Four Winter Poems

Derailed Trains

Two-tone the empty chartered freight train
humble bound toward truth ties
gold and silvered boughs trussed up with old identities
and street boys run after faster
the clanging metal bull wheels
blind the binding grooves patterned after the great legions
forward resounding whistle on bridges snow
and snowed-in with the cold glint
glint the flint stacks glowing off in some distant dreary coal fires of the old
and the street boys go calling after
cold, whipped faces red-rimmed and blown out eyes
picking pick pick picking through the remnants of this and that age
but now they get thrown in for murder.



Memory of a Photograph

A bending breath
her breast, slow, motionless
eyes peer out under darkened smiles
painted carefully on
those two soft lips remain a natural colorlessness
too tired to speak but only looking
the smoky windows against early snow outside
the falling fast night and day brimming
without a sign, just looking
cold swift blue eyes beneath those two-lipped smiles
subtle and carefully concealed too soon
without hope of another morning
and the fresh awakened expectation
without the cold-roofed white-lined rooms
of sanguine complacency that she wandered through
in desire only
with her bending silent breathes calling out for an absent longing
just looking at the frozen snows that were soft and blew down silently
on a winter morning not long ago
she sighs



Winter Harvest

Dig down the crimson soil
handfuls loose and dry
crosswind desperate blowing
gusts and moans in the fence posts gray and dead

but now the wind is cold
full of spite and helpful forgetfulness
the mindless numbing and the work goes
too strong to pull back, too weak to push on and on indefinitely

a field at dark
the wheat cut down stings
forgotten soles (souls), strung out in rows
the wind reaps dust and snow

dust and snow
the expanse of nothing
a scattered home of want and welcome
distant warmth in distant promises

no photographs
no more flags at half staff or lay me down
an empty field, forgotten furrows
broken by a lonely spade.



This Frost

The cold a tourniquet today
ice formed fickle flowers on the driveway
and the heavy, heavy sky hung too low

Watching the hard breath come and go
the moist, succulent wheeze and the old man goes
nose red and he’s distracted

The ice formed roses today on the sidewalks
a man-made gray
long lines of lint-like snow leftover

Quietude of winter
he holds on to a flint-black cane
mark of cane on his lips

Crisp dais and he speaks softly
no listening
not feeling anymore

But the brisk streets go rolling on into this frost
the horizon vague and winter
folds over itself in snow