"snowdrifts" poems
How neatly a cat sleeps,
Sleeps with its paws and its posture,
Sleeps with its wicked claws,
And with its unfeeling blood,
Sleeps with ALL the rings a series
Of burnt circles which have formed
The odd geology of its sand-colored tail.
I should like to sleep like a cat,
With all the fur of time,
With a tongue rough as flint,
With the dry *** of fire and
After speaking to no one,
Stretch myself over the world,
Over roofs and landscapes,
With a passionate desire
To hunt the rats in my dreams.
I have seen how the cat asleep
Would undulate, how the night flowed
Through it like dark water and at times,
It was going to fall or possibly
Plunge into the bare deserted snowdrifts.
Sometimes it grew so much in sleep
Like a tiger's great-grandfather,
And would leap in the darkness over
Rooftops, clouds and volcanoes.
Sleep, sleep cat of the night with
Episcopal ceremony and your stone-carved moustache.
Take care of all our dreams
Control the obscurity
Of our slumbering prowess
With your relentless HEART
And the great ruff of your tail.
22.6k
Flying
above a layer of
cotton clouds, woven white lining clear blue
It looks like a snow-coated hill,
punctured by snowdrifts and gaps
where that blue, clear clear blue
peeks through
Don’t fall through
Mar 2, 2016
Mar 2, 2016 at 11:16 AM UTC
The weeping
of the guitar begins.
Wineglasses shatter
in the dead of night.
The weeping
of the guitar begins.
It's useless
to hush it.
It's impossible
to hush it.
It weeps on monotonously
the way water weeps,
the way wind weeps
over the snowdrifts.
It's impossible
to hush it.
It weeps for things
far, far away.
For the sand of the hot South
that begs for white camellias.
Weeps for arrows without targets,
an afternoon without a morning,
and for the first dead bird
upon the branch.
Oh, guitar!
Heart gravely wounded
by five swords.
8.6k
it was the hooded-sweatshirt, sit-close-and-pretend-you’re-cold, bleacher-seat,
whiskey-and-coke homecoming that you never had when the leaves changed.
but the leaves changed anyway.
the damp grass smelling vaguely like your fireplace as the world got quieter,
your nose in your precalc and your foot tapping and how-many-years-left
of solo fridays, you counted the suburban stars but didn’t tell anybody
how ******* beautiful they were above your head, because they were yours.
when you wore your high school colors, you were cold for real. no pretense
in your shivering, no flutter in your abdomen because he wasn’t gonna talk to you,
and you didn’t really care, you shrugged. but the leaves changed anyway.
and you changed, slowly. grew taller and smarter and prettier and then the
remaining solo fridays shrank to none, and you left. big sweet snowdrifts turned to spring
and you shared whiskey-and-coke with the city, your stars dimmer but abdomen
finally fuller, and limbs warmer and no sweatshirt because you didn’t need one,
and hands all over to hold and feeling all three kinds of love at once.
and then the accidental homecoming, and the changing of the leaves
and the hooded-sweatshirt shivers and knowing you’re so much bigger now than the
suburban stars and the backward glances of the bleacher-seat kids, but the damp
grass still smells like your fireplace and suddenly you’re small again, just for a
second but god that second, you shiver and turn around again. you’re so much
bigger than this but homecoming, this whiskey-and-coke homecoming still isn't yours.
Sep 1, 2014
Sep 1, 2014 at 11:58 PM UTC
I imagine you
in the slot canyons of valhalla
among rattlesnakes and bighorns
at twilight
I imagine you
running through knee-deep snowdrifts
with icecicles forming on your beard
under a full moon
I imagine you
living after dying,
and it's so hard
to imagine anything else
But you can't move anymore
and if there is a valhalla
no one ever deserved a place in it
like you did-
but that's a fiction
it's my imagination
it's my cowardice
and my inability to accept that anyone
as alive as you could be dead.
You're a nothing now
and the truth is I imagine you alive
because it is so much better
to be a something than a nothing-
which I think you knew all along.
Mar 24, 2017
Mar 24, 2017 at 11:53 PM UTC
'Tis time, I think, by Wenlock town
The golden broom should blow;
The hawthorn sprinkled up and down
Should charge the land with snow.
Spring will not wait the loiterer's time
Who keeps so long away;
So others wear the broom and climb
The hedgerows heaped with may.
Oh tarnish late on Wenlock Edge,
Gold that I never see;
Lie long, high snowdrifts in the hedge
That will not shower on me.
2.7k
i seldom remember
what i remembered
before I could remember
remember december
the snowdrifts, remember
you skated down memory lane
my memory failed me
my lifetime defeats me
forget about leaving alive
remember?
