Other poets on frost and snow

JACK FROST HIEROGLYPHICS
by the late Verna Lee Hinegardner
(from I Own One Star, 2005)

This morning every window in my house
was twinkling like a sky-borne melody
crisscrossing words that stir a memory
and I recall how icy panes around
the child in me. My fingernail snow-plows

initials in cold frost; and instantly
I need my Mommy's arms to comfort me
with tales of Santa Claus and Mickey Mouse.

I'm older now but still love Jack Frost Art
and search for hieroglyphics each cold day.
Folks claim that I'm naïve; can't understand.
My own grandkids think maybe it's the start
of Alzheimer's. Someday, like I, they'll say,
"My Lord can etch glass windows, hearts and sand."
~ ~ ~
SPLINTER
by Carl Sandburg
(from Arrow Book of Poetry, 1965)

The voice of the last cricket
across the first frost
is one kind of good-by.
It is so thin a splinter of singing.
~ ~ ~
III THE HUNTERS IN THE SNOW
by William Carlos Williams
(from a longer poem, "Pictures from Brueghel"
in Selected Poems, 1969)

The over-all picture is winter
icy mountains
in the background the return

from the hunt it is toward evening
from the left
sturdy hunters lead in

their pack the inn-sign
hanging from a
broken hinge is a stag a crucifix

between his antlers the cold
in yard is
deserted but for a huge bonfire

that flares wind-driven tended by
women who cluster
about it to the right beyond

the hill is a pattern of skaters
Brueghel the painter
concerned with it all has chosen

a winter-struck bush for his
foreground to
complete the picture   .    .
~ ~ ~

 

Verna Lee Linxwiler Hinegardner, 1919 - 2012

 

Requiem for a poet

 

A poet is dead

and unsaid words

hover restlessly

like birds gathered

on the edge of the nest

feathered to fly.

 

Your words--

sometimes they scowl

like midnight owls

sometimes they chatter

like guinea hens

sometimes they prowl

like hungry hounds.

 

Today, your words

echo re-echo

grinding a groove

in my heart.

I need more words.

Humbly I plead:

one more poem, dear poet,

to muffle silence.

--VLH, published in The Saline Courier, Poets Forum edited by Don Crowson October 11, 2012

~~

 

Daughter - age 5 - Golfing with Daddy

 

Aren't you glad that I came, Daddy?

Won't we have a lot of fun?

Can I wear your golf hat, Daddy?

I can't see inside the sun!

 

Let me splash the water, Daddy,

Just like you did with a ball.

Look at all the tulips, Daddy!

Can't I pick some?      None at all?

 

Can I dig a tunnel, Daddy,

Just like you did in the sand?

Let me rake the sandpile, Daddy.

Hey, you jerked my little hand!

 

Daddy, I can't find your golf ball.

Is it still up in the tree?

Oh! You said a bad word, Daddy.

Wait till Mom hears that from me!

 

I don't want to go home, Daddy.

You are going the wrong way!

Can I drive the golf cart, Daddy?

Can we play again some day?

--VLH, published in Seven Ages of Golf (for Women), 1980

~~~~

 

Mosaic

 

Mosaic pieces in this book

are steps I took

along the way

to reach today.

Each piece of life, when put in place

has helped me face

what's yet to be.

Soon, now, we'll see

the final picture my life drew

and I'll show you

my wants, my needs,

my words, my deeds.

--VLH, from the front cover of her last book, Mosaic, published 2011

~~~~

 

Verna Lee never copyrighted her books. "Reprints Appreciated" she always said.

For more information on Verna Lee, see my Pitty Patter blog for 10.11.12 and go to www.rollerfuneralhomes.com (Conway AR) for an obituary. Also, she is included in the Central Arkansas Library's Online Encyclopedia.





One poet's explanation of a cinquain

Plucked from inside one of my poetry books (while searching for a poem with April in the title) was a stark white sheet of paper with the top half defining the subject of the cinquain poetry pattern.
Since former Arkansas Poet Laureate Verna Lee Hinegardner loves for anyone to reprint her poems, I take the liberty to transcribe her definition and her poems.

She writes: "If I asked you what a Cinquain is and you said it was a 5 line poem, you would be correct. Or if you said it was a poem with a syllable count of 2,4,6,8,2, you would be correct.
But an Adelaide Crapsy Cinquain is a bit different. An Adelaide Crapsy Cinquain is written in strict Iambic Meter. The beat is "Unstressed - stressed" and this beat demands a strong accent at the end of each line. It can be either light or serious--but generally the last line has a bit of a twist. It must have a title. The title should not be one of the lines, and should be something that does not tell the outcome. Twenty-two syllables plus a title. Leave off all sham, all vanity."

Here is one of Adelaide Crapsy's (sometimes spelled Crapsey) cinquain:

TRIAD

There be
three silent things:
the falling snow ... the hour
before the dawn ... the mouth of one
just dead.
~~

Here are two of Poet Laureate Hinegardner's prize-winning Cinquains:

THE AWAKENING

Useless
as one limp glove,
the widow twists her ring
until she learns she has to stir
the stew.
~~

EMPTY ARMS

Old folks
are vacant barns
with empty lean-to arms
that reach to guard those precious things
long gone.
~~