Long poem by
Suzette Richards | Details
It was a visit long overdue by most people’s standards. I had last seen my daughter two years prior to that during a whirlwind trip which she and her fiancé had made to Cape Town. I had an unexpected financial windfall and the money was burning a hole in my pocket. On the spur of the moment, I called my daughter and asked her to source accommodation for me in London over the Christmas season. A few days later, she called me back with the news that all the hotels had been booked up, save for the Ritz. I chuckled at the idea of having to spend my entire holiday budget on just one night at the Ritz. Then reason asserted itself and we put our heads together to come up with an alternative solution. I could hear her flatmate in the background, chipping in with her penny’s worth of advice. My daughter hung up and I was feeling down in the mouth about the plans for the trip being derailed in such a fashion. Later that evening, my daughter called back with the offer that if I did not object to sleeping on the settee in the lounge, I would be most welcome to stay with them at their London flat. I gladly accepted. She is a chef at a top restaurant and I was looking forward to gourmet meals prepared by her - including the Christmas turkey.
screeching seagulls dive
at sushi scraps on a plate -
the urchin watches
The evening of the booked flight to London, arrived. It was an uncomfortable hot day and I showered and dressed with only minutes to spare before my friend took me to the airport to book in the statuary two hours before international flight departures. At the airport everything was in chaos. We were given the unwelcome news that our flight had been cancelled. This was the third direct flight to London which had been cancelled that week due to London experiencing the worst weather and snow since records began in 1890! We were offered alternative flights and had to stand in queues for hours in order to procure a new airline ticket. Some people became very verbose and insisted on being granted passage on other airline carriers (at the cost of our local airline carrier).
I do not know whether it was due to the weather or the disappointment I was feeling, but when my turn came at last to book a new flight, I readily agreed to fly on Christmas Eve ( three days hence) to London. If I had been given time to reflect on this date, I would not have accepted it. Arriving in London on Christmas Day would have been disastrous: The tubes and other public transport would have been curtailed on Christmas Day and shops and other amenities would have been closed for the day. This I knew from previous trips to the UK over the festive season. To add insult to injury, taxis would have charged triple for cab fare and no amount of quibbling would have swayed them. I phoned my friend to collect me and when we got home, I poured a large glass of Merlot and retired on the sun lounger in the garden. It was *full moon that evening and it was almost worth missing the trip to witness its beauty. I left my bags in the hallway and retired early – after phoning my daughter and giving her an update on the status quo.
between moon flowers -
Six am the following morning, I was woken up by the phone ringing. Sleepily I took the call. It was the airline inquiring whether I could get to the airport by seven am. My friend was dancing up and down in agitation and already had the car out by the time I had brushed my teeth. I offered to pay any speeding fines which she might incur during our mad dash to get to the airport on time.
The flight was an additional service which was laid on to get the backlog of passengers to their desired destinations. Heathrow had given our pilots permission to proceed, hence the call to me that morning. We were a total of thirty six passengers on the Boeing 747 – it translated to two passengers per crew member. We were treated to five in flight movies which were current and could eat and drink as much as we wished to. By the time we landed in London at seven pm that evening, there was a festive spirit among us. A radio taxi (which my daughter had organised) was waiting to collect me at Heathrow airport. It was a chilly four degrees Celsius below zero and I was grateful for my leather coat and wool accessories.
steep steps to flat
shut out the bitter world -
a heart pounds
*The December 2010 lunar eclipse occurred from 5:27 to 11:06 UTC on December 21, coinciding with the date of the December solstice. It was visible in its entirety as a total lunar eclipse in North and South America, Iceland, Ireland, Britain and northern Scandinavia.
"bitter" means piercingly cold..... A term commonly used by Britishers...
"flat" means apartment. The Londoners I know, refer to it as just "flat" with no adj or possessive noun or article. Please see the About section for explanations regarding the 1ST AND LAST haiku.
