Snowflakes

Beginning as I am,
I have no perception of destination’s depth;

no more so than a snowflake,
when dropped from its cloud into the swirling
wind, can know the spot where it will land,
or if, when grounded, it will be rolled 
into a ball and thrown, or placed within some
 frozen ménage à trios and violated
with carrots and coal.

Perhaps we both shall simply melt
away in the light of warmer suns.

But this will be made known, 
as I am beginning.

Morning Forecast

Your cold front approaches 
to lower my frigid airs;
proximity heats the atmosphere,
as barometric pressure rises
clearing cobweb clouds from my skies—
all’s clear for a morning drive.  

Cryogenic Memory

Yesterday, returning home,
I passed the courts of aspiration— now void 
of their nylon dream catchers that long 
ago passed sentence on my skills—
incased in ice and snow, lying silent, 
pleading against self-incrimination 
for capital infractions against my pride.

I served well there— often subpoenaed 
by my sense of duty to reward 
my defendant’s parting with love; 
the typical judgment for incompetence—
but my last court date concluded 
with my opponent’s closing arguments 
exposing my backhanded weakness,
awarding me a net loss; a memory 
indelibly frozen in my mind.

Sensitive Teeth

The wind has teeth today;
the sensitive to heat type,
which bite, chew and swallow up 
every single digit of fair and height
aspiring molecules, plunging them
onto a bed of icy stalagmites—
hotdogs on a stick, saved against
midnight’s craving for warmth.

Royal Rejections

My new telescope begs
and audience with Orion
but an atmospheric curtain stands 
between their proper introduction— 
not to mention taking ones hands out 
of pockets and gloves risks their  being bitten;
but nothing really Sirius, dog-gone-it, 
as his chasing of Brer Rabbit and Brahma 
is obscured by the cloudy underbrush as well; 
though I think I can hear Brer pleading: 
“Please sir, don’t tar us" as he leaps away.

Queen Narnia, it seems, is scarce 
with her permissions to allow 
a mere meeting with a son of Adam.

Snow Day

The crawler at the bottom of my screen
distracts me from tonight’s drama on DVR;

It was the same last night, as parents everywhere 
scrambled to arrange for the use of sick days or vacation time 
to maintain the integrity of  their children’s well being and care;
Protecting our kids is job one! And protected they were, 
safely sheltered in their local malls, theaters, and social haunts. 

I hit pause on my remote: 
If only Jack Bauer were here.


Every school from A to Z, both here and there are, without exception closed, 
due to tomorrow’s foreboding forecast of freezing temperatures; Stay tuned 
to this station for further updates…

Epiphany of a Sonneteer

It is a misnomer to think 
weather affects only the climate:
 
Shoulders rotate warm to cold,
Eyes get covered by icy glares,
and yes,
the brain can freeze as well.

Such was mine until
 
I felt realization’s warmth rush over
the glaciered habits of my pen
and melt, if but for a moment,
the need to number 
my syllables. 

Antheartica

Of all the places I’ve known
no continent is as cold
no terra firma frozen as solid
no tract of real estate so densely desolate
as the heart  
that cannot 
love
will not 
forgive
and shall not 
embrace
anything but its own blue wrist
with its own icy fingers 
to verify the lack 
of a pulse 

Missing Mr. R

The canvas of my picture window
is painted differently.

I remember 
snow days from school 
filled with lessons 
on projectile physics;
the laws of leverage and symmetry;
summing the weight ratios for 
the perfect igloo;
and drawing blueprints for snow forts.

There are none 
of these on this canvas; 

just gray skies and slush;
the brine protection blanket 
on my car; and a driveway 
that remains unshoveled.  

Charting Cronos

I’m weary
now as Saturn commences
sailing southwesterly across the cold black sea
through the armada of beacons
marking the positions of other vessels—
some older, more storied, than itself,
but rare and few who’s standards
stand taller upon their masts.

I chart its course with hopes
of catching a glimpse of the ripples
extending outward from its hull,
or perhaps a few of its faithful
attendants tethered to its pull.

But I’m weary now, and it won’t pass
by my port for several hours— notorious
for its relentless, yet steady pace.

So I will guard myself against
the chill of winter’s night; docking
my dingy in its berth, retiring
to the comfort of wife, bed, and the hope
that dreams will bring warmer voyages.

Lifeless winter’s day

Lifeless winter’s day
no maple leaves to curl up;
new storm’s approaching

five inches of snow

five inches of snow
add another inch of ice;
coca makes life warm.

Spring’s Training

Today, Spring began training
for the coming season
when bunts begin to bloom 
on polished tree branches, 
smoothed. measured, and weighted
to produce the perfect crack
when lighting strikes and thunder rolls
amid the wave of cheerful seas.

It’s been a while 
since it’s been able to stretch, 
and every year it takes a little longer 
to wind up and get the kinks out
sans throwing out its back. Stopping 
is not an option, especially when being squeezed
and the pressure sometimes signals suicide
as a viable alternative. 

The learning curves are wicked, 
and hope often drops off the table—
but striking out at the teacher
does not give the right to run home;
Spring never cries, it sweats—
precipitating floods of joy
that the attempts to steal the baseline
dignities and meaning of life
by winter’s foul days have been in error.

2/18/60

Today 
moonlight came

to light a fetus night
whose murky waters splashed 
despair against the imprisoning 
walls of the womb. 

Reflection would be birthed
in time, illuminating brighter joys—

the dancing whitecaps of waves that crash,
crushing rock and shell into the sand 
with which we build our castled dreams,
only to wash them away in eternal froth—

joys
that would become 
the glint in my eyes
tomorrow.