It was the Christmas of all Christmas's!
Our great Canadian sanctuary;
Northeast Arms cabins up in Newfoundland
Wreathed in perfect white rustic winter charms.
In the crackeling of the fireplace
A warming glow and ambiance lingered.
Our family was whole and so merry
As we lived a great northern Christmas dream.
In a single room, our beds surrounding
A modest tree and not a gift in sight.
Then by Christmas morn there were gifts galore
A Rockwellian glow and children glad.
Though very young, the memory lingers
Beyond all others from those early years.
That Northeast Arms Christmas is clear as glass
A nostalgic reflection, crisp and dear.
I have never seen clouds move this fast.
as if they are in a death to the loser race.
If today was a movie I would suspect someone used A.I.
but this is mother nature, the elements, God’s hand.
These clouds are purposefully moving to the northeast.
in clusters of grays and pristine whites, a tinge of pink.
working my imagination into a frenzy.
Willow the wily white witch was enjoying a whimsical feast
She had flown here from a village way off in the northeast
Heard you were celebrating September birthdays, she said.
This was worth coming out of my grave, back from the dead.
Some of the others thought she was joking; some gave a laugh.
I knew she was serious, I had seen corpses during my heart attack.
She was the first one to blow out the candles on the communal cake.
We gave her a rip-roaring party, and ice cream that gives a belly ache.
The loneliness of night cloaks a desolate sky.
Drizzling rain clings to devitalized windowpanes.
Staring, longing for an escape from reality.
Ruminating thoughts keep sleep at bay.
The flicker of the television hums in the other room.
Dragging myself, I sink into the doldrums of a discarded sofa.
Turning up the volume, the weatherman describes a tempest coming from the northeast.
Burnt out, silhouettes of notions run rampant.
Even the soft glow of the TV has become too much.
The wind is starting to howl now.
I can feel it whip around the boards of this old house,
Like ancient bones rattling through the ages.
The porch blinds suddenly, violently thrash.
Getting up, I close them before slipping into my pajamas.
Preparing for something just out of reach,
Always a centimeter from my grasp.
I lay in a desperate bed.
Ever-expanding darkness shrouds me.
Yet no relief arrives.
Swollen eyes no longer produce tears.
Vocal cords no longer produce sound.
Just silent screams going unheard into the mattress,
As sanity finally slips through the threads of unyielding fabric.
in the land of northeast west Gable
a wily witch name of Mable
pushed away from her dinner table
annoyed by a red car on a cable
she thought these sky cars were a mere fable
had this one come from the wizard’s stable?
did it come begrudgingly, or was it willing and able?
staring it down, she appreciated its pretty label.
Into a luscious and darkened wood
heading home,I gaze above a lea,
Suddenly I'm not where I should be
as clouds enthrall , my senses allured!
A thousand stars blazing everywhere,
over a mantle of softest pink.
Yet each of them differs... in its blink;
Flaunting its own luster in the air.
One twinkle reflects of dreams quite free;
another flicks umbra, sad 'though wise
And beyond northeast, to my surprise,
this youngest flame, speaks of love's decree!
Twin stars blush in rare hues ...mauve to gold,
quivering on skyline's hallowed grail,
Through prayers deep, I thank nature's trail
where Light leads me to wonders, untold!
Storm
Beginning tomorrow
Blizzard in Northeast
It whispers slow down
Hibernate
It gets into all the machines
and freezes up the works,
it coats the sidewalks and front steps,
and slipping on it hurts.
It sheens the railing so that when
you grab them gloves get wet,
it lays on branches so they break,
the living and the dead.
But worst of all, it coats the roads
in glass you cannot see,
you only know when your Honda
is skidding fast and free.
The snow will bring us great beauty,
stark sculptures carved in white,
and seeing those big, fluffy flakes
makes winter seem alright,
but freezing rain, I must confess,
is like the mosquito,
it probably serves some purpose,
what it is? I don’t know.
I hate to hate what nature makes,
but sometimes, it ain’t nice,
I call it scourge of the northeast,
I hate, I HATE, black ice.
I got it peace may be an appreciation of the world
or it is what is happening when we say for instance
something is western or eastern or southern
or northeast or northern
or something is wonderful as in river following through
a direction.
Or peace is water carrying stones hither or thither
towards elsewhere likening a dispersal of fruit
or dusty dushman.
The river may be life or something to tell:
it may mix with the weather,
it may be on the same line with the season,
it may wall with the day's breezy wind or temperature
or nice sound.
