*
we all walk
bundled up on
winter days
but the dogs
jump for joy
the old man
will not sit by
his fire he takes
himself out
slowly stretching
his steps next
to the lines
of poplars
he will walk to
the end not
a thought
of surrender
.
© 2013
.
*
sharp the tree
branches
against the winter
sky black
a naked dance in
the brisk air
.
.
*
if I could keep my bones
warm and dry my heart
delicately swelling inside
as my eyes roam the air
grabbing not sure how
the poetic words that
make my life worth
living resounding
as a gentle
chime
.
.
*
they the shards of ice
laying on water
don’t move nor dance
they lay still there
as the ducks try a piroette
other then gliding
.
.
*
January mornings
wake up slowly
.
in spite of long stretches
yawns and chilly air
.
everything deep in sleep
so is everyone
.
like a colorless dream
dipped in silence
.
.
*
sun rays
powerless
reflect away
from the frozen
skin of the small pond
.
there no duck is
allowed to swim in days
like these slivers of ice
compacted together
a strange collage
.
reminiscent of abstract art
fish swimming below unseen
.
.
*
I did read six pages
this morning
to make me revolve
once more
in the right direction
it has been
long since I could
poetry came
to give me a hand
to see who
am I once more
.
.
.
Feeling sad… The six pages mentioned in this poem I published Tuesday are those of a Mary Oliver book, and today, two days later, she passed away…
.
*
it has been long
since I spent
a winter in the north
since I saw trees
undressed months
on a row or tea
time served with
cold sunsets
no cups of love
to hold now
with frozen
fingertips
.
.
.
.
*
the sun slowly
downs on early
winter afternoons
his pale light is
silent gentleness
like the quite women
serving in an office
with the interior
smile turned on
to make everyday
a wonderful act
.
.
.
*
awe rising with
me in the
early morning
snow covering
the tall mountains
in the desert
three days
of rain almost
continuous
a rare sound
tip tapping
on the skylights
winter holds it’s
own rhythm
lacking patience
to stay longer
.
.
.
.
.
***
.
rest in winter
acceptance
in the happy silence
.
feel your roots
dancing slowly
underground
.
stretching
toward the needed
death is but an attire
.
-Dec. 2009-
.
.
*
following a long winter rain
tears falling on a wet
lonely bosom
.
I breath many
short and close
small, compacted
.
a vision after another
slim as a trail out
of a dark maze
.
punches, songs to my
heart, reconciled
your beauty sipping in
.
the scum dried on me
washed out, left on the
ground among dirt
.
where worms thrive
.
.
The London Hours
.
No more us and I, and them
Night time nearing at 1pm
No wind chill, no chills,
Remote coldness.
.
This winter isn’t like
The one you handed me
In colored paper
And ribbons I was excited to untie,
It will be the usual
Gloom of day-spair,
Of no directions,
No sense.
.
Look right, look left,
Mind the gap, do not cross,
Where to, no more zebras,
Just hyenas and victims,
Many of us.
.
I know you not,
You took up a different passport,
Broke the legs of time and sunk
Somewhere where I do not find
Air to breath and there are
No kisses to revive me.
.
It’s the tallest solitude,
No eyes to lay on,
No tiptoeing naked,
No coughing the bodies against,
No nightlong reviving.
.
No snow, no strolls, no fog,
No sleepover nestling.
No, no, no, no, no.
Yes, that’s all.
.
.
annamosca 