Judging by the weather, you’d think we’d gone from Halloween to Christmas in the course of a week.
Me? I’m getting used to shoveling the front steps as our jack-o-lanterns get buried, but am really hoping to see grass at least once more before April.
Please visit rosanevarez at deviantART for more images like the one seen at left. I think he’s just adorable, and reflects exactly how things are over here at the moment.
is so oddly caught between the vampires and the snow.
Each pushing against the other,
while faux-turkey gets baked…
somewhere in the middle.
And while I love the seasonal cooking,
and my new ability to bake a pie,
my heart is still in New Orleans.
Where the immortals drink in 64 degrees
and dine on brass band all weekend.
Filed under Local, Seasonal
I’ve never claimed or even wanted to be a worthy poet. But you have to do something with the brain while you jog through a humid evening. Thus:
Seneca smells like meat
and I’m beggin’ the sky
rain to cool the skin
and wash away
I see grey clouds up above
and fireflies blinkin’ love;
Juj you cross my mind
and the memories are kind.
Has another storm come yet
to the house on Lafayette?
I blow a kiss your way
until Saint Patrick’s Day.
we are not amused.
Ricola wrappings liter the table,
and to run my lungs are just not able.
Take yourself to a colder season -
lingering in heat lies beyond reason.
We’ll meet again when days are short,
your vengeance on this brief retort.
Sometimes good poems just occur, but rarely to me. Nothing astounding here, but it happened:
My eyes settle in to that
old, familiar blur.
Running without lenses,
willing my ankle to be sure.
Feeling naked in the sunlight,
shoulders and shins exposed.
Can we now be fairly certain
the winter season’s fully closed?
I see warm people on green grass; it seems
Winter was only supposed.
Have you even been convinced that you’re going to be a statistic?
One little bump on the head, and you’re most certainly experiencing intracranial bleeding.
A tired day and you have a rare form of cancer.