—Poetry by Michael H. Brownstein, Jefferson City, MO
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
ICE
Too cold to walk outside, I walk
snow-broken windows
thick white ice
the purple flesh of palisade and stone.
In the distance,
the waterfall lets go of its breath
until it too cannot move.
Only the great evergreens by the foothills swim.
Wind and discomfort,
barbwire,
the white of evil’s eye
crossing shadow with pain.
The livestock fed,
a cord of wood at the backdoor,
a path pressed into memory,
and I pause—
Who knows cold as well as I,
great threads of wind,
drifts and more drifts,
naked trees dressed for the formal dance
and no one waiting their turn by the wall,
no one saddened or worried,
no one thinking of terrible things to come:
everywhere a garden of white blossoms flowering.
Too cold to walk outside, I walk
snow-broken windows
thick white ice
the purple flesh of palisade and stone.
In the distance,
the waterfall lets go of its breath
until it too cannot move.
Only the great evergreens by the foothills swim.
Wind and discomfort,
barbwire,
the white of evil’s eye
crossing shadow with pain.
The livestock fed,
a cord of wood at the backdoor,
a path pressed into memory,
and I pause—
Who knows cold as well as I,
great threads of wind,
drifts and more drifts,
naked trees dressed for the formal dance
and no one waiting their turn by the wall,
no one saddened or worried,
no one thinking of terrible things to come:
everywhere a garden of white blossoms flowering.
CLOTH
dressed in a shroud, the moon
reign of white sky, ghost of rain
a stutter of leaf, a breath of water
under the ice, a glow of light
within the boundaries of tree, a tree
togetherness of puzzle, two hands
and in the aftermath of fur and quiet
the ghost of white sky, a great rain
the moon, dressed in a shroud
dressed in a shroud, the moon
reign of white sky, ghost of rain
a stutter of leaf, a breath of water
under the ice, a glow of light
within the boundaries of tree, a tree
togetherness of puzzle, two hands
and in the aftermath of fur and quiet
the ghost of white sky, a great rain
the moon, dressed in a shroud
STORM AND WEATHER
A confused, but nice awkward breeze
whispers through the leaves,
yells twice, lets out a scream,
a tsunami, a babbling brook, an easy stream:
the sky is blue with snowcapped clouds,
the breeze stutters, overcrowds,
lets out a jeer, the cloud flies into the east,
and the breeze becomes a beast.
Then is shudders, sighs and smiles,
and hangs around the trees awhile—
all is well. The sky is blue
and the breeze is subdued.
MARCH
Snow fell on white rose petals,
the too-early blossoms of mulberry,
and spun webs upon gardens of lilies.
The sky opened itself to summer,
earth crunched open with warmth,
the roses opened their mouths to the sun,
one mulberry began to ripen among miscolored Ieaves,
and three lilies spread their wings.
Seventy degrees, an easy wind,
warm swamps of what had been snow,
and we put away our winter clothes again,
headed out to the field of stone edges,
green brown moss, evergreens,
and wild flowers that did not know any better.
Snow fell on white rose petals,
the too-early blossoms of mulberry,
and spun webs upon gardens of lilies.
The sky opened itself to summer,
earth crunched open with warmth,
the roses opened their mouths to the sun,
one mulberry began to ripen among miscolored Ieaves,
and three lilies spread their wings.
Seventy degrees, an easy wind,
warm swamps of what had been snow,
and we put away our winter clothes again,
headed out to the field of stone edges,
green brown moss, evergreens,
and wild flowers that did not know any better.
PRAYER
You are the rhyme in beauty.
the great half-smile of moonlight,
the radiance of sunrise over Lake Michigan.
When the grand gulls rumble in the water,
the large fish skip to the surface,
and a wave washes away sand castles
I see you there, too, within the smell of hair,
skin, the breath of perfume from your soul,
and I can touch the rhymes of hearts.
______________________
Today’s LittleNip:
BECOMING
—Michael Brownstein
What does a poet love
if not the poem within,
the rhythm and the image
standing near enough
throwing everything off,
balance, almost drunk?
______________________
—Medusa, surrounded in the West by blossoms exploding as winter begins to fade, and Michael Brownstein writes so smoothly about the changes happening, even in the Mid-West. Thanks, Michael! Stay warm!
Flowers in Ice
Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
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Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to
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work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
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—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