Aug 17, 2013
Aug 17, 2013 at 3:12 AM UTC
An unfenced field
of memories awoken ,
frozen pastel flowers
color fast ,
though fading
on borrowed time
A one-way footpath
disappears unencumbered
between the snowdrifts
leading across
the winter stilled
iced up creek bed ,
coursing a path
of least resistance
destiny unknown
Changing tawny petals
scatter like potpourri ,
fallen collateral
in the aftermath
a beautiful dream's
passing light
Pressed and dried
memories buried
under dog-eared
tear-stained pages
black topiaries
that grow in the dark
Redemption unbid
and unwelcome,
earthen mineral rights
surrendered unspent ,
Natural order
decomposing
reclamation ,
chilled to the marrow
A scorned lover’s
bated breathe
bared ink unspoken,
Unbidden laments
eerily betokened
in an unseen
netherworld ,
undeniable , yet
bashfully remarkable
I see the frosty
fogged breath
that repents
in choral dialect ,
speaking in known
tongue , with
the absolvable voice
of a bitter cold wind
wind is the wind .... December 20. 2016
Dec 27, 2016
Dec 27, 2016 at 7:56 PM UTC
Snowdrifts piling up
as brain melts down to zero sum
Not sure, now, what functions become
but, sure enough, what's piled high
in streets will become flood
Slide past corners
wash away
These torrents still insistent shakes
The quaking stops, now reach the sea
and rock on shifting waves.
Peer through striations clouding clouds and
sunlight
Soak into liquid, reach the bottom
grasp the floor
Handfuls of silt melt out through wrinkling digits
Withered faces, pickled organs: zero sum
Trickle down through strata--
read the layers
peel them back
Then, at the core, can settle down.
Nov 14, 2012
Nov 14, 2012 at 11:22 AM UTC
You say that you’re not over-stressed,
But I see the scars beneath your wrists,
The gaping holes inside your chest,
The bruises every doctor missed.
You promise me that you’re not hurting,
But the fire in your eyes is dead.
That fire once was always burning.
Now only snowdrifts fill your head.
You pinky swear that you are healthy,
But I see your body caving in.
Empty, hollow, sure but stealthy.
You’re letting all the nightmares win.
You’re singing loudly in the shower,
But you’re trying to wash away the past,
And forget when you lost all the power,
To love, and make the good times last.
You say it’s just the teacher’s bias,
But math was once your favorite class.
You’d solve each one with effort slightest,
Your solving now won’t let you pass.
Whisper that you’ll let me help you ,
We’ll break the clouds and find the stars.
It’s not too late for you to get through.
I’ll mend your heart and mend your scars.
May 22, 2012
May 22, 2012 at 10:51 AM UTC
Mother tried to be a decent mother
in the weeks ahead of Christmas.
she’d fill the month with Advent calendars,
finger countdowns and splotchy
un-successful attempts to create a
joyful face with lipstick.
In hindsight maybe the weight
of her guilt was especially heavy during
the one month of the year that God
could not be ignored.
Its different now.
God is no longer privy to X-mas,
and guilt is not an appropriate emotion
to be taught to children.
I was more afraid
of mother during Christmas
than at any other time of the year,
all that fake smiling and brittle kindness,
her strings could snap at any moment,
and you knew they would
you just didn’t know when,
or how, or on who.
“It always snows at Christmas!”
mother said as she reached
out my bedroom window to
gather a handful of fresh powder.
She’d bring it in to show me
and I’d wince and cringe because
her movements were erratic
and unpredictable
like a puppet on strings, her
arms swinging wildly
from side to side,
knees jerking up and down
across the floor
she’d always end up
spilling snow on my bed.
I think the snow helped numb
what it was that she hid,
helped her hide behind
that painted wooden smile,
if only for a little while.
My memories of snow
are quite vivid.
I’d shovel snow into
tall piles, taller than I stood
then build tunnels
to the other side.
I jumped off of rooftops
into huge snowdrifts
and come up with
sleeves full of snow.
My friends and I would
latch onto bumpers of
slow moving cars
and “skeech” through
the neighborhood,
or careen down toboggan
runs on our feet,
face planting
at the bottom where
the ice gave way
to fresh snow.
When I turned 16
we’d hide Old Style Beer
in snow drifts,
build ice forts in the forest
and spin donuts in
St. Mary’s parking lot with
open beers in our laps
and never get caught.
As I see it now
all of these things
helped ease the
burden of confusion
with my mother’s
dis- interested
wooden puppet
smiling,
but her guilt ridden
attempts at
Christmas niceties
were never going
to be enough
to keep me from
becoming
dysfunctional.
You see its all about the snow.
