Fake Snow

A pale sun on a thin frost,
Winter was weak willed this year.
More than cynical, this season
that has seen it all and descended
into entropy.

As if bored with the whole deal
and sick of its own children,
Winter shunned January,
turned its back on February,
and waits now to pounce

on March, to pinch crocus
and daffodil at the first hint
of bud.  Disgruntled with doing
the expected, breezes blew warm
when there should have been wind.

It’s all a precursor of more gray,
I have no doubt. Even so, April
will turn its face toward May
and flowers will bloom.
There is no denying Spring.

A Winter Set of Mind

Time, where do you go?
I turn my back and you
have flown to some far off land
that I can barely remember.

Those days of spring, we know
will come again, but now
I am a spectator
with a winter set of mind.

Who am I kidding? There is
no such thing as winter when
blossoms begin to bud
the limbs,

When the sun shines longer
every day, and night takes
early leave, subdued
by dawn’s pink blush.

Moon and tide and gravity
all have their pull, a certainty,
but an internal joie de vivre
will beat them every time.

So, if you’re feeling
a winter set of mind, delve
inside to where your special store
of light resides.

No matter how gray the sky is,
there comes a time
when a winter set of mind
gives way to spring.

The Sounds of Winter

Winter has its own alphabet,
its own vowel sounds.
Sorry Vanna, it is a whole new game,
a vocabulary that one can’t understand
in stilettos.

For instance, take ‘crunch’.
The hint that you get from saying it
is no match for the joyful act
of boots breaking the crust
of frozen snow.

The sound of biting
into a potato chip is entirely different,
a mere shadow of the sound.
It is all a matter of syntax
and experience.

And then there is ‘swish’…
The uninformed might think
that’s the sound of a taffeta skirt
leaving the room, but winter
knows that’s not so.

‘Swish’ is the sound
of tires, safe with thick tread,
in bumper to bumper traffic
displacing the slush of winter
while turning the corner with a ‘swish’.

And, those who think
a wolf’s call is a howl must never have heard
February wind announcing an impending blizzard.
The wolf’s call is certainly eerie, but
the wind makes a statement of intent.

The sounds of winter
are many and distinct, but difficult
to hear from the comfort of your car
with the radio blaring and a cell phone
glued to your ear.

Bombs Bursting in Air

The windows shatter,
Shards of yesterday spill out
like pieces of a puzzle
jumbled and mismatched,

Fingers bleed
from trying to set the picture straight;
splattered fragments
hold visions of tomorrow.

I beg for answers
but prophets avoiding my eyes
stroke their scraggly beards
with bony fingers

and offer wise toned murmurings,
something about this being a season of paradox.
We wear the soothsayers’ doom
like a ragged blanket.

Too far removed from its time,
we speak of war as if it were the answer.
The keeper of truth is history;
it must be tired of the repetition.

Jan. 10th…Wolf Moon

(forgive me Joyce Kilmer)

I thought that I could surely be
a scribe with wisdom of the trees

if I could use transmogrified
and keep the meter in full stride.

But in my search for helpful muse
my eyes the night sky did peruse

and it was then I chanced to see
amidst tall trees so shadowy

the stark bare branches of an elm
with a full Wolf Moon at the helm,

a work of art with tiny stars
to sparkle back-light from afar.

‘Twas God who made that handsome tree
then stripped it bare so regally.

Exposed and trembling, tempest tossed
no poem is born without a cost.


About  the title:

The Wolf Moon will be truly full at 2:21 p.m. ET on Friday January 10, according to Space.com. Smack dab in the middle of the afternoon doesn’t exactly offer that brilliant, light-up-the-night shine, however. and viewers on the United States’ East Coast won’t be able to see the moon at that time of day anyway.

Saturday, January 11 is a good viewing option. Moonrise is at 5:53 p.m. on January 11 and moonset is at 8:54 a.m. on Sunday.”


When was the last time you read Trees by Joyce Kilmer?