O I got it peace is life, which to an extend is very fragile
will not I elsewhere fear to be harked and in case duped
of my glass or let say peace of mind?.
Yes, I got it , I got it peace can't be gotten from the
market even though we buy the guns and uniforms
and flags?.
I can be good but may not take of your life better
than you .
I can be your brother but still not a soldier or police ,
whom am I even to do than you in secret?,
whom am I even to tell about you more better than
yourself, if you really got the point?.
I felt like a dwarf as I skipped through this forest.
Though there was a path, the trees were intimidating.
Nothing we find in the Midwest.
Pine, fir, red cedar, spruce, adler, mountain hemlock.
My partner was skipping between the trees
The moss and violets here are marvelous! He yelled.
He was taking photographs of everything.
I rarely see him this excited unless we are traveling.
We are in the stomach of Olympic National Forest.
Tucked in the northeast corner of Washington State.
The lush forests has everything nature lovers would want.
My partner will be here for at least six more hours.
I take out my I-pad, sit on a rock and begin to read.
I might have the entire novel finished when he is ready.
He is my ultimate forest-loving guy.
I would not want him to be any other way.
My partner called out cars she sent
as we stood at opposite ends
of the work zone, and when
hers had passed, I called out mine
sending them along a narrow passage.
We found a common language
to communicate, and we made
small talk when things were slow.
The construction crew struggled
to settle each fresh coat of asphalt
over a moist bed of clay
of a two-lane in northeast Nebraska
arcing and curving over hills and valleys
between two unincorporated areas.
Black angus cows grazed
on a grassy hill, coincidental beauty found
in another time and place,
and a bull bellowed
to declare the spread his own.
After work my partner and I stood
outside our rooms at the hotel.
She talked about her husband
and I talked about a librarian
who read my poems.
While we spoke about our
lives back home, a light in the lot
shone a distant star.
Perhaps I’ll lose my leaves and stay this year,
To join winter’s bleakest winds and hours;
My northeast friends will leave and disappear
For southern sun and obsequious flowers.
Only a stray, grey squirrel will appear
To find if nut from fall may still be found.
My thin bark may be gnawed by hungry deer
As no food may be found upon the ground.
For winter force’d nascent thoughts inward
And I must have the luxury to weigh
An eidolon, now so froward,
The freedom to gestate and have its way.
Then spring shall come and her new buds emerge
For Life’s Forms shall have their demiurge.
Oh, damned February,
As you breathe your last
Exhale in farewell iciness
Cold crystals fading gasp.
Thus, is your fate in Northeast climes
A fickle season’s whims and wonts
Harsh winter backing slow away
retreats before springs warming taunts.
Subtle hints of flowing sap
Bid farewell to your fading bluster
And lo, within the frosty mud
Snow touched Jonquils boldly cluster.
So, pack your bags but rest assured
Your next year stay has been reserved.
John G. Lawless
©2/28/2023
By now, you know that I love nature and I have written many poems about it, including published books. So, this has hit me hard and all I can do is keep writing about it.
Emptiness
Silence, emptiness, nothing in the trees, the skies or the ground
Wildlife fled north, for their lives from toxins in the air
There are no songs to hear, no flights to see, no squirrel scurrying around
It’s a lonely, eerie place to be with wildlife gone like this!
It is shocking to go from a flurry of daily wildlife, to none
I’ve never experienced this in my life and it alerts me every day
A toxic plume from the Ohio train wreck burn, traveled with acid rain
Streams are shown on video in Ontario with toxins in them!
So, areas of the Northeast have been impacted along the way
It saddens me beyond words, so I keep writing to process feelings
I want to get the word out too, so please everyone, be safe!
Heidi Sands
2/22/23
I felt like a dwarf as I skipped through this forest.
Though there was a path, the trees were intimidating.
Nothing we find in the Midwest.
Pine, fir, red cedar, spruce, adler, mountain hemlock.
My partner was skipping between the trees
The moss and violets here are marvelous! He yelled.
He was taking photographs of everything.
I rarely see him this excited unless we are traveling.
We are in the stomach of Olympic National Forest.
Tucked in the northeast corner of Washington State.
The lush forests has everything nature lovers would want.
My partner will be here for at least six more hours.
I take out my I-pad, sit on a rock and begin to read.
I might have the entire novel finished when he is ready.
He is my ultimate forest-loving guy.
I would not want him to be any other way.
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