"sled" poems
I didn't mean to distract you, upon first interaction with you, I saw the sun lights refraction shining upon human polka dots
I have a thought that I won't say,
Ill write you In the plot of a book, that takes place far far away
Most times I speak with haste, life is no computer, but I can still copy and paste, my thoughts in a manner that properly compiles grace, and with some glue, you trapped your hands upon plastic keys, and played for me, a melody, and said I've been waiting my whole life to do this, I am alone and I am free, and I will stay that way for a while, so don't look at me with smile, and as quickly as it was created my memory can be cut and pasted into a file you keep beneath your bed,
The cold is coming, and I hope you wear hats upon your head and scarves upon your neck, for I hope you realize I am a sled, I don't stop until I reach the bottom, of a barrel filled with luck I live my off of,
Aug 11, 2013
Aug 11, 2013 at 11:35 AM UTC
So he threw all his chips on red
Thought only of what was in his head
Which turned out to be shots of dread
For his seeds planted in young women's garden bed
Without nary water or breaking bread
Or nary knowing the breaches of his and her homestead
So he rushed down stranger's alley shed
On a runaway, wrongheaded cocky sled
Through her banks, he crashed her spread
Like a raging, raging thoroughbred
Nary was a thought of a rubber glove on his dragonhead
For the buried absence of love was in his heart of lead
There's his wife at home tucking their kids in their bunkbed
While he flirted with the forbidden apple instead
It was this night that lives in infamy for others to read this dread
For the news broke of a married man impregnating a young coed
Accosting such teen to what now proves to be his deathbed
Yet if he unwinds his c(l)ock and placed his chips on black he wouldn't have bled
Petering out the ills in his marriage he would have been freed
Now he shrivels in a shameful battle of what went through his head
Logan Robertson
10/05/2018
Oct 5, 2018
Oct 5, 2018 at 10:10 AM UTC
Jolly old St. Nicholas,
lean your ear this way.
There’s something to be said
for the Santa role you play.
You bring happiness to children
with bikes, and dolls and toys,
and instill the Christmas spirit
into grown-up girls and boys.
But you know the greatest gift
isn’t found upon your sled,
and it isn’t all the sugar plumbs
that dance in children’s heads.
It is not one brought by Dasher,
or by Donner, or by Dancer.
It came wrapped in swaddling clothing.
Even Santa knows the answer.
The greatest gift is Jesus Christ.
The Savior of the earth.
And Christmas is the special day
we celebrate His birth
Christ was born into the world
and taught us all He could.
He knows if we’ve been good or bad,
and hopes we’ll all be good.
Santa, we’ll enjoy the gifts
that on Christmas come our way
but it’s not gifts,…It’s Christ the Lord,
we celebrate this day!
Nov 27, 2011
Nov 27, 2011 at 10:24 AM UTC
there was a little husky in land so far away
he would pull as sledge each and every day
pulling very hard through the snow so thick
going very fast going very quick
he had big bright eyes they were coloured blue
with a big fur coat a husky through and through
he would take his sliegh to the trading post.
so they could fill it up. the thing he liked the most
then he would go away again with his little sled
till he got very tired then off he went to bed
Mar 25, 2010
Mar 25, 2010 at 3:12 PM UTC
One day the skies opened up with snow
And one lost elf did not know where to go
He kept going in circles, around and around
But the skies kept putting more snow on the ground
He found himself in a Winter forest, dark and deep
He thought he heard the dead trees start to creep
He imaged eyes gazing like a terrifying light
Or was it the reflection where everything was white
The poor little elf was starting to get very cold
He wish he had stayed home, like he had been told
As more snow fell he began to shiver and shake
So scared that snow monsters might come awake
Suddenly a sound made the poor elf start to yell
He had heard a ringing, a sound of a bell
Then he saw a jolly fat man dressed in white and red
With reindeers that pulled him sitting on a sled
He offered the elf to come and sit by his side
Then they shot up into the sky, it was a special ride
The jolly fat man took the elf home to his mother
He was so happy when he shared the story with his brother
So every year he leaves mince pies and a drop of red wine
Something special for the jolly fat man to dine
He now stays in when it snows, whenever he can
And the once lost elf always remembers that jolly fat man
copyright Chris Smith 22nd December 2009
Merry Christmas to all on Hello Poetry
Dec 22, 2009
Dec 22, 2009 at 9:17 AM UTC
I used to believe in Santa Claus
So jolly and red and so fat.
