Subnivean
Like varicose veins
in the thinning snow, the dark
tunnels of the voles.
My garbage is nothing
but coffee grounds, each morning
wrapped in its filter-shroud.
I miss summer:
those small millipedes that glide
across the bathroom floor.
Poems on the topic: snow
Poems on the topic “snow” on Poets.by.
Painted Trillium
Trillium undulatum
Painted lady, late riser,
you rush out of the ground,
get pollinated on the fly
sometimes before
your petals fully open,
so that within one day
after emergence they are
already turning translucent,
your pink makeup fading
as the light-flooded
forest dims to leaf-out.
But that’s your true
element, isn’t it?
The shade.
Even unpollinated
Cibola 3
I awake in the dark and shake free
of sheets & blankets, of down-filled
quilt. The rituals of waking–
the long, hot shower, the coffee–give
my mind the chance to keep drifting,
let memory make what it will
of the contours of sleep.
Oddest of all are the dreams in which
one awakes, forgetting all rituals.
And it seems normal to go out naked,
for instance, in the middle of winter.
The snow’s alive, remember?
It ripples, blue flames slip
through the trees like fish.
I feel fur sprouting all along my spine.
* * *
Morning to evening; half a day lost,
staring out the window apone a green meadow.
I wanted to know just one true thing
about my very own soul,
but left in thought and now -
2-inchs of snow lay
on that once green meadow.
Where did I go? How long did I
seek out for you?, who would never leave me,
my very own witness, my here.
Without Sorrow
Stiff was the stringed bow as it was laid to rest
Upon the pile of ferns after a long hard test
The quiver empty and the arrow about
The beast had fought, yes it was stout
A hunger had settled upon my community
Til it was left only to me to do what I could see
To make it through the winter
A puff of smoke from my mouth stood starkly in the air
Reminded me of last night's frost and the snow in my daughter's hair
It's not a woman's place to hunt for her families table
A husband lost to a war so unstable
The blood stood bright against the white of the snow
Warm almost comforting against the sudden cold
I cut and I skinned right straight to the bone
The Flake
So close,
So far away,
Ubiquitous,
Non-existent,
I feel your warmth when you’re near,
The times few and far between,
The laughs and smiles that we share,
Before you vanish from the scene,
I call to prompt conversation,
Never certain that you’ll answer,
Naively hopeful for a response,
Typically ending in disappointment,
Out of the blue you call,
To talk and catch up,
Feeling the same chemistry as before,
Feeling as though we never stopped,
Haiku 51
Dressed for dinner, she
leaves out water for the crows
in her coat and mask
Low hangs a boiled moon
fingers stick up through the sand
farewell to low tides
No one notices
much about anything
so I think I'm safe
Dry dirt tossed over
my blind brain at mid-evening
three layers of black
Wakizashi
behind glass at the museum
whose hand drew it last?
Little girl chases
Silent Cries
Softly floating around the town,
The snowflakes gently fell
So quiet they scarcely made a sound.
From each delicate lace they were bound
To hold a secret they wished to yell,
Softly floating around the town.
Intricate details carefully wound,
Dirt or blood you could not tell.
So quiet they scarcely made a sound.
Each landed gracefully in a mound,
Hiding the fate that she befell,
Softly floating around the town.
The snowflakes twisted and turned around,
Much like performing for clientele,
So quiet they scarcely made a sound.
With beauty carefully crowned,
A Freak of Nature
A freak of nature lies on a bed of soft snow
The air is still
The world is quiet
The sky is clear
The stars look down upon this freak of nature
A million eyes gaze kindly on this twisted form
There is no judgment in this night
It is beautiful
In the morning
There will be no trace left
No one will know this freak of nature was here at all
But for now it rests sweetly and all is right
Haikus
Bright, yet beautiful
Light fills the room with a glow,
Almost like Heaven.
Autumn shaded leaves
Fall gracefully to the ground,
Lighter than laughter.
The constant burn of
The sun, lingers on your skin
More stable than love.
A winter wind blows
Snow, across a field of black
Like our differences.
A hard rain falls down,
Causing a pool to ripple
Like problems we face.
Poised, and elegant
Immortality
Its spine broken and torn
Leaves left devoured by silverfish,
Corners crumbling with age -
My hands tremble as I open the book.
Carefully, tenderly, I turn the frontispiece -
Shabby, tattered yet holding up together
With a dignity that only books can have -
I shake out the dust and faecal matter.
The book is still silent, slightly embarrassed
But not showing any -
Like my mother, paralysed
As I clean her with wet cotton blobs.
In the left corner of the first page
The book said -
‘With all good wishes to my son’
Signed, my father, forty years ago.
THE HAPPIEST OF THEM ALL
Illusive whiteness covers the ground
on the happiest of them all.
Fantastic. Festive. Familiar.
Where there are joyful faces, lit with expectation, lit with innocence and hope.
Where there is wishful thinking and dreaming, perhaps, for the daylight to make all their needs into flesh and blood.
Flesh. And blood.
On the happiest of them all, the fog, the dim light, the cold silent darkness is subduing the image.
My image.
On the happiest of them all, my bones ache and my muscles are tearing.
I apologize.
For you to have remembered the features of my face.
For kind, soft words we've spoken so many times.
For being the representation of a lot less than you deserve.
I apologize.
Describe a feeling — we’ll find a poem
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