Long Sleds Poems
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Note: "How can there have been such strife in a Morlde` filled with beautiful Music; &
how could there have been beautiful Music such in a Morlde` filled with strife?" -Soupy
Sales, 2012.
The 12 Panes Of Christmas:
_____________________________________________________________________________
___
- XMAS' RADOTER -
Yule be Xmas
afore ye know
the pag'an go
for patterned
stamped snowflakes
'bove the
Andy Williams' Shows
DVD Stufftaculate CD,
Away, In A Manger For The Happy Employees,
drivelings (no place like) home
for the Hollydayease
in
a Ford Barricade & SUG Thirsty,
Nay, the new GM Bailout.
Suffer
the little Children
new bornes, infants
what nary see
but a Semi-Claus
ere
semiclaws,
tithes for the celibre-cause craws.
Remembrances
to things past-past, of
natal assemblies
en callow chorale masse
gone
Proustikipped,
to mortitorium's
N'well
& stockings filled
with
the chimney's cold care
yet in hopes
das Geheimnis Viktoria
would
somehow brassiere...
rout despair
the Tree hovers
Cabbage Patch? Nay!,
but the oft'splayed
Perry Como - You Win!,
Get to poke Golgotha pins -
WakeUp, boorros!
Bing-Bing!
WakeUp!, Jokers
to the St. Jack Nihilis...
but ya wanna
bat 'n ball this 'round?
You a'ready donned Santa,
with a semi-
Dear G*d,
(Walsch also asked)
How're You doin' It, &
Your Son?...Tarnished
proof weighdown here, filled
with
vanilla, frozen grins &
Joyburdened smiles...
'neath
pattern-stamped snowflakes &
piney Glade heads
afore the marshed desert
Koyaanisqatsi
Like yearlings'
trotted-out
Saviormusic
whilst the other 333
like
666 -
doubled for toil 'n trouble -
employed
to savaging
One, many, or 'nother...
Christmas partidges'
riffeled feathers family?
pared, unprepaired,
Indeed, vouchsafed
an enemy sans name
on
a horse with no name, save
Internecine
AmeriKa.
For
A kiss 'neath
the mistlesilo
whilst acaroling
of the Bedlamites
(Acts, II: 2-6),
the Psalming 100?,
Screeching
like sleds in pit gravel to
the Silent Night
HeyMen!
There lies
an evergrander Light
at the Dawn, but
Hey!,
who's gonna
tear-away
from
Yawnni,
& the extra-Vaganza
of
Truth?
H.e.m.
12.13.MMviii.
(ST)
childhood (puzzle poem)
Dancing to the Jackson 5 at three in the morning
Burning marshmallows on a campfire
Bananas and chocolate with mom
Sitting under the awning in the rain, listening to baseball
running from cicadas
The smell of cigarettes on dad’s jacket
kissing Billy in the dark
That time dad called the White House and got through
Picking blackberries with aunt barb
Sneaking into a movie theater with the girl next door
Eating alone at lunch, too shy to make friends
My brother falling in a hole in the road
Fishing for crawdads, then being too afraid to touch them
Scaring my sister with daddy long legs
Waking up in the hospital after a seizure
Getting a check that bounced for Christmas
The lake in Wisconsin so clear you could see the bottom
Trying to attract an older boy by pretending to be British
Going to the drive-in when dad left after a fight
Taking sleds to the meat market during the storm of '77
Jumping on the milk box
Another brother in braces with an icicle as tall as he was
pieces of my childhood
each of them a story
I cannot put them together for you
You just had to be there
Where are you my sweet spring time,
I’m heart sink waiting for thee, oh beloved
Of all the seasons, thou ‘art my favorite,
For yours is the very breathe of life itself,
The Mystic Rose grows within your warmth,
Nourished by the gentle breezes that you
Bring forth, a tender blossom of sacred beauty,
A timeless wild flower of single elegance.
It sleeps this brilliant Tiffany bulb, curled up
Tightly within its raw soil bedding dreaming,
Oh thee, oh sweet springtime, but frozen
She remains in a status freeze, waiting for
A soft whispering from nature
She comes be at the ready, child of the sun.
Beneath winters icy chill, lays fields of dreaming
Blossoms, here the verities of the pallet array
Dips into the rainbows stratospheres, melting
Within the earth below, to create the beautiful
Bouquet that spring will draw forth.