I was a big fan of Christmas
No holiday was as great as that.
Not Easter with those funny eggs
Not even Halloween with candy.
No, that thing about tons of presents
To me, that was fine and dandy.
And we even got two weeks off
Nobody had to go to school.
Then coming back with new clothes
That made me look so cool.
Nothing compared to Santa Claus
The flying reindeer, ** ** guy.
I used to try to stay awake
So I could see him flying by.
It was such a great reality
To know that dude was up there
In the frozen north pole air
Making stuff for kids everywhere.
That was the world I reveled in,
Where everyone celebrated.
I knew I was not the only one
Who sat by the tree and waited.
I don’t remember being confused
By the Santas in department stores.
Santa had lots of helpers, I knew,
And this guy was just one more.
I did have a problem with chimneys
And a bag that he could lift
That carried things for all us kids;
Every size and type of gift.
But kids have a way of helping folks
To maintain a pretty fantasy.
We just ignored things that didn’t fit.
We went about it very easily.
But one day, and I remember when
I got let in on the confidence game
And Santa Claus was quickly gone,
Never to come to our house again.
The sad thing is nothing can ever
Replace the joy I once felt.
Santa was not supposed to be
Like Frosty and too quickly melt.
So, I have to make do with having
The grownup toys I buy myself.
Oh, how I could use a flying sled
And the help of a brace of elf.
Dec 14, 2016
Dec 14, 2016 at 3:31 PM UTC
She sat by the window, with the rain pelting the foggy glass, breathing hot air into the cold. She took her finger and slowly ran it across the pane, pushing away the gathered dew and then running her fingers up, down, up, down. G O N E sprawled in messy cursive. Her thoughts were as dreary as everything surrounding her. It was as if the rain was complementing her. After all, if it was sunny, depressing thoughts would be banished to the back of her head.
They had all left her, her past lovers. Their words echoed across the wooden floor, false promises stealing pieces of her heart until the outer shell was the only thing that remained. It was beautiful really. Her shell was so delicate, like a bottle tossed into the ocean, broken and grinded against the sand and rocks, until it finally rested on a beach somewhere, all edges smoothed. She was seaglass, a reminder of the past, but beautiful.
the first told her that she was an angel, just one without wings. “But that’s ok” , he said, “sometimes there is no need to fly”. He found a single mom on concord avenue two weeks later. She got child support. He bought her a ring soon after.
The third she met in the winter, where for months, white was the only variation of color. He liked to push her on her sled, but he laughed with more joy when he pushed her down the stairs. Red was the second color discovered that winter.
The fourth was the last. His love aged like a plum, darker and sweeter each week she was with him. He stroked her knee with his fingers when they sat upright at the doctor’s office, and he stroked her neck with his lips as she cried, laying horizontally on his bed. “Where did you get the scars on your back?” he would murmur into her skin.
“I fell down the stairs once”, she would whisper in the direction of his voice, her words floating in the darkness of the bedroom. The tip of his thumb would run down the pale pink scars, but she wouldn’t feel him there, that part of her had become numb long before. He left her two years later, his side of the room empty except for the spare key resting on the mahogany side table. His smell still lingered carelessly on her pillow.
Whenever it rained, she sat at the window, shadows gathering at her feet.
Apr 23, 2012
Apr 23, 2012 at 3:25 PM UTC
Quick Mr Ted get out of bed
the garden's crisp and white
let's dress up warm against the storm
and have a snowball fight
Then dig a den and build snow men
and decorate with coal
a hat, a scarf, a carrot half
and twig arms make him whole
Then let's lie down and move around
to give the angels wings
then put out bread for robins red
whom songs of winter sings
a tea tray sled for me and Ted
to slide down hill and plain
then lose control, we crash and roll
and do it all again
The cold wind blows, red cheeks and nose
our fingers all but numb
but cocoa cup warms us back up
while cuddling up with mum
Then time to sleep snuggle in deep
and dream of all we've done
for when all's told snow may be cold
but winters so much fun
Nov 28, 2013
Nov 28, 2013 at 10:18 PM UTC
there was a little husky in land so far away
he would pull as sledge each and every day
pulling very hard through the snow so thick
going very fast going very quick.
he had big bright eyes they were coloured blue
with a big fur coat a husky through and through
he would take his sliegh to the trading post.
so they could fill it up. the thing he liked the most.
then he would go away again with his little sled
till he got very tired then off he went to bed.
