"parkas" poems
After the rain, came the heavy snow.
Falling with silent thuds through the trees,
the bush and below.
Muffled crunches of boot ensconced children
zipping up parkas against flakes by the million.
Stillness in my heart slipping through the broken parts,
dripping to the snow in colors of blue and vermillion.
The quiet flakes gently holding my confusion and loneliness.
Caressing my cheeks as a mother would to her child crying
in whispered tearfulness
A painful summer ambled slowly away leaving a far fairer autumn
but as winter and her snows knocked at my door, the mountain beckoned, and I lost him.
Nov 14, 2018
Nov 14, 2018 at 11:07 PM UTC
I know they're out there somewhere
Watching, cringing, when they see those
who don't know just what to pick out
When they go out in their clothes
I cannot list the culprits
And we all know fashion crime
Like, pants that show the *** crack
We see this all the time
It used to be a faux pas
When one made a clothes mistake
But now you see them daily
With every look you take
With all the shows on tv
Showing people how to dress
Why do they go out looking
Like such a rotten, bleeding mess?
Stripes and spots and solids
Wearing braces AND a belt
Wearing parkas in hot weather
You'd think that they would melt
Socks worn with one's sandals
And those pants around the knees
I mean, someone, help these people
someone help them please
We need some clothes policing
Maybe a hot line they could phone
Maybe send the cops a photo
Before they choose to leave their home
There are people wearing spandex
People who aren't really thin
think of squeezing ten pounds of sausage
In a five pound sausage skin
And makeup...yes, the makeup
Someone needs to teach them how
to apply it, in moderation
We need some clothes policing now!
There are rules and there are guidelines
But common sense should reign supreme
It looks like these poor people
got dressed while in a dream
We need fashion policing
So we can all walk, showing class
Instead of being like these morons
Who wear big jeans, and show their ***
Jul 30, 2012
Jul 30, 2012 at 12:55 PM UTC
I want your insecurities to roll of your shoulders
like rain drops.
Catching them in my hands,
like marbles,
putting them in a soft leather bag,
tucking them in my pocket.
I crave to walk into space with you,
to play on the moon in big klunky space suits,
with moon dust floating up from our feet
like whispers ,
coating our lips so that they become part of our smiles.
I want to take you back to your childhood.
To days filled with sunscreen smell,
first pets,
overly large parkas,
and muddy rain boots.
To the times before you tried to keep up with societies idea of how you're supposed to live.
Before the first few times you were hurt,
finally beginning to build your walls high,
like a fortress.
I want to commit arson,
intentionally burn it down, no matter what the cost.
So I can peer through the wood smoke and see the center of your kingdom,
where you hide your rain drop marbles and your moon dust secrets.
I know it's incredibly selfish for me to write your name with black stones in the salt fields of Nevada without you ever knowing about it,
and then expecting you to open up your chest,
not your wooden box,
no,
your chest.
Where your heart lies,
and your lungs.
To open up your chest and show me the words scribbled all along your bodies walls.
It's not fair for me to expect it,
especially without telling you that if you did,
I fully intend on kissing them all until they are worn down and faded from your flesh where they float down to your feet like yellow feathers.
It's not fair,
but I'm tired of feeling you fade away,
or get annoyed when you change to fit in with the people around you.
Why would you change, darling?
When you're so imperfectly perfect.
Oct 25, 2013
Oct 25, 2013 at 2:36 AM UTC
“Cold snowflakes upon my arm
the winter shine peeking through a crack in the blinds
a breeze of ice engulfing the room through a window left ajar
a land covered in a shiny white blanket.”
Winter has come. Cue the thick padded coats and the parkas of every color of the rainbow! Behold the sleds and skis and the beautiful Siberian huskies who pull them. Await the closing of schools and the temperature drops, keeping people in and making children everywhere euphoric as ever. The time has come for skating upon rivers of ice, and joyous dinners in warm wooly sweaters as families gather around to indulge in the tastiest of food. Fireplaces shall again be lit in all households of old, and stockings hung up early in preparation for Christmas. Happy smiles all around, engaging in snowball fights and the building of snowmen.
Ah but winter is as winter does. As numbers reach the negatives, heaters are turned up to the warmest possible, insulating the beings in a home and using electricity. What about those without a home? Those who are confined to the streets of the city, waiting for the cold to eat their bodies up and leave them in a state of rigidity? They are left to waste. Left to succumb to the bitterness of winter, with no sustenance whatsoever or any form of water to soothe their burning throats. The cold will conceal them in a cover of white death, a prison of snow. And in the early mornings of every winter-filled day, a machine is sent out to collect the bodies of those who have been imprisoned by the winter. The one operating the machine weeps silent tears for these ice prisoners before bringing their poor souls elsewhere.
