Sad pumpkins all wear mushy frowns
All the leaves are on the ground
Soft breezes making wintery sounds
I’m staying inside gaining pounds
The geese have left in honking V’s
As pond edges slowly freeze
My cat stalks crispy dancing leaves
I’m wearing flannel with long sleeves
The bells will ring, the children sing
Wond’ring what will Santa bring
Rock salt, scrapers, hands that sting
A HUMBUG hat, a PAPA thing
The sun will rise in a Decem…BRRR
Cats in windows slyly purr
We’ll hunch into our collars fur
Shopper’s lament…I still need more
A sign inside the busy store
YOU BROKE IT…YOU BOUGHT IT
FOR…..CHRISTMAS IS COMING
AND NO ONE CAN STOP IT.
I went with Dad,
just us two,
to the hardware store.
We got replacement tubes for the TV,
Sometimes, filters for the heater.
He bought me
Necco wafers -
all different colors -
priceless coins.
Sometimes,
we picked up rock salt
for the ice-cream maker -
vanilla -
cold, smooth, delectable,
an elusive taste.
One man knew
the secret,
in Downey, California,
1965.
As Lot and his wife
Left the city of Sodom
Where gnosis flourished
His wife heard Yaldabaoth’s wrath
As the two lands burned
Hearing the children crying
Her heart made blood tears
It ripped from top to bottom
Hearing the calm call
Of gnosis singing with joy
Her soul remembered
She looked back with a quick glance
Before salty rain
Became rivers on her face
In an eye’s twinkling
She turned into a pillar
A pillar of salt
A tower of white rock salt
Through which her spirit
Climbed up the stairs of wisdom
All three thousand steps
And climbed above the heavens
And reached her first home
With all those spirits who rose
From the burning wrath
From Sodom and Gomorrah
Back below, her grave
Her grand pillar of our faith
Still stands as rock salt
To be used as seasoning
For the race of Seth
A seasoning of wisdom
To awaken all
By her noble sacrifice
Of love and gnosis
So that we all may join her
With all the angels
In the Pleroma’s banquet
Of dates and white grapes
As Philip the Apostle
Said to his students
“May our complete offering
Come with much sweet salt
For we name Sophia salt
Without her, no gift is sweet”
Should I search for you through lotuses of gold
or climb pyramids of truth and go beyond the self?
If I were Ghost of Amdapor,
could I possibly un-clock the secret
of a shadow bringer's touch?
If I were perception at its best
would these emerald eyes transmute
into the umbra of your light?
If these wings of mine were Love
stretching further than the ocean blue,
could I cover you ?
If I were mercy's Angel
at deepest hour of need
would you be an echo of my living past
or the song of our tomorrows child
my love?
If I were yours and you were mine
inside this peaceful lake
I call my heart,
Would you be rock salt or would you be,
water.
Dec 9 2023
Early morning - snow scattering
Landscape of white - sun reflecting
But not for long - soon it’s melting
During the night - freezing of sludge
Rough surface walk - bit of a trudge
Rock salt on top - colour of fudge
Now on the path - thin layer of snow
Hiding unseen - black ice below
Without warning - down you will go
Dark cloud above - now lots of rain
Last of the snow - all down the drain
Early evening - fresh snow again.
She slipped from among us
in search of good hummus,
like a whispery breeze
at the scent of chickpeas;
escapes for tahini
rivalled old Houdini.
Her nose for good cumin
was simply inhuman,
her longings, appeasing
on lemony squeezings.
She never found fault
with a good pink rock salt,
and oft was caught splurging
on fine extra virgin.
But she went on a bender,
took a shine to a blender,
sliced her tongue on that trough,
and her hum is still off…
"recently scenes of early life have stolen into my mind, like breezes blown ..."
Quote by _Samuel Taylor Coleridge (from his writings)
Buried deep in the coffin of my mind,
Memories of my youth; aged like fine wine.
I've got a few cherished ones to exhume!
I recall one chilly autumn noon running around the park
With the neighborhood kids, then I'd run indoors
To warm up when winds start to groan and whistle. Brrr!
Ah, the halcyon days of summer sitting in the shade
Wolfing down watermelons with my best friend, Lloyd,
Cheering on kids playing basketball in the backyard.
