"snowdrift" poems
It snowed today and I hope
the plows find your body
under a snowdrift. I hope
you are frozen to the core.
Feb 5, 2016
Feb 5, 2016 at 2:31 PM UTC
A Cowboys Christmas
We've been making this run
For twenty odd years
On up to Kansas
To bring back some steers
This time weather came up
The wind started to blow
And as it got colder
We were buried by snow
We needed a place
Where we could get cover
We had to find somewhere
One way or the other
Christmas was coming
And we'd not back it home
We were out here all frozen
But, we were not alone
The wind it kept blowing
The snow piled high
We lost three cows in the night
They were destined to die
They were weak when we got them
The walk was too tough
When the weather moved in
Well, that was enough
We hunkered down round the fire
Kept it tended real good
We'd gone and collected
A supply of wood
Christmas was coming
And we'd be away
It's the lot of the cowboy
To be away Christmas Day
The snow it got deeper
And more cattle were lost
We were stuck going nowhere
And dead steer were the cost
We were all round the fire
When the sky opened wide
The clouds disappeared
They all moved to the side
There in the heavens
Was a shining bright star
I'm sure it was one
All could see from afar
It lit up the country
With a sparkling glow
All we could see
Were the steers, and the snow
It was then that we realized
That Christmas was here
We had just gone past midnight
And the sky was now clear
We dropped to our knees
Said a prayer to the Lord
We still had our lives
And our feelings just soared
We'd beaten the storm
And would be on our way
We would still not be home
On this Christmas Day
We slept for a while
Then we ate, hit the trail
We all now had
A new Christmas tale
Christmas had come
With not presents or fuss
It was Christmas regardless
Inside all of us
A cowboy spends Christmas
Where ever he might
Whether out on the job
Or at home for the night
Christmas is Christmas
Without trinkets or beads
It's a feeling inside
It is faith, that one needs
So this cowboys Christmas
Was spent moving the herd
Kneeling down in a snowdrift
And sharing the word
Sep 27, 2017
Sep 27, 2017 at 1:26 PM UTC
My tongue is a piece of sandpaper
I’m melting into a puddle
I want to dive into a snowdrift
The hot asphalt burnt my toes to ashes
Oh lord. Open me up, My organs are cooked
I think I’m well done
You can fry an egg on the sidewalk it’s so hot.
As I melt away. The sun keeps shining down on me
Laughing and mocking me as I slowly burn to death under this
500 degree heat.
May 26, 2016
May 26, 2016 at 6:00 PM UTC
It is ok to be
not
what you are
still
becoming. She said
"you're not special." Grinding teeth and sodden rails. My car is exhausted--
downwind, held in the air like branches of birches and pines
humming with each blatant engine-stroke
which fall onto that bleakening
icedock and curl-- culled passengers tossed to sea;
unavoidably
sharp veer left, beyond surreptitious and frantic spectators
and through a once-pearl snowdrift straying into my mind.
M
C
M
L
V
Turtlenecks can't keep us warm and soup can't clear my throat.
I choke on
sliced rubber, seatbelts cut halfway-- from
Spring. pluck us like cattails
amongst my marshy solubles.
Exposes my larynx she-- ubiquitous sonnet spews forth.
What contrite aberration, wears Kalapodi temple dress
made of rose petals blown in beneath love's column
and presses with her thighs my vision?
There is nothing more to say-- meals served
raw on Winter holidays. Steaming
spoonfuls dried up on her palate--
Special in the way I left you there.
Special in being the same as I should have been.
And I, no-- I!
I can not talk any longer! The clouds I thought to taste
won't allow me to
rain
be-- once dangling from the ceiling, my dripping prevented
with a pale, cotton daub.
You see
the paramedics
even as they sheath my torso
and hold your head with thorped sieves:
The driver steered his vessel wrong
an action which robbed his passenger's breath.
Sep 25, 2011
Sep 25, 2011 at 9:34 PM UTC
This one here's me aged three
at a trestle table for little ones,
snapped with a box Brownie
at the Miss Rosebud parade.
Fresh as a daisy in crepe paper petals
under an eternal sun.
There's my brother dressed as a magpie...
just out of shot.
I remember that dress.
Yards of love sewn into a snowdrift
of crisp petals tumbling into my lap
under the Singer where I sat shuffling
impatiently to the machine's rhythmic rattle,
mesmerized by my mother's puffed-up feet
on the treadle,
my brother's whining cry...
just out of shot.
copyright © Caroline Grace 2011
Oct 1, 2011
Oct 1, 2011 at 8:13 AM UTC
Check in impatiently
hauling light luggage -
downturned eyes,
bundled fifties,
skull packed with sickly
sugarplum notions
Stiff key-card door and
three hanger closet -
leave your mittens, jacket,
and conscience dangling
Towels
cotton-knit sandpaper
no softer than well-trafficked
threadbare tawny-port carpet and
your hands and feet pretend
not to feel it
nervously,
a bit numbly,
you notice her standing
with glacial stillness
moments away from
the foot of the bed
Two crooked lampshades and
dim headboard lights
close their eyes when
the mattress springs
first compress,
the air tingling
with dustbunny snowflakes
This room is too dark now,
something like snowblind,
but you don't really want to see
do you?
