and big red sleigh
That I could take out for a drive
On a sunny, winter's day.
I'd gather up my grand-children
In my big sled for a ride,
To see the startling beauty of
A wintry country-side.
won 10th place
Ice-pick lighting,
headache inducing halogen,
white screen glows,
static blank heat.
Anti-matter, cold and desolate
as snowfields in winter,
enigmatic dreamless philosophy,
cryptographs of oblivion.
When dims the halogen,
the projector whirrs,
future enacted luminance,
expanding and imploding.
Blue and green slides,
entropic deliverance,
in architectural visuals,
structures of bleached death.
White flesh superimposed
with illusions of life,
unfrozen equilibrium,
hurtling to nowhere fast.
The barren earth waits
spring prances through the snowfields ~
a warm, welcomed friend
Hills and valleys sing
summer dances through meadows ~
a sweet visitor
The lush forests climb
autumn tiptoes through the green ~
a surprising guest
birds soar on the breeze
winter runs through fallen leaves ~
death uninvited
January digs deeper into snow drifts.
Chill fingers cripple backbones,
make us walk like matchstick men.
February is just a name we give to tomorrow,
as if we could open that icebox
to see if the sun still rises over un-seeable horizons.
Time drags, then of a sudden, pushes us into snowfields
sprinkled with concrete daffodils.