Nay the white hands of winter, smack harshly
Against my window panes of sorrow,
Yet within my heart is hope of the tomorrow,
And the glorious joy to come, with the on set
Of the promises of spring.
The burning logs of holiday cheer have lost
Their romantic luster, the sleds sharp blades
Are placed aside, it’s just too cold outside for
Laughter’s enchantment to take hold.
The shovels of white diamonds fields that
Once glistened so magically now remain
Dual and tarnished, just a chores aimless
Task of back aching pain to be done.
I’m waiting for the breathless color burst,
To feel the warmth of the sun against my
White skin of palest ivory, and to hear the
Street children at play once more, outside
My prison door.
For here I’m still looking out my window,
At a wintery wonderland of ice and snow,
Waiting for the spring, tired and weary of
The splendor of white lace, and snowflakes.
Where are you my sweet spring time,
I’m heart sink waiting for thee, oh beloved
Of all the seasons, thou ‘art my favorite,
For yours is the very breathe of life itself,
The Mystic Rose grows within your warmth,
Nourished by the gentle breezes that you
Bring forth, a tender blossom of sacred beauty,
A timeless wild flower of single elegance.
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
Dedicated and inspired by My Sister Poet Mystic Rose
The bridge is long, the lake is wide,
the trees are bare, they’ve lost their pride.
and so it goes, as Winter shows its face,
the bears asleep, deep in some hidden place.
snowmen stand tall, in neighbor’s yards,
inside, the elders write Christmas cards.
the children on their aging sleds,
slide down the hills, fresh from their beds.
and me I’m packing, a long road lies ahead,
to where, I don’t know, it hasn’t yet been said.
a soldier’s life, is guided by the rules of war,
to follow with the others, I’ll do my given chore.
and as I’m waving to my son, gliding down the hill,
my backpack holds his photo, my heart does feel the chill.
here comes the bus, I dare not hesitate,
to board it now, no matter what my fate.
and as my wife and child, sleep soundly here tonight,
in some forsaken distant land, I must prepare to fight.
in my pocket lies a rosary, I count the beads each night,
if there’s a god above, he must know I’ve tried to do what’s right.
to follow his directions, through trials and tribulations,
to be a good and better man, a part of his creations.
with heavy heart, I go to battle, some unknown enemy,
to kill someone I never met, disturbs the very soul in me.
and as I stand here at attention, I watch the body bags,
unloading from our waiting planes, all covered with our flags.
as tears fall from these eyes, that have seen the worst in man,
I cannot help but feel the pain, but still I do the best one can.
the scriptures say “thou shalt not kill”, these words we all live by,
but many Christians go to war, and blindly heed the battle cry.
now homeward bound I leave this place of horror in disgrace,
that I have been a part of this so called the human race.
animals in their wild domain, will kill for food and territory,
while we kill for many reasons, and claim we won with glory.
now back home, I hold my wife and child, my love for them still thrives,
in these arms that once have taken, much too many lives.
I swear my hand upon the holy bible, this will be my solemn word,
no matter what the battle cry, I will not go, I will not be deterred.
THE MUSHERS RIDE OUT (part 2) Arctic Dogsledding
(continuation)
But in the race-- the last sleds skid
Fleet dashers kiss the road
Excitement flows through panting limbs
Among this glorious fold
The mushers breathe in glories
‘Neath skies where grey eats blue
The dogs’ blood touched in magic
Heart-boldness born anew
For racing has its winners
The world will see one face
but the winning of this venture--
is survival of the race
Foes and allies side by side
Fate braids their wild desires
Each step through such life threatening lands
Seek comforts flamed by fires.
A thousand miles will test their skill
In cold winds dark and fierce
A bond will form among these teams
No pot of gold can pierce
The old dogs teach the young
Young mushers quickly grow
Keep straight the gangline as they run
Teams strain through ice and snow
When injured dogs bleed out their lives
Leave blots of crimson tears
the lead dog takes the team to task
Delays all pain and fears
And when they see the final leg
each team will tear in town
where all are warmly welcomed
and warmly bedded down.
A noble nature rules here
Despite life rough and cruel
A code of honor spurs them on
This life learned not in school.
The widow’s lamp burns valiantly
Awaits the last sweet team
And when they stagger cross the line
The sirens gaily scream--
There is respect for hearts that blaze
They offer brave ones rest--
The folks that welcome first to last
Are sparks of Nature’s Best
Victoria Anderson-Throop
12/27/12
Home: Valdez, Alaska
In whispered hushes, the year awakes,
A canvas fresh, where dreams will take.
