All candles tall and short,
Whether stout or very slim,
Do but always impart
Light, which is never ever dim.
Watch the roses grow,
They don’t mind the thorns.
Seen the lotus glow,
Ne’er the slush it scorns.
So too must we shine,
In our own little way,
For in God’s own time
Our actions will repay.
Ne’er be disheartened,
If your contributions seem small.
As burdens are lightened,
By the sincere efforts of all!
Copyright © by Crystal David John
In younger days, if in a rush,
I’d race right over frozen slush
Without a thought of danger there
Of which I should be made aware.
Yet nowadays, I view the street
When there’s been snow or hail or sleet
As someplace where such dangers hide,
I might be better off inside.
I’ll venture out, but take each step
So gingerly, without the pep
That usually propels my gait
Each day when I perambulate.
Around me, all the younger crowd
Still walk like doubt is not allowed,
Especially since city folk
Most always seem to go for broke.
At least I know that once the ice
Has melted, I will not think twice
Of moving with my normal strut,
No fear of falling on my butt.
This morning’s slush is melting
From last night’s dust of snow
Which, since it wasn’t pelting,
Left little trace, although…
Some little mounds keep clinging
To surfaces of grass,
Enough for snowball flinging
Before the urge might pass.
This weather’s awfully fickle –
It almost feels like spring,
But it’s more like a tickle,
Awaiting winter’s zing.
Still, I’m out by the river,
Just soaking up the sun
Which the heavens did deliver
To get all the melting done.
winter's white turns rain
puddles fill to brim with slush
soggy socks need washed
snow melting slowly
drops of water fall from car
snow turns into slush
I watched the snow fall
As it grasped the tree branches
It left a wonderland here
I watched the rain fall
As it washed tree branches bare
The slush on the ground is deep
Heidi Sands
1/13/23
Olaced 4th in The Winter Sedoka Contest. Sponsor: Charles Messina
Susan Lawrence wanted to know
The life of an old Eskimo
He got so excited
His igloo ignited
And melted away in the snow
The Chef who jerks off in the soup
Speeds up the conversion to poop
It adds to the taste
But not to the waist
Though your chicken noodle may droop
Oh! how we love the Christmas
Tree
So decorated for all to
See
The holly too with it’s berries
Bright
And the snow so crisp and
White
But not Jack Frost who nips your
Nose
Or the slush that wets your
Toes
Nor the wind that burns your
Ears
And also fills your eyes with
Tears
Though winter time who is the
Best
And always stands out from the
Rest
Yes Santa Claus and Rudolf
Too
Who Christmas Eve will visit
You
Life filled with a feeling of happiness
With dirt, slush, sordidness
The cleanliness existing apart
From everything else in the yard
The ambience of soggy topsoil
Feeling so complete thus mindful
Not one worry
No agony
In mud with dandy doggie
Brown late winter slush
Wrapping roads in lukewarm hugs
Gloomily cozy
I'm never really in a rush
To traipse through gushy, mushy slush
Like that on any city street
Where puddles form from melting sleet.
The passing traffic sends up sprays
Of wetness that's seen better days
To splatter on your favorite coat
(And splash avoidance seems remote).
So in your boots just stride right through
And do what all New Yorkers do,
Which is to shrug or maybe kvetch
'Til we complete this slushy stretch.
Like a mouth full to drooling,
the day sucks boots and tires
sloshing remnants of Winter debris
beside the slush filled paths.
Dreary beyond hope of snowballs
Dangerous beyond the pristine slip of skate.
No possible good emotion can come
would dare revel in the mess.
With half frozen tears the sky drapes
the barren maples striving without hope.
Longing for a more lucid day where
upturned lips hold tulip kisses.
(a 7-5 Trochee)
Snow falls down; then comes the rain.
Wet flakes fall and drown
when that rain, like a refrain
once again comes down.
Then I step onto the street.
There's no snow to crush.
Mere shoes don't protect one's feet
from cold puddled slush!
For the "The Doesn't fit" Poetry Contest of Carol Eastman
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