deep blue rhythm of arctic winter grasps
in chill fingers southern haven belies
comforts, jails them in frosted winter world
when to end? when to end? for warmth they pray
though to whom none can certain say, they pray
and curse and burn more fuel, wood, gas, coal
smoke and steam escaping impotent to heat
the world and its arctic sky snowing slow.
just weeks from vernal equinox they cry
against cold nights and bitter frost as robins
chatter of seeds and plenty and coming
pleasance under skies of promise — flowers
soon to triumph over latency and frost
filling the vernal world with truth and beauty.
david m pitchford
26 feb 2014
come, then, season of the dragonfly! too
long we have hidden indoors, too long sulked
beneath woolen covers shivering off
clinging winter and its jealous snows. come
oh sap-giver spring, fill the buds on the trees,
bring the birds singing day awake, send your
minions with their fair winds to blow pollen
and seeds hither-thither that green may rein
among the myriad colors of blooms.
we hear your lark even now, there, golden
blooms of dandelion and daffodil!
raise up the tulips now to worship sky
and we shall dance in pools of rain singing
of magic and hope reborn of April.
where is it?
gone poetry, gone muse knows where
unwritten dandelion fluff blown by every wind
but now the breeze blows fairer spring
winter to lay rest, sap flowing
seeds of poetry long ago sewn sprout all anew
new verses come from muse knows where
David M Pitchford
something stubborn, recalcitrant, rises up
within to stop the light, to dam the flow,
to squelch beauty at the spring, its fountainhead.
this darkness paints black the sky, paints black the
rainbow, makes of every rainbow just an
oilslick, makes of every garden a mere dung heap
as though the flowers had no fragrance, blots
out their bright beauty, ignores the bees and
butterflies flitting among meadow blossoms, smells
of musty leaves . . . this something feeds on hate,
dwells in sewers, clings to the bones of longdead
ancestors, crawls away from the sun to preach
decay to ancient dead, to sing bone scratch
choruses of oblivion to the earth.
time and the ticking clock is it sunrise
sunset indirect light, indistinct, vague
eye beholds through lens of clouded mind heart
frosted still with ravages of winter . . .
faux summer blows from forced furnace, dead warmth
limp in the arid strangle of stale air
bottled inside long months, time indeterminate
interminable as winter tortured
hints of spring one sunny day in thirteen
crowns another fortnight besieged and cold
time and the ticking clock is it daylight
or false moon streetlamp serenading spring
return, oh fair daughter Persephone,
coax again the world to life and glory!
he in gilded cage she trudges through days
spins words into naught gone to seed, wanting
toils at not working yet running on habit
poet wastrel, he she recalls vague hopes
dissipated waste rekindled each spring
child in man’s body something like youth swells
wishing for manhood breast fills with longing
ambiguous need striving for something . . .
certain as gravity more. life and light
yet undefined, blurred beauty, truth, passion . . .
something fateful comes out the blue it strikes
fortune plays her hand words like pollen fall
he and she and this into lines, multiply . . .
life gone on turns bright two lovers wake to dreams.
beneath the glistening ice of February
the sap of spring slow begins its flow, reaches
toward the verve of rebirth, tentative against
occupying forces of insistent winter
but the birds have begun to drag morning
over shadowed horizon with their incessant
song and trill and cluck and the waning night
besmirched with the oily stench of young skunks
while a fat raccoon trundles by suburban
dumpsters in search of family takeout
on her way to the six new cubs in her drain
by the curb . . . she stops to witness the man
returning late from his nightshift factory
job, his smile and nod meaningless to her.