Dozens of alarm clocks squawk
– these darling starlings –
speak sun, speak beams,
speak corn snow soon to go,
squawk sun loaded bullets
to snow below – warning squawks fired.
Light flickers behind our shut eyes,
the Greek Chorus sings: yellow beaks
speak spring, speak spring! Awake!
We are here. We are here!
we rumble-clatter-rumble-clatter by
cracked grey barns
school buses in the yard
deer hobbyhorses support
turkeys forage orts Continue reading
Will work for cookies.
Pat stamps fast tracks –
tap tap taps.
Baas assays Pat’s annals,
yack yack yacks,
alarms Pat. Nay ‘scape.
Can’t sass. Facts am facts.
Pat drafts a brash plan,
charts tasks, basks –
ha ha ha – all’s grand and
all that. At last, Baas marks
Pat A1 – nay spat – pays scant.
Alas, tax man grabs all back.
Sun glides over snow, checks the pulse of earth, cracks open the ribs of this black morning, revives light. Colour rises, rosy – respires.
Dawn yawns, inhales grey, exhales pink. Later, when the day dons blue we force ourselves out. For the dog. Why else venture into frozen lung territory where breath pinches nostrils, a sign not all pink is benign.
We creep across the snow crust, wish it were pie crust we could eat instead of feeling eaten. Snow bites our feet. Where did my toes go?
We unpin icicles from the roof, chew blue, become the hue because this is what we do in winter – respire*.
*I’m tinkering with the word respire which means to breathe, but also has an older definition meaning “to recover hope, courage, or strength after a time of difficulty.” I like the idea that winter is a period of recovery, not just something awful to be endured and gotten through. And of course every dawn is just that – hope for a better day.
Here’s a musical take on blue for you, something mellow to sip your coffee by. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z4PKzz81m5c – Chet Baker – Almost Blue
I read your poem “Town Watches Them Take Alfonso” this morning as I cradled a cup of coffee, caffeine infusing my bloodstream. My heart rate rose with each sip. Its bitter mouthwash browned my teeth, a consequence I live with because I like the ritual.
Some people practice morning writing but I start the day with a poem that is delivered to me from Poets.org which is how I found you. Afterwards, I sometimes write a poem inspired by lines read or sometimes I free-write based on the resulting brew in my head. Occasionally I read the daily poem aloud in the car as my husband drives me to work tunneling through the darkest winter months with high beams of beautiful words. Continue reading
Knows no law,
is a commie country,
knows the value
of a single
but only works
in the collective.
without a mass
Too, there are
Still it falls
it all, the
on the fly.
Sitting beside a man who uses a scalpel and
who knows what’s inside your brain can be
unnerving. Continue reading
just plain truth Continue reading
This singing maple tree
and her choir of leaves bless
me with an airy cantata. Continue reading
This latté cost more than these jeans
bought at the thrift store next door –
a balanced economy, declined and consumable. Continue reading