"sleds" poems
Summer would be the sunflowers seemingly blooming from beneath telephone poles as a reminder that love can travel upon the wires connecting long-distance lovers, the ropes that cling to trees as though reuniting after a twelve month absence as they bear the weight of two bodies more entangled in each other than the pattern of the hammock that they lie upon, the ice cubes that float atop the glass of sweet tea stealing quick kisses each time the glass is lifted as they melt together beneath the heat.
Fall would be the leaves clinging to the tree limbs whispering secrets to each other as they flutter in the wind and change color according to the lovers that will one day float to the ground beside them, a calm pond reflecting former versions of couples who have always desired to know each other before their time of acquaintance only to realize they never existed until the day that they met, the stone path that weaves through a graveyard that has felt the light footsteps of paired souls wandering the grounds during midnight strolls.
Winter would be the snowflake drifting in the wind quickly memorizing the patterns of each familiar one it passes in an effort to reunite with its match made in the heaven from which it has fallen, the steaming cup of tea that collects condensation in the hands of lovers who find solace in sitting upon their front porches when it's freezing, the parallel lines of sleds that have etched temporary tracks in the land as representations of the distance that once separated those who created them (but does no longer).
Spring would be the first sprout of the season persevering through the darkness of the soil and finally pushing through the light at the end to feel the warmth of the sun upon it, a bridge the connects flower-covered hills that houses the memory of two lovers who reunited after being apart for the winter, the daisy that he planted beneath her chest the night that he told her he loved her and promised to always water it.
Jul 22, 2013
Jul 22, 2013 at 6:38 PM UTC
Extra! Extra! Read All About It !!
Recent Icelandic Sledding accident.
A mountain of Vanilla pudding was mistaken for
the Olympic Sledding Hill.
Professional sledders lined up, leaped on their sleds,
and found themselves floundering in pudding.
The mayhem was only multiplied by swarms
of wild parrots, squawking at sledders as they
thrashed about attempting to dislodge themselves
from the pit of pudding swallowing them whole.
Survivors were taken to Pud'N'Pie Clinic,
for treatment of acute pudding suffocation,
and treated with chocolate syrup and whip cream.
Jan 11, 2011
Jan 11, 2011 at 6:28 PM UTC
1498
Glass was the Street—in tinsel Peril
Tree and Traveller stood—
Filled was the Air with merry venture
Hearty with Boys the Road—
Shot the lithe Sleds like shod vibrations
Emphasized and gone
It is the Past’s supreme italic
Makes this Present mean—
3.1k
Lady Winter
I.
When surly Winter sighs, her icy breath
Makes adults think of coming death,
Makes children think of falling snow,
Ice skates and sleds and away they go....
II.
Alone among her Sisters, Winter holds such power
To stop the World, to drift in Time, if only for her hour.
She puts the trees and fields to sleep,
Then covers lakes and land 'neath sheets,
And though she tucks them into bed,
Their sleeping form is of the dead.
III.
This Lady White whose frigid face
Turns from the sun with chilly grace
Has for herself a single duty:
The world to rest in icy beauty.
In the North, where'er she goes,
She dresses lands with icy snows.
In gowns of ermine stand the trees
White trains of down lie at their lees.
She sets the plain with crystal lakes,
And sugars hills with frosted flakes.
Where ever she in beauty goes,
The icy Queen her magic sows.
IV.
Strange sister of four Seasons,
Her face, at first, seems set in Death,
But we who walk out on her icy grounds,
Traverse a frozen pond or wander rounds
Deep into her forests fast asleep, know well,
We who stop to listen and to look can tell,
Life's certitude awaits the end of chilly Winter's icy fling.
(Congregation: "Even so come quickly, Lady Spring!")
Dec 14, 2011
Dec 14, 2011 at 10:14 AM UTC
Well there is 'shine' coming down from the Carolines,
Brothers I haven't seen in quite some time.
Each year we gather here , rain or shine,
it's the gathering, the Meeting time.
We all will stare into the flames,
pass that jug, time and again.
Talk , spit , joke and smoke,
just alot of catching up.
Then the business will be discussed at hand.