Haibun(literally, haikai writings) is a prosi-metric literary form originating in Japan, combining prose and haiku. The range of haibun is broad and includes the autobiography, diary, essay, prose poem, short story and travel journal. ~ Wikipedia
Copyright © Suzette Richards | Year Posted 2013
Long poem by
Timothy Hicks | Details
It's been four years since I've seen so much as an insignificant mountain creek. Been overburdened with comfort, now frantic with nature withdrawals, having to settle for photos found on Google Images: emerald pine trees, blue jays on limbs, moonlight cutting through forests, lakes the color of Windex-ed glass. It's much like drinking water that's been doused with Crystal Light... you may feel yourself becoming hydrated, when it reality it's only satiating your thirst temporarily. So you can imagine my joy when my best friend called me up to break the news.
"Monica, Brandon, Joel and I are gonna go backpacking. Care to join?"
of a cell hitting the floor -
Like a bunch of sardines packed in a can on wheels, we headed out to beautiful Cascade: the place where the Idahoan mountains aren't just paintings from afar, but close enough to taste. We weave our way through the spider-like dirt trails, as we each take turns changing songs on Joel's iPod. It's my go and I'm searching through the John Denver list, mourning the fact that there's over a hundred songs by him, and not one of them is Colorado Rocky Mountain High (the one song I could say fit my feelings to a tee). The menagerie of everyone's taste in music made for an interesting trip no doubt - even if Jonathan picked the worst possible jams simply for annoyances sake.
My first peculiar observation:
Humans have been making calendars for thousands of years (the first being more akin to cave drawings and stone tablets than paper). But as long as all that has been going on, the mountains don't care that August is expected to be sultry as November is expected to be chilly. Cause June took her first baby steps with a stubborn December mindset - a meandering way to say it was cold enough to freeze your nads off. The mounds of five feet snow made it all the more comical the fact I was wearing plaid shorts. Mother Nature wasn't going to be kind, I could tell.
struggling to stand -
our packs full of crockery
It was breezy at first. We would practically glide down the mountain side, using our backpacks as a counter balance. The snowy counterpart to kangaroos, we were. The glistening flakes were thick enough to snowboard down - granted I never touched a snowboard, let alone ridden one. But after seeing this it gives me ideas...
Monica smiled for the camera, as I fumbled for my iPhone, a smile that didn't even require the forcible Say Cheese! nonsense. It wasn't waiting for the camera flash, but the other way around. Now you might be calling that rather pathetic, but I brought my iPhone along simply for the function of capturing memories. Angry Birds just don't compare to the real ones, sweet with lilting songs.
My second peculiar observation:
Google Images is an absolute horrid plagiarist; some beauty just can't be encapsulated despite all our advances in high-def technology.
The downward slope finally leveled out a bit, if only for a few minutes. Truth be told the path never stopped declining - some routes were simply more apparent than others. Our group of five walked single file through the trees, all basing our faith that Joel (a person who has been to the site once when the trail WASN'T covered in snow) would lead us in the right direction. And here's another interesting fact; this was no official trail, but a hike through the purest of adventures, unpredictable and unreliable.
crushing pine needles
with un-gloved fingers -
roaring rivers beneath the snow
The first time my whole leg collapsed into the fragile surface of the snow made me realize just how far above the dirt I was walking. I'd ask Brandon for assistance with a beet red blush on my cheeks - I blamed it on my fair skin falling victim to the sunny day. From then out I tiptoed with exaggerated caution, my heavy pack helping me just as much as it was hindering me. For even a foot drop had to be taken with a grain of salt. Everyone had to adjust to the added weight (except for Monica, with her light load of a sleeping bag, nothing else). I'd very ungracefully glide through twigs and pesky low branches, oblivious of my bare legs. In all honesty the cold didn't get to me, just the scratches of neighboring trees is where my concerns lied. At anytime I could have stopped the whole gang, beaming, "Wait a spell and let me put on some pants for crying out loud". Course that never happened, my clothes were in the bottom of my pack, and I was no where near desperate enough for monkeying around with that sorry mess.
slanting down the cliff edge -
Joel, with his redneck stubble, beams up at me, "Every hiking trip needs a little bit of adventure, don't rush it by any means!". That's the last thing on my mind - the first is whether or not that rock I'm about to put my weight on is as stable as she looks. It's a very roundabout route, and as questionable as it is, it's safer by a long shot than the first path we took - call it a 103 degree wall.