January’s breath, crisp and clear,
A brushstroke bold in time’s frontier.
Fireworks bloom in velvet skies,
Dreams ignited, hopes aimed high.
Resolutions inked in hearts anew,
Paths imagined, leading through.
Snow-clad earth, Winter’s delight,
A **Wonderland** bathed in silver light.
Frosted panes hold tales yet to be told,
While ambered hearths shield us from cold.
Children laugh on hills of white,
Sleds in flight, pure winter’s might.
Yet beneath the joy, pause we must,
To honor a dream both fierce and just.
**Martin Luther King Jr.**, a name profound,
His voice for justice eternally resounds.
With love and courage, he dared to say,
“Let freedom and equality light our way.”
Mentors rise with a guiding flame,
Quiet heroes, unspoken fame.
In **National Mentoring Month**, we find,
The power of teaching—a gift so kind.
Steam swirls from **Hot Tea’s** embrace,
Warming the chill, grounding the space.
Chamomile soothes, and chai boldly sings,
In porcelain cups, comfort brings.
Curtains lift, a stage aglow,
The shimmer of **Awards Season** begins to show.
Golden Globes gleam; they spin their tales,
The magic of stories on wintry trails.
**Creativity reigns** in this icy sphere,
Where ideas shimmer, vivid and sincere.
Brushes paint dreams, pens write their claim,
Imagination dances, unbound by name.
Snow festivals rise, crystalline art,
Beauty sculpted—a frosted heart.
Under soft flakes, angels appear,
Children’s laughter draws us in.
Feathered messengers in skies profound,
On **National Bird Day**, their songs resound.
From sparrow’s call to eagle’s pride,
Nature’s music is a joy worldwide.
Across oceans wide, a sunlit ray,
Marks bright **Australia Day**’s array.
Barbecues sizzle, waves softly play,
Celebrating a land of endless days.
Among joy and tears, the time does flow,
The births and losses that help us grow.
Memories etched in January's scroll,
Each moment a chapter, each soul made whole.
"The breath of winter holds a hushed enchantment, a captivating stillness." Anna Islington
One frigid February day
after a night’s snowfall
had left my world white and pristine,
I took my new sled
and slowly trudged over
our huge back yard
to a spot which led to
the top of a hill.
Down this hill we children
loved to go sledding.
In white’s silence, I felt utterly at peace
and unhurried.
A few kids had arrived
at the top of the hill
and had already left before I got there.
I could see the tracks of their boots
and was glad to see that their sleds
had made somewhat of a pathway
for me
to go sledding
down.
A few lyrics from “Winter Wonderland”
drifted to my mind,
for the snow around me glistened
beneath winter’s wan sun,
but I was alone in the wonderland.
And no sleigh bells were ringing.
Suddenly I spied a bright cardinal bird
perched on the powdery branch
of an evergreen tree.
Its small red-crested head seemed to nod at me.
I was blessed by that special moment
as I stood transfixed watching it.
I looked down the sledding path
to the thickness of the woods below.
In summer it is a chaos of untended tangled weeds
and clusters of many trees.
On this day – frosted by nature -
the woods appeared the opposite of chaos.
Concealed by snow,
the woods was a picture of beauty
in the cold, breathless air.
Cold, yes, it was so cold.
My mitten-fingers would soon grow numb.
I got hurriedly onto my sled.
Then gliding smootly downward,
I went deeper
and deeper
into winter enchantment.
a young boy playing with his friends
at the top of a snowy hill
(one fashioned from a golf course, which with its deep dives &
cuts made for an exciting & dangerous fight down & around all
of its waves & bends---upon the freshly patted down snow now
covered with a thin layer of ice from the precipitation the
evening before),
gears himself up for his trip down the huge hill---jumping upon
his saucer-sled, one of the best---if you are in any way knowledgeable in
sleds, sledding, and the outside arts of the adirondack
snowy-ness.
i watched, probably, in much the same way as
mr. collins supposedly saw the guy watch another guy
drown, then wrote “in the air tonight” about the whole thing---
but unlike the urban legend concerning phil, this was
real.
as the child spun down the hill with his hair flying back in the
wind
and a large smile on his face,
with his hands gripped to the sides of the saucer
(no doubt exactly as the instructions said when his parents purchased it for the boy),
my own eyes followed his flight and zoomed ahead of him
as my visual, given the distance, could make out
where it was
that he was going to end up---
and there it was,
plain as day,
a humongous ball of rolled up snow
(far greater than the child’s size at least four times over) & it was
covered in what seemed to be from far away,
a hard layer of ice.
i could only imagine how thick the ice was
up close & personal.