Feb 6, 2015
Feb 6, 2015 at 10:36 AM UTC
Announced by all the trumpets of the sky,
Arrives the snow, and, driving o'er the fields,
Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air
Hides hill and woods, the river, and the heaven,
And veils the farmhouse at the garden's end.
The sled and traveller stopped, the courier's feet
Delated, all friends shut out, the housemates sit
Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed
In a tumultuous privacy of storm.
Come see the north wind's masonry.
Out of an unseen quarry evermore
Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer
Curves his white bastions with projected roof
Round every windward stake, or tree, or door.
Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work
So fanciful, so savage, nought cares he
For number or proportion. Mockingly,
On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths;
A swan-like form invests the hiddden thorn;
Fills up the famer's lane from wall to wall,
Maugre the farmer's sighs; and at the gate
A tapering turret overtops the work.
And when his hours are numbered, and the world
Is all his own, retiring, as he were not,
Leaves, when the sun appears, astonished Art
To mimic in slow structures, stone by stone,
Built in an age, the mad wind's night-work,
The frolic architecture of the snow.
3.1k
ere body ere where
christmas lights erewhere
but for a reggae mon like me,
not a care in de world
erey body watchin Christmas movies
me in de basement smokin doobies
erey yungin mailin santas ouse
de only ting we want from santa
is a sled full of jamacan ganga
trees in ere bodys windows
me smoke me tree for christmas
no fancy decoration required
me gettin tired of christmas already
me just guna smoke till me lungs feel heavy
ereybody wants it to snow
me hopin for some good smoke
de christmas spirit is in de air
me listenin to reggae comin me hair
dis is christmas for a reggae mon
Dec 11, 2014
Dec 11, 2014 at 8:44 AM UTC
joy joy it's christmas little one.
on this christmas day .
hear are favorite songs
song christmas song of joy.
on this christmas day.
song of christmas
song of cheer.
on this christmas day.
hear the angel sing.
joy joy it's christmas little one.
hear sled bells ring little one.
it's christmas time little one.
sing the song of christmas.
sing the song of cheer .
hear are favorite song.
joy joy it's christmas little one.
hear angel sing.
on this christmas day.
hear children play.
joy joy it's christmas little one.
on this christmas day.
hear are favorite songs.
song of christmas song of joy.
on this christmas day.
song of christmas.
song of cheer .
on this christmas day.
hear angels sing.
on this holy day.
on this christmas day.
joy joy it's christmas little one.
hear the sled bell ring little one.
it's christmas time little one.
sing the song of christmas.
sing the song of cheer.
it's christmas time little one.
hear are favorite song.
sing 3x a song
Aug 30, 2010
Aug 30, 2010 at 10:56 PM UTC
If his bed was empty,
where once red poppies
bobbed a sled
downhill.
It became colder
and thin ice grew.
From the starting gate,
they fell,
spawned indifference,
for they were like two horses,
stabled in the face.
Reined for the show.
With blue ribbons in their eyes,
so very prim and proper
in public eyes.
Away, their tongues at war,
fueling the armies,
in their eyes.
He cried the impending emptiness,
warmth and love,
the empty bed.
The pound of fish
on Fridays.
And slices of cake,
where the red poppies
come to thrive
and the sled cherishing
the ride.
Yet.
Blind not to her vices and him.
Their marriage dissolved.
Infidelity in her back pocket
and undoubtedly a bigger sled.
Where are my angels,
he cried so often
the last thirty years
of darkness.
Where unfortunate endings
replaced auspices beginnings
and shadow dancing replaced romance.
See through
a lone wolf distancing from the pack.
Logan Robertson
5/17/2018
May 17, 2018
May 17, 2018 at 5:55 AM UTC
I come from the green winters,
the beady drops of sweat
running like lawnmowers
down the side of a face.
The bugs, bugs, bugs
and freakish hailstorms
of the way-down-south.
I come from the trash-can lid
that I made a sled and took flight on
soaring over the inch-thick ice.
I am from howdy-land and yeehaw-city,
but the thing is,
they really weren't.
I come from a fascination with rocks,
the round ones with the white stripes
and the white ones with the round stripes.
I am from bee-stings and wasp-nests,
and the kind ointments that were
whispered into my battle wounds.
Down the side of a cliff,
running like lawmowers,
the beady drops of sweat
come from green winters.