A life embraced by snow.
snow cut into lines,
Encapsulated snow,
spoon melted snow,
any kind of snow
to numb the extremities
and freeze the nerve endings,
a temporary escape from
the Christmas gift
of mother’s guilt.
Dec 22, 2015
Dec 22, 2015 at 8:52 AM UTC
after tastes like aftershocks,
pineapple lips and papaya tongue.
sunshine sloshing
all over us like liquor and
your hair so like shale
soaking beneath the sun.
Artemis is goddess of the moon:
where did you think lunar witches came from?
xanax bar after xanax bar
laid upon the vanity, crushed
and powdered up, snowdrifts
in blue and white.
oranges and blueberries and mango
in your lap, juice
across your thighs and earth in your mouth.
May 7, 2015
May 7, 2015 at 3:35 PM UTC
The way that winter comes at me,
as if a stranger from a side street
cold and dark accosting me. I turn
my collar up. He hollers, "You, there!"
Faster I walk, fear chilling me,
a lamp post but a grey ghost in the fog.
This **** winter, mugs me. He hits me
in the face with frozen fists. He grabs me,
stabs me in the side with knives
of ice, slices at my heart, the home
of hope. Supine, frost forming on
my brow, I pray to boughs of willow
trees; pines will sing my elegy. My mind
drifts like snowdrifts: a mitten lost...
fingers, nose, toes frostbitten...
a lake of isolation...a sleigh with no
horse...a blizzard of insanity.
My blood thaws the frozen ground,
then freezes.
TOD HOWARD HAWKS
Feb 14, 2021
Feb 14, 2021 at 10:34 AM UTC
It's the snow...
That falls around us...
That takes our shame, and leaves us bare.
It's the cold...
That drives us forward...
For we know the spring is coming.
I'm tired inside, I'm dying,
And nobody knows my pain,
I've tried, oh I've tried,
To last until the melting rain,
Till summer comes to move us on from the past,
And give us rest because we are running fast.
It's the snowdrifts...
That pull us down inside...
That heavy weight, of death and guilt.
It's the frigid winds...
That bite our hearts...
And leave us to repent ourselves.
I'm tired inside, I'm dying,
And nobody knows my pain,
I've tried, oh I've tried,
To last until the melting rain,
Till summer comes to move us on from the past,
And give us hope because now we're sleeping at last.
Mar 3, 2015
Mar 3, 2015 at 8:48 AM UTC
My usual suspects have flown north for the summer
Houses packed up and driven away
The pool house is empty
The concrete dry
Beach umbrellas stand closed and unused
Dreaming of sandy Saturday's soaking up the sun
Postcards come from Canada
The Alaskan snowdrifts also still beautiful and cold
At night my mind wanders to Russian wilderness
Wolf cries and full, silvery moons beckon
Desperate for the wintery breath of time across numb fingers
I wake aching with knowledge
Frost bitten ******* clinging softly to the edges of my now waking mind
Bright sun greets me
Warming my thoughts and skin
Floating aimlessly in tepid chlorine, hostile, alone
Entertaining ideas of motivation
Until I can resist no longer, give in
Letting sleep and dreams of blizzards take me once more
Apr 25, 2012
Apr 25, 2012 at 10:40 PM UTC
Butterflies and snow angels
Snowflakes floating across the sky
Cause such wild seasonal thoughts
Butterflies and snow angels
As the sun shines through the grey
Rainbows and snowdrifts
While traveling from place to place
Convertibles and snow plows
And life near the beach with
Snowmen and life guards
Playtime for children
Snowballs and baseballs
Copyright 2016
Richard L Ratliff
Dec 19, 2016
Dec 19, 2016 at 2:01 PM UTC
The snowdrifts still cloak the exterior of natures ***** an impediment to the absolute euphoria that romances my soul whenever I am able to savour the enchanting glow of a incandescent burnt amber sun,
in all later months.
The wind, however vicious with its long lashes of seizing air currents, whispering through the crack of my window, straining the chimes in a chorus
of improperly tuned instrumentals; it all coincides with the atmosphere,
my dear.
I swear I hear voices in the streets, faces in odd places, arms around me as
I sleep. I ponder over what you type to me, as I lay within my sheets. You are just so different than any I've seen before; a teacher- oh! a gorgeous professor,
to you I am a chore.
Petite, little me cold as can be ...
searching for a wee bit of company. Take a coffee or a tea and stay for a while,
write a song with my name in it
and make me smile.
Teach me the lyrics, and I'll sing the harmony. Strum through the hammer on's
& pull offs, let me take over the melody. Evergreen & blue eyes, we stare into one another for eons,
absolutely mesmerized.