Frostbite when she touches you
and somehow this bed
is more welcoming
than your own
you'll remember her
february fingertips
and hailstone hair,
a sensation of northerly winds
strange how heavy the comforter feels
sprawled across your skin
you envision an ice slab,
see it suffocate
a slow-flowing river,
and your breath quickens
if only because your lungs
have been crushed
then, just before hypothermia,
she leaves,
lights off,
wallet lighter,
you stay whiteknuckled, lightheaded,
half-consumed by a snowdrift,
beneath the duvet -
dazed
your tongue sits confused,
having asked for peppermints
and been given ice cubes instead
and when you finally rise,
and thaw your limbs
and try not the slip
on the black ice
she always leaves
by the door,
Try to forget
you paid
hourly rates
and shed your clothes
that you might find warmpth
in a blizzard
Feb 7, 2018
Feb 7, 2018 at 6:29 PM UTC
Once,
after twenty years of fruitless scribblings,
a composer finally crafted his magnum opus.
Then a gas line sparked and exploded
killing the man and his work.
Once,
a sculptor knelt on a beach
to mold an intricate scale model of ancient Greece fifty feet long.
But no one saw it,
save the moonlit tide as it soaked it’s way through the replicated sand pillars.
Once,
a lone mountaineer gathered up his courage
and embarked on a climb never conquered.
He summited
just before freezing in a snowdrift.
Life is a thin rice paper.
It can burn.
It can tear.
It can decay.
It will expire.
However,
it can also be painted on with colors
more vibrant
more stunning
than the shades of the soul.
Once,
there was a universe
that held a floating rock with water and heat and air.
Then a life formed
and the universe observed itself…
…If only for a while.
Sep 27, 2013
Sep 27, 2013 at 2:18 PM UTC
frigid wind –
a snowdrift and the dogs
at the back door
--
winter painting –
mostly grays
on my palette
--
warm spell . . .
the snowman leans
into the sun
--
icy wind —
the dead spider
spins in its web
.
Nov 22, 2011
Nov 22, 2011 at 8:47 PM UTC
It was a windy, wintery day in spring;
I had on my summer clothes.
Then it started snowing and
My nose, and toes, soon froze.
Why did I not wear a warm, wool coat,
With a scarf, and hat, and such?
I can only say, that on that day,
I wasn’t thinking all that much.
I guess I thought that I was cool,
But what I was, was very cold,
And if my Mom had been around that day,
She’d have said, “Son you’re too old,
To be running ‘round in a short sleeve shirt
On a windy, wintery day.
Son, you’re dressed
Like it is summer, and it isn’t even May.”
But my brain was filled with other things,
Like what to say on my first date,
And how not to get there early,
But make sure I wasn’t late,
How I thought the shirt would
Match my eyes, make me look kinda buff,
And how much cologne I needed,
Was that too much, or not enough?
How to act if her Mom and Dad were there?
Or if we were alone together?,
With all these thoughts inside my head,
I thought naught about the weather.
Still snowing when I went around
A curve a little fast,
I tried in vain to hit the brakes,
But I guess I hit the gas.
The car was stuck, and I was
Late, still had eight blocks to go,
I tried running on the sidewalks,
But now they were covered in snow.
I slipped, then tripped, and landed
In a snowdrift four foot deep,
This can’t be real I reasoned,
I’m in a nightmare. I’m asleep.
But it wasn’t a dream, I was wide awake.
I was shivering; it felt like frostbite.
Surely my dream girl was worth it,
We could still have a wonderful night!
Finally, I climbed the steps to her door,
Rang the bell, and it opened wide.
Her father said, “Son, can I help you?”
You must be freezing, c’mon step inside.”
“YesSssir, I’m hhhhere, to pppickup your daughter,
Cccan you sssee if shshshe’s ready to go?
Thththankyou for letting me in
Sssorry ‘bbbbout all the snow."
“Son, she’s not here, he shook his head slowly,
I’m afraid it would be a long wait.
Not sure when she’s coming home,
She must have forgot she had a date.”
