Google Groups no longer supports new Usenet posts or subscriptions. Historical content remains viewable.
Dismiss
"A YEAR OF SUNDAYS" February/March 2021 Official List
275 views
Skip to first unread message
Michael Pendragon
Apr 1, 2021, 11:42:16 AM4/1/21
to
OLD MAN WINTER
Michael M. Pendragon
Old Man Winter's killing me
With chills that seep into my bone,
The falling snow weighs down on me
Like slabs of marble stone.
Old Man Winter fills the land
With crippling blasts of icy breath,
Hobbles my gait and stills my hand
And hastes me to my death.
Old Man Winter drains my soul
Pale as a February sky,
The snowdrifts form an unbound scroll
Of those about to die.
Old Man Winter staves my heart
Upon a spear of jagged ice,
He breaks my will till I'd depart
This world and not think twice.
Old Man Winter steals my bones
And buries them beneath the snow,
Hid deep beyond all earthly moans
Where frigid rivers flow.
*****
WINTER
Mabool
The Isle of Man
The Bay of Pigs
The Plain of Jars
The Wife of Bath
The Sack of Rome
The Diet of Worms
The Bridge of Sighs
The March of Dimes
The Apple of Discord
The Slough of Despond
The Great White Wolf of
The Cold
*****
DEAD OF WINTER
NancyGene
I’m as cold inside
as the freeze outside
though no crystals grow
into ice and snow.
But my blood is chilled
by the winters filled
with no hope of thaw
from the men of straw
who still come to me
in the cemetery
where I lay my head
and my death is read.
*****
IF FOUND
Edward Rochester Esq.
It seems, from exhalation,
I’ve developed a small cave
around my nose and mouth.
My eyes slowly open, their
waning warmth see only darkness,
the ears still ring from the roar
of a frozen locomotive,
its tumble burying me under
the white weight of a slow death.
I hear shouts from beyond
my frozen tomb, my fingers
can no longer scratch
at the once white
crystals.
It’s odd, this burn developing
from an attempt at deeper
inhalation.
I hear snow cats but cannot answer
their diesel cry.
One thought remains
inside this frozen isolation;
I’ll be intact and fresh if found.
The eyes now freeze closed, my nostrils
have become small passages
to goodbye.
*****
TOO LATE IN MARCH
NancyGene
I peer out the window and see gray and snow
but the sky is white and I truly know that my
heart is black, while the trees are brown
and the grass asleep but will soon return
to a resurrected world.
How can I?
I open the door and hear naught but wind
but the forest is still while the air is awhirl
with the rage of sin and the promise of
Spring though I cannot see and should I
give in to the thoughts of ends?
I step out.
It is March outside, and I shake my fist
at the angry strafe that now chills my soul
in a season of wrong and years of old
friends who’ve gone, and I wander here
as the horizon melts and I know it’s late.
In my life.
I can’t fight the cold or the circling
storm as I head back home through the
path I made and the steps that fade,
but I see no light from what seemed my own
from those who loved and now
I’m alone.
*****
THE COLD ARTIST
Edward Rochester Esq.
Brutal, peaceful winter
you sculpt nature
turning dormant limbs into
picturesque statues.
Fleeting is your work,
your creative life stunted
under the sun,
that master manipulator
of canvas and stone.
We know your show
will reopen, the tour
will once again
amaze and bewilder
those eager for new
creations.
We watch the weather
for your return.
*****
ICE SONG
Karen Tellefsen
Waiting at the bus station,
a whistle broke the air,
warm and sweet
in the Montreal December night.
Foreign and unknown,
but I liked it,
so I attended it.
The whistle must have heard me listen,
because a bearded whisper asked to
sit with me,
and my pleasure froze to fear
in the Montreal December night.
*****
SPARRING WITH OLD MAN WINTER
Edward Rochester Esq.
I stare out at your threatening ways,
you stare back, intimidate with a lion’s roar
as I put on the layers needed to fend off
your attack.
You’ve been known to take
no prisoners and that becomes my challenge
as we touch gloves, my face soon becomes numb
your weight is heavy, the slush and powdered white
become a formidable foe.
But this day brings a draw as clouds break
allowing your escape.
I stare at what remains, nature vs man,
and a dirt puddle soon to freeze over.
They say a re-match is due Friday,
my gloves reach for the bag of salt
as I whisper ‘bring it on’.
*****
WINTER NOIR
Edward Rochester Esq.
So stark the snow in black and white
as I watch through her window
this icy night.
Stay away I was told, but it is this storm
the wind, my frozen thoughts that make me bold
and I knock as if home a delivery.
“Yes”, sung out more softer than shout.”
“Delivery”, which was more than just true,
the warmth, the apron of this lady I knew.
and I was in.
I took a finger swipe at the batter, it seemed
a cake was being made her scream would not matter
for the pines outside were bending in the wind,
she knew right then letting me in.
was a mistake.
“You were told to stay away”
“I did but this winter storm forced me
to play.
What is it with storms of wind and ice
as my nice smile reveals a frightening vice
for I knew that cake wasn’t made for me.
and soon all will be able to see.
I left her on the ground covered in white frosting.
*****
DEAR SNOWMAN
NancyGene
I knew that you would have to leave
but I thought that my feelings would
not thaw before you left in the spring,
though I grew used to your solid presence,
your wry smile and sporty hat, the
warm pipe and thin, enveloping arms.
You didn’t mind the chilly weather and
were at home in holly or sparkling lights,
buttoned up or unrestrained, making
chasmic inroads to my wintering heart.
We laughed, spun in the drifts,
drifted in the clouds, welcomed the
storms with an eagerness that
pleased me, who never thought
of myself as someone who would
open her door to a man who needed
to move on with no commitment of love
or responsibility, who didn’t say much
about his past or future but lived only
in the cold reality of the present.
Sometimes I would think I saw you
in the front yards of other houses in
the neighborhood, and I would wonder
if you had other families, children to play
with, ladies who admired you, in other
seasons of your white-bred life.
The afternoon you melted away into
the bright sunshine, dropping the few
possessions that I gave you, I cried the
frigid tears of a woman who had been
fooled by the strawman, frightened by
the bogeyman, fleeced by the conman,
and now you are a memory of roundness
with Nature and acceptance of difference,
as I see Harvey opening the backyard gate.
*****
SNOWBOUND
Michael M. Pendragon
Did Summer ever know these walks and ways,
These quiet paths packed down beneath the snow?
Did sunlight ever warm our works and days;
Did daisies wave and dandelions grow
On rolling hills where barefoot children play?
Did robins sing and frozen rivers flow,
Or brittle branches know the touch of Spring?
Did roses bloom and balmy breezes blow
Did fireflies glow and swallowtails take wing,
And was there ever such a thing as May?
Did Summer ever come this way before,
Were skies once blue and forests emerald green?
The snow's piled high against my kitchen door
Till scarce a trace of color can be seen --
A charcoal sketch of black and white and gray.
*****
FROSTBITE
Michael M. Pendragon
Christmas came on snow white wing
With chestnut fires and caroling;
The goose was stuffed, the pumpkin, pied
While gingerbread men ran to hide
In stockings hung with tinsel on the tree.
We stopped to watch the old year go
With volleys of confetti snow,
Banged pots and pans and raised a cheer
To welcome in the newborn year
With midnight's kiss and champagne-scented glee.
Then January brought more snow
And February watched it grow
Till knee deep snowdrifts swept across the land;
And in my snowbound home I understand
That Winter life is not the life for me.
*****
WINTER IS MY BITCH
Edward Rochester Esq.
You return and cry
frozen tears at my doorstep,
you disrupt tranquility
laying mines along the way,
one false step
provokes my need
to retaliate.
With a shovel, I will beat you down,
toss you aside, mix your tears
with salt until you retreat, re-group
planning the next attempt, looking
for the fix you need.
In the beginning, you were welcomed,
young and fresh, full of frolic, then you changed,
demanded full attention, now watch
as age made you the enemy.
Some may sing to your gentle float,
but I know the real you, you are now
my bitch begging a beating
and me, the pimp of nature,
will gladly provide.
*****
FORECAST
Edward Rochester Esq.
It isn’t often gulls huddle,
usually enjoying their space, their fight
as they grab at scraps tossed
from picnickers in full summer.
Today winter becomes the foe
and they huddle as one, their feathers rise
as if whitecaps have transferred
to the parking lot inside
a desolate boardwalk.
Shoppers also huddle
eager for sales despite
threatening skies, scarf-ends dancing,
Fedora’s get a helping hand
maintaining their perch.
Winter, what upheaval it brings,
and what joy to those as schools close
and mittens hide fingers
as cheeks are stained red.
Natures madness, the constant
danger of ice underfoot,
the child's joy of fresh built
snowmen standing
at night-fall, while inside,
hot chocolate accompanies
the weather report.
“It’s not a fit night out,
for man nor beast’ rang out
from the mouth of Mr. Fields.
I now agree.
*****
WINTER WARMTH
Michael M. Pendragon
The smoky scent of cedarwood and pine
That crackles through the wood stove's cast iron grate,
The chocolate kisses from a Valentine,
A glass of sherry when the hour grows late
And carolers gather round the parlor door;
A patchwork quilt to warm the night,
The careless glow of candlelight,
A mother's arms, a lover's sigh,
Fresh-from-the-oven pumpkin pie
And fireside memories from the days of yore;
All these and more restore my snowbound heart
Like warm rum on a snowy Winter eve,
I settle back and let my cares depart,
Snuggle my hands inside my flannel sleeve
And dream of what the Summer has in store.
*****
LAST WINTER
Michael M. Pendragon
This Winter well may be my last
With icy blasts of sleet and snow
And cold North winds that whisper low,
"Your time has passed."
Winter days blow cold this year
And Winter nights grow colder still,
I can't escape December's chill
Or February's tear.
The Winter snows are piled high,
The cold seeps through my cabin door,
I lie down on the hardwood floor
And fear the end is nigh.
The Winter nights are long and cold,
The coldest I have ever known;
I shiver in the dark, alone
And feel myself grow old.
This Winter well may be my last
My old bones ache with each new snow,
Though Spring may beckon, this I know --
My time has passed.
*****
WINTER’S BEAT
NancyGene
A winter can slap down
at times a clacking
or the hard edge of gale winds
that is heard before dawn.
It sometimes beats slowly,
not the din of the hail storm,
but the tap of the waiting
for two feet of white snow.
It beats out its rhythm
if we can but listen--
when it stops we know that
the birds felt it first.
*****
UNTITLED
Mabool
A bunch of depression era
bindlestiffs and remittance men
standing around a Herman Nelson
and one of ’em says to me, he says
Son, I run about twenty-one dawg
Fort Yukon to Mayo’s Landin
the warmest it ever got
was fifty-six below !
*****
WINTERED HEART
Michael M. Pendragon
My hibernating heart beats in its cage
With restless pounding till my thoughts redound,
Reverberate with rhythmic bursts of rage
Whose resonant remonstrances confound
The icebound solitude of frozen tears.
Somewhere a songbird sings of Summer rain
As sails unfurl across a Southern sea;
I wait beside a frosted window pane
And watch the falling snow indifferently
Till life's last trace of color disappears.
So I wait safely in my silenced cell
And dream about the promised kiss of Spring;
Sleep-scented blankets weave my cocoon's shell
Where I can hide from Old Man Winter's sting --
My heartbeats throbbing for a hundred years.
*****
FIRST HEARD
Edward Rochester Esq.
Long before
a startled gulp
of cooling air,
her hearts steady beat
presents a solo cadence
to new bones and flesh
housed inside liquid
walls of warmth
until that slow drift
from darkness to light,
brings a new beat
joining the universal
orchestra.
*****
HEART BEAT
NancyGene
Beat, beat, then a jump and a leap,
When you entered the bar.
There, there, the one with long hair,
That you said while passing.
No, no, your friend next to me,
And you sat two stools down.
Thought, thought, how to talk around him--
Would he know to change stools?
Thump, thump, my heart in my words,
As I spoke to my dream.
Yes, yes, I’d love to go dance;
My pulse couldn’t slow down.
Strong, strong, we’ve been married so long
To a synchronous beat.
Chance, chance, you decided to stop
In that place in my heart.
*****
HEY WINTER
ME
Hey Winter
you thought you went and slowed it all down,
you thought a cold breeze up my skirt
would end the dance.
Here’s some news, I dance still,
and will toast the sun as it melts your ass
into an ugly puddle, until then
come sit by the fire, we’ll speak
of your demise.
*****
WHEN WINTER DIES
Michael M. Pendragon
The morning raindrops slowly wash away
The roadside mounds of piled ice and snow,
Revealing mottled clumps of grass and clay
As grey as faded dreams from long ago
When skies were blue and grass was warm and green.
The raindrops fade but clouds still hide the sun
And naked trees still shiver in the cold,
But seasons pass and Winter's tale is spun
And I look back on happy days of old
When I was young and April was my queen.