NOTE: Still working on writing out the rest of my trip to Cascade. It was my first backpacking trip and even though we only stayed one night, the trip is full of wonderful memories.
Copyright © Timothy Hicks | Year Posted 2013
Long poem by
Robert Ronnow | Details
Science can’t save you, neither can religion,
at least Popper and Niebuhr, philosophers and poets,
are entertainers, which is why actors and athletes
are paid so much. Thanks for the summaries.
I was teaching Shakespeare’s 92nd ridiculous sonnet
to my student who lays blacktop in the off season
Shakespeare bellyaching about dying without her love
a feeling foreign to a modern adolescent sensibility
although many teens are pretty far gone searching
for their mothers or fathers in their dazed lovers’ eyes.
Which is why we call it “the wound that never heals.”
Or the lesion that’s always lengthening. And bleeding.
Muslim fundamentalists and their Christian counterparts
are a mystery to me. Pews and prayer rugs, the airless
indoor environment of religious worship, reading
scriptures, hypnotized by hymns and fainting from staring
at candles through stained glass windows, almost certain
the preacher is faking his certainty about the afterlife.
It’s not my problem. A more immediate concern:
receding gums and tooth extractions, swollen joints,
poor lubrication and circulation, wave after wave
of viral infection, the occasional antibiotic-resistant
bacterial attack, usually urinary, and who knows
what internal organs are dividing and conquering
without mercy or cease, i.e. the wound that never heals.
It is wise not to overvalue your continued existence,
good not to be innumerate, unable to compare
a mere 80 years with say 6.0 x 109 or all of time
(to date) times the multiverse. Conversely,
it is interesting all of space and most of history is contained
in your little mind (realizing of course it’s just a map
of the cosmos not the cosmos itself, or is it?). I’m
unable to wrestle free, tongue in that cavity
and locked in my memories, so separate and disparate
from the biomass in the crosswalks, even my spouse.
Alone, so alone, even your doctor can only devote
limited thought to your situational mortality through
the redress of poetry—also a wound that never heals.
Snow for eternity, that’s what this February’s been.
All to the good, for someone it’s the final February
so enjoy it to the extent you can. By that I mean joy.
Joy at birth. Joy at death. All joy. All times. Anyway.
That was Shakespeare’s message: even tragedies are comedies.
May, a Buddhist, chants each morning.
Her husband, Marc, who’s Jewish, plays league tennis.
Their son, Aaron, will soon make Eagle scout.
How does it relate to your wound that never heals?
Luck runs out. For D.H. Lawrence in New Mexico
or Ulysses S. Grant in Ohio or Yasujiro Ozu in
Tokyo or Satyajit Ray in Bombay or Rabindranath
Tagore in Bangalore or at the Battle of the Atlantic in the Azores.
The night is a poultice, winter or summer solstice.
My anonymity will not effect the anomie ghettoside
seeing for myself how season by season
vacations and accomplishments accumulate, late in life
and early on, sunrise over mountains or moonrise over Bronx.
Masturbator, prisoner of war. Hospice of the Holy Roman Empire.
Numerous blue notes: the 3 flat, 7 flat, 5 flat,
the 6 flat and the 2 flat too. I don’t get
what Wallace Stevens means by imagination.
When groundhog shows up as a totem, there is opportunity
to explore the mystery of death without dying.
This then is the purpose of purposelessness (and of eating less)!
Now what about that wound that never heals.
The Skeptical Observer column in Scientific American
was somewhat alarming when he accepted a paranormal
explanation for how his wife’s grandfather’s inoperable
transistor radio played music from its hiding spot
in his sock drawer on, and only on, their wedding day.
Now I’ll have to believe my father (or mother!) is watching me
perform private sexual acts with (or without) partners
or that they could even know my thoughts. Or aliens
are attending our committee meetings and making
perfectly reasonable decisions given the available information
and the world is rotating just fine without humans.
These possibilities–angels, ghosts, aliens–are better
than holocaust and genocide. In this way,
and only in this way, does doom become endurable.