What needs to be doing and help where we can.
Dues will be paid and treasure report.
Pass the jug for another snort.
Food will be prepared on that old trusty grill.
Fire will be a blazing to bust down the chill.
Know old Shu is going to bring that guitar out.
Sitting with my Brothers is what it's all about.
Come morning we will all fire up our sleds,
remembering the plans and what had been said.
By noon all that will be left of what happened at all,
is the burning embers and empty jars.
Jan 9, 2011
Jan 9, 2011 at 11:50 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
I remember when the world was huge
when my small town was all I knew
I remember when I knew no worry
and when I still knew you
I remember the days of before
before I could imagine a life complex
I remember the days before
I had to worry about life, love, loss and ***
when falling in love happened on a weekly basis
I remember when my fears were faceless
I remember when time would pass so slow
when hours felt like days
sipping lemonade on the swings,
in the summer's thick haze
I remember the cool crisp mornings
of September's first weeks
and the hot afternoons reminiscent of summer
walking home from school, longing for the beach
I remember playing games, and doing cart wheels on the lawn
when the leaves were all different colours
and the snow forts I'd build after the leaves were gone
I remember racing down the hill
on sleds, crazy carpets, boxes; what ever we could find
rushing home, after laughing till you almost peed your pants
hoping you'd make it in time
I remember being so happy, not a care in mind
I remember being a kid, and growing up impossibly fast
and having to say goodbye
at the age of nine.
Feb 26, 2011
Feb 26, 2011 at 2:19 AM UTC
Those dog days of summer
Near forgotten and gone,
Are stored for the winter,
And remembered in song.
The dogs' days of winter
Tell a different tale,
Of dogs pulling sleds
In Alaska for mail;
Or searching the Alps
Bringing whiskey and ale,
Panting and pulling
In hills, waters and dales.
Siberian Huskies,
The Great Pyrenees,
The Alaskan Malamute,
Run off their tails
Battling death and disease.
The Keeshond
Doesn't wear
Wooden clogs,
Like the Newfie
And Wolfhound,
They're winter work dogs.
If working in snow
Isn't enough to freeze fur,
Look to the Lab,
In frigid waters
In layers of warm flab
Helping fishermen,
Or retrieving a lad.
These warm furied friends
Will work til their end.
The dog days of summer
Ran off with the pack,
Leaving the dogs
Of our winters
To haul, trail and track.
Jan 13, 2015
Jan 13, 2015 at 12:13 PM UTC
'Twas the night before Christmas--Old Santa was ******
He cussed out the elves and threw down his list.
Miserable little brats, ungrateful little jerks.
I have a good mind to scrap the whole works!
I've busted my *** for **** near a year,
Instead of 'Thanks Santa'--what do I hear?
The old lady ******* cause I work late at night.
The elves want more money--The reindeer all fight.
Rudolph got drunk and goosed all the maids.
Donner is pregnant and ***** has AIDS.
And just when I thought that things would get better
Those ******** from the IRS sent me a letter,
They say I owe taxes--if that ain't **** funny
Who the hell ever sent Santa Claus any money?
And the kids these days--they all are the pits
They want the impossible--Those mean little *****
I spent a whole year making wagons and sleds
Assembling dolls...Their arms, legs and heads
I made a ton of yo yo's--No request for them,
They want computers and robots...they think - I'm IBM!
Flying through the air....dodging the trees
Falling down chimneys and skinning my knees
I'm quitting this job there's just no enjoyment
I'll sit on my fat *** and draw unemployment.
There's no Christmas this year now you know the reason,
I found me a blonde. I'm going SOUTH for the season
Dec 16, 2013
Dec 16, 2013 at 9:54 PM UTC
The icy air whistles around their ears, causing skin to tingle and sting. Fingers and toes are numb, but it's a good feeling. Snug inside my many layers of clothes, nothing can spoil the overwhelming feeling of being taken back to childhood. The urge to make a snowball is all consuming. Every step taken leaves a fresh, crisp footprint in the snow, as if no one else has ever been here. Snowflakes fall gently from the sky, tickling the end of their little noses.