Sep 29, 2011
Sep 29, 2011 at 7:52 PM UTC
She hushes me repeatedly
as if my voice could be– too loud
for these shrunken, elder walls
What voice can I revive to tell her
that this little place...reminds me...?
Ratchet up the memories
the young mistakes
my welfare “townhouse”
as if my voice could be too loud?!
Where does anger go to say
These cheesy rugs remind me!
of the smoky halls, stoop-sittin’
head lice, **** roach
fumigated invasion
Music loud enough to blow pipes
induce trauma through the walls
Thud Crash
“Stupid ****
Knife-weildin’, drug-sellin’, boyfriend-of-a-future
A can of beer later...
with stress on hold
the smells of dinner, now—all fifteen of them!
Assault me through the front window
“Ya there yet?
...to this “cute little apartment, I mean?"
So it’s sold…
Someone else will wash windows, rake the yard
Shovel Massachusetts snow
Christmas lights come down
in my mind—
Running toward them still
Toes numb
Skates bouncin on my back
Sled firing off sparks against the sidewalk in my wake
Running and as always late
Mittens soaked, heavy
Like my eyes—
Mom and I
looking out this window for the last time
Looking out toward the daughter of the woods I was
Behind—me
the bride sinks
to the bare mattress—
“Was it really 57 years?
How can it be?”
since...clutching can opener and Coke
He scooped her up and through that door....
“How can it be? Oh my….”
"You can always keep the memories."
she chirps to check the tears
But I can’t taste them!
…Mom baking cookies
stew and dumplings on the stove
Snitching chocolate bits
waiting for the bowl
Impatient little helpers at her side
Colors slipping…
A child husks corn in sunlight
A blue Huffy gleams behind birthday candles
Sheets billow from the line
Sounds fading...
A choir of music boxes
before the Christmas carnage
Doing dishes in three-part harmony
I can barely wrap my words around our voices!
“You can always keep the memories”
Preamble to the dutiful decision
Hypothermic excuse
to dump the place
Street sign shrinking in the rear-view
Aug 26, 2016
Aug 26, 2016 at 4:06 PM UTC
I’m thinking of a place
With a monkey and a sled
A brand new jar of cottage cheese
Just resting on the bed
An envelope with butterflies
Upon the stamp it wears
And a basement sitting at the top
Of someone else’s stairs
~
A very special place
Where the beach is at your door
And multicolored tangerines
Will help you mop the floor
A casserole with tuna
In a bowl of cocoa beans
Where a question is an answer
Or at least that’s what it seems
~
A place where you will notice
That the sun it always shines
And toaster ovens tick away
Below the shuttered blinds
Jeopardy is on the tube
Wherever you may go
Antiques shuffle down the street
As every road will show
~
When you are in this special place
A trolley will say hi
A weeping willow sings a song
As it forgets to cry
Hibiscus on the front porch
Welcome all who do drop in
The price it has been lowered
As the morning comes again
~
You’ll see while in this special place
A necklace on a whale
And smiles at the dollar store
They always are on sale
A seagull and a crescent moon
Now share the skies above
But most of all while in this place
You’ll see that you are loved
~
You will learn this special place
It lives within my heart
To offer you a haven
When we find we are apart
A sanctuary nestled deep
That forever will be true
For here within this special place
I always will love you
Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 7:15 AM UTC
LAST night a January wind was ripping at the shingles
over our house and whistling a wolf song under the
eaves.
I sat in a leather rocker and read to a six-year-old girl
the Browning poem, Childe Roland to the Dark
Tower Came.
And her eyes had the haze of autumn hills and it was
beautiful to her and she could not understand.
A man is crossing. a big prairie, says the poem, and
nothing happens--and he goes on and on--and it's
all lonesome and empty and nobody home.
And he goes on and on--and nothing happens--and he
comes on a horse's skull, dry bones of a dead horse--
and you know more than ever it's all lonesome and
empty and nobody home.
And the man raises a horn to his lips and blows--he
fixes a proud neck and forehead toward the empty
sky and the empty land--and blows one last wonder-
cry.
And as the shuttling automatic memory of man clicks
off its results willy-nilly and inevitable as the snick
of a mouse-trap or the trajectory of a 42-centimetre
projectile,
I flash to the form of a man to his hips in snow drifts
of Manitoba and Minnesota--in the sled derby run
from Winnipeg to Minneapolis.