The wound that never heals in the end is all you’ll feel.
Copyright © Robert Ronnow | Year Posted 2015
Long poem by
liam mcdaid | Details
It is not just Santa Claus who we meet in cold December—
There is “Carolina,” and she’s the beauty of a winter picture perfect
With luscious long coal black curly hair far down on her back
As a true fairy princess, Carolina is quite beautiful with beaming
Blue eyes and that certain incandescent glow for all to see and
Dressed in a sparkling white robe made of polar bear skins
With a glossy coat sprinkled with pearls and diamonds . . . .
Out of the woods she comes so quiet in the night’s fresh snow
With a glimpse of two deer and a fox on hunt walking carefully
Carolina hopes the deer will walk around with angelic guard
The secret is that beautiful Carolina talks the animals’ languages
The birds they play in all its splendor fine without sorrows
They fly while Carolina keeps watch carefully on the horizon
Falling snow now dazzling Christmas in a ball circle most brilliant
While there is a frozen frosted sprinkling silver in the mist shining sun
Oh so!! Wonderful to behold as the Spirit of Christmas comes alive . . . .
The Reindeer come alive and begin dancing joyfully together and
Create such a melodic sound almost like bells ringing aloud
And the all the Reindeer are here in their resplendent glory:
Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Vixen, Comet, Cupid, Donner, Blitzen,
And Rudolph, with his red nose so beautiful and oh so bright—
And the sounds the Reindeer make stay in the minds of the little
Children just like sweetly wishing little voices wonderful in dreams
With those singing, tunes a dancing light appears so wondrous
While planes from all over the world begin landing with cargo
And one each day with loads of letters from good little children
And Santa Claus begins calling the elfin troops into action while
The Leprechauns do all the heavy work as they are much tougher
But the old fighting Irish in them showing their softer side all the
While with a drop of the old fiery dew to keep them warm smiling
Like the very wee little Devil in them - mischievous and all . . . .
They do all the heavy work for the elves as they have more of a spring
In their step while almost bouncing on the tip of the their toes like
Little jumping springs so full of boundless wonder and energy and
Then day after day the letters keep arriving and landing at the North Pole
And they begin working like mad and very busily in the North Pole factory
While Santa checks the letters of all boys and girls through a secret window
And when he shakes it he sees through the mist in a glass bubble of the
Christmas treats while hurriedly calling together all of his Reindeer . . . .
The sound of hooves on the snow saddles up the sleigh he is very slim
To start off while all his helpers are loading up and he flicks the reins
And the bells start ringing and - in a flash of magic dust in spirit sings of
The ground waving he bade Mrs. Claus a very fond and loving farewell
And off he goes in a flash of light Ho! Ho! Ho! Ho! echoing in the distance
Each chimney sliding down he eats the food throwing some to the Reindeer
Treats left after the night's over he feels so fat eating so much he heads back
Home to the North Pole while smiling so content at the children’s happiness
And ringing in his ears filled with golden smiles and wishing everyone a very
Merry Christmas he falls asleep after Mrs. Claus makes him a hot chocolate
Really tired but easing his weary bones year after year he loves his job very
Much so and all of the sheer delight that his efforts and those of Mrs. Clau
And his elfin helpers and the joy and fun of the Reindeer bring to all children
On this Earth!!
Merry Christmas to All!!
Anne-Lise Andresen, Liam McDaid and Gary Bateman – A Collaborated Poem,
Copyright © All Rights Reserved (December 9, 2014) (Free Verse)
Copyright © liam mcdaid | Year Posted 2014
Long poem by
Joe Flach | Details
All I remember is going into the garage to get the snow shovel.
I am not even sure how much of the driveway I managed to shovel. Apparently, I was lying in the snow for several hours before one of the neighbors noticed me.
The next thing I remember is waking up from a deep sleep to the sounds of beeping machines with tubes and wires stuck into and on my body.
As I slowly regained consciousness and my eyes were able to focus, I was aware of a young, bald child looking down on me.
“Hi,” said the smiling, angelic face. Given the child’s age and complete baldness, I could not tell whether they were a boy or a girl. And, with the tube inserted in my throat and taped to my mouth, I was in no position to return their salutation.