I remember one harsh winter sprinkling play sand
And rock salt on walkways with Dad before snowfall,
So snow won't stick to the ground. Fun times!
Writing Challenge - Past Memories - ''T'' Forms Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Constance La France
Theme: Past Memories
Date written: 10/19/2022
Dear Winter and Spring,
Read this letter carefully.
It's very urgent.
Winter, we've suffered
From freezing our booties off,
Horrible snowstorms;
Shoveling outside,
Thirty mile-per-hour winds,
Falling on our butts;
Icy streets and slush,
Sidewalks covered with rock salt,
(Did I mention snow?)
And the worst part was:
Coughing, stuffy nose, sneezing,
And stressful headaches.
We've all had enough!
Pack up your stuff and get gone!
Don't come back no more!
Spring, you're here at last.
What the heck took you so long?
Come and thaw us out.
Finally, it's time
To bid "Sayonara" to
Our winter gear.
We look forward to
Warmer temperatures and
Showing sexy skin.
There'll be rainy days,
But we'd rather have that than
Shivering outdoors.
What we're saying is:
"Good-bye, winter. Hello, spring!"
Sincerely yours, Us.
Iced down in a wooden tub,
Chilled more with rock salt,
Taking turns, Tom Sawyer style,
Hand-cranked until firm.
Remove the paddle,
Barely scrape,
Lick!
Homemade ice cream with fresh fruit
Is reason enough
To suspend any diet,
Avoiding further
Justification.
Just have some
Now!
Shadows are but sign posts,
fleeting moment capsules,
brown leaf portent creeper‘s auto-pilot,
tarpaulin-sky mist draped on ancient chapel spire,
worship at the coat tail of a wrinkled orange rind lantern,
oak wood clouds smoulder from their taproot ash to blur the camera shutter,
sonneteer who mines a rock salt crystal,
earthly grain-squeeze imitation pearl,
false trail bard whose basket weave of catalysts hint at lustrous form,
but still we wind-blown minstrels hanker for those dermal layer meters cast ashore.
The bucket sits idle
catching the dripping of dreams
discoloring as they evaporate.
Their tenuous connection to time
now but an echo in the bucket.
The bucket has never held
any maudlin mystery
as age has just ticked me off.
I still use it to carry minnows
to the kayak and go fishing,
it also come in handy
when tossing rock salt
on an iced over driveway.
I sometimes sit - reminiscing
perusing the contents of my buckets
successes, failures, wins, losSes.
I dance with the memories
of my children's childhoods
lessons learned and now
visited on my grandchildren.
Lately, the bucket echoes
a tinny emptiness
as dreams succumb
to the sad reality
of unfulfilled buckets.
11/23/2020
What Have You Kicked Off Your Bucket List - Poetry Contest
Chantelle Anne Cooke - sponsor
Hard Case
Brubaker was a real big fat fecker
He lived by the jail and hunted escaped cons
Using three Bloodhouds and his wits
He carried a shotgun loaded for cons
With rock salt to maim but not kill
Brubaker was a hard case
Being an ex con from the same jail
He was offered a job for his skills
Help us catch fleeing jailbirds
And we won't lock you up
Call yourself a semi-peace officer
Halfway between good and bad
A job needs doing and its yours
Searching the fields woods and rivers
For smart or not too smart cons
None have escaped or beaten you yet
Coz once you were one of them...
Winter's wake-rows of black stones and rock salt.
Spring poems are always blooming with hope.
Daisy-splashed fields, bluebird songs are afloat.
Lovers sprawled atop blankets in plaided dreams.
Ms. Lily awakens in the silver foyer of her stream.
Powdered bumble bees, flashing bits of black-n- gold.
Mr. Winter sheds the blushing and his white satin robe.
The humble arise with earthy smiles from their hovels.
Into the shadows go the mittens, rock salt and shovels.
Empty playground swings, mimicking the violins of spring.
Children rubbing phone genies, granting them most everything.
Old Man Winter slaps at the soul.
But my spade is smiling and sharpened.
I was born in Buffalo.
So, my bones are made from ice picks.
The heart pumps out rock salt by the bowl.
I've been through blizzards, chewed on black ice.
Hopscotched over downed power lines.
Drank from busted pipes.
Got 55 years of calloused fists.
To pound black ice into diamonds of spring.
So, bring it on, old man.
Bring it straight to me!
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