Shimmering white flakes fall. Ice cold winds blow strongly. All that once was awake busy with their everyday things have fallen into a deep slumber. How the world once was so lively now has gone still cold and dead, but yet is just as beautiful and makes children smile. Winter and snow is a child's delight things dreamed of every winter. Sleds and hills, squeals and spills, waving, as the world rushes by. There is snow in the air, snow, and snow ubiquitous. Angels they make in the blanket of white, and tomorrow will remember how Snowflakes felt on their tiny tongues like magic to them now.
Aug 31, 2012
Aug 31, 2012 at 2:30 PM UTC
This ship has set sail
With a crew of fifty good men
And twenty heavily coated dogs
Over half the crew will be dead
By the time we reach our destination
On this secret government expedition
Journey to the bottom of the world
To find the Southern Pole
The wind blows us where no life lives
But the bitter cold
From North America
Past the southern tip of Argentina
Harbored at the Falkland Islands
For our last taste of civilization
Six months
Or maybe it was a year or more at sea
To the icy shores of another planet
Encased in endless days of darkness
The ship became marooned
In frozen oceanic tundra
For many winter nights
We the crew chiseled, shoveled
And pick-axed our way to break free
Of our prison made from solid crystal air
Finally unyielding land ahead
An unmovable iceberg
We dock and unload
Steady our sea legs to skis and sleds
The dogs take off across this untraveled land
Pulling us in tow
Faster against the frigid wind
Than our own frostbitten limbs would allow
Ninety degrees south latitude lies somewhere ahead
Blanketed in fresh snowfall and ice storms
Supplies and moral run low as this weary travel continues on
Shaded in zero visibility we set camp for the night
Harbored against the soulless chill
In a frozen crevice of ice mountain
Our health deteriorated and the dogs drained
Polar sleep sets in
The arctic wind chills us to the bone
And my cold eyes close
Sep 24, 2011
Sep 24, 2011 at 7:28 AM UTC
I study her withering hands every time I'm around her
they are becoming so thin... all her veins stick out like snakes
her fingers are all crooked--
broken tree branches fighting against the wind
eighty years of working her flower beds and scrubbing floors and
baking the best meals and desserts that only a grandmother can prepare
and my grandpa, I have never loved a person as deep and as securely as I love him
saying you have a hero borders on icon-worshipping but in this case he's solid
he is the absolute best and absolute most loyal man I have ever had the pleasure
of knowing
he married my grandma at eighteen, and
eighty eight years of wars and he never took one sick day off of work
he sleds down his long, winding driveway to pick up his mail in the snow
he used to pour water in my hands and tell me that if I could catch it,
I could catch the entire universe right there in my palms
I tried for years
I study their hands because I want to remember their greatest parts
arguably, that could be every inch, but their hands have shown
such strength, boldness, fight, hard work, dedication, love, and tenderness
maybe this is wrong but every day I practice saying goodbye in my mind
so that when they pass, I am not so crushed that I cannot move on
they have been my saving grace too many times for me to thank them for
so I just say I love you, you're my reason for existing, and then I
carefully etch their hands in my mind so that never for a second
will I forget the great work they have done here
Sep 10, 2014
Sep 10, 2014 at 11:59 AM UTC
Skeleton trees,
stripped down to the bone,
live naked within the walls of winter
Icicle boughs,
and branches buried deep in white
Conical conifers draped with ****** snow,
a blanket of diamond dust
They now enter my frozen world,
like life would now exist
inside of a snow globe
The drifting slopes
add white dimension
to this winter world
Frost upon the windows,
designed like crystal upon the glass,
sends shivers down my spine
The mass exodus of flocks of birds,
migrating south
for their seasonal vacation,
have gone away
These are the images embedded in the hynotic halls of my mind
The aging calender
upon the sunless wall
will soon give way to another year
The polar atmosphere
will have to surrender
its icy grip
but it is in no hurry
once January rolls around
In wintertime
we become like
weary, winter warriors
as we are manned with
shovels and plows,
battling the barrage of shellfire
of continuous cold, snow and ice
Shielded with scarves and heavy apparel,
shoveling and scraping,
salting and sweeping,
we are at war with
the fierce elements
that make us slip and slide
The salt trucks look like
army tanks on the move
Playful adventurers laugh at the scorn
The mammoth artic tundra
is their playground,
the ultimate winter utopia
They shall master
the slippery landscape
on skis, sleds and skates
in their pleasure
to conquer the frozen land
Winter is truly a wonder,
but soon my
Spring and Summer dreams
lie captive
I find myself
a foreigner of this wintry wilderness
My fair, flowery fields are gone
Barren are those beautiful images,
for Spring, Summer and Fall,
fables to my wintry world,
have slumbered all too long
Soon I am pondering.....