I tried to remember who this child might be and why they were here with me. I guess my eyes displayed my confusion as the child said, “I'm Elizabeth. They let me walk around the hospital a little. Sometimes I sneak out of the oncology wing and look for people who have no visitors. I like to make sure someone is there when they wake up. I know I always like to see someone when I wake up from my operations.”
She just stood above me smiling. I then noticed she was holding my hand.
“Sometimes it is hard for family members or friends to come visit. Some people just really don’t like hospitals. And, I guess”, she said, “not everybody has someone that close to them. So, I like to become their visitor for them. I hope you don’t mind.”
I didn’t mind. Although it did make me embarrassed to realize that I fit in the latter category; I didn’t have anybody that close to me.
She just smiled at me and petted my hand as the medications worked their magic on me and I started to drift back off to sleep. I heard a nurse come into the room and say, “There you are, Honey. You need to get back to your room now and leave this nice man be.”
The next time I regained consciousness, I noticed a hand drawn picture of a house with a Christmas tree out front with a note that said, “I hope you get home before Christmas” and was signed by Elizabeth.
Each new day, I was welcomed by another drawing of Christmas scenes; smiling faces; reindeer; and, starry skies. All containing a happy note and all signed, ”Love, Elizabeth”.
After ten days of recovery and following the insertion of two stents into my heart, I was well enough to return to my empty home. On my way out of the hospital, I stopped by the Oncology Wing to say good-bye and thank you to Elizabeth. When I asked the nurse at the floor station where I could find Elizabeth, she replied, “Oh I'm sorry, Elizabeth is no longer with us.”
I then said, “Well can you tell me her home address or phone number, I would really like to thank her for visiting me in my hospital room this past week.”
The look on the nurse’s face indicated that I misunderstood what she had meant. Elizabeth was no longer with us.
Sadly, I started walking towards the exit.
Just before I got to the elevator, I noticed an open door with a man lying on his bed, with tubes in his nose and throat and nobody else in the room with him. I went into his room and sat in the empty chair.
When he opened his eyes two hours later, I said, “Hi, I'm Joe. I noticed there was nobody here when you were brought back from your operation and I know how nice it is to see a smiling face when you wake up, so I thought I would sit here with you for a while. I hope you don’t mind.”
He squeezed my hand; gave a slight smile; and, slowly drifted off back to sleep.
Copyright © Joe Flach | Year Posted 2012
Long poem by
Laura Loo | Details
Hereafter in the times of tomorrows yesterday,
Came the development of an exhilarating Christmas holiday.
Sometime earlier than the present time,
This holiday was old fashioned through out mankind.
World-wide festivities nowadays have come,
All the wonders of advancement has finally begun.
Santa's automobile has but only two wheels,
Placed on each side of his shatter proof shields.
No longer are there caribou with bells that jingle,
A 2031 stainless steel V-8, red and white shingles.
Santa is not plump and white bearded like he used to be,
Now he has a shaved head sporting a black goatee.
The good girls and boys get emails on the Eve,
Announcing his arrival and what time he will leave.
There are ramps starting at the base of the exhaust,
Sliding presents down the chimney a lil' crisscrossed.
No more elves working tirelessly at the North Pole,
But electronic robots made of silver and gold.
Tall green pine trees decorated with sheets of red ice,
No more LED lights, now there's something more precise.
The snow used to be white, fluffy and soft,
Now a tiny hue of pink intertwined with blue frost.
The stockings have no gravity, they float and linger,
Special sugar cookies made with a snap of my finger.
Opening gifts using the new electronic scissors,
My whole family wakes up wearing matching knickers.
My son and daughter build snow forts with excavators,
And all through out December we have curious spectators.
I sit here and look back to when I was thirty-five,
I wonder how in the world did I ever survive!
Some say the first Christmas was in December 336ad,
Based on some chart, oh how I strongly disagree.
I miss that chubby old man and his beautiful reindeer,
And his red sleigh while brushing his long white beard.
Oh my, how things have altered so ridiculously fast,
I never thought so much can change from many Christmas's past.
