Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Yay! Some cold at last, and even a dusting of snow.
We moved back into the dorm—braving knife-like breezes—yesterday.
It was bracing and heroic - do I want it to warm up?
That’s a hard no.

let’s wax poetic..

Think not of winter as bleak
wrap your steely bones warmly, wear a cap
—for gelid wintertide can bind us together.

Midwinter is the time o' the year to be warm hearted,
to find a companion, a creature fair, a lass (or a manly man)
and suggest a more temperate snuggle— it can do no harm to try.

Think not of winter as bleak
make sweet use of flattery, and face cold’s embrace
likewise, cheek to cheek, with a warming and open heart.
.
.
Snowbird by Rani Arbo & Daisy Mayhem
We'll Sing In the Sunshine by Thornbirds
BLT Merriam Webster word of the day challenge 01/08/25:
Gelid = "extremely cold" or "icy."
We leave not in shouting, not in banging;
Rather, we leave whimpering, most of us.
Forgetting what we thought important,
The gut ache and the nagging cough
From us wrench sentience.

The dimming sounds, the fading lights
Take one-time treasures, held so dear,
Move them away, far out of mind.
What little hold we fast, we cannot think
To speak, though children lean in close.

This is how we leave.
Parent number four is leaving us soon. Watching my wife ministering to her mother brings poetry to me.
Could leave this world peaceful and shriven,
Be glad somehow those old debts of mine
Must now be ledgered and forgiven.

Watching loved ones work their sad old days
The land of death now beckons and sobers me
Enough to think I will follow in their way;
And to consider how I might leave free.

Of more than the sins Jesus has taken,
And more than payments owed to friends.
No, how to leave a sweetness unshaken
In my loved ones, my wife, and my kin?

I think I've some letters I need to compose,
Some arguments I've held too close to me,
And any odd embroilment that rose
While I was on my earthly power spree.

I'm 65, a scant ten years from average death
Of men my type and height and weight.
I'm sobering quickly as I count my breath
And know re-calibrating cannot wait.
Meditation on death....
My childhood home
was lit by candles
in open window sills.
The warm summer breeze
blowing the scent of
wax around the room.
The sound of the
screen door smacking
shut,
and our footsteps
running off into the
evening.
Dusty books lined
shelves,
and a bowl of marbles,
where each one was
perfectly placed sat on
the cupboard.
Classic rock and
a mix of blues
floated out into the yard,
serenading the sunset.
We’d stay outside waiting
for the glow of fire flies;
catch one,
let it go.
Until it was time
to come in for supper,
grilled chicken
and cheesy potatoes.
Then fall asleep
in front of a box fan
squeaking under
the moonlight.
I’ve always slept better
in the silence of
the country.
as the cold december moon
descends into her mountain tomb
and dies another morning death
her light enshrined within my breath

i will remember her

within this fragile moment
and her glorious midnight shine
for she exists as borrowed light
just as my life is borrowed time
Bluebells caught in her tangled hair,
Buttercups dancing in the open air.
A daisy crown, a fragile ring,
Foxglove whispers where shadows sing.

A bouquet gripped, loose in her hands,
Dreaming of boys, of far-off lands.
She waits for their eyes, for their seed to sow,
Forever ripe, with a heart aglow.

Running naked where the wild horses roam,
Wings outstretched, the world her home.
She reaches for sunlight, it burns her skin,
Magic bursts where dreams begin.

Blown bubbles scatter, they fill the sky,
Childhood hopes, now asking why.
A father’s absence, poverty’s chains,
Creativity blooms through endless pains.

Children raised where the waves collide,
Her heart’s adrift on the restless tide.
Alone with thoughts that crush and swell,
A soul on fire, a story to tell.

Yet wildflowers grow where the earth is torn,
In the cracks of loss, new life is born.
She rises strong, though the storm may call,
A radiant spirit that conquers it all.
Something lighter, wishing you all a prosperous day ❣️
flipping channels,
odd conjunction of random itinerants,
mix and mismatched, blend and burr, and the
combination of irritants, annoyingly raucous
pester the barely warmed brain,
by informing me to solve for X,
combine and contrast,
throw all into the blender,
add Fage yogurt, and some chill
ice with interracial combo of
black, blue & red berries
and pour it on you head…

and a breakfast poem is served up…

the utter urgency for civility
rings alarm bells, for it is so threadbare a quality these days, and it is worn by so
very few, and I ponder,
how the quality of
civility
could be so lost,
when I diagram said word,
see it
so clear
April 13 2024
•~ A tidal strait is a strait connecting two oceans or seas through which a tidal current flows. Tidal currents are usually unidirectional but sometimes are bidirectional. The East River is a saltwater tidal estuary or strait in New York City. The waterway, which is not a river despite its name, connects Upper New York Bay on its south end to Long Island Sound on its north end. (Wikipedia)~•

The river by my dwelling is miscalled by all,
in verity, it is a tidal strait, a battling diversity of fresh and saltwater, with currents visible, bidirectional, clashing eddies underway, are
underwater arguments boiling up to the surface,

!a perfect metaphor for a New Year!
<•>

each year seems like a tumult survived,
the currents of joy and its many alternates,
seem to always clash, spot staining
and yet
the estuary of life flows on and on,
the two seas remain connected,
the salt and the fresh intermingling,
waters
surf~officially calm, stoic,
but appearances misleading

every year different
every year also similar,
substance may vary,
the surprises differing,
but we for-see troubled waters
neath the glassine superficial surficial,
and we hold hands,
knotted fingers until
we raise out arms heavenbound,
asking why,
but expecting no answer
for we
knowingly
live our lives in a
tidal strait
Jan 1, 2025
Next page