I know
you're wondering
who's really
pulling the strings
Puppeting things
unbeknownst
to you
The lines between
the lies & truth
are blurry
They hide what's true
in a hurry
to blind you to
the weight of the storm
You're beneath
a bevy of flurries
that weigh more
than imagined
The reality is heavy
& I imagine you're
looking for answers in
all the wrong places
Empty spaces
where clean mirrors
used to be
You can no longer
glean a clear reflection
due to all the
dirty projections
Harsh lessons
being taught in
the dead of winter
classes
No one passes
in the thick of it all
unless you're shoveling
your fastest
Watch as snowballs
metastasize into the size
of glaciers & roll before
you've had a chance
There's no running from
this avalanche no matter
where you go or
what angle you take
I suppose
they want you to
just accept your fate
& make a snow angel
autumn births a fawn sombre
wide streets chase orange ombre
crease a smile shoveling leaves-
buries a sad old hombre
Years ago, on a snowy morn,
Before my kids were even born,
I left super early to start my drive
So in plenty of time I would surely arrive.
I taught in a school 20 miles away
And, although lots of snow was predicted that day,
The radio had no announcement I heard
That schools would be closed, which I should have inferred.
By the time I pulled up, it was quite a storm
But inside of my car I was nice and warm.
There were no other cars, one lone person about;
The custodian, shoveling, gave me a shout.
“I just got the word - we’re officially closed.
Go on home!” which I did, as you might have supposed.
Though the roads were much worse and some curses I flung,
I made it home fine, but of course, I was young.
And each year when a blizzard’s predicted, my mind
Flashes back to that morning, when I was still blind
To the fact that in snowstorms, by using your head,
You’re much better off home, staying cozy in bed.
Embedded and dormant,
they neither wake nor sleep
but defer and endure
until a sun-seeded air
percolates in countless
humming sepulchral lungs.
There is a foretelling,
an imminent rustle of shoveling wings -
the soil erupts,
whirlwinds swarm tree and leaf.
Now begins the cacophony,
the drumbeat of innate necessity.
Wing plates thrum
against chitinous abdomens,
a fretsaw orchestra hollows out
cavities for creation.
Grasping obsessions
become strangleholds of insemination,
then unto death do they pour.
We who sweep away or step upon
their stiffly crinkled corpses,
to our numbed ears comes a solace
as the raucous interlude abruptly ends,
nor do most keep account of the years,
until the next pronouncement
of yet another reincarnation blares forth.
I’m more inclined to write of shoveling snow
As I like to write about the things I know
Yet will reflect upon the dazzling flakes
Depending on how long the shoveling takes
For children wait with snowmen on their minds
And mother peeks from behind venetian blinds
While I the roller of “snowmanic” orbs
Must protect my snowball fight reserves
Snow angels hover o’er the battlefield
To see if age or youth is first to “yield”
Surrend’ring to the call to outside lunch
Hot chocolate and the sound of snowy crunch
Thus does the chill of winter thrill us all
Whether we be snowmen short or tall
A world of wonder awaits,
Straight through the gate.
Face the fear and hate,
Appreciate its mental state,
A trait part of our fate.
You can use it to create,
Just state your intention,
In the intended direction.
Make the correction,
Within your perception,
A new selection will appear.
Steering clear into the fear,
Hearing the voice of love,
Rising above all doubt.
Shoveling you out of the mud,
As you trudge through the emotions,
Sending energy in motion.
Clearing away the commotion,
You see new doors open,
Due to thoughts that were chosen.
A tightly woven web,
Is waving in the Ebb and Flow,
Growing exponentially,
Strengthening you mentally,
Changing the world you see.
Now that I'm aware of its beauty,
I wonder what else could be,
If I just looked at it differently.
I wish I could throw chores in the trash.
I’ll have to go to school someday.
I can’t make my bed.
Brush my teeth either.
Until my teeth start clawing so much that I wake up.
Eat and do dishes.
Gives me flashbacks like I’m on the moon!
Wrung out like future spinning cycles of laundry.
School bothering me as if they are shoveling trash heaps on me.
It would be easier to throw away my shoes, clothes, and dishes.
Just like it’s easier to throw away:
Newspapers, apple cores, and empty bottles.
Some things hurt more than trash.
