The worst of the snow,
balled together and sticking
to twisted twigs,
gave the illusion of a monster,
a snow monster.
Given life and breath
under icy skies,
it lifted its frozen eyes
to a landscape cruel and seasonal,
a tundra.
Abominable and frosty,
it thought of the eternal winter
as it hoped Spring
would not be sprung upon it.
A tender wish.
Fables would grow mentioning
a creature of delicate habits,
ferocious only when seen.
Teased, it would strike back
and stay alone.
Gone forever, so high the cost
That took from laughter to lies,
Your sense of home.
The referee between women,
Morphine, and cocktails, pacified,
Struggled with her lack of sobriety.
Sober as a judge, your own life.
Your leash cinched tightly.
Your words planned to
Balance on a knife’s edge.
Cruel words striking.
A life wasted, putting salt grains
In a jar with pickup sticks,
With Chopsticks.
Saki bottle,
Or gin, or rum, or morphine, her perfume.
Her pain, her lack:
Luring, alluring
Without humanity.
We lost you then, drowning, as
Tears raced upwards.
On Krampus night,
The elder ones wake.
The dance begins
In wild, old ways.
The children quiet, and
Listen in fear, as old
Krampus draws near.
Don’t be afraid,
My darling child.
Just close your eyes
and dream of time.
Auf Krampus Nacht,
Die älteren wecken,
Der Tanz beginnt
In wilden Wege.
Die Kinder ruhig, und
Hört in Angst, wie alten
Krampus kommt in der Nähe.
Haben Sie keine Angst,
Mein liebes Kind.
Einfach die Augen schließen
und träumen von der Zeit.
On Krampus night,
Strengthen the Old.
The wild dance ends
As night grows cold.
The winds will calm.
The cries will end, as old
Krampus draws near his end.
Don’t be afraid,
But sleep, my little child.
The morning comes.
You’ll open your eyes,
For the sun will shine.
Auf Krampus Nacht,
Oh, Stärkung der Ältesten.
Die wilden Tanzenden,
Als die Nacht wird kalt.
Die Winde wird zu beruhigen.
Die Schreie enden wird, so alt
Krampus naht seinem Ende.
Haben Sie keine Angst,
Aber der Schlaf, mein süßes Kind.
Der Morgen kommt.
Du wirst deinen Augen zu öffnen,
Für die Sonne scheinen.
@2015 Ann WJ White
Naughty snow knocking on my pavement,
glazing it with ice, seeking to thrill me with a ride
when I try to shovel the mountain of snow.
I’ll slide like a five year old in new rubber boots.
I’ll slide like an eight year old using an old cardboard box.
I’ll hide in my snow fort camouflaged by my white hair.
No one will seek out an old lady, bent with exertion.
I’ll make a snowman, a snow angel, a snow wall with
snow flowers, the world of white, bright even at dark.
Naughty old lady who never bothered to grow up.
Coals of fire upon their head, under their feet Candidates stand on stage Roaring with indignation and inspiration At the records naked, exposed. "Listen to what I say." "The streets are safer, sadder, humbler." "Last resort, lies, destruction." "We Pray. We are sorry they died." But they all nod their heads, Arm themselves. They shake their hands.
They all have words, long and short. Piles of words, tons of words Spewed out in fractious spite called Negotiating. Indifference? Pushed to speed of light responses By moderators moving swiftly with hawks' wings To criticize. Fists, rage, frustration, and discretions, Interrupted when an answer displeases The news, the mighty commentators.
Nice isn't nice. Pushing, shoving, biting, kicking, Threatening all who speak. Cautioning. Who listens, all the while? In silences, the dread of what will come echoes. If humanity can't be reached...
Source: The Drunk’s Protector
I was nineteen, full of life, student, musician, believer and happened upon A wall flower, sodden but sweet, A drunk, full of his nectar. A peaceful drunk Leaning upon a concrete wall Near the overused metaphor of a Greyhound Bus station. Of a bus stop occupied By the rushing middle class. Of a city overcoming change. A drunk, a target of easy mark Was found by another mark, A pointed mark. Perhaps needing ease from his demons. The voices listened and He took a knife, leaned, put it On the old man's neck. Close enough to shave. The audience breathed drama, Turning slowly, waiting for buses. Standing full of wisdom As far as they could go. Time froze. They were mannequins. Needs, Simply a phone in need of quarters, An operator call, But locked into movie reviews,newspapers,work, They were motionless. I was nineteen then. Full of life, a 1945 wooden case that protected my heart, Holding my horn. My weapon of choice. After years, why a decade of years, Of playing, of lugging miles, building brass muscles, Of practice at spinning, I launched myself Pushing my horn between the two. I was a shield maiden, Because I was nineteen, descended From blonde Vikings and grim Scots, I became a piper of sound With the bottom of my lungs. Somehow, instantly, incredibly, Unsummoned, the infantry arrived. A squad car, blinking red, Drove up upon the curb. Collared the knife, the shield maiden, Slipped the men apart. I was nineteen, set to Activism, driven in hopes to Change poverty, racism, anger, hate. The men in blue sent me on my way, Part fool, part human. Head patted. Reform suggested for my safety, After all, I was nineteen.
Nine days ago, I met the sister of my heart.
Nine days ago the sun shone upon my hair
Warming me, protecting me,
Nine days ago, I had a friend
But when the storms began
When insanity ruled, when Judas
Of Florida laughed as he killed.
My heart was emptied of hope
That nine days ago was a beginning.
Sister of my heart, you didn’t leave
although the others rushed to the door
Pushing and shoving with delight
At the demise of the old man.
You didn’t dance on his grave,
You didn’t laugh at the freedom
Of chaos, of hopeless indignation.
You raged against the hopelessness.
Nine days ago, I believed in sanity.
Nine days ago warmed by the defense
I mounted against hypocrisy,
Thinking that I understood the writers
Thinking that peace should be upheld
Wanting to restore a dream, a wish,
Finding instead a man under the Judas tree,
Destroying by silvery lies, complicity with
Ignorance. I thought you gone, sister.
Somewhere in the woods, you saw me,
Tears in my eyes as I thought
That our sisterhood lay unbound
Beneath the hoof prints of Percheron.
I heard your voice call me back from
The enveloping darkness,
Calling me back from the fragile line
Between creativity and madness.
I will tread softly praying, to no God but hope,
That you will stay within the orbit of our meeting.
(for Carrie)
Kite Song
I fly away listening to the sound
of sun warming the air.
I fly to the top of Castillo San Felipe del Morrow
and turn, turn again, spiraling up,
Twisting on heaven’s winds.
Are you urging me to fly?
Higher and higher? Into fluffy ice cream clouds?
Staccato pearls of laughter from a child.
Could it be me, young again?
As if I could reach up and snip my kite string!!
Traveling trails of dragon’s breath, spun
Of bright reds, greens, and yellows,
spinning
While Higher and higher, blues compete with clouds.
Children, made of flying happiness,
Shriek with delight. Just catch the strings
and follow the wind to rainbows and free.
Sunday passes families stretching their hearts to the sky,
Racing each other to the top of the hill.
Kites fly across borders, over the old fort and cemetery.
Mama sits on her blanket and reads.
While she sits, I fly to the top of the world.
Just let it come. It’s looking for you.
Stand still, head steady.
Breathe. Inhale.
Focus on the pitcher,
The ball will come.
Don’t worry over balls.
They weren’t for you.
Focus your eyes.
Open your eyes, larger, larger.
The mound moves.
The pitcher moves.
Slow motion, hand curving.
Eye on the ball.
One third of a second and
You swing.
You can do this.
Ann WJ White 