Tonight the snow moon wanes above the trees
And March winds roar behind the distant hill,
The air turns chill and melted snow will freeze,
I hug my knees while all the world grows still
And dream about the Summers that have been.
*****
LAY DOWN YOUR ARMS
Edward Rochester Esq.
You cannot beat winter with
the bones of dead Poplar Bears
or magnify the sun off solar panels
of suburbia ;you beat winter
next to the fireplace, next to a loved one,
with a glass of wine or good book
and every once in a while you watch
for the crocus to yawn, only then
will you know your world
is about to change.
*****
BROKEN
Edward Rochester Esq.
I cried last month
seeing her broken face
adhered by blood
to the pillow.
A wet face cloth
began to melt and remove
her cheek from the down
as I apologized, for it was me
that beat her.
I’ve always told her,
the.45 is in the night table
and if she sees me snarl
or get loud, open the drawer
take the safety off
and aim it at my heart.
“But I love you”, comes the response.
If she loved me, why not stop
the monster inside?
I do hope next time, she
pulls the trigger.
*****
BEATEN
Michael M. Pendragon
The Winter snows have crushed my soul like ice
And ground the scattered fragments underfoot,
Stamped out my will to live till I would put
A bullet through my skull and not think twice
For those I love or all I leave behind.
A wintersworth of snow and freezing rain
Have leached the color from December skies,
An old man's share and more of hobbling pain
Have washed the umber from an old man's eyes
And preyed like harpies on his troubled mind.
Tonight, the March wind howls outside my door,
The Reaper's chill seeps through my windowpane,
The ghosts of Summer scurry 'cross the floor
And gnaw the ragged corners of my brain --
I crawl in bed and drink myself half blind.
*****
UNTITLED II
Mabool
Jeepers for the life of Criminey
Hit don’t matter whatcha do do
Colder than the Younger Dryas
and there ain’t nobody can’t do
nothin about it.
*****
SPRING SPECIAL
NancyGene
If years were miles, I would be low mileage
but I have been driven on rutted roads,
not highways, oil changes were not done,
tires not rotated, some dents and bends,
rust unchecked and could use one detail.
I have been a non-starter and suspended
belief too many times when my doors
were open but the windows were closed.
Air bag deployed, engine needs a rebuild.
One owner, 172 point inspection, all refuted.
Hurry, this deal won’t last.
*****
WINTER BREAD
Michael M. Pendragon
The welcome smell of fresh-baked bread
Will warm the long December night,
When boys and girls are tucked in bed
And Mom and Dad turn down the light
To snuggle up before an open fire.
The mingled scent of barley, wheat and rye
Spreads through the parlor, hall and den,
Plays like an old-time lullaby,
Mixes with candlelight and then
Heads for the moon like an angelic choir
Upstairs to where the children lie asleep
All swaddled tight and warm as toast.
Though years may pass, I'll always keep
This memory like a childhood ghost
Too perfect for my poem to reveal --
Close to my heart in thoughts time cannot steal.
*****
WINTER WHEAT LEAVENING
NancyGene
Sow seed in the Winter, harvest in Summer,
Winter wheat flour, ground to make bread.
Be cautious of snow storms that hazard your
Wheat crop—for without raison d'etre,
There’s no role to need.
*****
WINTER'S WALK
Ash Wurthing
While all of you sleep,
I wander, restless, and eavesdrop;
I spy on no one,
not a soul stirs in the cold
to disturb this solitude.
Closing my eyes against a stinging chill,
I can hear the wind speaking to sleeping trees
In some ancient language it drones,its voice haunting
as I hear the 'shhhh' of its lullaby.
(special thanks to Edward Rochester)
*****
MILEAGE
Michael M. Pendragon
How many miles have I put on these shoes
Marching my courses from cradle to grave?
How many times have I turned in my dues
Fallen in battle or flinched at the news
Winced at the pain as they tightened the screws
When no one could hear me or wanted to save
My battered and broken form?
How many miles am I destined to go
Traveling, journeying year after year?
How many times must I drift to and fro
Cast like a leaf on the breezes that blow
Chasing the dreams that I'd left long ago,
Lost on the banks of some faraway year
Where the waters flow soft and warm?
How many miles till my old bones can rest,
Safe in the gloom of a willow tree's shade?
When will my bark reach the Isles of the Blest
When will my soul reach the end of its quest
Clutching at starlight that falls on the West,
Wrapped in Death's arms as my memories fade
Like the dark at the end of a storm?
*****
SIDEWALKS
Edward Rochester Esq.
They have always been part of my life,
from the first cut knee after a run and trip,
into the school yards where friends waited
for some juvenile nonsense after the bell.
They stretched through the Army
laying ahead cold and dormant in front of sleeping
machines of destruction
past the dark firing line of growing up.
They brought me to the doorstep
where a push of button brought her smile,
her mother standing behind
checking out the awkward smile.
The Golden spaniel greeted her friend
with a leap and waited for the scratch behind the ear
as we both headed off to the deli
and some Double Bubble Bazooka.
It lay outside the funeral home where a friend
was presented with that permanent half smile;
it became a roller coaster ride
after one too many beers; it held the stretcher
holding a sheet covered father.
It held my name scratched with a stick
into the fresh pour, my walk of fame complete
with date.
Sidewalks have influenced the mileage,
the bike ride, the hop-scotch leaving little doubt,
a sidewalk will take me to where sidewalks
no longer exists
*****
PRAYER TO THE WINDS
NancyGene
All Powerful Winds,
Sweep away today to swirl in tomorrow;
Direct me to what is next.
Prevent me from clutching to what has been,
What I should have seen
And what I have caused.
Winds of the Westerlies,
Whirl to the East the distress of my life.
Protect me from the vortex.
Present me with choices I could never pray for
When the air was still
And my spirit quelled.
*****
A BREATH OF CHANGE
IS IN THE AIR
Michael M. Pendragon
A breath of change is in the air
As crocus buds break through the snow,
A breath of change is in the air
But I've nowhere to go.
All nature sings that Spring is near
Red robins serenade the sun,
Their lovesongs charm all those who hear
A new year has begun!
The nights grow warm, the days grow long
And buds adorn the apple tree,
The waking world bursts into song
In praise of days to be.
But April holds no joy for me
As I hide in my wintry cell,
Where ice and snow are all I see
Round walls I know too well.
A breath of change is in the air
But North winds still blow bitter cold,
A breath of change is in the air
But I have grown too old
To join the robins in their flight
As they soar through the sky,
I smile at April's joyful light
And lay me down to die.
******
ODOMETER
Edward Rochester Esq.
I noticed I hit
180 thousand on the old Ford,
time for new plugs, I suppose,
perhaps some synthetic oil, keeping all
well lubricated.
My neighbor just hit 84
as I observed the ambulance
back up and loaded him into
the back on a stretcher.
New oil, plugs?
No, he didn't return, the cancer hit the lungs
as the rust rings the fender walls
on my Ford--we're all just vehicles.
Soon, I suppose, my recycled Ford might become
a new Toyota,
my neighbor, though, will just become powder
absorbed back into the earth.
I'll dump in a new quart today
and head off to say goodbye to a friend.
*****
THE WAYFARER
Michael M. Pendragon
He picks his way across the snowbanked land
A ragged man who's older than the stars;
Back bent beneath the weight of Winter's hand
His battered hat slung low atop the scars
That map the contours of his ancient face.
He trudges through the snow from town to town
Though blizzards blind and frostbite nips his toes;
He dreams of firesides and beds of down
And in his dreams, his slumb'ring spirit knows
That time and snowfall hurry to erase
Each trace of footprints chiseled in his wake.
But far away beyond the snowcapped hills
A birdsong trills across a woodland lake
And fills his gypsy heart with April thrills;
He stops and smiles then travels on apace.
*****
TWELVE LOAVES
Edward Rochester Esq.
I am not the perfect twelve,
never warmed in the kitchen
of Christ or toasted with a hint
of reverence.
Ten is my number, the toes
and fingers just enough
to genuflect before that
'fresh bread' sign outside
the bakery, where it's the tarts
I yearn for, the cheesecake
with a drizzle of strawberry,
those crème puffs that will get me
ten holy Mary's, come Sunday.
I know, I know,
blasphemy doesn't come
sugar coated but I make up for it,
dipping a slice of seeded loaf
into the meat sauce,
now that is heaven.
*****
CHASING SPRING
Michael M. Pendragon
I race before the Winter snow
In search of days where daisies grow
And bluebirds fly o'er bluebell-speckled meads;
Where mossy banks and rippling rills
Play hide-and-seek with daffodils
To duck behind a thatchwork patch of reeds
Or weave their way through fields of wild flowers;
Where scents of blossoms in the sun
Find country lanes where children run
Or while away a thousand idle hours.
I chase the warmth of April's smile,
The touch of May, whose eyes beguile
The irises and pansies into bloom;
Wisteria and lilac vie
With snapdragon and butterfly
To fill the sky with sirensong perfume;
And like the memory of a childhood friend
It calls to me from faraway
"The beauty of a new Spring day
Is waiting for you just around the bend."
And so I race before the snow
To where May's wanton breezes blow,
The budding branches of magnolia trees
Where pussy willows swish their tails
And paper kites like billowed sails
Launch into flight amidst the birds and bees.
But somewhere always many miles ahead
And I fall back into the falling snow;
I feel the grip of Winter, cold and dead
And somewhere in my slackened pace I know
That Spring is always just beyond the bend.
*****
WHEATFIELDS IN MARCH
Michael M. Pendragon
Like silent soldiers buried 'neath the snow
The wheatfields wait to hear Spring's battle call;
The earth will warm, and soon the crops will grow
To burst with golden ripeness in the fall;
But Fall is still a Winter morning dream
And snow still claims the field as Jack Frost's own --
And bleak as this acknowledgement might seem
Soon plows will break the earth, seeds will be sewn
"Persephone!" shall be their victory cheer;
Then row by row the wheat shall grow
Until the snow comes back again next year.
*****
WILD GEESE
Michael M. Pendragon
The wild geese are headed home
Across a thawing April sky,
I listen to their joyful cry
Resound through Heaven's dome
And wish that I had wings to fly
Or fortitude to roam
Like them across the waking land
As marigolds burst into flame;
I've countless words at my command
And though my soul was never tame
I lack the cleverness to name
A feeling wild geese might understand.
*****
MORNING FOG
Michael M. Pendragon
A wayward cloud dropped by to sleep last night
And left my hometown deep in morning fog
So thick the lowering streetlamps seemed to slog
Through murky water, limiting their light
To glowing halos strung atop the street.
Last night it swallowed up the moon and stars,
This morning it would swallow up the sun;
While hidden in the mist, coyotes run
Behind the trees or dodge oncoming cars;
Their rhythmic patterns keeping to the beat
Within the breast of one who sees them pass
While standing like a statue on the grass.
*****
SNOW JOB
Edward Rochester Esq,
Ok, I don't like winter,
I did when snow was magical,
and cold crystals tickled the tongue
as Uncle Weatherbee
brought a promise of
school closings--
a youthful sleigh ride
through wonderland
but the fascination, now,
is fleeting, a flash
of pure white
before the muddy trample
of boots, plows
and hungry snow blowers.
I prefer to look
at my December calendar,
a winter wonderland,
frozen in time
as my toes melt
back into feeling.
That sleigh
is now tucked away,
well past red-cheeked memories
too numb to smile
I flip that calendar to June,
wishful thinking
until the plow drives by
scraping the ugly mess
like a hungry Wolverine
in search of marrow.
Hearing a bird chirp
from the skeleton of a tree,
it seems help just might be on the way
and the only ice still available
will be dropped into a glass of
Lemonade.
*****
MY SOUL IS A GYPSY WANDERER
Michael M. Pendragon
My Soul is a gypsy wanderer
And when Spring breaks upon the land
She runs through the grass to the faraway hills
With an old mandolin in her hands.
My gypsy love is a wanton girl
With her eyes dark as starless nights,
Windblown hair red as apples that sets me awhirl
And her smile brings a thousand delights.
My heart is a barefoot vagabond
Chasing sunbeams down rippling streams,
Or dancing through meadows where daffodils nod
In the spell of their afternoon dreams.
My love is a wild and carefree bird
That soars through the April sky,
And sings of the things that it loves, undeterred
By the rainclouds that drift idly by.
My Soul is a gypsy wanderer
But she stops in the Spring to play
Till the winds call her name from the faraway hills
And she runs off in search of the May.
*****
WINTER, BREAD, MILEAGE,
WINDS OF CHANGE & BEAT
Edward Rochester Esq.
Masks hides some normalcy
but doesn't disguise what lingers
in the madness as you travel
for the common loaf through the slush
and skid of winter's anger.
Winds carry the stink of gun powder,
the fear is etched as the snow lightly falls
unaware it will soon cover caskets;
the odds of safety have been beaten by
madness.