Winter is two-faced, and she is both beautiful and terrible as the morning and the night.
(lunarlullubies)
Dec 25, 2013
Dec 25, 2013 at 9:22 AM UTC
it begins crisper than november,
still, chilly, ice blue sky,
then warm, then cold, then crazy frigid,
wind cat-yowling,
and on the windows,
frost feathers that do not melt all day.
the solstice sun creeps warily
across the south horizon,
glancing brilliant off frost-sheathed trees,
so cold the very air is frozen--
sparkling ice crystals float rainbow colored
like dizziness before my eyes.
Christmas eve starts grey and windy--
rain at two and snow at three--
the huge flakes my mom called "horsebirds".
And just at sunset, a patch of blue,
a sky tunnel for those tiny reindeer.
Christmas morning, four together,
first time in years we all are here:
Best-Beloved, sad eyed lady,
maker of donuts and hi-test coffee,
sings a bit, weeps, smiles;
the Exile returns, hoodied, shy smiling,
coffee in hands, and heart full of plans;
and Carborundum Starshine bursts in the door,
in corduroy & goofy hat,
Paul Bunyan beard & glitter cheeks;
and i
am here.
Talk and cookies, hugs and pictures,
Merry merry, the peace-pipe passed,
carols on the radio,
the scents of spruce and tangerines.
the "week between" a roller coaster,
t-shirts one day, parkas the next,
wind that moans like Marley's ghost,
and snow tornados on the road.
new year's eve and big soft snowflakes,
sparkling lights and laughing shouts--
on the street, drunken kisses and auld lang syne--
but not for me, i listen only;
there's work tomorrow, quick to bed,
a brief flight,
all-night jazz
and sleep.
time tomorrow to begin again.
(1-1-14)
Jan 3, 2014
Jan 3, 2014 at 6:44 PM UTC
we're tip tip tipping
tap tap tapping out a rhythm for our breath
sweet ladles laden lady leaden candles
sticks candlesticks
lime sweet ricky baby
rolling rolling heavy cajoling
you want to know you want to know
greens orange peach and parkas
time with only embers
smelling sweet of sand glass green
lightning what a pretty king
Apr 19, 2011
Apr 19, 2011 at 1:30 PM UTC
I walked by the playground. The little kids- reminiscent of little versions of me- were bundled in puffy parkas, scarves, gloves and hats tied under their chins so tight that their chubby cheeks poured over the bow. They can barely lift their arms. They stumble and wobble, rolling around the playground, up the pyramids and down the slides. The crisp air of a warm winter engulfs them as they think about their new friends, and how they enjoy playing tag on the playground. The kids, they’ve been there forever it seems.
Couples walk dogs. Women with curly black hair frizzing out of wrapped striped scarves, with glasses, with wrinkles. Men walking slowly behind, undistinguished, unremarkable, but peaceful nonetheless. The grey of the city pours into the park, a timeless grey filling corners that are easy to mistake as empty. Filling the cracks in the old cement all along the paths between playgrounds. Buildings stand right on the edge reminding you of where you are. Marking the minutes left you have in a playland. Soon you’ll hit the bustling streets where coats, scarves, mittens, socks mix with people walking so fast down the sidewalk in a cocktail of cold, pain, business and ambition. Sometimes cheeks flush as new lovers hold hands. Children laugh and tickle one another. But more often than not, everyone drinks the cocktail and keeps going- destinations unknown but going nonetheless.
When you’re alone you drink the cocktail, and think that you’re the only one. It makes you tell yourself to keep going, that you’ll go far. You pick some imaginary destination and push yourself towards it with all your might. Just like parents push the little bundles of pink and blue sitting on the swings at the playground.
Someday, maybe you’ll bump into someone- who will help you remember that you aren’t the only one. You aren’t the only one drinking the cocktail. And you’ll feel like maybe you can walk together, bundled now not only in your coats, but in each other. In the warmth of someone else, and the softness of their embrace.
But all too soon, one of you will trip- holding each other – one person holding on too tight, or another tripping over shoes. It’s inevitable.