He is beaten in the race the first day out of Winnipeg--
the lead dog is eaten by four team mates--and the
man goes on and on--running while the other racers
ride, running while the other racers sleep--
Lost in a blizzard twenty-four hours, repeating a circle
of travel hour after hour--fighting the dogs who
dig holes in the snow and whimper for sleep--
pushing on--running and walking five hundred
miles to the end of the race--almost a winner--one
toe frozen, feet blistered and frost-bitten.
And I know why a thousand young men of the North-
west meet him in the finishing miles and yell cheers
--I know why judges of the race call him a winner
and give him a special prize even though he is a
loser.
I know he kept under his shirt and around his thudding
heart amid the blizzards of five hundred miles that
one last wonder-cry of Childe Roland--and I told
the six year old girl about it.
And while the January wind was ripping at the shingles
and whistling a wolf song under the eaves, her eyes
had the haze of autumn hills and it was beautiful
to her and she could not understand.
2.3k
We prepare to push off, you and I, tightly
bundled against the chilly wind. You stop
to shake snow from your furry-lined shoes
(you should have brought boots), and my
lenses fog from our breath, the frames
askew. I climb in front, tentative, winding
my scarf once more across my face.
The sled tips as you squeeze behind,
feet sneaking through my arms and across
my lap. The plastic starts to move beneath
us and I'm not ready but we're going,
we're soaring, (I wish I could see your
expression), across the slippery cold,
and my breath is gone somewhere
in the drift and we're flying but
you're there and then the world stops
moving. I'm covered in white as I wipe
the wetness from my cheek and I hear
laughter so I turn to look at your smile.
It is then that my breath finds its way
back and I realize it's me who is laughing.
Aug 5, 2011
Aug 5, 2011 at 1:38 PM UTC
The elf.
Santa was set to come on Dec 25 1901.
But something happens that no one knows.
As Santa was climbing in to his sled. A train fell on his head.
He was out cold and in the snow.
Time was getting short.
And that's when sparks the elf came up with the Idea.
To fill the wishes of each boy and girl.
He jumps in the sled and with a yell off he went in to the night.
From land to land and house to house
He saved Christmas night.
The elf knew what to do and as the sled drove out of sight.
He yelled those words we all know so well,"MERRY CHRISTMAS TO ALL AND A GOOD NIGHT!!
Nov 22, 2014
Nov 22, 2014 at 10:18 AM UTC
I awoke late the eve of Christmas
To the sound of strange tinkling bells
Half sleep looked out my window
There parked was a reindeer and sled
I get out of bed and to myself said
Something here is not right
Went into the living room shaking my head
There on my couch sat a white bearded man
Red suit
Cup of fresh coffee in hand
Still in shock I said
Hey you must be Santa Claus
But what are you doing here eating pie
Shouldn't you be delivering presents to good boys and girls
With reindeer pulling you through the skies
He said my son
I am famished and all done
Your house was my last stop
So I took a short rest and caught my breath
Please pardon me if I helped myself
Again he spoke and said
I do love cookies and milk
But there are times I like something warm
Its a very long cold trip you know
To the North pole and my home
I thank you for your hospitality
For the wonderful coffee and pie
Leaving a bag of packages under the tree
****
He was gone in the blink of an eye
Thinking to myself
No one will believe this
They will say
It is all a lie
That I awoke late one Christmas eve
To Santa resting on my couch
Having coffee and a slice of pie
This poem is copyrighted and stored in author base. All material subject to Copyright Infringement laws
Section 512(c)(3) of the U.S. Copyright
Act, 17 U.S.C. S512(c)(3), Tammy M. Darby
Nov 27, 2013
Nov 27, 2013 at 9:11 PM UTC
For those among us who lived by the rules,
Lived frugal lives of pubis-scratching desperation;
For those who sustained a zombie-like state for 30 or 40 years,
For these few, our lucky few—
We bequeath an interactive Life-Alert emergency dogtag,
Or a dog, a colossal beast of a pet,
A humongus Harlequin Dane dog to feed,
For that matter, why not buy a few new cars before you die?
Your home mortgage is dead and buried.
We gave you senior-citizen rates for water, gas & electricity—
“The Big 3,” as they are known in certain Gasoline Alley-retro
Neighborhoods among us,
Our parishes.
Our boroughs.
All this and more, had you lived small,
Had you played by the rules for Smurfs & Serfs.
We leave you the chance to treat your grandkids
Like Santa’s A-List clientele,
“Good ‘ol Grampa,” they’ll recollect fondly,
“Sweet Grammy Strunzo,” they will sigh.