Puddles of blood below the condiment's linger
as headlines scream once again, sending condolences
to deaf ears as spring shoots are exposed
out and into the sun; only they will welcome
the warmth as everything else goes cold.
*****
GUIDELINES
"A Year of Sundays"
Michael Pendragon, Editor
Website: https://groups.google.com/g/alt.arts.poetry.comments
Genres Published: Poetry, all styles
Representative Authors: J.D. Senetto, Karen Tellefsen, George J. Dance, Robert Burrows.
Format: Print
Reading period: All year.
Reading Fee: No.
Accepts Electronic Submissions: Yes.
Accepts Simultaneous Submissions: Yes.
Accepts Unsolicited Submissions: Yes.
Payment: None.
Publication Schedule: Yearly.
Issue Price: $5.50
Editorial Focus: "A Year of Sundays" represents a cross-section of many of the finer poems that have appeared in the AAPC newsgroup each year. Each month members are challenged to compose up to 5 poems on a set of selected topics. Submitted poems are discussed, commented on, and critiqued in the newsgroup. Each year the best of these poems are collected and published in a print volume. All styles of poetry are considered.
Tips from the Editor: Actively participate in the literary discussions at the AAPC newsgroup; comment on/critique the work of other members. AAPC is an unmoderated, interactive group, and "A Year of Sundays" was created to showcase the work of its members. The more you participate in the group, the more likely you are to be included in the year end print volume. Membership is free.
Contact Information: Go to https://groups.google.com/g/alt.arts.poetry.comments and look for the subject thread titled "A YEAR OF SUNDAYS" - SUBMISSIONS - MONTH - TOPICS. Post your poem/s there.
Please check out our publication at:
https://www.amazon.com/Year-Sundays-Years-Best-Poetry/dp/B08T4DD38X
Michael M. Pendragon
Old Man Winter's killing me
With chills that seep into my bone,
The falling snow weighs down on me
Like slabs of marble stone.
Old Man Winter fills the land
With crippling blasts of icy breath,
Hobbles my gait and stills my hand
And hastes me to my death.
Old Man Winter drains my soul
Pale as a February sky,
The snowdrifts form an unbound scroll
Of those about to die.
Old Man Winter staves my heart
Upon a spear of jagged ice,
He breaks my will till I'd depart
This world and not think twice.
Old Man Winter steals my bones
And buries them beneath the snow,
Hid deep beyond all earthly moans
Where frigid rivers flow.
*****
WINTER
Mabool
The Isle of Man
The Bay of Pigs
The Plain of Jars
The Wife of Bath
The Sack of Rome
The Diet of Worms
The Bridge of Sighs
The March of Dimes
The Apple of Discord
The Slough of Despond
The Great White Wolf of
The Cold
*****
DEAD OF WINTER
NancyGene
I’m as cold inside
as the freeze outside
though no crystals grow
into ice and snow.
But my blood is chilled
by the winters filled
with no hope of thaw
from the men of straw
who still come to me
in the cemetery
where I lay my head
and my death is read.
*****
IF FOUND
Edward Rochester Esq.
It seems, from exhalation,
I’ve developed a small cave
around my nose and mouth.
My eyes slowly open, their
waning warmth see only darkness,
the ears still ring from the roar
of a frozen locomotive,
its tumble burying me under
the white weight of a slow death.
I hear shouts from beyond
my frozen tomb, my fingers
can no longer scratch
at the once white
crystals.
It’s odd, this burn developing
from an attempt at deeper
inhalation.
I hear snow cats but cannot answer
their diesel cry.
One thought remains
inside this frozen isolation;
I’ll be intact and fresh if found.
The eyes now freeze closed, my nostrils
have become small passages
to goodbye.
*****
TOO LATE IN MARCH
NancyGene
I peer out the window and see gray and snow
but the sky is white and I truly know that my
heart is black, while the trees are brown
and the grass asleep but will soon return
to a resurrected world.
How can I?
I open the door and hear naught but wind
but the forest is still while the air is awhirl
with the rage of sin and the promise of
Spring though I cannot see and should I
give in to the thoughts of ends?
I step out.
It is March outside, and I shake my fist
at the angry strafe that now chills my soul
in a season of wrong and years of old
friends who’ve gone, and I wander here
as the horizon melts and I know it’s late.
In my life.
I can’t fight the cold or the circling
storm as I head back home through the
path I made and the steps that fade,
but I see no light from what seemed my own
from those who loved and now
I’m alone.
*****
THE COLD ARTIST
Edward Rochester Esq.
Brutal, peaceful winter
you sculpt nature
turning dormant limbs into
picturesque statues.
Fleeting is your work,
your creative life stunted
under the sun,
that master manipulator
of canvas and stone.
We know your show
will reopen, the tour
will once again
amaze and bewilder
those eager for new
creations.
We watch the weather
for your return.
*****
ICE SONG
Karen Tellefsen
Waiting at the bus station,
a whistle broke the air,
warm and sweet
in the Montreal December night.
Foreign and unknown,
but I liked it,
so I attended it.
The whistle must have heard me listen,
because a bearded whisper asked to
sit with me,
and my pleasure froze to fear
in the Montreal December night.
*****
SPARRING WITH OLD MAN WINTER
Edward Rochester Esq.
I stare out at your threatening ways,
you stare back, intimidate with a lion’s roar
as I put on the layers needed to fend off
your attack.
You’ve been known to take
no prisoners and that becomes my challenge
as we touch gloves, my face soon becomes numb
your weight is heavy, the slush and powdered white
become a formidable foe.
But this day brings a draw as clouds break
allowing your escape.
I stare at what remains, nature vs man,
and a dirt puddle soon to freeze over.
They say a re-match is due Friday,
my gloves reach for the bag of salt
as I whisper ‘bring it on’.
*****
WINTER NOIR
Edward Rochester Esq.
So stark the snow in black and white
as I watch through her window
this icy night.
Stay away I was told, but it is this storm
the wind, my frozen thoughts that make me bold
and I knock as if home a delivery.
“Yes”, sung out more softer than shout.”
“Delivery”, which was more than just true,
the warmth, the apron of this lady I knew.
and I was in.
I took a finger swipe at the batter, it seemed
a cake was being made her scream would not matter
for the pines outside were bending in the wind,
she knew right then letting me in.
was a mistake.
“You were told to stay away”
“I did but this winter storm forced me
to play.
What is it with storms of wind and ice
as my nice smile reveals a frightening vice
for I knew that cake wasn’t made for me.
and soon all will be able to see.
I left her on the ground covered in white frosting.
*****
DEAR SNOWMAN
NancyGene
I knew that you would have to leave
but I thought that my feelings would
not thaw before you left in the spring,
though I grew used to your solid presence,
your wry smile and sporty hat, the
warm pipe and thin, enveloping arms.
You didn’t mind the chilly weather and
were at home in holly or sparkling lights,
buttoned up or unrestrained, making
chasmic inroads to my wintering heart.
We laughed, spun in the drifts,
drifted in the clouds, welcomed the
storms with an eagerness that
pleased me, who never thought
of myself as someone who would
open her door to a man who needed
to move on with no commitment of love
or responsibility, who didn’t say much
about his past or future but lived only
in the cold reality of the present.
Sometimes I would think I saw you
in the front yards of other houses in
the neighborhood, and I would wonder
if you had other families, children to play
with, ladies who admired you, in other
seasons of your white-bred life.
The afternoon you melted away into
the bright sunshine, dropping the few
possessions that I gave you, I cried the
frigid tears of a woman who had been
fooled by the strawman, frightened by
the bogeyman, fleeced by the conman,
and now you are a memory of roundness
with Nature and acceptance of difference,
as I see Harvey opening the backyard gate.
*****
SNOWBOUND
Michael M. Pendragon
Did Summer ever know these walks and ways,
These quiet paths packed down beneath the snow?
Did sunlight ever warm our works and days;
Did daisies wave and dandelions grow
On rolling hills where barefoot children play?
Did robins sing and frozen rivers flow,
Or brittle branches know the touch of Spring?
Did roses bloom and balmy breezes blow
Did fireflies glow and swallowtails take wing,
And was there ever such a thing as May?
Did Summer ever come this way before,
Were skies once blue and forests emerald green?
The snow's piled high against my kitchen door
Till scarce a trace of color can be seen --
A charcoal sketch of black and white and gray.
*****
FROSTBITE
Michael M. Pendragon
Christmas came on snow white wing
With chestnut fires and caroling;
The goose was stuffed, the pumpkin, pied
While gingerbread men ran to hide
In stockings hung with tinsel on the tree.
We stopped to watch the old year go
With volleys of confetti snow,
Banged pots and pans and raised a cheer
To welcome in the newborn year
With midnight's kiss and champagne-scented glee.
Then January brought more snow
And February watched it grow
Till knee deep snowdrifts swept across the land;
And in my snowbound home I understand
That Winter life is not the life for me.
*****
WINTER IS MY BITCH
Edward Rochester Esq.
You return and cry
frozen tears at my doorstep,
you disrupt tranquility
laying mines along the way,
one false step
provokes my need
to retaliate.
With a shovel, I will beat you down,
toss you aside, mix your tears
with salt until you retreat, re-group
planning the next attempt, looking
for the fix you need.
In the beginning, you were welcomed,
young and fresh, full of frolic, then you changed,
demanded full attention, now watch
as age made you the enemy.
Some may sing to your gentle float,
but I know the real you, you are now
my bitch begging a beating
and me, the pimp of nature,
will gladly provide.
*****
FORECAST
Edward Rochester Esq.
It isn’t often gulls huddle,
usually enjoying their space, their fight
as they grab at scraps tossed
from picnickers in full summer.
Today winter becomes the foe
and they huddle as one, their feathers rise
as if whitecaps have transferred
to the parking lot inside
a desolate boardwalk.
Shoppers also huddle
eager for sales despite
threatening skies, scarf-ends dancing,
Fedora’s get a helping hand
maintaining their perch.
Winter, what upheaval it brings,
and what joy to those as schools close
and mittens hide fingers
as cheeks are stained red.
Natures madness, the constant
danger of ice underfoot,
the child's joy of fresh built
snowmen standing
at night-fall, while inside,
hot chocolate accompanies
the weather report.
“It’s not a fit night out,
for man nor beast’ rang out
from the mouth of Mr. Fields.
I now agree.
*****
WINTER WARMTH
Michael M. Pendragon
The smoky scent of cedarwood and pine
That crackles through the wood stove's cast iron grate,
The chocolate kisses from a Valentine,
A glass of sherry when the hour grows late
And carolers gather round the parlor door;
A patchwork quilt to warm the night,
The careless glow of candlelight,
A mother's arms, a lover's sigh,
Fresh-from-the-oven pumpkin pie
And fireside memories from the days of yore;
All these and more restore my snowbound heart
Like warm rum on a snowy Winter eve,
I settle back and let my cares depart,
Snuggle my hands inside my flannel sleeve
And dream of what the Summer has in store.
*****
LAST WINTER
Michael M. Pendragon
This Winter well may be my last
With icy blasts of sleet and snow
And cold North winds that whisper low,
"Your time has passed."
Winter days blow cold this year
And Winter nights grow colder still,
I can't escape December's chill
Or February's tear.
The Winter snows are piled high,
The cold seeps through my cabin door,
I lie down on the hardwood floor
And fear the end is nigh.
The Winter nights are long and cold,
The coldest I have ever known;
I shiver in the dark, alone
And feel myself grow old.
This Winter well may be my last
My old bones ache with each new snow,
Though Spring may beckon, this I know --
My time has passed.
*****
WINTER’S BEAT
NancyGene
A winter can slap down
at times a clacking
or the hard edge of gale winds
that is heard before dawn.
It sometimes beats slowly,
not the din of the hail storm,
but the tap of the waiting
for two feet of white snow.
It beats out its rhythm
if we can but listen--
when it stops we know that
the birds felt it first.
*****
UNTITLED
Mabool
A bunch of depression era
bindlestiffs and remittance men
standing around a Herman Nelson
and one of ’em says to me, he says
Son, I run about twenty-one dawg
Fort Yukon to Mayo’s Landin
the warmest it ever got
was fifty-six below !
*****
WINTERED HEART
Michael M. Pendragon
My hibernating heart beats in its cage
With restless pounding till my thoughts redound,
Reverberate with rhythmic bursts of rage
Whose resonant remonstrances confound
The icebound solitude of frozen tears.
Somewhere a songbird sings of Summer rain
As sails unfurl across a Southern sea;
I wait beside a frosted window pane
And watch the falling snow indifferently
Till life's last trace of color disappears.
So I wait safely in my silenced cell
And dream about the promised kiss of Spring;
Sleep-scented blankets weave my cocoon's shell
Where I can hide from Old Man Winter's sting --
My heartbeats throbbing for a hundred years.
*****
FIRST HEARD
Edward Rochester Esq.
Long before
a startled gulp
of cooling air,
her hearts steady beat
presents a solo cadence
to new bones and flesh
housed inside liquid
walls of warmth
until that slow drift
from darkness to light,
brings a new beat
joining the universal
orchestra.
