Saturday, January 18, 2020


 When I started writing this poem the snow was still held at bay,
but the winds have escalated and begin to add substance 
to the forecast of a big storm today.

The sky hangs low with unshed snow
The wailing wind begins to blow
Into each crevice, crease and nook
The vines that drape the boist’rous brook
Rattle; summer’s skeletal trace
Like scattered spools of tangled lace
Or ink-stains from a stoppered sea
That spilled vague strains of poetry
Still waiting to be recognized
By brittle frond and sprig disguised

The grumbling gale bullies the bush
And rakes the woodland’s solemn hush
A hoodlum looking for a fight
Harassing everything in sight
It storms the streets and marketplace
A hunter eager to give chase
To any unsuspecting prey
Not battened down or tucked away
So hang onto your hat, my friend
Or you may not see it again

The wind-chill seeps through walls it seems
And wakens simple fireside dreams
It makes the courtier of books
Content in modest, nested nooks
Where wanderlust’s tug is assuaged
Twixt sips of tea and turn of page
And everywhere we wish to roam
Does not compare to home, sweet home
Where paper ships on paper seas
Transport us anywhere we please

So, let the weight of lowered height
Burst through barred gates in white o’er white
White petals and white butterflies
White diamond-studded stars and sighs
White whispers on a white-washed path
White garnish on white aftermath
Unbroken save the curlicue
That spirals from the chimney flue
Or here and there a little bird
By ruffled feathers undeterred

© Janet Martin

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Thank-you for stopping by my porch! I hope you were blessed by the visit! I welcome and appreciate, if thought you care to speak; the value and the input of compliment or critique