~A Futuristic Christmas Contest~
Sponsor: Mystic Rose
Date Written: November 16, 2015
Copyright © Laura Loo | Year Posted 2015
Long poem by
Shadow Hamilton | Details
It was a freezing night in Alaska, the temperature had
dropped to well below zero, fifteen below with a driving
wind that shrieked and laughed as it sped viciously past
causing lashing snow flakes to fall fast and furiously.
Up in the high mountains the man shook his head
as he stoked up the fire causing the flames to dance
creating shadows on the sod hut's walls. They seemed
to move with a life of their own. Forming first a pattern
a fleeting glimpse of a unicorn or so he thought. He needed
the storm to pass by so he could check out his many traps.
He was working two lines this winter for pine martin with
the odd trap for Lynx and wolverine who were a bane
always robbing his traps of his fur. He also had traps
deep in the river by the beaver's dams, the price of their
fur was sky high this year. He needed to hunt for more
meat too as his freezer was nearly empty and it would
be a long two months before the thaw and he could get
supplies flown in. Turning in he slept well waking to find
the storm was tailing off, quickly he got things ready.
Daylight was a brief five hours this time of year and
one was already gone. He worked the line nearest to
his hut first gathering up the furs and resetting the traps.
It was so tranquil now, the spruces stretched up high
seeming to touch the sky shedding the odd pile of snow
from laden branches that drooped with the weight.
Picking up some deer tracks that were fresh he followed.
Soon spotting some elk high up on the next ridge he
climbed around to get into position. He lined up his
sights on a healthy male and took a clean shot
dropping it in its tracks. Quickly he field dressed it
taking the hide and meat leaving the rest for the
various predators that were already gathering.
At least it was mainly downhill to what he called
home. Striding on as darkness started to fall
he soon was home and now the work began.
He have several furs to skin, stretch and pin
out to dry, others that now needed more
work, scraping carefully he removed and smoothed
the hides and hung them on frames in his smoke room
to colour and cure. Then he had his dogs to feed before
he himself could also eat. It had been a long hard day.
He now had a moment to reflect and gave thanks to
the elk who had died so he and his dogs could eat.
This would be his life for the next few weeks, then he
would take his furs to town to sell. He would be glad to
see his family again it would be nearly five months
since he was last home and over three since he had spoken
to another soul. Yet he would not give up this way of life.
The last thing he did before he flew out was to dismantle
his sod hut and burn the remains on the iced up river
removing all signs that he had been here. Next winter he
would build another in a different place and life would go on.
Copyright © Shadow Hamilton | Year Posted 2016
Long poem by
Eve Roper | Details
I was out hunting; quite often alone for short distance. Driving the snowmobile can take me many miles away from the house in just a few minutes. The walk towards home would be very long, and if I were hurt and could not walk back it could be a personal disaster.
I always carried a variety of safety equipment and gear along on my outings to ensure I’m properly prepared for changing conditions as well as unanticipated challenges I may encounter during my hunting or trapping.
Today felt different, taking a little longer to find tracks. It had started snowing so I decided to turn back not realizing how far I had traveled. Watching the clouds obscure the watery sun as the wind kicked up miniature snow squalls reducing visibility. I drove over a rise hitting a snowdrift breaking the drive shaft.
The full moon and milky snow illuminate the nighttime landscape I found myself lost on the mountain.
I have to make a choice. Looking for the North Star I placed a stick pointing north to direct me to the closest destination when I rise in the morn dawn. To the North one hundred fifty miles to the nearest cabin hoping that it is supplied with stable foods and a warm place to stay until rescued, or south two hundred miles in the other direction where a trapper lives all year round.
Over my shoulders I carried my rifle and survival equipment and begin the one hundred fifty mile hike to the cabin. Walking through spruce, hemlock, and lodge-pole pines and eating a variety of berries.
In the morning after the snowstorm I woke to ski snow-powder steeps. A wolf rested on its haunches, inspecting my unprotected surroundings. I took aim, shot, and missed and it turned and took off.
For days I had the feeling that someone or something was watching me.