*****
HEART BEAT
NancyGene
Beat, beat, then a jump and a leap,
When you entered the bar.
There, there, the one with long hair,
That you said while passing.
No, no, your friend next to me,
And you sat two stools down.
Thought, thought, how to talk around him--
Would he know to change stools?
Thump, thump, my heart in my words,
As I spoke to my dream.
Yes, yes, I’d love to go dance;
My pulse couldn’t slow down.
Strong, strong, we’ve been married so long
To a synchronous beat.
Chance, chance, you decided to stop
In that place in my heart.
*****
HEY WINTER
ME
Hey Winter
you thought you went and slowed it all down,
you thought a cold breeze up my skirt
would end the dance.
Here’s some news, I dance still,
and will toast the sun as it melts your ass
into an ugly puddle, until then
come sit by the fire, we’ll speak
of your demise.
*****
WHEN WINTER DIES
Michael M. Pendragon
The morning raindrops slowly wash away
The roadside mounds of piled ice and snow,
Revealing mottled clumps of grass and clay
As grey as faded dreams from long ago
When skies were blue and grass was warm and green.
The raindrops fade but clouds still hide the sun
And naked trees still shiver in the cold,
But seasons pass and Winter's tale is spun
And I look back on happy days of old
When I was young and April was my queen.
Tonight the snow moon wanes above the trees
And March winds roar behind the distant hill,
The air turns chill and melted snow will freeze,
I hug my knees while all the world grows still
And dream about the Summers that have been.
*****
LAY DOWN YOUR ARMS
Edward Rochester Esq.
You cannot beat winter with
the bones of dead Poplar Bears
or magnify the sun off solar panels
of suburbia ;you beat winter
next to the fireplace, next to a loved one,
with a glass of wine or good book
and every once in a while you watch
for the crocus to yawn, only then
will you know your world
is about to change.
*****
BROKEN
Edward Rochester Esq.
I cried last month
seeing her broken face
adhered by blood
to the pillow.
A wet face cloth
began to melt and remove
her cheek from the down
as I apologized, for it was me
that beat her.
I’ve always told her,
the.45 is in the night table
and if she sees me snarl
or get loud, open the drawer
take the safety off
and aim it at my heart.
“But I love you”, comes the response.
If she loved me, why not stop
the monster inside?
I do hope next time, she
pulls the trigger.
*****
BEATEN
Michael M. Pendragon
The Winter snows have crushed my soul like ice
And ground the scattered fragments underfoot,
Stamped out my will to live till I would put
A bullet through my skull and not think twice
For those I love or all I leave behind.
A wintersworth of snow and freezing rain
Have leached the color from December skies,
An old man's share and more of hobbling pain
Have washed the umber from an old man's eyes
And preyed like harpies on his troubled mind.
Tonight, the March wind howls outside my door,
The Reaper's chill seeps through my windowpane,
The ghosts of Summer scurry 'cross the floor
And gnaw the ragged corners of my brain --
I crawl in bed and drink myself half blind.
*****
UNTITLED II
Mabool
Jeepers for the life of Criminey
Hit don’t matter whatcha do do
Colder than the Younger Dryas
and there ain’t nobody can’t do
nothin about it.
*****
SPRING SPECIAL
NancyGene
If years were miles, I would be low mileage
but I have been driven on rutted roads,
not highways, oil changes were not done,
tires not rotated, some dents and bends,
rust unchecked and could use one detail.
I have been a non-starter and suspended
belief too many times when my doors
were open but the windows were closed.
Air bag deployed, engine needs a rebuild.
One owner, 172 point inspection, all refuted.
Hurry, this deal won’t last.
*****
WINTER BREAD
Michael M. Pendragon
The welcome smell of fresh-baked bread
Will warm the long December night,
When boys and girls are tucked in bed
And Mom and Dad turn down the light
To snuggle up before an open fire.
The mingled scent of barley, wheat and rye
Spreads through the parlor, hall and den,
Plays like an old-time lullaby,
Mixes with candlelight and then
Heads for the moon like an angelic choir
Upstairs to where the children lie asleep
All swaddled tight and warm as toast.
Though years may pass, I'll always keep
This memory like a childhood ghost
Too perfect for my poem to reveal --
Close to my heart in thoughts time cannot steal.
*****
WINTER WHEAT LEAVENING
NancyGene
Sow seed in the Winter, harvest in Summer,
Winter wheat flour, ground to make bread.
Be cautious of snow storms that hazard your
Wheat crop—for without raison d'etre,
There’s no role to need.
*****
WINTER'S WALK
Ash Wurthing
While all of you sleep,
I wander, restless, and eavesdrop;
I spy on no one,
not a soul stirs in the cold
to disturb this solitude.
Closing my eyes against a stinging chill,
I can hear the wind speaking to sleeping trees
In some ancient language it drones,its voice haunting
as I hear the 'shhhh' of its lullaby.
(special thanks to Edward Rochester)
*****
MILEAGE
Michael M. Pendragon
How many miles have I put on these shoes
Marching my courses from cradle to grave?
How many times have I turned in my dues
Fallen in battle or flinched at the news
Winced at the pain as they tightened the screws
When no one could hear me or wanted to save
My battered and broken form?
How many miles am I destined to go
Traveling, journeying year after year?
How many times must I drift to and fro
Cast like a leaf on the breezes that blow
Chasing the dreams that I'd left long ago,
Lost on the banks of some faraway year
Where the waters flow soft and warm?
How many miles till my old bones can rest,
Safe in the gloom of a willow tree's shade?
When will my bark reach the Isles of the Blest
When will my soul reach the end of its quest
Clutching at starlight that falls on the West,
Wrapped in Death's arms as my memories fade
Like the dark at the end of a storm?
*****
SIDEWALKS
Edward Rochester Esq.
They have always been part of my life,
from the first cut knee after a run and trip,
into the school yards where friends waited
for some juvenile nonsense after the bell.
They stretched through the Army
laying ahead cold and dormant in front of sleeping
machines of destruction
past the dark firing line of growing up.
They brought me to the doorstep
where a push of button brought her smile,
her mother standing behind
checking out the awkward smile.
The Golden spaniel greeted her friend
with a leap and waited for the scratch behind the ear
as we both headed off to the deli
and some Double Bubble Bazooka.
It lay outside the funeral home where a friend
was presented with that permanent half smile;
it became a roller coaster ride
after one too many beers; it held the stretcher
holding a sheet covered father.
It held my name scratched with a stick
into the fresh pour, my walk of fame complete
with date.
Sidewalks have influenced the mileage,
the bike ride, the hop-scotch leaving little doubt,
a sidewalk will take me to where sidewalks
no longer exists
*****
PRAYER TO THE WINDS
NancyGene
All Powerful Winds,
Sweep away today to swirl in tomorrow;
Direct me to what is next.
Prevent me from clutching to what has been,
What I should have seen
And what I have caused.
Winds of the Westerlies,
Whirl to the East the distress of my life.
Protect me from the vortex.
Present me with choices I could never pray for
When the air was still
And my spirit quelled.
*****
A BREATH OF CHANGE
IS IN THE AIR
Michael M. Pendragon
A breath of change is in the air
As crocus buds break through the snow,
A breath of change is in the air
But I've nowhere to go.
All nature sings that Spring is near
Red robins serenade the sun,
Their lovesongs charm all those who hear
A new year has begun!
The nights grow warm, the days grow long
And buds adorn the apple tree,
The waking world bursts into song
In praise of days to be.
But April holds no joy for me
As I hide in my wintry cell,
Where ice and snow are all I see
Round walls I know too well.
A breath of change is in the air
But North winds still blow bitter cold,
A breath of change is in the air
But I have grown too old
To join the robins in their flight
As they soar through the sky,
I smile at April's joyful light
And lay me down to die.
******
ODOMETER
Edward Rochester Esq.
I noticed I hit
180 thousand on the old Ford,
time for new plugs, I suppose,
perhaps some synthetic oil, keeping all
well lubricated.
My neighbor just hit 84
as I observed the ambulance
back up and loaded him into
the back on a stretcher.
New oil, plugs?
No, he didn't return, the cancer hit the lungs
as the rust rings the fender walls
on my Ford--we're all just vehicles.
Soon, I suppose, my recycled Ford might become
a new Toyota,
my neighbor, though, will just become powder
absorbed back into the earth.
I'll dump in a new quart today
and head off to say goodbye to a friend.
*****
THE WAYFARER
Michael M. Pendragon
He picks his way across the snowbanked land
A ragged man who's older than the stars;
Back bent beneath the weight of Winter's hand
His battered hat slung low atop the scars
That map the contours of his ancient face.
He trudges through the snow from town to town
Though blizzards blind and frostbite nips his toes;
He dreams of firesides and beds of down
And in his dreams, his slumb'ring spirit knows
That time and snowfall hurry to erase
Each trace of footprints chiseled in his wake.
But far away beyond the snowcapped hills
A birdsong trills across a woodland lake
And fills his gypsy heart with April thrills;
He stops and smiles then travels on apace.
*****
TWELVE LOAVES
Edward Rochester Esq.
I am not the perfect twelve,
never warmed in the kitchen
of Christ or toasted with a hint
of reverence.
Ten is my number, the toes
and fingers just enough
to genuflect before that
'fresh bread' sign outside
the bakery, where it's the tarts
I yearn for, the cheesecake
with a drizzle of strawberry,
those crème puffs that will get me
ten holy Mary's, come Sunday.
I know, I know,
blasphemy doesn't come
sugar coated but I make up for it,
dipping a slice of seeded loaf
into the meat sauce,
now that is heaven.
*****
CHASING SPRING
Michael M. Pendragon
I race before the Winter snow
In search of days where daisies grow
And bluebirds fly o'er bluebell-speckled meads;
Where mossy banks and rippling rills
Play hide-and-seek with daffodils
To duck behind a thatchwork patch of reeds
Or weave their way through fields of wild flowers;
Where scents of blossoms in the sun
Find country lanes where children run
Or while away a thousand idle hours.
I chase the warmth of April's smile,
The touch of May, whose eyes beguile
The irises and pansies into bloom;
Wisteria and lilac vie
With snapdragon and butterfly
To fill the sky with sirensong perfume;
And like the memory of a childhood friend
It calls to me from faraway
"The beauty of a new Spring day
Is waiting for you just around the bend."
And so I race before the snow
To where May's wanton breezes blow,
The budding branches of magnolia trees
Where pussy willows swish their tails
And paper kites like billowed sails
Launch into flight amidst the birds and bees.
But somewhere always many miles ahead
And I fall back into the falling snow;
I feel the grip of Winter, cold and dead
And somewhere in my slackened pace I know
That Spring is always just beyond the bend.
*****
WHEATFIELDS IN MARCH
Michael M. Pendragon
Like silent soldiers buried 'neath the snow
The wheatfields wait to hear Spring's battle call;
The earth will warm, and soon the crops will grow
To burst with golden ripeness in the fall;
But Fall is still a Winter morning dream
And snow still claims the field as Jack Frost's own --
And bleak as this acknowledgement might seem
Soon plows will break the earth, seeds will be sewn
"Persephone!" shall be their victory cheer;
Then row by row the wheat shall grow
Until the snow comes back again next year.
*****
WILD GEESE
Michael M. Pendragon
The wild geese are headed home
Across a thawing April sky,
I listen to their joyful cry
Resound through Heaven's dome
And wish that I had wings to fly
Or fortitude to roam
Like them across the waking land
As marigolds burst into flame;
I've countless words at my command
And though my soul was never tame
I lack the cleverness to name
A feeling wild geese might understand.
*****
MORNING FOG
Michael M. Pendragon
A wayward cloud dropped by to sleep last night
And left my hometown deep in morning fog
So thick the lowering streetlamps seemed to slog
Through murky water, limiting their light
To glowing halos strung atop the street.
Last night it swallowed up the moon and stars,
This morning it would swallow up the sun;
While hidden in the mist, coyotes run
Behind the trees or dodge oncoming cars;
Their rhythmic patterns keeping to the beat
Within the breast of one who sees them pass
While standing like a statue on the grass.
*****
SNOW JOB
Edward Rochester Esq,
Ok, I don't like winter,
I did when snow was magical,
and cold crystals tickled the tongue
as Uncle Weatherbee
brought a promise of
school closings--
a youthful sleigh ride
through wonderland
but the fascination, now,
is fleeting, a flash
of pure white
before the muddy trample
of boots, plows
and hungry snow blowers.
I prefer to look
at my December calendar,
a winter wonderland,
frozen in time
as my toes melt
back into feeling.
That sleigh
is now tucked away,
well past red-cheeked memories
too numb to smile
I flip that calendar to June,
wishful thinking
until the plow drives by
scraping the ugly mess
like a hungry Wolverine
in search of marrow.
Hearing a bird chirp
from the skeleton of a tree,
it seems help just might be on the way
and the only ice still available
will be dropped into a glass of
Lemonade.
