—Poetry by Michael H. Brownstein, Jefferson City, MO
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of Joseph Nolan, Stockton, CA
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of Joseph Nolan, Stockton, CA
WINTER’S ICE STORM
The wind fell to a whimper, the ice began falling,
breaking the backs of the huge pampas plants.
The house wrens within its growth dug deeper
into its soul to wait it out, and the white-tailed deer
entered a thicket of thick grass bedding down
within its center. Not a dozen feet away, a kit of foxes
burrowed deeper into their den, each body mixed with another,
safe. Nearby, the band of coyotes stopped their hallelujah
coyote chatter and slipped into a small deadfall, warm.
At dawn, the sky woke to a thickening of gray, offering no relief
from the storm, the wind picked up, dropped off, and the birds,
the deer, the foxes, the coyotes let go of their wants and slept.
The wind fell to a whimper, the ice began falling,
breaking the backs of the huge pampas plants.
The house wrens within its growth dug deeper
into its soul to wait it out, and the white-tailed deer
entered a thicket of thick grass bedding down
within its center. Not a dozen feet away, a kit of foxes
burrowed deeper into their den, each body mixed with another,
safe. Nearby, the band of coyotes stopped their hallelujah
coyote chatter and slipped into a small deadfall, warm.
At dawn, the sky woke to a thickening of gray, offering no relief
from the storm, the wind picked up, dropped off, and the birds,
the deer, the foxes, the coyotes let go of their wants and slept.
DECEMBER 21st ARRIVED
with the first songbirds of Winter
gathering in the great cedar
singing and bubbling over with joy,
a bequest of bird laughter—
the sky royal blue, wide open, honest.
The great mastiff surveyed her yard,
raised her ears at the jubilance,
raced below the tree, long tail
wagging, floppy ears flopping,
sat and bowed her head.
Then there was a brief wind,
a silence, and the mastiff
stood up on the tree trunk,
and began to bark: Encore! Encore!
The first songbirds of Winter
let out a song in harmony, each note
a gift to the dog below, eyes bright
and honest in reverent admiration.
ON MONUMENTS FOR MONUMENTS’ SAKE
Just make it up the stairs into the Canyon of Coolness.
Take your time. The Lady Lake of the Mountain scalloped and quivers,
Its Wanderlust Wind paint and corkscrewed.
Enter here to the Cave of Nails, red faced, bloody, and beautiful.
This is the site of the battle that never was, the home of the degraded,
the windswept galaxy of pain and silence, ghostly calls and droppings—
come: See for yourself. Everyone here is fresh and welcoming.
Do not be afraid of raw meat or the spur of bones.
This is the way of our world thirty-thousand mustard packets in time,
large quantities of pyrite and shellfish, abalone and bronze horns,
the feathers of breeze and the rhythm of rain and storm.
Here is where we can rest, eat and drink, and remember how we were once friends.
Just make it up the stairs into the Canyon of Coolness.
Take your time. The Lady Lake of the Mountain scalloped and quivers,
Its Wanderlust Wind paint and corkscrewed.
Enter here to the Cave of Nails, red faced, bloody, and beautiful.
This is the site of the battle that never was, the home of the degraded,
the windswept galaxy of pain and silence, ghostly calls and droppings—
come: See for yourself. Everyone here is fresh and welcoming.
Do not be afraid of raw meat or the spur of bones.
This is the way of our world thirty-thousand mustard packets in time,
large quantities of pyrite and shellfish, abalone and bronze horns,
the feathers of breeze and the rhythm of rain and storm.
Here is where we can rest, eat and drink, and remember how we were once friends.
NAMING
Within the shadow, a shade of light—
bright lime rather than grass green,
light gray, not oil-stained tarmac.
Who cares about forgotten names
in the horizon of life. It was easy to do
four hours of work today in the sweat-
filled hallways of the outdoors.
Does nothing else really matter?
____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
NEW YEARS
—Michael H. Brownstein
January is going to be a soft month,
wind from the south, the scent
of good news in the air, a bit of rain
here and there, great clouds of sunshine,
litters of warmth and good tidings.
_____________________
—Medusa, thanking Michael Brownstein for his fine poetry today, and also for his hopeful predictions for a “soft” January!
Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to
kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world, including
that which was previously-published.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to
kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world, including
that which was previously-published.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
