when I last looked
snow sprawled in
like an embrace from a foreign world
outdoor walk suspended
by squabbles of sleeted wet
unappealing chords
of ice pellets that stand hair on edge
to coat a hatless head in splinters
force that shapes a winter's pace
implanted temper
abrasions
in tracks of snow
as February squeezes into loins
an ache
my icy fingers
trace the window, vaporized
a shield of separation
a pledge of freedom re-booted
like green paths rising
a shifting focus
till March tramps into place
month of mis-rule
ornamental promise
that a turnstile world
clangs change
when I next look
to turn the page
Poem written February 23, 2023
grim starkness of snow
sturdy in its sleeted falling
willing a bleached landscape
a lushness
that chokes the rough field terrain
strides of power
as the fevered wind
spirals In an unexpected direction
inflates drifts like the arched back of a cat
whitening truant brown borders of decay
to bury even shadows
bare trees by fence lines slump like hollow men
in a protected sanctuary of cold
re-shaping confessions that slip
in winter chill extinction
Poem composed January 3, 2023
Apple cheeked autumn eyes bashful skies, as
Yellow frocked summer says her goodbyes to fragrant
Earth's seeded spring, to wild bouquets
Arranged by careless care, for the
Roses and daffodils to compare
Dandelion sprinkles of buoyant cheer on
Windswept wishes from children's magic, landing
In water lilies and long looping lanes, woven in
Nests of chirping, fragile hope
Delicate shadows of feather and wing
Lingering through flickering whiplash steam where
Ice caves lost to reckless flame
Northern flocks under southern stars to map
Greener seasons slipped through graying rain
Drowsy flutters the pale sun's
Oscillating gusts of sleeted night as
Wan, wanting branches undone by
November's surrender to darkling winter.
10/09/20
In the outskirts of a dirt-laden country road
it snowed, hailed, sleeted, and again...it snowed.
Day and night, Mr. Snowman guarded the cozy homestead,
as the Jones', inside, slurped soup with homemade bread.
Entrusted with a pipe and shovel to protect the sheep,
Mr. Snowman's chubby cheeks couldn't keep
from being dusted, smothered, completely covered.
Neither the smoke nor the digging tool could be uncovered..
...until midweek when a beacon from the sky
sent forth absorbing light, almost blinding to the eye.
Mr. Snowman's shovel doubled over with a sudden scrape,
as he seemed to be moving, but into a different shape.
Returning his pipe and shovel, with a rockful of cheer,
In reverse hibernation, he whispered, "See you next year."
3-11-19
The cutting edge of Fall
Shears the leaves from trees,
Exposing them as ramrod tall
Soldiers soon to freeze.
These warriors of wood
Battle with the gale
Defiantly they’re braced, and should
Be, when Fall-winds wail.
Are we as brave as well?
How will we bear the burn
Of winter’s sleeted, bone-chilled hell?
Trees, help us learn.
November casts its leaves and days away.
The calendar’s last, best, page remains…
December. And our losses and our gains
Are summed across a sky of frigid grey
(Forgiving sins from some far August day),
Our slate scrubbed clear. The month now wanes;
And yet behind December’s sleeted panes
There crackles warmth: an ancient mystery play.
Its symbols are the holly and the scented pine.
Humility, not vanity, at end-of-year,
And peace to our trespassers and our friends.
The English mistletoe—the gift of yours and mine—
And carols that poor sinners, like ourselves, most hear…
Then, manger-ward, a band of seers wends.
November casts its leaves and days away.
The calendar’s last, best, page remains…
December. And our losses and our gains
Are summed across a sky of frigid grey
(Forgiving sins from some far August day),
Our slate scrubbed clear. The month now wanes;
And yet behind December’s sleeted panes
There crackles warmth: an ancient mystery play.
Its symbols are the holly and the scented pine.
Humility, not vanity, at end-of-year,
And peace to our trespassers and our friends.
The English mistletoe—the gift of yours and mine—
And carols that poor sinners, like ourselves, most hear…
Then, manger-ward, a band of seers wends.
Accompanied by an original melody
The cutting edge of Fall
Shears the leaves from trees,
Exposing them as ramrod tall
Soldiers soon to freeze.
These warriors of wood
Battle with the gale
Defiantly they’re braced, and should
Be, when Fall-winds wail.
Are we as brave as well?
How will we bear the burn
Of winter’s sleeted, bone-chilled hell?
Trees, help us learn.
The cutting edge of Fall
Shears the leaves from trees,
Exposing them as ramrod tall
Soldiers soon to freeze.
These warriors of wood
Battle with the gale
Defiantly they’re braced, and should
Be, when Fall-winds wail.
Are we as brave as well?
How will we bear the burn
Of winter’s sleeted, bone-chilled hell?
Trees, help us learn.