*****
MY SOUL IS A GYPSY WANDERER
Michael M. Pendragon
My Soul is a gypsy wanderer
And when Spring breaks upon the land
She runs through the grass to the faraway hills
With an old mandolin in her hands.
My gypsy love is a wanton girl
With her eyes dark as starless nights,
Windblown hair red as apples that sets me awhirl
And her smile brings a thousand delights.
My heart is a barefoot vagabond
Chasing sunbeams down rippling streams,
Or dancing through meadows where daffodils nod
In the spell of their afternoon dreams.
My love is a wild and carefree bird
That soars through the April sky,
And sings of the things that it loves, undeterred
By the rainclouds that drift idly by.
My Soul is a gypsy wanderer
But she stops in the Spring to play
Till the winds call her name from the faraway hills
And she runs off in search of the May.
*****
WINTER, BREAD, MILEAGE,
WINDS OF CHANGE & BEAT
Edward Rochester Esq.
Masks hides some normalcy
but doesn't disguise what lingers
in the madness as you travel
for the common loaf through the slush
and skid of winter's anger.
Winds carry the stink of gun powder,
the fear is etched as the snow lightly falls
unaware it will soon cover caskets;
the odds of safety have been beaten by
madness.
Puddles of blood below the condiment's linger
as headlines scream once again, sending condolences
to deaf ears as spring shoots are exposed
out and into the sun; only they will welcome
the warmth as everything else goes cold.
*****
GUIDELINES
"A Year of Sundays"
Michael Pendragon, Editor
Website: https://groups.google.com/g/alt.arts.poetry.comments
Genres Published: Poetry, all styles
Representative Authors: J.D. Senetto, Karen Tellefsen, George J. Dance, Robert Burrows.
Format: Print
Reading period: All year.
Reading Fee: No.
Accepts Electronic Submissions: Yes.
Accepts Simultaneous Submissions: Yes.
Accepts Unsolicited Submissions: Yes.
Payment: None.
Publication Schedule: Yearly.
Issue Price: $5.50
Editorial Focus: "A Year of Sundays" represents a cross-section of many of the finer poems that have appeared in the AAPC newsgroup each year. Each month members are challenged to compose up to 5 poems on a set of selected topics. Submitted poems are discussed, commented on, and critiqued in the newsgroup. Each year the best of these poems are collected and published in a print volume. All styles of poetry are considered.
Tips from the Editor: Actively participate in the literary discussions at the AAPC newsgroup; comment on/critique the work of other members. AAPC is an unmoderated, interactive group, and "A Year of Sundays" was created to showcase the work of its members. The more you participate in the group, the more likely you are to be included in the year end print volume. Membership is free.
Contact Information: Go to https://groups.google.com/g/alt.arts.poetry.comments and look for the subject thread titled "A YEAR OF SUNDAYS" - SUBMISSIONS - MONTH - TOPICS. Post your poem/s there.
Please check out our publication at:
https://www.amazon.com/Year-Sundays-Years-Best-Poetry/dp/B08T4DD38X
Coco DeSockmonkey
Apr 1, 2021, 1:28:28 PM4/1/21
to
ME
Apr 1, 2021, 1:40:08 PM4/1/21
to
ME
Apr 1, 2021, 6:36:35 PM4/1/21
to
ME
Apr 1, 2021, 7:16:38 PM4/1/21
to
ME
Apr 1, 2021, 10:34:42 PM4/1/21
to
On Thursday, 1 April 2021 at 11:42:16 UTC-4, michaelmalef...@gmail.com wrote:
ME
Apr 2, 2021, 10:32:08 PM4/2/21
to
Ash Wurthing
Apr 3, 2021, 3:24:08 AM4/3/21
to
^ (working on a way to automatically bump selected posts)
ME
Apr 3, 2021, 5:17:20 AM4/3/21
to
On Saturday, 3 April 2021 at 03:24:08 UTC-4, ashwu...@gmail.com wrote:
> ^ (working on a way to automatically bump selected posts)
That’s an excellent idea.
> ^ (working on a way to automatically bump selected posts)
Michael Pendragon
Apr 3, 2021, 6:11:41 PM4/3/21
to
Michael Pendragon
Apr 3, 2021, 11:33:08 PM4/3/21
to
ME
Apr 4, 2021, 7:13:39 AM4/4/21
to
ME
Apr 4, 2021, 9:20:59 AM4/4/21
to
Coco DeSockmonkey
Apr 5, 2021, 12:13:44 PM4/5/21
to
On Thursday, April 1, 2021 at 11:42:16 AM UTC-4, Michael Pendragon wrote:
It's time for everyone's favorite part of "AYoS"... comments and critiques!
Since NancyGene is on sabbatical, I'll be commenting on my own poems as well.
> OLD MAN WINTER
> Michael M. Pendragon
>
>
> Old Man Winter's killing me
> With chills that seep into my bone,
> The falling snow weighs down on me
> Like slabs of marble stone.
>
> Old Man Winter fills the land
> With crippling blasts of icy breath,
> Hobbles my gait and stills my hand
> And hastes me to my death.
>
> Old Man Winter drains my soul
> Pale as a February sky,
> The snowdrifts form an unbound scroll
> Of those about to die.
>
> Old Man Winter staves my heart
> Upon a spear of jagged ice,
> He breaks my will till I'd depart
> This world and not think twice.
>
> Old Man Winter steals my bones
> And buries them beneath the snow,
> Hid deep beyond all earthly moans
> Where frigid rivers flow.
For those who haven't yet figured it out, I really hate winter. This poem represents but one of my many expressions of that theme.
The penultimate line contains a reference to Poe's "The City in the Sea" ("And when, amid no earthly moans,"). Poe was referring (at least in my interpretation, to the end of the world -- I, otoh, am referring to the end of my narrator's life (which, to him, constitutes the same thing).
The rivers in the closing line are the five rivers of the Underworld -- unlike in the myths, they are "frigid" with the eternal coldness of death.
> *****
>
> WINTER
> Mabool
>
>
> The Isle of Man
> The Bay of Pigs
> The Plain of Jars
> The Wife of Bath
> The Sack of Rome
> The Diet of Worms
> The Bridge of Sighs
> The March of Dimes
> The Apple of Discord
> The Slough of Despond
> The Great White Wolf of
> The Cold
I'm afraid this poem leaves me dumbfounded. I'm unable to connect the individual lines -- apart from their format of "The X of Y." If any modern poetry oriented readers care to expound upon this, I'd be most grateful.
> *****
>
> DEAD OF WINTER
> NancyGene
>
>
> I’m as cold inside
> as the freeze outside
> though no crystals grow
> into ice and snow.
>
> But my blood is chilled
> by the winters filled
> with no hope of thaw
> from the men of straw
>
> who still come to me
> in the cemetery
> where I lay my head
> and my death is read.
I'm unclear as to whether the speaker is literally or metaphorically dead -- and the poem lends itself to either interpretation. I like the imagery of the "men of straw" (which I take to be unworthy suitors). The final line (also open ended) is very strong. Is the speaker's death being read off of her gravestone? Is it being "read" prophetically, as a gypsy reads tea leave? Or is some black hatted, otherworldly town crier reading her name out of the Book of the Dead? All three work -- whether singly or in combination.
> *****
>
> IF FOUND
> Edward Rochester Esq.
>
>
> It seems, from exhalation,
> I’ve developed a small cave
> around my nose and mouth.
From this passage alone, I can already tell that the speaker is buried under ice and/or snow -- even though neither is mentioned by name. When the speaker's circumstances are readily determined solely through a description of his actions and their immediate results, you know that these actions are accurately and vividly described.
> My eyes slowly open, their
> waning warmth see only darkness,
This passage is confusing. As written, the warmth is seeing the darkness. I would reformat this as follows:
My eyes slowly open, their
warmth waning, see only darkness,
The comma after "waning" (yes I've switched the order of "waning warmth") is all-important, as it shifts the act of seeing back to the eyes.
> the ears still ring from the roar
"My eyes"/"my ears". Unless the ears belong to someone, or something, other than the narrator, you should use "my."
> of a frozen locomotive,
> its tumble burying me under
> the white weight of a slow death.
I like the idea of "a frozen locomotive" -- taken literally, it makes no sense, but it makes for a memorable metaphor.
Excuse me while I daydream about a certain "Dharma Hobo" getting plowed under by an oncoming train.
> I hear shouts from beyond
> my frozen tomb[;] my fingers
> It’s odd, this burn developing
> from an attempt at deeper
> inhalation.
"It's odd," "developing" and "inhalation" seem a bit detached for a man who's on the verge of freezing to death (unless the hobo is actually Mr. Spock). I suggest rewriting this passage in more down to earth, everyday language.
> I hear snow cats but cannot answer
> their diesel cry.
I like how the snow cats take on the qualities of real cats when they cry out to the speaker.
> One thought remains
> inside this frozen isolation;
> I’ll be intact and fresh if found.
Trog!
> [My] eyes now freeze closed, my nostrils
Nice meter on this. The final line doesn't quite work for me, as it seems to come from almost out of nowhere, when it should have been running through the entire poem. If the poem is about isolation (winter cold mirroring emotional coldness), we need to know a little more about the speaker and his/her relationships.
> *****
>
> THE COLD ARTIST
> Edward Rochester Esq.
>
>
> Brutal, peaceful winter
> you sculpt nature
> turning dormant limbs into
> picturesque statues.
Great idea -- but "statues" doesn't really work for "tree branches." "Sculptures" would work better.
> Fleeting is your work,
The inversion is odd... but doesn't detract as much as it might have.
> your creative life stunted
> under the sun,
> that master manipulator
> of canvas and stone.
>
> We know your show
> will reopen, the tour
> will once again
> amaze and bewilder
> those eager for new
> creations.
>
> We watch the weather
> for your return.
I suppose Winter deserves some (grudgingly awarded) recognition for her ice sculptures. I'm happy just watching a scene from "Dr. Zhivago."
> *****
>
> ICE SONG
> Karen Tellefsen
>
>
> Waiting at the bus station,
> a whistle broke the air,
> warm and sweet
> in the Montreal December night.
> Foreign and unknown,
> but I liked it,
> so I attended it.
> The whistle must have heard me listen,
> because a bearded whisper asked to
> sit with me,
> and my pleasure froze to fear
> in the Montreal December night.
So, you've met George Dance?
(Just kidding, George.)
These three lines make the poem, IMHO:
> The whistle must have heard me listen,
> because a bearded whisper asked to
> sit with me,
The personification (and alliteration) of whistle and whisper raises this to the level of Poetry.
"and my pleasure froze to fear" is excellent as well.
> *****
[TO BE CONTINUED]
It's time for everyone's favorite part of "AYoS"... comments and critiques!
Since NancyGene is on sabbatical, I'll be commenting on my own poems as well.
> OLD MAN WINTER
> Michael M. Pendragon
>
>
> Old Man Winter's killing me
> With chills that seep into my bone,
> The falling snow weighs down on me
> Like slabs of marble stone.
>
> Old Man Winter fills the land
> With crippling blasts of icy breath,
> Hobbles my gait and stills my hand
> And hastes me to my death.
>
> Old Man Winter drains my soul
> Pale as a February sky,
> The snowdrifts form an unbound scroll
> Of those about to die.
>
> Old Man Winter staves my heart
> Upon a spear of jagged ice,
> He breaks my will till I'd depart
> This world and not think twice.
>
> Old Man Winter steals my bones
> And buries them beneath the snow,
> Hid deep beyond all earthly moans
> Where frigid rivers flow.
The penultimate line contains a reference to Poe's "The City in the Sea" ("And when, amid no earthly moans,"). Poe was referring (at least in my interpretation, to the end of the world -- I, otoh, am referring to the end of my narrator's life (which, to him, constitutes the same thing).
The rivers in the closing line are the five rivers of the Underworld -- unlike in the myths, they are "frigid" with the eternal coldness of death.
> *****
>
> WINTER
> Mabool
>
>
> The Isle of Man
> The Bay of Pigs
> The Plain of Jars
> The Wife of Bath
> The Sack of Rome
> The Diet of Worms
> The Bridge of Sighs
> The March of Dimes
> The Apple of Discord
> The Slough of Despond
> The Great White Wolf of
> The Cold
> *****
>
> DEAD OF WINTER
> NancyGene
>
>
> I’m as cold inside
> as the freeze outside
> though no crystals grow
> into ice and snow.
>
> But my blood is chilled
> by the winters filled
> with no hope of thaw
> from the men of straw
>
> who still come to me
> in the cemetery
> where I lay my head
> and my death is read.
> *****
>
> IF FOUND
> Edward Rochester Esq.
>
>
> It seems, from exhalation,
> I’ve developed a small cave
> around my nose and mouth.
> My eyes slowly open, their
> waning warmth see only darkness,
My eyes slowly open, their
The comma after "waning" (yes I've switched the order of "waning warmth") is all-important, as it shifts the act of seeing back to the eyes.
