Winter poems, photos

                                           Annamarie Parker photo


Pointillism

One petunia bloom, two pansies,
three demure oxalis, many holly,
California Moon Vine
berries, early jonquils inside
(forced) and blooming in the yard––points
delightful during winter’s gloom.
Add redbirds, robins, thrashers, jays.
Now all our palette needs is snow.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

A Winter Mélange

        

         On Epiphany,

         the aroma

         of roasting turkey—

         bought for Christmas

         but not needed—delights

         with homey fragrance,

                                                              and the first snowfall soothes

         with white stillness.

         Large windchimes

         play what sounds like

         the opening notes

         of “We Three Kings.”

         It’s possible.

         On Christmas,

         I heard them play the “Silent

         Night” motif.

         I eat ice cream and fruitcake

         in front of the fire.

         The cat sidles up for a rub.

         His fur, like a warm blanket,

         reminds me that winter

         doesn’t last forever.

ON THE DAY AFTER CHRISTMAS – a parody

On the day after Christmas in twenty-sixteen,

in summer-like weather like we’ve never seen,

I sit on the porch swing with wassail to drink

and hope that this pen doesn’t run out of ink

before I can transcribe this writing that’s new.

(If so, there’re others—some black and some blue.)

The leftover food now resides in my fridge.

(When some folks have none, it’s a great sacrilege.)

But guests wouldn’t think of transporting it home.

“Just compost it!” one said. “It’ll end up as loam.”

But I wasn’t ready to do that just yet;

perhaps friends will drop by, or neighbors, unmet.

Two bottles of eggnog for seasonal use

unopened for two feasts—what can I deduce?

The wind’s getting cranky--it may drive me in—

and dark clouds are scudding—are storms to begin?

The ‘climate-change’ pooh-poohers make an excuse:

“Anomaly,” they say, “This change is a ruse.”

While scientists measure the overall change

proclaim, “Yes, indeed, but it’s within range.”

(Digression’s my forte—let’s get to the point

of this parody, memoir; it’s time to anoint

today’s poem’s center, its action, its meat,

its meaning, emotional crux, and its heat.)

This summer-like weather--anomaly, yes--

will be soon forgotten in winter’s duress.

But lo! even winter can’t outlast the sun

and the tilt of the earth. Before long, winter’s done.

Soon, springtime has sprung; summer’s in on a wing.

When temps rise to sixty, I’ll be back on the swing.

 

                           Couchwood in an earlier year

c 2019, PL, dba lovepat press, Benton AR USA