If only I can thaw
these stone solid feelings,
as the land soon melts
into Spring tears,
and can light a lamp within,
defrosting the sub-zero
feelings inside of me,
I will fully embrace the dreams
of warmer times,
and I shall find myself once more
A woman who knows why
she endures such a season,
shoveling my way through
the stormy periods of life
to thrive amid
the firsts of Spring
Sep 10, 2010
Sep 10, 2010 at 8:17 AM UTC
She smiled, looked up at him, and quickly kissed his cheek.
Then turned and walked away from the turmoil of the week,
Her crystal blue eyes moistened as she neared the airline gate,
And an inner pain engulfed her as she struggled with her fate.
He stood still, surprised, and wondered what she meant to say,
Her kiss was sweet but melted like the springtime snow in May.
Was it beginning? Was it ending? What future lies ahead?
He said 'Goodbye' and turned away. Words better left unsaid.
Both home to their own islands, alone with thoughts and doubt.
Nobody they can talk to - No way to work it out.
What will she say? What will he think? My God, what have we done?
And maybe out of Darkness a single ray of sun.
Her resolve much stronger than his lust, her drive to do what's right,
Prevailed and gave her judgement (though she didn't sleep that night.)
And life goes on, and snowfalls come - Young children play on sleds,
And both can dream what might have been. Dreams better left unsaid.
PwL 2005
Apr 20, 2015
Apr 20, 2015 at 8:39 AM UTC
An unstable mind.
Why is it so hard to find peace?
Because you have an unstable mind.
If you aren't stable then peace will be the last thing you'll find.
Wish my heart could flow,
Like sleds on snow, but it can't because I am unstable.
Take another look at that broken heart you hold. You tossed it to just about anyone in hopes that they'd catch it and not let you down, but you were surprised when your hopes where flipped upside down and that made you unstable.
See your thoughts is a way for your mind to breath, to live; to speak. And when your your unstable and your speaking, so is your mind.
That's what makes you unstable.
But remember, that if you think no one cares, please note that I do.
Because you are me and I am you.
So throw away your unstable mind and and take mines, while im mending your broken heart and your unstable mind.
Dec 14, 2015
Dec 14, 2015 at 3:36 PM UTC
Raining down from the frosted heaven's it is snow
Turning the green grass and black soil as white as the north pole
The school kids come with their sleds of pure gold
Looking for a nice hill or mountain to let it go
Snowballs fly like bullets fired on the battlefield
Snowmen rise like zombies during the apocalypse
Smiles are born from the endless laughter
As parents watch their children's happy ever after
Feb 1, 2015
Feb 1, 2015 at 11:32 AM UTC
Consider, If you will,
I pray,
The certainty
On Christmas Day,
If Infinite Wisdom
Should decree,
Christmas Day
To be snow free.
Pray to avoid
Inside woes,
Happy homes
Need Christmas snow.
Get kids on skates, sleighs and skis,
Bundled well so they don't freeze.
History dictates outside toys
Combine real fine with outside clothes.
Skates match well
With socks and toques,
Sleighs are steered
When warm in boots.
Snow awakens sleepy heads,
Riding sleds instead of beds.
Toboggans hurling down the slopes,
Big brothers begged to man sled ropes.
For smiling cherubs
On Christmas morn,
Hope and pray
For snowy lawns.
There in safety
Kids can mold,
A fortress
Or a snowman bold.
HA! Now listen to my homily,
Snow's not for kids only.
What would we do
On Christmas Day,
Ready kids,
No snow for play.
