Stop me if you've heard this before: snow, sleet, freezing rain, windy, cold.  See what I mean about Winter?  The Old Man doesn't want to go.  Winter should be the very definition of tenacity.
     In keeping with the weather, I thought one last Winter poem was appropriate.  This one came from a pleasant conversation I had some years back with a substitute teacher with whom I was sharing lunch duty.

Winterizing

 

A man I know came to Pennsylvania

from East Texas.  It happened that we met

during the height of winter's worst weather:

January snow, sleet, and freezing rain,

which, naturally, was the focal point

of our discourse.  Apparently, winter

in East Texas brings frequent and severe

ice storms to coat the very large pine trees,

the boughs of which weaken under the weight

and snap thundering far across the land.

He told me of standing outside to hear

the echoing boom of breaking branches

exploding in war-like cacophony,

as if the end of all time were at hand.

But no; no tanks, not one enemy plane,

no hordes of camouflaged men who pretend

they can't be seen, but are (Death has sharp eyes).

The damage he described was limited

to any number of power losses -

sometimes for hours; sometimes days on end.

"However," he said with great emphasis,

"no loss of life."

                           I'd like to recommend

to every leader of every country

a week of winter spent in East Texas.

If nothing else, the noise from those iced limbs

crashing time and again, with brief reprieve,

might bring about more consideration

before arriving at the decision

to send hundreds of thousands of good men

and women they don't know to their demise.

Perhaps not.  Men think nothing of the ease

with which they kill each other.  Yet, each freeze

in East Texas must bring words much like these:

"It's such a shame about all those pine trees."

 



     I have a volume of winter poems prefaced with a Foreward written by Donald Hall, former United States Poet Laureate and one of my favorite contemporary poets.  The first line of said Foreward is simply this:

Winter is always again.

 

      It's a beautifully correct statement and a line I wish I had written.  I quote it often.

 

     Today's post is one of my own winter poems, originating from something I had seen several years ago.

 

Snow Gull

 

As if the February snow

had gathered its collective will,

refusing acquiescence to

 

the March sun, knowing Spring would grow

where once was white upon the hill,

unfolding wings away it flew

 

beyond the sky that laid it low;

beyond the frozen remnants, still

searching, perhaps, for what it knew

 

is where a Winter wraith should go.

A phoenix risen from the chill:

white on white hiding in plain view.

 



      The concept of time - past, present, future - has always intrigued me, moreso after having successfully reached and relegated the half century mark in my own life.  I now find myself often contemplating the inevitability of my own mortality, tangible (not in the sense of being solid as the pen with which I write but rather to be as weighty as the sum total of every breath I have remaining) enough to feel it each time I feel the need to look over my shoulder only to find nothing there.
     In the first two lines of his poem The Paradox of Time , 19th century poet Henry Austin Dobson wrote:

Time goes, you say?  Ah no!

                                                           Alas, Time stays, we go.

 

     Concise and perfect.  Enough said.  Game over.

     Tonight we turn our clocks ahead and, by all accounts, lose an hour which none of us can afford to lose.  I offer here my own poem which, admittedly, collects and employs a number of cliches to present a sobering reality.

 

 

Equinox

 

Gain an hour.  Time has come.

Time of day; time of year;
time to spare; time will tell;
time out; timepiece; time line;
time goes on; time goes by;
time and tide wait for none.
Time heals all wounds.  Time was...
Time is short; time to go;
time flies; time fades; time's up.
Time of death.  Lose an hour.


     Now look at it again and realize that the poem consists of 10 lines, six syllables to each line, for a total of 60 syllables.  60 seconds in a minute; 60 minutes in an hour...

    * I am not certain how to complete my profile.  However, I am interested in any thoughts or comments readers wish to share with me.  My email address is: Iampentam@aol.com.





 



  

     They say (and by the way, exactly who is this unseen, omniscient, ubiquitous collective known only as "They?") that it is not how old you are but how old you feel that matters.  Fair enough.  I am approximately eight weeks shy of my 52nd birthday, and most of the time I don't feel a day over 65.    

     This first draft of this poem was written on the evening of August 18, 2007.  I was rocking on my front porch, recovering from an annual and very physical training and re-certification day for a program called Safe Crisis Management.  As I was hydrating with a few adult beverages, an antique Classic Car drove by.  The rest, as "they" say,...



Old

 

Driving an old car down the old highway

(referred to as Old Bloom Road), the old man

must feel young again.  His car washed and waxed,

jet black as if recently off the line,

its age betrayed only by Classic Plates,

runs silently, certain it still belongs

among the newer models.

                                          Then it's gone,

passed quickly, and I can't help but wonder

as I sit in the cooling August dusk

debating if summer has been too dry

to build a fire, if my own plates betray

forty-six years, or worse, how old I feel.