There’s a bench. A bench at the intersection of three paths, one that is incredibly hard to revisit, but one that doesn’t move. It’s hard to find- at that intersection. It’s under a bridge, behind a museum, covered in shrubbery, and overcome by passersby. Under the bridge there’s a man who plays his flute. It echoes though, offering a trail of crumbs to find this place.
Dec 12, 2014
Dec 12, 2014 at 8:17 PM UTC
Dapple gray harbour
…humpback in breach!
a brown ruffed grouse
with apricot cheeks!
Pileated peckers
in caramel trees
the swirling fall mist
and gusty cold breeze
Bonfires and embers
in a harvest-moon sky
the cider house rules
and baled-hay ride
Warm roasted chestnuts
cozy fall stews
scarecrows and pumpkins
those dark autumn blues!
Parkas and sweaters
with cinnamon shades
a hot mulled wine
in the cornfield maze
Pine cones and acorns
on a brisk fall morn
frosty cold breath
and flannels well worn
Ghosts and goblins
…ole hallows eve!
the landscape covered
in dry golden leaves
A grateful Thanksgiving
with family and song
daylight (un) savings
where shadows grow long!
A north wind whispers
the harvest complete
stack up the woodpile
winter’s in reach!
Storm clouds brewing
the foliage flies
let’s spark up the franklin
and scurry inside!
Pull up a blanket
and call in the cat
...it's a perfect time
for a fireside chat!
Nov 22, 2023
Nov 22, 2023 at 2:20 PM UTC
We met in the midst of dust motes floating around the old chalkboard-classroom of University Hall. You introduced me to Amber – your close friend, I thought – and your thirst for after-tutorial Starbucks between 11:20 and 11:35 a.m. After all, what did it even matter to be five minutes late to class when we will all one day be so; what did it even matter if none of it ever really does when the curtain drops, when the record ends, when the symphony of consciousness rises to a close. So you went for Starbucks, and I walked to lecture alone – vying for that front-row chair so that I might ease the pain in my hips – and watched, noticed you in the months afterward, through red winter parkas and brown spring attire – until we met again in the odorous lab of second-year microbiology, and you drew me into your world of friends, of housemates, of late-night wine and cheese gatherings – until my heart – that soft, useless thing – quickened its beat upon hearing your stories of ex-crushes and Halloween near-hookups with a would-have-being-a-bad-decision girl. You drew me into you, you: an everyday girl, who in my daydreams was hardly so; I latched onto you and pulled myself out of that dark, solitary hole – because you were there, you were there, you were always there. I let myself be swept away by that river of friends, of daydreams, of late-night phone calls about life, the universe, and your complaints about organic chemistry. I turned a blind eye, because the illusion was far better than the solitude, better than watching my life collapse again into that small, small state. I let slide it all: the apathy, the sleep abnormalities, the ****** innuendos, until I texted you a few nights ago, two minutes into a rising panic initiated by the realization that my ex had killed themselves – a discovery that later proved to be untrue – and you replied with laughter and an inability to help. You just don't know; you just don't see that to complain of your ex-girlfriend's low libido is a reflection on you, not her, or even the two of you – so I put down the phone; I ignored the messages for a day, then two, and my world changed, opened anew –
I can live without you.
Jun 14, 2019
Jun 14, 2019 at 12:42 AM UTC
Once Upon a Frozen Star
by Michael R. Burch
Oh, was it in this dark-Decembered world
we walked among the moonbeam-shadowed fields
and did not know ourselves for weight of snow
upon our laden parkas? White as sheets,
as spectral-white as ghosts, with clawlike hands
****** deep into our pockets, holding what
we thought were tickets home: what did we know
of anything that night? Were we deceived
by moonlight making shadows of gaunt trees
that loomed like fiends between us, by the songs
of owls like phantoms hooting: Who? Who? Who?
And if that night I looked and smiled at you
a little out of tenderness . . . or kissed
the wet salt from your lips, or took your hand,
so cold inside your parka . . . if I wished
upon a frozen star . . . that I could give
you something of myself to keep you warm . . .
yet something still not love . . . if I embraced
the contours of your face with one stiff glove . . .
How could I know the years would strip away
the soft flesh from your face, that time would flay
your heart of consolation, that my words
would break like ice between us, till the void
of words became eternal? Oh, my love,
I never knew. I never knew at all,
that anything so vast could curl so small.
Originally published by Nisqually Delta Review. Keywords/Tags: blank verse, winter, December, snow, white, ghosts, parka, frozen, star, warm, warmth, tenderness, glove, ice
Apr 10, 2020
Apr 10, 2020 at 5:16 AM UTC