> the ears still ring from the roar
> of a frozen locomotive,
> its tumble burying me under
> the white weight of a slow death.
Excuse me while I daydream about a certain "Dharma Hobo" getting plowed under by an oncoming train.
> I hear shouts from beyond
> can no longer scratch
> at the once white
> crystals.
Nice touch in substituting "once white" for the more graphic (and obvious) "bloody."
> at the once white
> crystals.
> It’s odd, this burn developing
> from an attempt at deeper
> inhalation.
> I hear snow cats but cannot answer
> their diesel cry.
> One thought remains
> inside this frozen isolation;
> I’ll be intact and fresh if found.
> [My] eyes now freeze closed, my nostrils
> *****
>
> THE COLD ARTIST
> Edward Rochester Esq.
>
>
> Brutal, peaceful winter
> you sculpt nature
> turning dormant limbs into
> picturesque statues.
> Fleeting is your work,
The inversion is odd... but doesn't detract as much as it might have.
> your creative life stunted
> under the sun,
> that master manipulator
> of canvas and stone.
>
> We know your show
> will reopen, the tour
> will once again
> amaze and bewilder
> those eager for new
> creations.
>
> We watch the weather
> for your return.
> *****
>
> ICE SONG
> Karen Tellefsen
>
>
> Waiting at the bus station,
> a whistle broke the air,
> warm and sweet
> in the Montreal December night.
> Foreign and unknown,
> but I liked it,
> so I attended it.
> The whistle must have heard me listen,
> because a bearded whisper asked to
> sit with me,
> and my pleasure froze to fear
> in the Montreal December night.
(Just kidding, George.)
These three lines make the poem, IMHO:
> The whistle must have heard me listen,
> because a bearded whisper asked to
> sit with me,
"and my pleasure froze to fear" is excellent as well.
> *****
[TO BE CONTINUED]
Edward Rochester Esq.
Apr 5, 2021, 12:35:36 PM4/5/21
to
J
Karen Tellefsen
Apr 5, 2021, 4:59:07 PM4/5/21
to
Ash Wurthing
Apr 5, 2021, 5:37:14 PM4/5/21
to
Just an initial reaction, more details on other poems later...
On Monday, April 5, 2021 at 12:13:44 PM UTC-4, cocodeso wrote:
> > WINTER
> > Mabool
> > The Isle of Man
> > The Bay of Pigs
> > The Plain of Jars
> > The Wife of Bath
> > The Sack of Rome
> > The Diet of Worms
> > The Bridge of Sighs
> > The March of Dimes
> > The Apple of Discord
> > The Slough of Despond
> > The Great White Wolf of
> > The Cold
> I'm afraid this poem leaves me dumbfounded. I'm unable to connect the individual lines -- apart from their format of "The X of Y." If any modern poetry oriented readers care to expound upon this, I'd be most grateful.
I have no problems with Mabool's (Xip?) work, their Klondike gold rush winter poem was good. If I am remembering correctly, the forum they frequent hosts some unique modern poetry styles. This I believe would be one that would leave more traditionally oriented poets confused. I can't say that it's bad (I don't take pleasure in such, I value a poet's "voice") but it lost me as well. I some connections between lines but not all, so _something_ is alluding me.
On Monday, April 5, 2021 at 12:13:44 PM UTC-4, cocodeso wrote:
> > WINTER
> > Mabool
> > The Isle of Man
> > The Bay of Pigs
> > The Plain of Jars
> > The Wife of Bath
> > The Sack of Rome
> > The Diet of Worms
> > The Bridge of Sighs
> > The March of Dimes
> > The Apple of Discord
> > The Slough of Despond
> > The Great White Wolf of
> > The Cold
> I'm afraid this poem leaves me dumbfounded. I'm unable to connect the individual lines -- apart from their format of "The X of Y." If any modern poetry oriented readers care to expound upon this, I'd be most grateful.
Michael Pendragon
Apr 7, 2021, 9:53:14 AM4/7/21
to
On Thursday, April 1, 2021 at 11:42:16 AM UTC-4, Michael Pendragon wrote:
Ash Wurthing
Apr 9, 2021, 1:30:43 AM4/9/21
to
Sorry about breaking this up into pieces, but this required more time to mull upon-- I had to comment on this one-- ' love it and NG's-- they're both up my alley. Maybe breaking it up into smaller individual poems/sections might encourage others...
NG will eventually be able to provide her grammar review, right?
On Thursday, April 1, 2021 at 11:42:16 AM UTC-4, michaelmalef wrote:
> OLD MAN WINTER
> Michael M. Pendragon
>
> Old Man Winter's killing me
> With chills that seep into my bone,
> The falling snow weighs down on me
> Like slabs of marble stone.
>
> Old Man Winter fills the land
> With crippling blasts of icy breath,
> Hobbles my gait and stills my hand
> And hastes me to my death.
>
> Old Man Winter drains my soul
> Pale as a February sky,
> The snowdrifts form an unbound scroll
> Of those about to die.
>
> Old Man Winter staves my heart
> Upon a spear of jagged ice,
> He breaks my will till I'd depart
> This world and not think twice.
>
> Old Man Winter steals my bones
> And buries them beneath the snow,
> Hid deep beyond all earthly moans
> Where frigid rivers flow.
Hard to put my intent into words, but below is just me inspired to tinker with as if I was trying to write this myself, it's not a necessary edit. The poem is just fine the way it is, but this would only be for what I imagine for flair. The stanzas before the last would be the 1st person ordeal ending with "till I'd depart" and the last stanza would be the like a 3rd person conclusion. A poor description, but maybe you'll see what I'm envisioning. I almost deleted this section but kept it to get you something to consider...
(I'm not sure how it would affect your meter or rhythm.)
> Old Man Winter **will** steal my bones (or 'takes my bones')
> And **bury** them beneath the snow,
NG will eventually be able to provide her grammar review, right?
On Thursday, April 1, 2021 at 11:42:16 AM UTC-4, michaelmalef wrote:
> OLD MAN WINTER
> Michael M. Pendragon
>
> Old Man Winter's killing me
> With chills that seep into my bone,
> The falling snow weighs down on me
> Like slabs of marble stone.
>
> Old Man Winter fills the land
> With crippling blasts of icy breath,
> Hobbles my gait and stills my hand
> And hastes me to my death.
>
> Old Man Winter drains my soul
> Pale as a February sky,
> The snowdrifts form an unbound scroll
> Of those about to die.
>
> Old Man Winter staves my heart
> Upon a spear of jagged ice,
> He breaks my will till I'd depart
> This world and not think twice.
>
> Old Man Winter steals my bones
> And buries them beneath the snow,
> Hid deep beyond all earthly moans
> Where frigid rivers flow.
> The penultimate line contains a reference to Poe's "The City in the Sea" ("And when, amid no earthly moans,"). Poe was referring (at least in my interpretation, to the end of the world -- I, otoh, am referring to the end of my narrator's life (which, to him, constitutes the same thing). The rivers in the closing line are the five rivers of the Underworld -- unlike in the myths, they are "frigid" with the eternal coldness of death.
I did and if others don't I still believe they may get the general concept-- buried deep "beneath the snow" would mean into the ground, "beyond all earthly" would mean not of this world but death and rivers associated with death many could know what that would entail.
Hard to put my intent into words, but below is just me inspired to tinker with as if I was trying to write this myself, it's not a necessary edit. The poem is just fine the way it is, but this would only be for what I imagine for flair. The stanzas before the last would be the 1st person ordeal ending with "till I'd depart" and the last stanza would be the like a 3rd person conclusion. A poor description, but maybe you'll see what I'm envisioning. I almost deleted this section but kept it to get you something to consider...
(I'm not sure how it would affect your meter or rhythm.)
> Old Man Winter **will** steal my bones (or 'takes my bones')
> And **bury** them beneath the snow,
Michael Pendragon
Apr 9, 2021, 8:35:57 AM4/9/21
to
On Friday, April 9, 2021 at 1:30:43 AM UTC-4, ashwu...@gmail.com wrote:
> Sorry about breaking this up into pieces, but this required more time to mull upon-- I had to comment on this one-- ' love it and NG's-- they're both up my alley. Maybe breaking it up into smaller individual poems/sections might encourage others...
>
> NG will eventually be able to provide her grammar review, right?
Yes, she's expected to return later this month.
> Sorry about breaking this up into pieces, but this required more time to mull upon-- I had to comment on this one-- ' love it and NG's-- they're both up my alley. Maybe breaking it up into smaller individual poems/sections might encourage others...
>
> NG will eventually be able to provide her grammar review, right?
Adding "will" definitely affects the meter. "Takes" isn't bad, but I'm wondering why you prefer it over "steals." For me, "steals" makes Old Man Winter more insidious, and somewhat magnifies the harm (stealing implies that I'm still alive and want to keep my bones, whereas taking allows for him to be taking them after I have died).
Ash Wurthing
Apr 9, 2021, 5:06:34 PM4/9/21
to
On Friday, April 9, 2021 at 8:35:57 AM UTC-4, michaelmalef wrote:
> Thanks, Ash.
No problem, your poem appeals because it's a lot like what I would try to write.
> Adding "will" definitely affects the meter.
That's what I afraid of.
> "Takes" isn't bad, but I'm wondering why you prefer it over "steals."
This why I have been waffling on this for a couple days now. I was looking back and forth at your original "steals" and what I had thought up and couldn't decide if what I thought up was better. If had to buckle down for a decision, it would have to be "steals" because it also keeps the pattern you have with "drains my soul", "staves my heart", "steals my bones".
> For me, "steals" makes Old Man Winter more insidious, and somewhat magnifies the harm (stealing implies that I'm still alive and want to keep my bones, whereas taking allows for him to be taking them after I have died).
Now that is insidious-- good thing i did post my commentary and spurred a discourse. But I was fooled by that below, which gave me the impression of death of the character.
> Thanks, Ash.
No problem, your poem appeals because it's a lot like what I would try to write.
> Adding "will" definitely affects the meter.
> "Takes" isn't bad, but I'm wondering why you prefer it over "steals."
> For me, "steals" makes Old Man Winter more insidious, and somewhat magnifies the harm (stealing implies that I'm still alive and want to keep my bones, whereas taking allows for him to be taking them after I have died).
Michael Pendragon
Apr 9, 2021, 9:45:44 PM4/9/21
to
But the character is just suffering from Winter depression to the point that he no longer cares if he lives or dies. But deep down, he knows that Winter doesn't last forever, and that he'll enjoy life again in the Spring. Of course the poem doesn't actually give us this information... other than in the use of Winter as the villain.
Ash Wurthing
Apr 9, 2021, 10:55:02 PM4/9/21
to
On Friday, April 9, 2021 at 9:45:44 PM UTC-4, michaelmalef wrote:
> But the character is just suffering from Winter depression to the point that he no longer cares if he lives or dies. But deep down, he knows that Winter doesn't last forever, and that he'll enjoy life again in the Spring. Of course the poem doesn't actually give us this information... other than in the use of Winter as the villain.
You actually spurred even more thought with the stealing bones concept-- I think you should make a second "horror" version with an extra stanza with the disembodied character (having his bones stolen) join Old Man Winter as a thrall heard with the winter winds.
> On Friday, April 9, 2021 at 5:06:34 PM UTC-4, ashwu wrote:
> > On Friday, April 9, 2021 at 8:35:57 AM UTC-4, michaelmalef wrote:
> > > Thanks, Ash.
> >
> > No problem, your poem appeals because it's a lot like what I would try to write.
> > > Adding "will" definitely affects the meter.
> > That's what I afraid of.
> > > "Takes" isn't bad, but I'm wondering why you prefer it over "steals."
> > This why I have been waffling on this for a couple days now. I was looking back and forth at your original "steals" and what I had thought up and couldn't decide if what I thought up was better. If had to buckle down for a decision, it would have to be "steals" because it also keeps the pattern you have with "drains my soul", "staves my heart", "steals my bones".
> > > For me, "steals" makes Old Man Winter more insidious, and somewhat magnifies the harm (stealing implies that I'm still alive and want to keep my bones, whereas taking allows for him to be taking them after I have died).
> > Now that is insidious-- good thing i did post my commentary and spurred a discourse. But I was fooled by that below, which gave me the impression of death of the character.
> > > He breaks my will till I'd depart
> > > This world and not think twice.
> Yes, it is a little confusing, isn't it?
It can be, but I think the vagueness leaves more room for the imagination and possibly make the poem better for repeated reads.
> > On Friday, April 9, 2021 at 8:35:57 AM UTC-4, michaelmalef wrote:
> > > Thanks, Ash.
> >
> > No problem, your poem appeals because it's a lot like what I would try to write.
> > > Adding "will" definitely affects the meter.
> > That's what I afraid of.
> > > "Takes" isn't bad, but I'm wondering why you prefer it over "steals."
