Tag Archives: cold

Painting In The Park

What a beautiful day to paint in the park. Sitting here with my two friends painting and listening to music. I paint a campfire and serpent under a starry sky. I feel the cool air and the grass under my fingers, canvas under my brush. Dandelions dot the shaggy fields of green clovers, shining up and into me like stars shine down on particularly clear night. The purple padding of an open guitar case starkly contrasts these greens and yellows, an idiosyncrasy in a field of found flowers. I can’t believe I woke up hungover.

Hangover

My head’s hurt

So brief and so curt

Hard to put together

Birds of a feather

I can’t think

Fearing now that i should sink

Lost forever, deep in the drink

Missing against a backdrop sewn from mink

Protagonist

Antagonist

Both atop the list

Either way you’ve got the gist

Ein Geist

A spirit or a ghost

Caught in a vice

How gracious a host

Birds scream and sing outside the window

As grass in the wind winnows

A cold day today

There through the window, Sunshine, A ray!

Probably 6:45?

Busy, busy, busy. So much to do, so little time. Yanked in every direction by the passing threads and hands of everything and everyone who’d simply like to reach out. Many thoughts and many feelings fly about in my head, rushing one way or another, always making sure their near misses are just close enough to give me a heart attack. I do hope you enjoy the poem today. What a wonderful day it is.

Sinisterium

How the bell tolls

Sounding at the hour

Not to mark the time

But something much more dour

That taste in your mouth

Errant vicissitude

Turn from sweet to sour

Ashes then and ashes now

Ring around the Rosie

And we all fall down

A cacophony of sirens

Binding men in liar’s irons

See there so hidden in the fog

There the pyres, there the pylons

Sinister in their construction

Obscure in their function

Can you hear them shrieking?

Can you hear their desperation?

Mark the date

For your infernal consultation

I set the scene

You play the part

Watch right there

Shadows in the dark

Ready, Set, Lose

In the words of a man who may or may not exist, “If you ain’t first, you’re last.” How can you feel what it’s like to win if you’re not the best? What’s it feel like to be at the top? The bottom? With no way we can all be first, let’s talk about what it’s like to lose. How’s it feel to never be good enough? To never be the first pick? Even the last pick gets recognition. But what does it feel like to get picked third to last? ———PS: Follow and share links are at the very bottom of every post, near the comments, as well as ways to donate at the bottom of the about me section if anyone would like to support my writing further. Thanks everybody for the resounding support I’ve had so far!

Stasis

your strength fades

no light behind the eyes

all that’s left are shades

all that’s left are lies

growing and multiplying

now metastasizing

weaker and weaker you wane

as your disease waxes

christ alive

lost your drive

hope is gone

missing the sun

muscles atrophied

bones of glass

pallid face

and glossy eyes

still breathing

light already leaving

you lost the fight

how pathetic a sight

Playing in the Snow

Good morning, everybody! Another wonderful day filled with cold. Good luck to everyone–I hope no one loses power today. I have another little poem today that’s in the spirit of an icy snow day.

Ice man

these fallen timbers

sum of somber shivers

it is very cold out today 

almost makes you want to wish the snow away

silent snow, nothing to say

these cobbled stones

amid avian tones

clocktower. clocktowers. in the distance

ticking. tocking. across the expanse

something, somewhere has put you in a trance

how frigid the sights

how tasteful the noise

something in the rearview bites

acting with spectral poise

hungry for more

but oh so sore

play that fiddle boy

but careful now, that’s no toy

you best hope to bring me joy

Feb 3rd, 2022

Well, today’s my first post. Weird to me to be actually posting these somewhere. I wrote this one this morning while I watched the cold overtaking the street outside.

Nightmares

streetlights hang over freshly fallen snow

it’s quiet, so quiet…

crystal falls, no seeds to sow

there’s something there, can you spy it?

fields of ice and billows of cold

as birds go south

searching for some hand to hold

finding naught but downturned mouth

lying there, asleep at night

frigid, freezing

dreaming, discouraged, with all your might

something seen, not so pleasing

frozen branches

play with windows

missing tranches

and biting wind winnows

legions of little limpid structures

covered street and hiding stone

slipping and sliding at all the junctures

spied through the window, all alone