Yet now, you are deaf not blind.
For you never hear my soul, each time you recite a verse.
You- the distant temptation, and this dreaded February curse.
Feb 17, 2014
Feb 17, 2014 at 10:49 PM UTC
Will you remember her?
She was so fun after all!
She laughed by eyes, laughed softly.
She was so light and airly at all.
Will you remember her?
Will you remember her?
She so loved all sunsets,
Loved stars and caught their light!
She ran away in her sleeps some place.
Will you remember her?
Will you remember her?
She so adored winter laugh,
Snowdrifts to be higher, the snow to be white
And bitterlly cold and not in half.
Will you remember her?
You will remember her!
She so loved to love!
She gave of herself wholeheartedly!
She couldn’t live without love!
You will remember her!
Jun 7, 2025
Jun 7, 2025 at 5:40 PM UTC
The oceans of snowdrifts
have laid at his porch
for a sleep.
He gives them a blanket
made from his kidness's feathears.
He believes
inside them
must be hidden somebody's heart.
18.02.2015
Feb 18, 2015
Feb 18, 2015 at 3:18 PM UTC
I sit here by my window
It’s slightly cracked
The wind outside sounds frigid
& the array of snowdrifts remind me of
the weather from when I was a child.
It’s crazy to think how the universe
works with my being.
I’m in a renewal stage in which
I need to tend to my inner child
& the world entices it.
I miss the calm
the silence
I need to indulge in that more
I felt childlike & awakened, tested, walking through those knee high snow drifts.
It was exhilarating in a sense.
Playing through those snow drifts
on the rez as a child, it seemed like a
treacherous wonderland.
Now those words are each of there own.
Nov 9, 2020
Nov 9, 2020 at 4:10 PM UTC
remember
a girl with a bloodstream filled with her brother's laugh
with seaside sand and bottled up ships on the shore
wind and rain, puddles for rainboots to stomp in
her tears taste like family vacations and disney movies
like memories not quite lost but fading
tree roots dig into her mother's backyard, saplings from an earlier life
leaves changing color, brain synapses disconnecting
the months will still move on through years, but time gets smaller
calendars move, people move, feelings move
life feels lonely and her paperbacks are ripping
all she wants is a glimpse of the past and to keep moving into the future
knitted scarves and mittens, snowdrifts and car crashes
piano scores and swimming pools and banana pudding
move through her system, let her remember, let her heal
talking trees and lord of the rings
mermaid tails and dog kisses
fairy wings and sunburn
baseball bats and runny noses
remember
(a.m.c.)
Mar 1, 2015
Mar 1, 2015 at 2:57 PM UTC
i told you in my dreams
that snowdrifts were breaking my bones
and northern winds were closing my throat.
as i sat underneath the iceberg melting
in the pacific ocean
i wondered if my claustrophobia would go away
if i just inhaled the water
and drifted downwards
until the sun could no longer reach my cold hands.
(a.m.c.)
Aug 19, 2014
Aug 19, 2014 at 1:22 PM UTC
how I know we will make love someday / primal2
whatever you think of overwhelming distance,
thick black lined international boundaries,
no Westerly wind, snow binding, winter blinding, can forbid
the innate desired connectivity, the eye locking messaging,
the shared shards of losses cumulative, that we alone can relieve/repair
I will travel by jetliner, car, to unpack you from snowdrifts,
write quatrains upon your eyes, elegies on your lips,
epic poems using every body space possess-able, asking for nothing
in return, for living is hard enough, no need for quid pro quo bargaining
do not ask what am I to you, resist classification, place me not,
no slot, no rowed field, under closed eyes remember, recall,
better the butter of love and loss, which I’ll take and also leave,
summer spreads and relishes kitchen canned for next year’s winter
did you know, of course not, my name is Mordecai,^ the same who,
was Vizier to Darius and Xerxes I, meaning pure myrrh and
master of languages, but this is not the time/place, my secrets two,
to give away, and yet forbear, you may ask questions that no sensible human answers**
honestly
but I have, and will do so again, against all odds, we will
compose original numbers, all prime, all natural occurring,
divisible, yes, but only by the number itself and the number 1,
1,
a number that answers:
the equation, the prime ideal,
why only 1 + 1 equals:
primal 2
~
it takes one to create two
Jan 27, 2020
Jan 27, 2020 at 9:34 PM UTC
White the summer fields now covered in snow
lone fence, disappears long beyond the gray
tiny birds perch, soon gone the light of day
whipping winds gather, snowdrifts to lay
forest footsteps distant
this world so scarce a sound
hills and sky listen
snow falling to the
ground
Dec 23, 2012
Dec 23, 2012 at 5:19 PM UTC