Phil Lindsey 1/12/17
Jan 12, 2017
Jan 12, 2017 at 11:31 PM UTC
The flower wilts and an old man weeps
‘neath a snowy white quilt he lays down to sleep
Cold and alone, but his features are like stone, he is dying so far away from home
His cries he swallows with his freezing tears
As he dies in the snowdrift, the last thing he hears
Is his love calling in his memories from so long ago, this is the last winter he will ever know
But what of the ones that linger back in that place in his memories, waiting for him to no avail for he shall never return. Still they wait at the place he left them scanning the horizon, holding a piece of him, forever, deep within their hearts.
A flower had once deserted its tree
The petals were scattered for the world to see
The tree met the flower at the end of it’s quest sleeping serenely silent, in a white sea of death.
Then, the tree followed suit.
He traveled far from home to prove himself a man
Now in this snow white tempest takes his final stand
And those he left behind will not know how he died but they needed him more than he needed himself. And he needed them more than he needed himself.
Cold and alone, but his features are like stone, he is dying so far away from home
His love’s calling him in his memories from so long ago, this is the last winter he will ever know.
Sep 25, 2010
Sep 25, 2010 at 1:49 AM UTC
The white banks have risen high.
The smoky powder fills the sky.
Blooms of consciousness are frozen still.
Consequences of dying on that hill.
Time slips, blurs, no longer stirs.
As thoughts dim, and pain confers.
Darkness consumes the glistening tomb.
Life gives in to the doom and gloom.
Nov 18, 2020
Nov 18, 2020 at 9:26 AM UTC
It’s snowing,
It’s blowing,
The white snowdrift is growing,
So grab a mug
and we can glug
down cocoa ‘till the morning!
Jan 19, 2016
Jan 19, 2016 at 8:11 AM UTC
I thought I found my forever,
just a few words walking the path
I have traveled by myself,
watching trees grow and weeds fill
as squirrels frolicked from branch to branch
Then more words and a feeling
created in my chest unexplained,
when a sunrise became you
in past minutes moving forward
from a tent in a park, still there
Sleep became an enemy of my happiness
when daylight moments were ours
Learning to wander in a new direction
following not streams with golden carp
but a heartbeat thumping in the smiles
You became a part of me, entwined
as a vine on a garden fence
Love bloomed, we bloomed together,
autumn collected our thoughts
in the colorful leaf piles we played in
Winter brought its harsh frown,
still we warmed ourselves by the fires we tendered,
flames raging within our feelings,
touching from a distant dream,
reaching beyond delivered doubts
But it lingered, chilled wishes freezing,
snowdrift guilt lay waste on the side of the road
Slush filled our boots
and the season counted yet another victim
in its icy grip
I thought I found my forever,
now words have ended in shorter sentences
Silence cries on the arctic winds
and my forever has become
a forever sadness, without a coming spring
Mar 18, 2015
Mar 18, 2015 at 9:57 AM UTC
I take the last drag of the cigarette, for a second my mind is not weighed
Flicking the end into the snowdrift of others, I exhale.
When I do, I release what you said to me behind the waterfall
And the tree in Miranda's back yard cemetery, on Halloween, where you had me pressed
(You wanted to kiss me but I wouldn't let you)
Playing with a big-eyed, bewildered baby on a plastic slide
Holding your camera for you and watching you bloom
Embracing you on my front porch in the cold, in the hot, in the rain when we had placed our hands on each other's heart, followed by an unfathomably brilliant strike of lightning and a clap of thunder to seal the deal.
Dec 18, 2013
Dec 18, 2013 at 1:01 PM UTC
cracks in
the surface
spiderweb crisscross
across the frozen eyelid
of the lake
cracks in
the surface
split dendritically
across the ragged planes
of my arctic fingers
capped with
weather-worn callouses
swimming through
my thick hair frosted
with sun drop water crystals
and dry winter dandruff
snowflake scalp fluff
finger fly skin flurries
and I'm a coldfront
I'm a thunderhead
icicle snowdrift
I'm a rolling cloud
ice gale moonmist
trekkin through the
frosted forest with
fairy dusted
smiles and
snow filled
mittens
I'm a
fickleberry
tick tack
pick pack
**** it like a
smoke stack and
poke it with a
thumbtack
through the front
and out the back
and swan dive
into the cork board
leave it for another day
move on forward but
don't forget to stop
and pray
tongue tied
in a knot today
like a cherry stem
tongue tried
quite a lot, I say
to carry them
ever-powerful silly
magic mouth sounds
I went for a walk today.
Jan 29, 2015
Jan 29, 2015 at 10:07 AM UTC
Few candles
left for all of this
now comfort comes
in well thumbed books
and blankets..
A twist
of snowdrift hair
that tags you late
for thankless life,
released
a look-back
over years that taught
retreat
From
the cabin
of your fevered eye,
a love that passed you by
still shines,
impossible
in distant vistas
always
out of reach...