I started seeing signs of bear tracings. I was almost out of ammunition for my rifle and decide to make a spear. I looked around for a suitable sturdy tree limb or sapling a few inches taller them me. Using my knife I fashioned a shelf for the knife creating securing support for the knife and wrapping it tight with rope.
I had shot a three point buck early that morning and dressed it out; when I heard woof, woof, woof, sounds. The black grizzly bear came down on all fours and started pawing at the ground then came at me like a freight train.
I wedge the wooden in of the spear between the rock and into the ground. The grizzle charged then stood up rising above me, impelling itself through the heart with the spear killing it instantly. His dead weight slumped falling limp forward on top of me trapping me under.
Tired and cold the pain disappeared by the time I amble down the pathway toward the summer cabin in the noon-lit dawn.
Copyright © Eve Roper | Year Posted 2017
Long poem by
John Beam | Details
no skating on pond adventurous lads along the run
day was clear amidst the cattails and sun
splash not so fun winter days parade the grounds
where footprint were not found
walking where no man has walked below
eight to ten inches of freshly laid snow
pounding the powder they hit me with a snowball
snowman business doing well as icy fortresses fall
well when I was your age not much has changed in childs play
I yell out the door what are you doing by the way
I caught you did I being children again
writing hearts I luv you on the panes
snow angels to snow cream to hot cocoa steam
a lot has been done amidst this wintry scene
there is more to come this story I am telling
from the door outside I heard some yelling
my swords man son fencing icicles on the eve
something like take that and that I believe
using a swim float neon-noodle type
he was having trouble winning the fight
curious I asked did he talk to icicles but
he said no what do you think I am nuts
I told him icicles could be cold and indifferent
they are very cold and in different…. shapes
Copyright © John Beam | Year Posted 2010
Long poem by
Ravindra K Kapoor | Details
My Angel Spirit Bird Neelkanth Dedicated to Deborah Guzzi
I dreamed one day,
I was climbing a hill,
Away, far away in the Himalayan mountain
But I was only a beginner, of climbing a snow peak
I wanted to climb to see the world,
To feel the Sunshine
And the beauty of the glacier
Perhaps my fascination for climbing the hills,
Was traced by my mind, who knew me more than me
It thought to fulfill my long cherished desire,
If not in actual, at least in my dream
I wanted to feel, how splendid it is
To see the world
From a snow covered peak
To get a bird eye view of the world
To learn more about the earth, humans and nature
In moments of those total silence and aloofness,
I found the blue wing bird, like an Angel spirit for me
My beautiful blue bird Neelkanth,*
Was my only friend and inspiration,
To complete the mission
I was climbing the snow covered hill
Like a Mountaineering trainee,
My tools were few, but my aim was true
My only companion, in the journey of my adventures,
Was my blue wings bird
I know from my childhood days, as my ‘Neelkanth’*
I found my blue wings bird, hovering always near me,
Like an Angel spirit, to save me from falling,
Its beauty lies, not only in its blue wing,
But the poison it stored in its purple throat ring,
To save the world from the effects of poison
I was climbing the hill,
And my favorite Blue wing bird,
Was accompanying me, in those difficult moments,
Like a true well wisher and a true companion
At one place I found that,
The snow rocks were difficult and steep
I tried a short cut, to somehow reach the top,
And then came my Angel spirit,
From somewhere suddenly,
Giving indication to stop immediately
I decided to go, as the spirit was indicating,
I changed my course, as shown by the Angel spirit
Next moment I heard a sliding of the snow rock,
The rock which I was trying to climb,
Were falling and were slipping deep in the glacier
My eyes became tearful, when I saw my Angel spirit
It had saved my life,
From being buried in the snow glacier,
For ever and for ever
After seeing my expressions of love and gratitude,
The bird flew away from there
Leaving me inspired for many more coming moments,
To start climbing the hills again and again
Next moment I was climbing,
The hills with more vaguer, as usual
My angel bird had given me enough
To keep trying
Till I reach my goal
Or feel the Sunshine
Kanpur India 30th April 2010
* Neelkanth. Indian Roller. Neelkanth (Hindi)
Copyright © Ravindra K Kapoor | Year Posted 2010