Archives for posts with tag: Winter

the hope of winter is the return of light
that is the beginning of winter

the hope of winter shines through crystalline sleep
reflects in the prismatic dreams of flowers beneath

that’s why we call them snow banks

the hope of winter is measured in the length of sun beams
traversed frozen as we dream; in frozen time the clock

still runs; snow dances, shutter stutters, land dreams
sky falls, and it waits there for those who care to see

the symmetrical event — what beauty conceals is hers to reveal
the return of light in turn conceives — for those who dare to be

with her in that exact moment — when winter smiles


I turn the wrong corner
and I’m stuck in a line up of cars
behind the garbage truck.

The road has been reduced
to one lane due to snow.
The kid walking by wearing

a South American cap — the one
with tassels so it looks like you
have braids — glares at me

as I smile at him; in passing he reveals
the snow bank lining the sidewalk,
scrawled with canine urine graffiti.

I’d like to say “Look up people,
it’s a bright day — see how that sun
shines, it’s getting warmer every moment.”

Our line moves on, cars shuffle forward,
and as we move past the garbage truck,
now brilliant auburn in setting sun,

our cars paint silhouettes on its side,
a flickering parade of etched moments,
a roadside film made by camera refuse.

Landscape in A minor swing set, frozen
twisted shapes, climbing bars ice cast
into weird sculptures, though those are here
as well: giant yellow duck, mounted on an axle
spring from a truck — it’s a rocking duck —
it was all the rage once but still it smiles as
frosted lips blow a kiss from an orange bill.

Since I forgot the craft of poetry, I know,
I can learn a lot
from this off limit crystalline paradise,
no longer place of play. It says, “Terribly,
awfully, your life will end miserably.” That’s
all I need to know — I’m going to create some
thing from anything whenever I want, however I want —
I can be in the dark, without inspiration, miserable,
and all I need to do is sing what is in front of me.

The padded mats to save precious little butts don’t mean much
the sky matters — it is cold, blue and covered in thin white clouds;
that’s poetic;
the sun matters, it is the size of a dime and worth as much —
regrets — I have a few.
This land that stretches between my outstretched arms matters;
all this is mine.
No — it is the time that stretches between these outstretched hands
that matters;

you only belong to what you do.

It falls so easily, each flake
an individual, so many, so often.

It is beautiful. Everything it covers becomes
beautiful. If you live with winter you cannot wait
to share it with those who have never seen snow.

It is impossible to describe, the fear, the beauty.
Truth laid as bare as you could ask and it is
not white — it is blank and conceals all.

Purity is cold; snow is warmth.
You can live in a house of snow.

The stitch of streetlamps, cars, dim filtered sun
create webs of brilliance within each flake.
You can hold out your hand and catch rainbows,

stick out your tongue and taste them,
roll them up into snowmen that will blaze with the
light of a million miniature stars.

Winter winds may blow but they cannot deflect us;
life is snow, repetition does not perfect us.

sky meets horizon seamlessly,
blue seeps between air and ground alike,
tinctures that cannot be considered pastel,
that will not reveal hidden hollows between,
hide all and in hiding, banish black from sight

blank sky joins snow bound roofs, each rising
to Olympian heights, make the lip of a ski jump
for gods to compete upon, even though they
descend through a cloud of impenetrability,
bereft of the usual symbols, rainbows, showers of
flowers, angels singing, columns of flame, instead
they soar past invisibly, indiscriminate in flight

in winter the colour grey is iridescent, parallax
lenses that chart the intimate loss of brilliance,
discover subtle streaks of indigo, emerald, evening
regal strands of purple, faded gold, woven into
plain tattered cloth, its nap imperceptible

<< Almost two years ago I started this blog as “12 Books in a Year”. I included 3 Seasons suggesting each was a book. That would fall under the category exaggeration. The intent has always been to publish a complete book The 4 Seasons. But that would require a complete book. I was missing Spring.
Consequently, I have been working on Spring. And in the process of working on Spring poems, I wrote more Winter poems — which is fitting as it is still winter. For now, the blog is re-titled Winter. The poems to follow are additional to the ones already posted under the title Winter. That has to make sense.
Spring will follow. That, too, seems to make sense. — wm >>

It is early Spring in Toronto
and the smell of melting earth
is electric and alive.

City pulses quick
anticipating refoliation
I drive like a maniac
in a white rusted company car

knight charger in pursuit of the
twenty four hour day and the dangers
of falling asleep drunk with whimsy
within the pregnant park, mad dream

to drift beneath the soil, world
of shadow, or wherever winter goes
in the summer — and suddenly

there on the rail siding, sliding
beside me—One More Cruel Joke—
rusted brown CP, CN flatbeds and
rockers—the spine of the country

all conflict, broken promises and compromise
there they are—filled with snow
layers and layers like loaves
fresh from the oven, lessons in history

geography, politics and a crystalline
Mesopotamic moment—cars and cars
and cars filled with snow— we’re bound
to be defeated— they’re shipping snow South!

The bastards! They hate Toronto so much
they’ll bury us in snow the moment we think
we got out—I know these cars spent the night
in Sudbury, Sault Ste Marie or Temagami

makes no difference to me.

Now I know it can’t be defeated
brought down, bought or sold,
won’t lie down, go away, never admit
its teeth are less sharp
though we battle in Pago Pago
or Waikiki Bay.

I roll on my back like a husky
attacked by its teammates,
too weak to fight back,
too weak to surrender,
bare my throat to you
Storm, Wind of Ice, Frozen
Lethal Water who ignores me.
I bless thee Father Winter
for these Thy lessons.

<this poem ends my 11th book>

The binding of boots,
is matched by mufflings
of thick cloth, scarves, gloves
to meet slush caked to concrete—
Winter is the day
you discover a new song
that promises so much.

A change of climate.
A change of heart.
No hesitation.
No compromise.

Winter cuts away years
and makes a new day.
The palimpsest challenges
the ever-changing record
of personal evidence writ,
then destroyed, but now
melted resolve is fast frozen.
We walk upon empty promises,
unafraid to promise again,
to dream, desperate to be free,
despite that which binds us.



colour of porphyry, South Sea coral,
seeps onto the horizon—dawn arrives
palest of children, gold poppet
with a hint of mortality about her

noon, the stare of sun matches
the coldest cop, the hardest beggar,
their contest danced between ragged
pedestrian breath snatched away

by sheets of unwritten white, whisked
up to the hammer blow of world
emptying at the top; winter sun shines
on a not so objective observer

we strive to roll the ball a little faster
as if our thoughts could move the sun
we seek to replace sere yellow with iridescent
fish finning summer school of memory

dusk proves there are no unnatural
colours as heaven indulges in an orgy
of neon pastels, and the sun pauses
to determine what is to come

we grasp a new thought found in vapour,
swirled by honing edge of winter, we see
light of memory is a seed of promise
winter sun dreams on — a not so distant star

<Happy New Year, may it be a great 2013 for you!>

recedes, combines unto itself,
it is better to see it up close;
to perceive it from afar is to
be seized with wonder
and fear that will chill
you to the bone

come in anyone
I am alone in my white cocoon
someone tell me it is a cave
open the door or turn me around

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