Mar 6, 2021
Mar 6, 2021 at 4:06 PM UTC
I'm stuck in a snowdrift
That you led me to
No place to take shelter
No reason to
I'm stuck in a snowdrift
But you're not by my side
You left me to freeze
You left me to die
I'm stuck in a snowdrift
Memories dance in my mind
I'll be okay my baby
Our love will keep me alive.
Jan 1, 2015
Jan 1, 2015 at 7:07 PM UTC
A wanderer with no home
The way without road
Had rotten by sicknes
And legs're going float
I'm walking the woods and the fields I've not knowed
I meet up the persons, who've taken by turmoil
I'm looking desireless to treasures of toil
In case that their souls took corruption and spoils
My only follower
Is my lonley shadow
And eyes have been closed
By grey hair's pay down
My only own package
Is staff and old note book
Which I will write down
For other's mind forelook
I'll stay in a harsh land with cold wind and passions
There's no place for bards with their thoughtless regressions
There'll be only me and a century pinetrees
Replace up the building of steel and my blindness
In hovel my body
Get warned by fire
And well with fresh water
Will cool the heart's dire
I'll put my old staff in a snowdrift with dashes
When my robe is almost converted to ashes
Then I will transform in a cold river's flowing
And flow down too far to remember the calling
Dec 15, 2014
Dec 15, 2014 at 7:51 PM UTC
I climbed to the top of a snowdrift mountain
with me I carried all things sacred
I looked down on a world all around me
and felt a wind blowing ever so free
I let all things that came to be
inside my heart that made me live again
touched by Spirits of ones that come to me
their visions of hope I could see
as blood of my Ancestors in my veins bleed
and Mother Earth gives me all I need
on this journey of a road turned red
Their wisdom now taught to me
for that of which I feed
my eyes no longer blind to things I see
as the drums beat to Spirits that dance
I stand proud in a Warriors stance
on this path now my destiny
They give my strength of who I now became
in my soul we are now as one
giving me my courage to fly
as their Spirits forever ride the sky
into a new rising sun
where our hearts now beat the same
Spiritwind ©2014
May 11, 2016
May 11, 2016 at 11:22 AM UTC
O
elves
tanenbaum
tree top angels
babes in mangers
toy soldiers marching
nut crackers cracking
putting elves on shelves
those eggnog swilling elves
all the pretty ribbons and bows
rudolph blows his ****** red nose
where did the wise men put the gifts
drunken daddy passed out in a snowdrift
why are the **** lights always so tangled up
twelve day hangover makes me sick as a pup
and the
******
elves
Dec 10, 2016
Dec 10, 2016 at 1:18 PM UTC
expectant pike laughs
oafishly, snowdrift bragging
apologists eat
May 14, 2016
May 14, 2016 at 9:43 AM UTC
two brothers come to blows over which sister likes fast food more. a man we want to love is shadowboxing a snowdrift from the parable of touch. blood is a food group. I pray to my hair. call my footwork by name. take my time
with amnesia.
baby facts include being born again in the museum you were carried to.
Jan 21, 2016
Jan 21, 2016 at 3:24 PM UTC
Do you ever wonder, when the leaves dance in the wind, if stones get jealous?
Or, when the sun dives, bleeding through the evening sky, a silver tear slides down the moon's pockmarked face?
Do you ever wonder, if the glistening mist through weeping willow's boughs calms the whispering winter winds? Or quiets it? Is the snow their silent tribute, falling from the stark still clouds?
The wind you see, is madness. The spring sings after stillness, after soft snowdrift coats the landscape in white. The earth grows cold and thaws and crawls slowly out of slumber.
Spring sings and birdsong rings though the air. The flowers peek up from their beds and summer starts to stir.
The wind is madness because, as the brightest summers go on and on and the bees banquet seems never ending; the nectar ain't eternal.
It's the earth's lament, not winter itself, but the unending cycle. That's how it goes and that's how it blows.
I wonder if the earth cries hurricanes?
Mar 28, 2020
Mar 28, 2020 at 6:05 AM UTC
HOW THE BLACK SHINES
He remembers
the particular
glance of sunlight
off a bird's wing
so that the black
shone
for that second
and forever
and how he had stolen it
from the living tapestry
of that only moment
and if one were to go back
it would be found
to be missing
thieved from Time
and how now
the typewriter keys
raise their angry little fists
and strike the page
in rage
and the tiny ting when a word comes
to the end of a line
and the stolen sunshine and
the shining of black
become
the words
that are offered
now
this seeing at seven
become a bird of words
startled to find
itself now
on the snowdrift
of a page
snatched from the memory
of a child who is
no longer a child
Apr 4, 2016
Apr 4, 2016 at 6:34 AM UTC