For three hours sitting worked well for me.
Almost catatonic, like lunch time and there’s a sandwich in front of me.
Tapping toes like a happy can of soda.
I’ll never get anything done like that again.
Like when I was a kid, and I got an allowance.
Well, I suppose…
The next time I wash dishes is coming soon.
And I promise it will be revealed to me someday.
Written By: D. Collins 6/30/25
I'll be in a place of pleasure where wind soothes my bald head.
Far from the concrete jungles and snow-shoveling homesteads.
I'll be in the ocean with waves crashing all up against me.
Tasting salt water with nothing but sand under my feet.
A quiet place of pleasure sipping umbrella drinks.
Leaving bitter cold for those who love their minks.
I will lay in the sun and turn a dark, bronze red.
Do power walks on the beach versus working instead.
Learn to build sandcastles to amaze everyone's eyes.
Breathe that sigh of relief I've waited for all my life.
I can smell it, taste it, and gather it into my reach.
The next time you'll see me it will be at the beach.
chunks of dirt mingle with the bread.
cinnamon wafting in the wind.
a house of sugary bliss,
a promising deal of sweet paradise.
shoveling savories like a last meal--
bellies rising like dough,
suddenly shoved into a scalding scene.
outsides on fire,
insides igniting--
charred little children,
burnt sugar lingering on their tongues.
This blessing goes out to all the writers out there…
who don’t know where to start.
Who have words that want to be released floating in your heart.
Who feel like you’re on a beach…
and as you look out from where you stand
so many of your words spread out in front of you
like tiny grains of sand.
May you be blessed to start scooping your words into a pail
use a shovel…use your hands…
and don’t stop shoveling until you have enough words
to write what you want to write…
to build your castle in the sand.
Dad and son emitted a healthy glow
while shoveling the walkway clear of snow,
but one look at the sky
made them both start to cry:
"There's more of the white stuff?! Oh, no!"
Staring into the clear blue Sky,
Tears Fill my Eyes,
As the crows come flying by,
High above the trees,
Dancing with the Breeze.
I'm Down on my knees,
Shoveling,
Digging up My roots.
Exposing bitter Truths.
Who I Use to Be,
The parts I Wish weren't me.
Opening the door,
I settle in.
Riding Shotgun with The Devil,
Riding to a different level.
Balancing the Machine,
Repairing the Seam.
Picking up Steam,
Becoming a Team.
How it may seem,
Unclean.
Yet Unseen,
Lie Lessons to Glean.
See the Important Role,
It plays Teaching a Soul.
Finding Light in the Dark,
I embark upon Dimensions,
Sparking my intentions.
Exposing my Ascension,
The Curses and Blessings.
Challenging and testing,
Keeping me Guessing.
It's my Hands on The Wheel,
I can see them from here.
I'm Feeling no control,
Going with the flow.
The best I Know,
Shining as I go.
Sharing my Light,
I stop to pay the Toll.
Continuing our roll,
I begin to let go.
Riding Shotgun with the Devil,
Riding on a whole new Level.
Teaching me what I know,
To Show Love,
To All Those,
Looking to,
Grow.
Surprise! six inches fell
Silently through the night,
Secretly, unforeseen.
School cancelled, sleds are launched
Salt brine is useless now.
Stay home, no shoveling,
Sunshine will seize the day.
The wind is in from lost town,
it is as thin as a knife edge.
Razor beaked gulls
twist their necks, rolling
in the gritty bluster.
Lost town sinks beneath
churning clouds,
its smokestacks
just above each
new wave of despair.
The people there
have misplaced their lives,
and if they only had time
they would out-scream the gulls,
but a groveling grind
keeps them turning iron wheels,
or shoveling dry clinker
into long rusted buckets
of hope.
The snowman’s in deep and dirty.
He’s melting on gal that’s flirty.
Seems Frosty is bit
by Frostina’s knit.
He’s fallen for snow that’s perdy.
Too many of HO ho ho hums,
bored Santa does meet up with chums.
His time, with a plum,
all sugary yum.
His beard is all dirty with crumbs.
Seems Rudolph has stolen the sleigh.
Gives ride to a doe from L. A.
The Eve, he forgot,
but Santa will not.
Now, shoveling coal without pay.
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