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.
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