Imagine kids,
Your very own,
Being inside
All day long.
Your son,
So eager with his horn,
Playing Gabriel
In early morn.
Then recall
Your rush for games,
The lines, the crowds,
It's so insane.
And they won't play
Outside at all,
They're pushing us
Against the wall.
Yes,
Screams of laughter, resounding;
Peels of joy, echoing;
Happy shrieking, pounding,
On
Silent Christmas morn.
Dec 9, 2014
Dec 9, 2014 at 7:15 PM UTC
Let jubilant bells ring out
proclaiming the joy of the season.
Banish all darkness with bold Christmas lights
that brighten the sky on a cold winter night.
Rejoice in the bells of the season!
With joy-filled hearts we zip up our coats
to savor the crisp morning air.
We take to our sleds for a vigorous ride
then draw snow angels in the meadow.
Our town is decked out its holiday best
where strangers and friends pass our way.
We stroll down the streets ‘til the stars appear
to dance in the jewel case sky.
The bold steeple bells peal so clear and loud.
Bright Christmas lights are gleaming.
Our kinfolk have gathered from far and near
To share in a holiday feast
and after the meal we all gather by the fire
To celebrate the blessings of family.
With grateful hearts raise our songs
and ring our bells this joyous day.
Rejoice, give thanks. Give thanks, rejoice!
Let jubilant bells ring out
proclaiming the joy of the season.
Banish all darkness with bold Christmas lights
that brighten the sky on a cold winter night.
Rejoice in the bells of the season!
© 2017 by Robert Charles Howard
Aug 27, 2017
Aug 27, 2017 at 6:08 PM UTC
call humbug at your own peril,
dare
I don't know but I've been told,
streets in heaven been paved with gold.
'swat all the little kids that pullt the sleds's told.
Streets in heaven be needing this gold,
g'wan now, whistle while you work
it's a small small world after all.
We all become children then,
we all fall down,
that's the game. Okeh, wanna play?
Apr 15, 2022
Apr 15, 2022 at 9:56 PM UTC
Do you know the reason behind these conflicts?
As we see the results of these evil tactics!
War had begun,even the sun got no clue,
Mind produced inventions, weapons making a breakthrough!
Catapults and ammunition scattered everywhere
as this century comes into fatal despair.
Nation's blame pointing through east and west,
Lies, false accusations and boundless protests.
Foreseeing the future, knowing the end is near,
Soldiers and tanks in full combat gear!
Millions of civilians, Innocent lives damaged,
as the battle of faith continues its rampage!
So called Leaders and kings pin pointing,
Naming names, questions the Endless blaming!
they all stood up, with a huge Pride in their heads,
as if there is no tomorrow, the way they slide their sleds!
Moving forward, as we trace the root cause,
what could be the weapon of the Big Boss?
is it the bombs, that could erase the whole city,
or the technology that was forsaken by your brother country?
Looking over, I realized something,
that it is not the suing of your Governments crying!
the root is in the word of your leader's direction,
who would have knew it could give massive destruction!
Sep 14, 2010
Sep 14, 2010 at 2:27 AM UTC
The wind blew
The snow flew
The storm grew
And we didn't know what to do
So we ran inside
The winds died
The storm subside
And we took our sleds for a ride
The rides done
We had fun
Goodnight sun
A new snow has just begun
Jan 16, 2015
Jan 16, 2015 at 11:40 PM UTC
Imagine
if you can I say,
the certainty on Christmas Day
If Infinite Wisdom should decree, Christmas
Day to be snow free. Happy children need Christmas snows,
(Ask your parent, they already know);
To use their skates, sleighs and skis, And mitts and coats
so they don't freeze. History dictates outside toys
Combine quite well with outside clothes.
Skates match well with socks and toques, Sleighs slide faster
warm in boots. Snow awakens sleepyheads, gets kids outside riding sleds. They'll ride their sleds down downy slopes, begging
brothers to man sled ropes. For smiling Cherubs on Christmas morn, hope and pray for snowy lawns. There in safety they can mold
a fortress or a snowman bold. HA! Now listen to my homily, snow's not for kids only. What would we do on Christmas Day, with ready kids, no snow for play. Imagine kids - your very own - doing
everything at home. Your son, too eager with his horn,
playing Gabriel in the early morn. Recall the rush for toys and games, the push of crowds gone insane. "Why won't she play outside at all?"