& even though i was a teenager
i felt deep down in my sarcastic, sardonic, &
fed up heart,
that this boy was about to come upon a great bit of
pain---
and there wasn’t a thing i could do about it.
his eyes wide with horror &
the inability to stop his sled,
only occurred for but a split
second,
because directly thereafter
his head split on the large iceball
and blood spat a bright red
all over the new snow &
ice.
children from all over the hill, who
had been happily sledding & playing in the
snow,
began to scream, cry, and run to their
parents.
Take my hand and you will be lead out of the storm
that currently is engulfing the northeast section of the county
Driven winds,hurricane screams,white-out darkness,mid-december creams
us with 3 inches per hour of the nasty powder fallen down from the Christmas sky
New England is socked in for the next week or so and we're not so sure whether
the electricity will be out on us for the duration
But I am Here
To lead you away from the sin of last week and yesterday.Just reach out your tiny
but fragile hands so my good strong ones can take you far from the Winter
blaster to a sunny place of palm trees,California sun,Friendly sun
worshippers,and more.We will walk through the 1000 mazes that surrounds our
township this holiday month,my friend.The automobiles,squeaky
wheels,motorcycle bikes and snow sleds are useless this very night.But,
as I said,sometime before,I AM HERE to lead you away from the harsh no'easter
that is in front of our door.
The light is from the squall of the night only.It is our only means of travelling
through the Berkshire screams.Chilly frost,dripping down our cold numbing
heads and hats,scarfs,that is our only protection from the weather fowl.We will
make it through the ice,snow-covered streets of clear crystal sheets.The sweep
of the storm's fury brush is trying to derail us from finding the clear corridor
toward PARADISE sunlight and the blue sky o'er and beyond.
My name is Isiah and I come to take my friend as well as many of you true
believers to the promised beauty that HE has shown to me,1 week prior,to the
predicted "Storm of All Seasons"which has now come to fruition.There is an EXIT
sign..hanging on a white Line of the most perpetual vine.Trust in me to see you
through,the World encased in Ice blankets,too.The dawn is around the
bend.Have patience for just a few more clicks of the time clock that ticks
And after that
The Storm will be
Forever
NO MORE
Form:
Here in Central Ohio, when winter's chill descends,
We celebrate for twelve whole days, our Yuletide dividends.
Deep within the Buckeye land, where Aesculus genus grows,
We throw our hands up with delight as C-bus gifts enclose.
On the first day of the season, Columbus gave to me,
a Strader's Nursery conifer, scarlet and gray tree.
On the second day of the season, next to Scioto's run,
two bright red cardinals spread their wings and play beneath the sun.
On the third day of the season, in German Village quaint,
three bratwursts are a-sizzling, and we eat with no restraint.
On the fourth day of the season, beneath the Statehouse dome,
are four historic artifacts saying O-H-I-O's our home.
On the fifth day of the season, at Short North's gallery display,
we act like art professors while we drink our Beaujolais.
On the sixth day of the season, the Arena District's cheer,
six Jackets skate together playing in blue hockey gear.
On the seventh day of the season, at COSI's large expanse,
seven planets spin above our heads, and we join the cosmic dance.
On the eighth day of the season, at Hocking Hills so wild,
eight waterfalls cascading, are nature's art compiled.
On the ninth day of the season, in Dublin's Irish grace,
nine Celtic dancers stepping, puts a smile on every face.
On the tenth day of the season, within North Market Hall,
ten food booths are a-beckoning with salty-sweet enthrall.
On the eleventh day of the season, with carolers at the Zoo,
eleven million lights a-twinkling, we can see them from the Shoe!
On the twelfth day of the season, near Highbank's snowy scene,
twelve sleds they are a-sliding, adding to this winter dream.
In the heart call of Ohio, this season is our own,
With flourishing traditions and a spirit brightly shown.
The twelve whole days of Yuletide, and our region we adore,
In Buckeye state the holidays keep magic evermore.