> > This why I have been waffling on this for a couple days now. I was looking back and forth at your original "steals" and what I had thought up and couldn't decide if what I thought up was better. If had to buckle down for a decision, it would have to be "steals" because it also keeps the pattern you have with "drains my soul", "staves my heart", "steals my bones".
> > > For me, "steals" makes Old Man Winter more insidious, and somewhat magnifies the harm (stealing implies that I'm still alive and want to keep my bones, whereas taking allows for him to be taking them after I have died).
> > Now that is insidious-- good thing i did post my commentary and spurred a discourse. But I was fooled by that below, which gave me the impression of death of the character.
> > > He breaks my will till I'd depart
> > > This world and not think twice.
> Yes, it is a little confusing, isn't it?
> But the character is just suffering from Winter depression to the point that he no longer cares if he lives or dies. But deep down, he knows that Winter doesn't last forever, and that he'll enjoy life again in the Spring. Of course the poem doesn't actually give us this information... other than in the use of Winter as the villain.
Michael Pendragon
Apr 13, 2021, 10:44:04 PM4/13/21
to
ME
Apr 17, 2021, 7:51:31 AM4/17/21
to
Michael Pendragon
Apr 17, 2021, 11:53:48 AM4/17/21
to
Michael Pendragon
Apr 17, 2021, 3:47:06 PM4/17/21
to
Michael Pendragon
Apr 17, 2021, 9:03:08 PM4/17/21
to
Michael Pendragon
Apr 19, 2021, 1:43:45 PM4/19/21
to
Coco DeSockmonkey
Apr 19, 2021, 3:16:15 PM4/19/21
to
Coco DeSockmonkey
Apr 22, 2021, 12:56:54 PM4/22/21
to
> SPARRING WITH OLD MAN WINTER
> Edward Rochester Esq.
>
>
> I stare out at your threatening ways,
> you stare back, intimidate with a lion’s roar
> as I put on the layers needed to fend off
> your attack.
I like the internal rhyming of back and attack.
I would add a "me" to the second line ("intimidate me with a lion’s roar"), but that's a matter of personal preference.
> You’ve been known to take
> no prisoners and that becomes my challenge
> as we touch gloves[;] my face soon becomes numb[;]
> your weight is heavy, the slush and powdered white
> become a formidable foe.
The above passage is a bit of a run on and would work at least as well as three sentences. I've added semicolons to separate the three distinct thoughts.
> become a formidable foe.
> But this day brings a draw as clouds break
> allowing your escape.
Perhaps something to the effect of:
But this day brings a draw as clouds break
> I stare at what remains[:] nature vs man,
> and a dirt puddle soon to freeze over.
Nature vs man isn't really what remains (we're bordering on Fragmentism here), and should be separated with strong punctuation (a semicolon).
> They say a re-match is due Friday,
> my gloves reach for the bag of salt
> as I whisper ‘bring it on’.
> *****
>
> WINTER NOIR
> Edward Rochester Esq.
>
>
> So stark the snow in black and white
"So stark the snow" is a high-flown, pretentious phrase that it would be difficult, if not impossible, for any poem to recover from.
The idea of a stark, black and white juxtaposition of snow against the night is good -- and deserves a rewrite.
> as I watch through her window
> this icy night.
I applaud your attempt to expand your form -- but you're not quite there yet. The rhymes throughout seem perfunctory and trite -- and seem opposed to the concept of a "noir," which would be better served with hard-boiled, Chandleresque prose.
> Stay away I was told, but it is this storm
> the wind, my frozen thoughts that make me bold
This passage is unintentionally (?) funny.
> “Yes”, sung out more softer than shout.”
I honestly don't know whether this poem is intended to be serious, or self-spoofing camp.
> “Delivery”, which was more than just true,
> the warmth, the apron of this lady I knew.
What is "more than true" and what is "just true"?
The out of the blue mention of the apron is also ridiculously funny.
> and I was in.
>
> I took a finger swipe at the batter, it seemed
> a cake was being made her scream would not matter
> for the pines outside were bending in the wind,
> she knew right then letting me in.
"For the pines outside were bending in the wind" is a good line that belongs in a serious poem.
There shouldn't be a period after "in" as the line continues into the next measure.
> was a mistake.
>
> “You were told to stay away”
>
> “I did but this winter storm forced me
> to play.
> What is it with storms of wind and ice
> as my nice smile reveals a frightening vice
> for I knew that cake wasn’t made for me.
> and soon all will be able to see.
>
> I left her on the ground covered in white frosting.
Wow. That was... bad.
That was painfully bad.
That was so bad that I envy the dead woman lying in white frosting.
I'm a bit unclear as to whether the thawing of the speaker's feelings in lines 2 and 3 is intended to be a good or bad thing.
I like the ambiguity of the closing line. I took Harvey to be a six foot, three and a half inch tall pooka (confirming that the speaker is just a tad off her nut), but he could also represent her real life husband, who she's been "cheating on" with her make believe lover.
As always, the writing is impeccable.
> *****
>
> SNOWBOUND
> Michael M. Pendragon
>
>
> Did Summer ever know these walks and ways,
> These quiet paths packed down beneath the snow?
> Did sunlight ever warm our works and days;
> Did daisies wave and dandelions grow
> On rolling hills where barefoot children play?
>
> Did robins sing and frozen rivers flow,
> Or brittle branches know the touch of Spring?
> Did roses bloom and balmy breezes blow
> Did fireflies glow and swallowtails take wing,
> And was there ever such a thing as May?
>
> Did Summer ever come this way before,
> Were skies once blue and forests emerald green?
> The snow's piled high against my kitchen door
> Till scarce a trace of color can be seen --
> A charcoal sketch of black and white and gray.
[TO BE CONTINUED]
NancyGene
Apr 27, 2021, 1:10:29 PM4/27/21
to
On Thursday, April 1, 2021 at 11:42:16 AM UTC-4, michaelmalef...@gmail.com wrote:
> OLD MAN WINTER
> Michael M. Pendragon
>
>
> Old Man Winter's killing me
> With chills that seep into my bone,
> The falling snow weighs down on me
> Like slabs of marble stone.
We were wondering where the narrator was to be outside in such weather. Or, who the narrator is?
> OLD MAN WINTER
> Michael M. Pendragon
>
>
> Old Man Winter's killing me
> With chills that seep into my bone,
> The falling snow weighs down on me
> Like slabs of marble stone.
>
> Old Man Winter fills the land
> With crippling blasts of icy breath,
> Hobbles my gait and stills my hand
> And hastes me to my death.
We like the archaic form of haste used here.
> Old Man Winter fills the land
> With crippling blasts of icy breath,
> Hobbles my gait and stills my hand
> And hastes me to my death.
>
> Old Man Winter drains my soul
> Pale as a February sky,
> The snowdrifts form an unbound scroll
> Of those about to die.
This is quite the stark image!
> Old Man Winter drains my soul
> Pale as a February sky,
> The snowdrifts form an unbound scroll
> Of those about to die.
>
> Old Man Winter staves my heart
Again, a different use of the verb “stave.” That could do much damage to a heart, to smash it so.
> Old Man Winter staves my heart
> Upon a spear of jagged ice,
> He breaks my will till I'd depart
> This world and not think twice.
>
> Old Man Winter steals my bones
> And buries them beneath the snow,
> Hid deep beyond all earthly moans
> Where frigid rivers flow.
That’s about as cold and miserable as a person could be in winter. We like how the poem circles back to “bone” from the first stanza. Winter is killing the narrator in every way, through every body part. Get thee to the tropics!
> Old Man Winter steals my bones
> And buries them beneath the snow,
> Hid deep beyond all earthly moans
> Where frigid rivers flow.
However, in re-reading the poem, we wonder if the narrator is a person or is maybe another season?
NancyGene
Apr 27, 2021, 1:28:10 PM4/27/21
to
> SNOWBOUND
> Michael M. Pendragon
>
>
> Did Summer ever know these walks and ways,
> These quiet paths packed down beneath the snow?
> Did sunlight ever warm our works and days;
> Did daisies wave and dandelions grow
> On rolling hills where barefoot children play?
In the middle of winter, many people contemplate these same ideas. Will it ever go away, has it always been so, was there a summer? In the moment can be a sobering time.
> Michael M. Pendragon
>
>
> Did Summer ever know these walks and ways,
> These quiet paths packed down beneath the snow?
> Did sunlight ever warm our works and days;
> Did daisies wave and dandelions grow
> On rolling hills where barefoot children play?
>
> Did robins sing and frozen rivers flow,
> Or brittle branches know the touch of Spring?
> Did roses bloom and balmy breezes blow
> Did fireflies glow and swallowtails take wing,
> And was there ever such a thing as May?
We like the format of questions in the poem—underscoring the thought that winter will not end, there is no spring, there is just winter. It is hard to remember summer when the temperatures dip.
> Did robins sing and frozen rivers flow,
> Or brittle branches know the touch of Spring?
> Did roses bloom and balmy breezes blow
> Did fireflies glow and swallowtails take wing,
> And was there ever such a thing as May?
>
> Did Summer ever come this way before,
> Were skies once blue and forests emerald green?
> The snow's piled high against my kitchen door
> Till scarce a trace of color can be seen --
> A charcoal sketch of black and white and gray.
Gray skies, white snow, and the trees look like they have died. Snowbound is not an easy physical or psychological state to be in. Atmospheric, contemplative poem.
> Did Summer ever come this way before,
> Were skies once blue and forests emerald green?
> The snow's piled high against my kitchen door
> Till scarce a trace of color can be seen --
> A charcoal sketch of black and white and gray.
Michael Pendragon
Apr 27, 2021, 1:29:12 PM4/27/21
to
On Tuesday, April 27, 2021 at 1:10:29 PM UTC-4, NancyGene wrote:
> On Thursday, April 1, 2021 at 11:42:16 AM UTC-4, michaelmalef...@gmail.com wrote:
> > OLD MAN WINTER
> > Michael M. Pendragon
> >
> >
> > Old Man Winter's killing me
> > With chills that seep into my bone,
> > The falling snow weighs down on me
> > Like slabs of marble stone.
> We were wondering where the narrator was to be outside in such weather. Or, who the narrator is?
The narrator is Michael Pendragon.
> On Thursday, April 1, 2021 at 11:42:16 AM UTC-4, michaelmalef...@gmail.com wrote:
> > OLD MAN WINTER
> > Michael M. Pendragon
> >
> >
> > Old Man Winter's killing me
> > With chills that seep into my bone,
> > The falling snow weighs down on me
> > Like slabs of marble stone.
> We were wondering where the narrator was to be outside in such weather. Or, who the narrator is?
I'm usually outside waiting for the bus (I don't drive my car in the Winter). However, I'm cold indoors as well. My body temperature is about 5 degrees lower than everyone else's.
> > Old Man Winter fills the land
> > With crippling blasts of icy breath,
> > Hobbles my gait and stills my hand
> > And hastes me to my death.
> We like the archaic form of haste used here.
> >
> > Old Man Winter drains my soul
> > Pale as a February sky,
> > The snowdrifts form an unbound scroll
> > Of those about to die.
> This is quite the stark image!
> >
> > Old Man Winter staves my heart
> Again, a different use of the verb “stave.” That could do much damage to a heart, to smash it so.
> > Upon a spear of jagged ice,
> > He breaks my will till I'd depart
> > This world and not think twice.
> Do not go to sleep!
> >
> > Old Man Winter steals my bones
> > And buries them beneath the snow,
> > Hid deep beyond all earthly moans
> > Where frigid rivers flow.
> That’s about as cold and miserable as a person could be in winter. We like how the poem circles back to “bone” from the first stanza. Winter is killing the narrator in every way, through every body part. Get thee to the tropics!
>
> However, in re-reading the poem, we wonder if the narrator is a person or is maybe another season?
NancyGene
Apr 27, 2021, 1:49:13 PM4/27/21
to
> FROSTBITE
> Michael M. Pendragon
>
>
> Christmas came on snow white wing
We don’t like “snow white,” no offense to Snow White, Little People, or doves.
> Michael M. Pendragon
>
>
> Christmas came on snow white wing
> With chestnut fires and caroling;
> The goose was stuffed, the pumpkin, pied
> While gingerbread men ran to hide
> In stockings hung with tinsel on the tree.
>
> We stopped to watch the old year go
> With volleys of confetti snow,
We like the image of snow as confetti. We think that Edward has used that also in his poems.
> We stopped to watch the old year go
> With volleys of confetti snow,
> Banged pots and pans and raised a cheer
> To welcome in the newborn year
> With midnight's kiss and champagne-scented glee.
>
> Then January brought more snow
> And February watched it grow
It sure did! Add on, February.
> Then January brought more snow
> And February watched it grow
> Till knee deep snowdrifts swept across the land;
> And in my snowbound home I understand
> That Winter life is not the life for me.
