Kentucky February Snowfall

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


quatorzain 688: Chill Dormant

no more excuses: New Year resolution
dormant now a month and the keys silent
like the voice of poetry in the arctic
white of this strange kentucky winter.  and we
sip warm drinks inside while trickling water
musically from every faucet so the pipes
don’t freeze.  good weather for a cozy cuddle
though the draft is deadly for libidos
and blood seems sluggish as the slushy elkhorn
choked with lethargic chill, cold languid and mute
as lines unwritten . . . are there still viable
seeds settling dormant in the layered silt
awaiting spring’s verdant summons to renewal? 
no excuses:  lay it down iambic

3 Feb 2014

Pluto’s Legacy

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.

Light in the Time of Daffodils

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!


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.