Nestled with the glittering elements,
I ponder the immortality of the senses—
my lucidity twirls,
as pirouetting flakes through
sapphire mist amidst cyanic windstorms,
drifting like arctic embers,
towards cerulean twilight skies,
beyond frost covered pains,
littered across glacial clouds that linger,
swirling upon an indigo iced cluster of
topaz teal stars,
enveloping my cobalt soul beneath your
cashmere caress—
we behold the wonder of an
opulent crescent moon,
cradling our kismet love, in
vows of our balsamic destiny, ever
sanctioning icebound purgatories
buried deep in our bones, in
flurry feathered snowfields,
guiding our
souls back home to our halcyon hereafters,
where I’ll sit throned as the
queen of blizzards,
wearing a crown of bleeding splinters.
January digs deeper into snow drifts.
Chill fingers cripple backbones,
make us walk like matchstick men.
February is just a name we give to tomorrow,
as if we could open that icebox
to see if the sun still rises over un-seeable horizons.
Time drags, then of a sudden, pushes us into snowfields
sprinkled with concrete daffodils.
sun casts orange glow
fresh unbroken snowfields
birch cast long shadows
The day my life changed in one moment
just one cursed moment, time betrayed
An injury they said would now never heal
a quadriplegic ,waist down you're dead.
vibrant colors blurred into onyx darkness
crippled and chained , I lay, caged in bed
in a dark ocean of helpless emptiness
sinks a heavy sack, but floats suffocated
squirmy eyes lift a burden , is it pity I see?
my warped desires , waiting to get rusted.
In sky of mind, fantasy of broken wings
adieu O snowfields, where once I danced.
adamant heart behind a ribcage pounds,
gazing windows with glossy barren eyes.
numbed screams fade in garbled speech,
in my soundproof tavern, no will to live
but tears attenuated , I slowly prepare
Bon Voyage, attuned to my wheelchair.
29th March 2020
Sponsor Caren Krutsinger
Contest Name The Day My Life Went Whacko
I awake, dull crusted in shadows,
to the swelling roar of hard rain on shingles
wetly dripp'd down rusted gutters,
air thick with cool moisture,
ozone sharp razor clean,
somehow, the sod grew a deep green coat in one night
as dogwoods shed blossoms like fragrant dandruff,
when did spring arrive?
my mind still bundled in deep winter time,
ghosts of snowfields, untouched by sun,
blanket my mood in a stiller time
now shattered by detonations of life
melted by pollen infused with wind
scintillate bands of light burn laser bright
through pregnant clouds rain gray
beams play like shining faeries on the sill
as a weird biology compels me to arise
rush headlong onto verdant lea
dervish twirl'd and humid breathed
but lightswitched it's gone
thunderheads roll like playground bullies
smearing runnels on the window
dogwood prism'd to a streak
as I shrink back to a pillow
smelling faintly of grass.
The barren earth waits
spring prances through the snowfields ~
a warm, welcomed friend
Hills and valleys sing
summer dances through meadows ~
a sweet visitor
The lush forests climb
autumn tiptoes through the green ~
a surprising guest
birds soar on the breeze
winter runs through fallen leaves ~
death uninvited
The white snowfields of my childhood
are but fond memories today
in mild winters where I live
some fifteen hundred miles away.
Today I wakened to a sight
that carried me back in time,
bright snow lies on the ground,
the trees are rimmed in rime.
In winters of the long ago
my daddy kept a pretty sleigh
and horse or two to pull it
on a splendid bright, winter day.
Over-coats, scarves and galoshes,
all were ours in good supply
to get us through winter
and snow drifts, mountain high.
I wish that I could conjure up
a horse and Daddy’s big red sleigh
that I could take for a drive
on such a sunny winter’s day.
I’d gather up my grandchildren
in my big sleigh for a ride.
to show the beauty of
a wintry countryside.
For Catie's syllable contest won a 5rth place
The snowfields of my childhood
Are but memories today
In mild winters where I now live
Fifteen hundred miles away.
But today I wakened to a sight
That took me back in time.
Bright snow lies glistening on the ground.
The trees are wreathed with rime.
My little year-round garden
Is hunkered out of sight.
Dire warnings on the TV--
There will be more snow tonight.
The schools are closed and children
Are sledding down the hills,
Some partaking for the first time
In a winter day of thrills.
The roads are ice arenas which
Few drivers can traverse.
Cars lie abandoned by the side
Or in the ditch or worse.
In the winters of the long ago
My daddy kept a sleigh
And a horse or two to pull it
On such a wintry day.
Over-coats and galoshes
Were ours in good supply,
To get us through the winter's cold
And snow drifts, mountain high.
I wish that I could conjure up
A horse and big red sleigh
That I could take out for a drive
On a sunny, winter's day.
I'd gather up my grand-children
In my big sled for a ride,
To see the startling beauty of
A wintry country-side.
won 10th place
A chill wind bites coyly at exposed necks,
not yet draped in tourniquets of wool.
A wrapping of white, buries ribbons of asphalt.
The ways fills with metallic horsepower.
Goblets of slush like spittle fall, splat,
upon once virginal snowfields.
The rape of Winter had begun.
Rutting like rabid beasts in heat,
the roadways lay revealed before the power of the storm.
Cumulous clouds belch from grills of chrome.
As Winter like the Sabine Women, weapon in hand,
pummels the oncoming horde with icicles.
Power falls from an angry, cloud-filled, sky
weighty and white, Winter defends herself.
The surge of day brings forth an endless tide of travelers;
trampling her breast, ravaging, the once pristine vista;
shredding the thin veil of purity, only the Goddess brings;
laying waste, in mounds of mud like filth, The Mother.
She curls inward. Her indrawn breath freezes gears
grinding, screeching, shrieking the earth succumbs.
In snow like ash she lays vanquished.
I remember the snows of my childhood
Bringing beauty beyond compare
And also how hard it was to breathe in
Mouthfuls of that cold frigid air.
Galoshes and scarves and long johns to don
Before Mom let us out to play.
Too bundled to move and chilled to the bone,
Ten minutes a very long stay.
There were times Dad had to dig tunnels
To get from the house to the barn,
And then perhaps shovel another
Before he could make his return.
For three months or more we were housebound.
We longed for the long summer days.
With spring came the mud and the puddles.
Goodbye to the sleds and the sleighs.
So whenever I'm feeling nostalgic
For those beautiful snowfields of old,
I take a deep breath and remember
I really don't like to be cold.
Ice-pick lighting,
headache inducing halogen,
white screen glows,
static blank heat.
Anti-matter, cold and desolate
as snowfields in winter,
enigmatic dreamless philosophy,
cryptographs of oblivion.
When dims the halogen,
the projector whirrs,
future enacted luminance,
expanding and imploding.
Blue and green slides,
entropic deliverance,
in architectural visuals,
structures of bleached death.
White flesh superimposed
with illusions of life,
unfrozen equilibrium,
hurtling to nowhere fast.