What more could you want in retirement?
You’ve enabled another generation of deadbeat grandparents,
And now you’re next in line for the ice floe,
To be taken away while still alive,
Still hunched over and wheezing,
On a midnight sleigh ride,
Your son, pulling the proverbial Eskimo sled,
Down to some random Arctic shore,
Placing you gently on the ice floe.
Your son; your boy--
A true chip off the igloo, so to speak.
Jun 1, 2014
Jun 1, 2014 at 10:22 AM UTC
I walk my dog a lot, you see
twice a day, long walks with me
she likes her breaks to stop and ***
on every other place that bears a mark
could be every thing in any green space,
or park, roadside grass, curb sign post;
thirty times or more a most.
But she is more special than that,
she pulls with the heart of a champion at
the leash or harness, she as one gear forward fast,
her four paws calloused, brace like a storm
is in her face, she is game like, that is the norm,
her shoulders lean in and her chest opens up
she is ten years old and behaves like a 22 pound pup,
That is my dog.
that is my girl.
Most days of the year we have no white stuff on the ground,
Truth be told rain by the bucket will be readily found,
Spring rains, lead to summer showers, autumn falls
both leaves and drops of water, winter moves and the call
is the same, what a shame more rain, with out any snow
we can't go and purchase a sled so in the end
that is, me in tow behind; this man's best friend,
my dog.
MUSH!
Jul 4, 2013
Jul 4, 2013 at 1:24 AM UTC
Back when I was a follower
I had a good friend Ed
He grew up amongst the Alps
His Pops worked for the Ambassador
Details left unsaid
Ed could climb the steepest crags
Like a mountain goat on ****
And ski the steepest slopes
Like a rocket on a sled
As I said
I was a follower back then
And my friend Ed
With his prematurely balding pate
Would chuckle at my dread
Following him up a sheer rock face
Free style climbing into outer space
Rappelling down the other side
No belay to slow my glide
I remember the first time
Ed led me wrong
Clinging tightly like a lover
Halfway up the face
Hugging tightly a giant rock
Like a gambler hugs an Ace
No holds left or right, up or down
Too scared to breathe or shout for help
Till there was Ed like a monkey scurrying round
A smile of reassurance
Laughing at my plight
“Left hand here, right hand there
“Right foot to the left, left foot to the right”
Till finally at the top
Sweating, swearing, trembling
Lying on my back
He sitting there without a twitch
Thanks Ed, you Son of a *****
And then we hit the slopes
Ed starting with the Black
Piece of cake he said
I thought I had the knack
First mogul flying high
Second one I kissed the sky
Third I began the tumble
All head and *** and skis
Face buried in the freeze
I knew it would come one day
Ed asking me to dive
He didn’t mean the water
Ed loved to dive the skies
Finally I decided
No more the follower to be
I repeated the grunts number one rule
The only things that fall from the sky
The snow, the rain, bird **** and fools
We shed our uniforms
Said our goodbyes and headed home
Me to the South and East
Ed further West and North to roam
Last I heard my friend Ed was dead
Jumping from a bridge
The final dive for my friend Ed
Deep into a river gorge
I think he just got bored
Jul 25, 2013
Jul 25, 2013 at 10:40 AM UTC
after a healthy
snowfall
I took to the park
to hike through
the woods with
Sweet Pea
on a friendly hill
near the entrance
I watched a father
and his miniature
purple scarved
pink bundled daughter
deep in the throes
of giddy play
slide down the
slight slope
daring the fates of
bodacious joy
I joined in their
smiles, lifted
by girly giggles
sung from
the secure lap of a
bear hugging dad
as the disk
whirled through
the snow
when the
thrilling ride ended
the little one
scampered after her
hooting daddy
as they climbed
the hillock for
another round
of glee
a few days later
Sweet Pea and I
returned to the park
the footprints
and sled marks
of our intrepid
joy riders were
fading, receding
into the march of
a waning season
though the
happy tracks
in the melting
snow will
surely vanish
the footprints
of that day will
remain fresh
alive forever
in the mind
of an elderly
woman, recalling
the thrilling giggles
and secure bearhugs
of a love blest youth
Music Selection:
Los Lobos:
Somewhere in Time
Oakland
2/5/14
jbm
Feb 5, 2014
Feb 5, 2014 at 12:41 PM UTC