A Poem Called Snow

Snow

Snow on snow on snow on old snow,

Pulsing hills of garbage (and snow),

Camouflaging black ice we cannot know.

Memories and butterflies and brown-outs are whited-out.

So are baskets of grilled veggies and wine coolers in the grass.

Snow reveals unseen journeys:

3-legged dog and his person on crutches;

Child’s glove divorced from its mate;

half-buried Metrocard pitched on its edge.

 

I will dance down the aisle in anything but white

And drink only red wine until too drunk for words,

And toss out frozen snow peas,

And root for Snow White’s step-mom,

And disown my love of snow leopards,

And call him Edward Whistleblower,

And listen to only 3 of “The Four Seasons”

And finally forget the English for

La nieva

Neve

Lumi

Schnee

Snee.

Cicadan Love Call

Magenta dawn of a 17th year

monotone grating grinding shrill clamor

Large muscles on tom-tom belly

He beats his love to her let’s get it on let’s get it on

Let’s get it on letsgetiton.

 

17 years below the earth

cosmos minus wind rain or other

obeying a cycle with no release

one month in the sun before they die

one month

the sun

and then

they die

let’s get it on let’s get it on let’s get it on

Let’s get it on let’s get it on letsgetiton.

 

Preparing for the jamboree

caught in portals of the earth

they wiggle from outer shells

wince in the sun

want to return

want to go on

begin the journey

 

inching trees with desperate purpose

without shame the orgy begins

enhanced by wind rain sun or other

He and she in ritual union

Eggs clamp to tree twigs

Lives shorter than maturation

One month in the sun and then they’re dead

let’s get it on let’s get it on let’s get it on

Let’s get it on let’s get it on letsgetiton.

 

 

Offspring squirm from twigs

drop and burrow in the earth

Magenta dawn of an 18^th year

monotone grating grinding shrill clamor begins

let’s get it on let’s get it on let’s get it on

let’s get it on let’s get it on letsgetiton.

One month in the sun before we die

One month

The sun

And then

we die.

Weekly Writing Challenge: The Re-Meeting

Weekly Writing Challenge: 1,000 Words, Take Two
Your challenge this week is to write a post based on this picture: We see lots of possibilities in this photo:

Who are these people? What’s their relationship? Where are they? Are they saying hello or goodbye? Or something else altogether? Are they just clinging to one another to keep from sliding down the steep cobblestones? Who’s coming/going, and why? Where are they coming from/going to? Are the people behind them waiting for them? Are they happy for the couple, or irritated?

Your light is day

Dispersed upon waters of this world,

Of moon’s mourning face

Photographed upon decals

Of ice, thawing . . .

Freezing . . .

Thawing . . .

You, revealed everywhere:

Above the radiator’s row

Womanlips intoned a SutraSong,

Then recitations – your name.

Womanhood,

Reticent, silent,

Stunned, hardened;

Ignited, uncoiled,

Ascended. And incense

Was cologne you shun

Writing Challenge: No Water on Hillsides For My Red Rubber Boots

Daily Prompt: Free Association

Write down the first words that comes to mind when we say . . .

. . . home.

. . . soil.

. . . rain.

Use those words in the title of your post.

Home = Water. Soil = Hillsides. Rain = Red Rubber Boots.

There hasn’t been water for days. No rain. No sweat.

Not even a single solitary salty teardrop.

The landscape is coughing. Wheezing.

The river a mile away — dust at its mouth.

Hillsides like old corpses. Rotting. Collapsing.

Victimized by winds and gales.

Last week they rose above the rooftops; today they are the height of my rubber boots.

My brand new red rubber boots. The ones I wear when I dance for rain.

I am tired now. Who will dance for water?

Poem — Waiting

Waiting

(A Villanelle)

 

 

When he broke down he re-assembled as brandnew,

Waiting this time on the outside of her door;

Waiting to tell her of all he’d been through.

He stared across the park to a crowded avenue,

Choking compulsions to settle the score.

When he broke down he re-assembled as brandnew.

It was August when the smoke of a distant barbecue

Brought memories of childhood and strength to endure.

Waiting to tell her of all he’d been through.

How could words convey all that he knew:

Barred windows, night demons, an unpadded floor?

When he broke down he re-assembled as brandnew,

Loosening the laces. He removed only one shoe.

The blade wasn’t long – only meant to reassure.

Waiting to tell her of all he’d been through.

The scars in his chambers were throbbing – still sore.

A tune in his head – the same as before.

When he broke down he re-assembled as brandnew,

Waiting to tell her of all he’d been through.

Poem — “A Ritual”

I am afraid to stand in this forest

to interrupt hoofprints

photographed on the turf

A surge of birds gathers for a ritual

I cover myself with the blanket of their chants