Instead she cartwheels down the hall. SCREAMS OF LAUGHTER - RESOUNDING; PEELS OF JOY
ECHOING; HAPPY SHRIEKS
RESOUNDING
on silent
Christmas
morn.
Nov 18, 2014
Nov 18, 2014 at 10:37 AM UTC
When I think of healing, I think of the pain that comes with ripping a band aid off a scab.
The anticipation running through your body as you shut your eyes too hard and feel the blood in your eyelids swim rapidly down to the wound.
Healing, in a lighter sense, only occurs after an injury.
The dead flowers under the snow we thought nothing of as we dragged our sleds behind us through the winter evening.
They had three months to perfect their beauty.
They will go through the same healing process every spring.
I often think of myself as a flower under an untouched bed of snow.
A child, dragging his sled, nostalgic for the icy breeze slamming his face as he faces the bottom of the hill, steps on me.
He thinks nothing of it.
Possibly the dandelion we ignore among the rest as we dance with our lover through summer fields feel similar.
Ignorant because we as people don't assume the dandelion can feel like a wallflower.
Someone else will come along and pick the dandelion, and put him down.
And the healing process will begin again.
It may be the newspaper that someone spilled their morning coffee on or the hole in the wall after an angry drunken fight.
Don't worry.
The paper will meet the recycling bin and perhaps the new family who moved in will repair the wall.
The healing process doesn't end.
There is always beauty that comes from pain.
Oct 4, 2015
Oct 4, 2015 at 10:40 AM UTC
Pay our dues so you can write for someone else to help you out
What a crock of dog ****
I thought these words were coming from the muse?
The cherry wine orchards where birds soar for free
Are now taxed burned maimed and *****
So you can record yourself on some 10 cent tape
Either the lines are drawn and the combines have stormed through
Or the men and women behind the pens
Have truly lost their way
But what was a way before they decided to come and stay
We are all ****** in the end
Either to the Gods above or to the men with guns
Who are we if we are not fighting for the sun?
Absurdity in the tenth degree!
You want fire to cool your soul and love to make you bold!
Shame on the service entry fees with complaints of their boss
I write these things with irreversible electronic blood!
And if you saw me you wish that you'd never did!
Pom Pom girls break their bread as the football players shine their sleds
I'm in my bed wishing she was with me instead
Ram that note up your hole **** it up and see if its any better
The hall is broken the coolers dead landlords knocking
Where on Earth are you gonna go?
Mama's done gone and daddy's already dead
Sisters got a wisher with a pencil filled with lead
Streets are searing hot
And the backdoor to your house is locked
Let me have the key
And I'll surely make you believe
Lets stay up late an' we'll catch the next freight
Spend some time with me an' I'll teach you the meaning of hate
Wooden stool pigeons leaking blood on their eyes
A sigh colored brown
When you sleep baby
You don't make no sound
Wash basic red hedonistic hearings
Crystal nail polish with agate colored earrings
When a place is a place of comfort
Thats the end of your start
Stars shine so the blind may be able to see
I got women who know me and men who hate me
When I meet you
Which one will you be?
Soft fire ******* lick was the way you kissed
Your hands warmed from the liquor you said
On the porch you said I'd doused your torch
Where I then said "Love hurts when touched"
Jun 11, 2011
Jun 11, 2011 at 11:56 AM UTC
There was a Winter’s chill
But we still had fun
Sledding down the hill
In the clear Winter sun
It was a cold day of play
Mittens stuck to the sleds
A frantic snowball fray
With woolen caps on our heads
And we all slipped and slid
Never really knowing
How great it was being a kid
In our yard, as it was snowing
But then as we grew older
Winter never seemed the same
Each year grew a little colder
Reliving our childhood game
By Kirke Wise
The first publication of this poem was in the Winter 2019 edition of The Watershed Journal
Jan 17, 2019
Jan 17, 2019 at 9:53 PM UTC