NancyGene
Apr 27, 2021, 2:03:31 PM4/27/21
to
> WINTER WARMTH
> Michael M. Pendragon
>
>
> The smoky scent of cedarwood and pine
> That crackles through the wood stove's cast iron grate,
> The chocolate kisses from a Valentine,
> A glass of sherry when the hour grows late
> And carolers gather round the parlor door;
That’s a few of the ways to bring warmth into the house, when the temperatures outside are daunting. We see that the last lines of the stanza again rhyme.
> Michael M. Pendragon
>
>
> The smoky scent of cedarwood and pine
> That crackles through the wood stove's cast iron grate,
> The chocolate kisses from a Valentine,
> A glass of sherry when the hour grows late
> And carolers gather round the parlor door;
>
> A patchwork quilt to warm the night,
> The careless glow of candlelight,
> A mother's arms, a lover's sigh,
> Fresh-from-the-oven pumpkin pie
> And fireside memories from the days of yore;
We gather that the narrator likes pumpkin pie? We like the list of things that may be used to substitute for turning up the thermostat!
> A patchwork quilt to warm the night,
> The careless glow of candlelight,
> A mother's arms, a lover's sigh,
> Fresh-from-the-oven pumpkin pie
> And fireside memories from the days of yore;
>
> All these and more restore my snowbound heart
Ah, a reference to your previous poem! That heart was seriously depressed or freeze-dried.
> All these and more restore my snowbound heart
> Like warm rum on a snowy Winter eve,
> I settle back and let my cares depart,
> Snuggle my hands inside my flannel sleeve
> And dream of what the Summer has in store.
Michael Pendragon
Apr 27, 2021, 2:32:24 PM4/27/21
to
On Tuesday, April 27, 2021 at 1:49:13 PM UTC-4, NancyGene wrote:
> > FROSTBITE
> > Michael M. Pendragon
> >
> >
> > Christmas came on snow white wing
> We don’t like “snow white,” no offense to Snow White, Little People, or doves.
> > With chestnut fires and caroling;
> > The goose was stuffed, the pumpkin, pied
> Clever, making pie into a verb!
> > While gingerbread men ran to hide
> > In stockings hung with tinsel on the tree.
> The last line seems hurried—“on the tree” could be refined. …”in stockings hung on tinseled tree” comes to mind, and goes along with your used of pie. We note that the last lines of your stanzas rhyme.
> >
> > We stopped to watch the old year go
> > With volleys of confetti snow,
> We like the image of snow as confetti. We think that Edward has used that also in his poems.
> > Banged pots and pans and raised a cheer
> Maybe in another century?
Thanks for reminding me of my age.
> > FROSTBITE
> > Michael M. Pendragon
> >
> >
> > Christmas came on snow white wing
> We don’t like “snow white,” no offense to Snow White, Little People, or doves.
> > With chestnut fires and caroling;
> > The goose was stuffed, the pumpkin, pied
> Clever, making pie into a verb!
> > While gingerbread men ran to hide
> > In stockings hung with tinsel on the tree.
> The last line seems hurried—“on the tree” could be refined. …”in stockings hung on tinseled tree” comes to mind, and goes along with your used of pie. We note that the last lines of your stanzas rhyme.
> >
> > We stopped to watch the old year go
> > With volleys of confetti snow,
> We like the image of snow as confetti. We think that Edward has used that also in his poems.
> > Banged pots and pans and raised a cheer
> Maybe in another century?
We banged pots and pans on New Year's Eve into the 1980s.
> > To welcome in the newborn year
> > With midnight's kiss and champagne-scented glee.
> The “champagne-scented glee” again seems like too many words.
> >
> > Then January brought more snow
> > And February watched it grow
> It sure did! Add on, February.
> > Till knee deep snowdrifts swept across the land;
> Too many words in “swept across the land.” We have to say them really fast to get them to fit in the line.
> > And in my snowbound home I understand
> > That Winter life is not the life for me.
> The narrator needs to cultivate winter sports. We like the poem, which is a worthy episode in the Winter Saga, but a few of the lines seem to have too many words to keep to the meter. We are glad that spring is here!
Every fifth line is intended to be two beats longer than the preceding four -- the extra beats (IMHO) lending a feeling of finality to each stanza's closing line.
Michael Pendragon
Apr 27, 2021, 2:39:46 PM4/27/21
to
On Tuesday, April 27, 2021 at 2:03:31 PM UTC-4, NancyGene wrote:
> > WINTER WARMTH
> > Michael M. Pendragon
> >
> >
> > The smoky scent of cedarwood and pine
> > That crackles through the wood stove's cast iron grate,
> > The chocolate kisses from a Valentine,
> > A glass of sherry when the hour grows late
> > And carolers gather round the parlor door;
> That’s a few of the ways to bring warmth into the house, when the temperatures outside are daunting. We see that the last lines of the stanza again rhyme.
> >
> > A patchwork quilt to warm the night,
> > The careless glow of candlelight,
> > A mother's arms, a lover's sigh,
> > Fresh-from-the-oven pumpkin pie
> > And fireside memories from the days of yore;
> We gather that the narrator likes pumpkin pie? We like the list of things that may be used to substitute for turning up the thermostat!
The narrator (a.k.a., the author) is obsessed with pumpkin pie. He loves everything made with pumpkin, as a matter of fact.
> > WINTER WARMTH
> > Michael M. Pendragon
> >
> >
> > The smoky scent of cedarwood and pine
> > That crackles through the wood stove's cast iron grate,
> > The chocolate kisses from a Valentine,
> > A glass of sherry when the hour grows late
> > And carolers gather round the parlor door;
> That’s a few of the ways to bring warmth into the house, when the temperatures outside are daunting. We see that the last lines of the stanza again rhyme.
> >
> > A patchwork quilt to warm the night,
> > The careless glow of candlelight,
> > A mother's arms, a lover's sigh,
> > Fresh-from-the-oven pumpkin pie
> > And fireside memories from the days of yore;
> We gather that the narrator likes pumpkin pie? We like the list of things that may be used to substitute for turning up the thermostat!
> > All these and more restore my snowbound heart
> Ah, a reference to your previous poem! That heart was seriously depressed or freeze-dried.
> > Like warm rum on a snowy Winter eve,
> > I settle back and let my cares depart,
> Good, the narrator has gotten over his depression/despair of this season ever ending and another season ever having existed.
> > Snuggle my hands inside my flannel sleeve
> The narrator needs a Snuggie, or to turn up the thermostat.
> > And dream of what the Summer has in store.
> One cannot dream one’s life away--summer also passes. However, this will make a fine leaf in Ash’s compilation of your seasonal poems. We see a progression of thoughts and events, maybe even resignation.
Ash Wurthing
Apr 27, 2021, 11:16:41 PM4/27/21
to
On Tuesday, April 27, 2021 at 2:32:24 PM UTC-4, michaelmalef wrote:
> > The narrator needs to cultivate winter sports. We like the poem, which is a worthy episode in the Winter Saga, but a few of the lines seem to have too many words to keep to the meter. We are glad that spring is here!
> Thanks, NancyGene. As always, I enjoy reading your reviews.
I got a sense that Pendragon's Winter poems were interconnected.
> > The narrator needs to cultivate winter sports. We like the poem, which is a worthy episode in the Winter Saga, but a few of the lines seem to have too many words to keep to the meter. We are glad that spring is here!
> Thanks, NancyGene. As always, I enjoy reading your reviews.
> Every fifth line is intended to be two beats longer than the preceding four -- the extra beats (IMHO) lending a feeling of finality to each stanza's closing line.
Michael Pendragon
Apr 28, 2021, 8:02:32 AM4/28/21
to
On Tuesday, April 27, 2021 at 11:16:41 PM UTC-4, Ash Wurthing wrote:
> On Tuesday, April 27, 2021 at 2:32:24 PM UTC-4, michaelmalef wrote:
>
> > > The narrator needs to cultivate winter sports. We like the poem, which is a worthy episode in the Winter Saga, but a few of the lines seem to have too many words to keep to the meter. We are glad that spring is here!
> > Thanks, NancyGene. As always, I enjoy reading your reviews.
> I got a sense that Pendragon's Winter poems were interconnected.
Yes, but very loosely.
> On Tuesday, April 27, 2021 at 2:32:24 PM UTC-4, michaelmalef wrote:
>
> > > The narrator needs to cultivate winter sports. We like the poem, which is a worthy episode in the Winter Saga, but a few of the lines seem to have too many words to keep to the meter. We are glad that spring is here!
> > Thanks, NancyGene. As always, I enjoy reading your reviews.
> I got a sense that Pendragon's Winter poems were interconnected.
> > Every fifth line is intended to be two beats longer than the preceding four -- the extra beats (IMHO) lending a feeling of finality to each stanza's closing line.
> Pendragonian sonnet isn't it?
> The two extra beats for finality is an interesting idea, since it would break the rhythm between stanzas and separate them.
Ash Wurthing
Apr 29, 2021, 12:12:42 AM4/29/21
to
^
Ash Wurthing
May 8, 2021, 12:28:52 AM5/8/21
to
< DEAD OF WINTER
< NancyGene
Of course, this is one of my favored poems.
< I’m as cold inside
< as the freeze outside
< though no crystals grow
< into ice and snow.
< But my blood is chilled
< by the winters filled
< with no hope of thaw
< from the men of straw
Yeah, I'm thinking it's metaphorical, the narrator is indoors and the winter is internalized. The poet has used the phrase "men of straw" before. I can't help think hollow men in more than one way. (see further below about them)
< who still come to me
< in the cemetery
< where I lay my head
< and my death is read.
But the cemetery reference threw me. If this is internalized, then the cemetery is in their mind or their Life?
Now the "men of straw" with this poem of impied doom of resignation and death made me think of TS Eliot's Hollow Men and looking at this poem in a different light. Thinking of the current situation's dread of death and our leaders' failures...
*****
< IF FOUND
< Edward Rochester Esq.
This is the poem that made me look at Rochester's poems as poetic short stories...
< It seems, from exhalation,
< I’ve developed a small cave
< around my nose and mouth.
< My eyes slowly open, their
< waning warmth see only darkness,
< the ears still ring from the roar
< of a frozen locomotive,
< its tumble burying me under
< the white weight of a slow death.
Sets the scene and the start of the story. The details are too convincing.
The next three stanzas build the tension...
< I hear shouts from beyond
< my frozen tomb, my fingers
< can no longer scratch
< at the once white
< crystals.
< It’s odd, this burn developing
< from an attempt at deeper
< inhalation.
< I hear snow cats but cannot answer
< their diesel cry.
And the conclusion, a cliff hanger.
< NancyGene
Of course, this is one of my favored poems.
< I’m as cold inside
< as the freeze outside
< though no crystals grow
< into ice and snow.
< But my blood is chilled
< by the winters filled
< with no hope of thaw
< from the men of straw
< who still come to me
< in the cemetery
< where I lay my head
< and my death is read.
Now the "men of straw" with this poem of impied doom of resignation and death made me think of TS Eliot's Hollow Men and looking at this poem in a different light. Thinking of the current situation's dread of death and our leaders' failures...
*****
< IF FOUND
< Edward Rochester Esq.
< It seems, from exhalation,
< I’ve developed a small cave
< around my nose and mouth.
< My eyes slowly open, their
< waning warmth see only darkness,
< the ears still ring from the roar
< of a frozen locomotive,
< its tumble burying me under
< the white weight of a slow death.
The next three stanzas build the tension...
< I hear shouts from beyond
< my frozen tomb, my fingers
< can no longer scratch
< at the once white
< crystals.
< It’s odd, this burn developing
< from an attempt at deeper
< inhalation.
< I hear snow cats but cannot answer
< their diesel cry.
ME
May 8, 2021, 1:04:10 AM5/8/21
to
NancyGene
May 8, 2021, 7:42:13 AM5/8/21
to
On Saturday, May 8, 2021 at 4:28:52 AM UTC, Ash Wurthing wrote:
> < DEAD OF WINTER
> < NancyGene
>
> Of course, this is one of my favored poems.
Thank you--we are flattered.
> < DEAD OF WINTER
> < NancyGene
>
> Of course, this is one of my favored poems.
> < I’m as cold inside
> < as the freeze outside
> < though no crystals grow
> < into ice and snow.
>
> < But my blood is chilled
> < by the winters filled
> < with no hope of thaw
> < from the men of straw
> Yeah, I'm thinking it's metaphorical, the narrator is indoors and the winter is internalized. The poet has used the phrase "men of straw" before. I can't help think hollow men in more than one way. (see further below about them)
> < who still come to me
> < in the cemetery
> < where I lay my head
> < and my death is read.
> But the cemetery reference threw me. If this is internalized, then the cemetery is in their mind or their Life?
>
> Now the "men of straw" with this poem of implied doom of resignation and death made me think of TS Eliot's Hollow Men and looking at this poem in a different light. Thinking of the current situation's dread of death and our leaders' failures...
It's more personal than that, but if you want to read broader meanings into the poem, that's fine and what poetry is supposed to engender.
0 new messages