Blue Velvet

Out on a walk
The day after Christmas 2018
It shows itself brown and grey
Down here below
Blue skies and white clouds above
Gusts of arctic chill
And a quick flurry of flakes
Spins my memory back to winter and school.

Do you have memories of the Snowflake Swirl?
Twisted crepe paper slung from the basketball backboards.
Sawdust on the hardwood floor
Maybe 1963,
Semi-formal
I wore my Sunday blue suit with the skinny tie
And you swirled in shimmering chiffon
As Bobby Vinton sang “Blue Velvet.”
(and maybe the Beach Boys rocking “Surfin’ U.S.A?”
Or “Hey Paula” by Paul and Paula?)
Were they singing to me?

I wasn’t much of a dancer
But I would seldom pass up the chance for a slow dance
(thank you Bobby V.)
Seldom were the opportunities to hold your favorite girl
In your novice arms.
I think maybe Mr. Hutchison and Miss Mattis were chaperones.
I think they didn’t care to notice
If the dancer’s embrace was too close?
What was it, 6 inches?

Joyous laughter and nervous chatter
Found release in a fast dance
“Wipe Out” by The Surfaris, maybe?
And maybe a couple’s fight
Someone broke up
Someone else fell in love
And then the last dance
Was it "Our Day Will Come" by Ruby and the Romantics?
And then the magic spell was broken
At least for that Winter’s moment…

You were there, weren’t you?

And didn’t we dance?

Spring's Bosom

It is said
That after the storm one blossoms,
Although the only guarantee
Is there is no guarantee.

Personally speaking
Storms leave big messes,
Stunned survivors,
Looking forward to starting
From square one, again.  Sigh…

Winter can side-step any budding spring.
Any puddle-product mosquito worth her wings
Can confirm.
Blink and you’ll miss it.
…
There, you missed it.

All that’s left
Is her red hot itchy calling card.

Snow mounds
Blizzard born,
Slide into the gutter
With little pomp
Given this circumstance,
No fragrance
No flower,
Yielding only a crop of wet shoes
And anguish.

So, no corsage to the formal,
Riders on the storm.
And who said we must embellish
Spring’s bosom anyway?

After the tempest
One might consider looking for
A steady stem
Lowly but hopeful.

Twigs speak more hopefully
Of the future.

Late Winter

The storm covers the willow buds

And crocus blossoms

With its churlish chill.

The first flakes in their solo dances

All lace and frozen spindrift

Late of the Atlantic

Are now accumulating,

Bending boughs

Marching madly

In great unison chorus lines,

Dampening the hope of an early spring and

Forwarding for another day

This wanton winter swell

And the story of such days

Somewhere in between.

Lake Sounds

I live on a lake shore.
The cottage I rent is perched, hanging
Clifted over the edge
Of the water
Which is in its winter state;
Vast sheets and stratifications of ice
Ever changing,
Stretching and moving,
Responding to the wandering winds
The constant cold
And the rare faint warmth of the sun.
I hear its voice.
And on this winter day
As I seek solace,
Burrowed and buried deep in my covers,
I am on the living end of its sounds,
A stem of a living tuning fork
Seated in the orchestra, hearing all;
Its groaning voice calls
As it rumbles basso like elephants talking,
As it keens and screeches like a ghost drowned,
As it peens on this frozen anvil,
A mournful moan like tympani being tuned.
There are clatters and clicks like some phantom dolphin
Swimming amidst roars and whispers and wails.
It speaks a language
From some ever-ancient time,
Messages and signals sent
That I might someday fathom.

November Butterflies

What do butterflies know?
Of November days that seems of spring
Warm slanting sun
And blooming dandelions blossoms,
Open late for
One last dance,
Egg yoke yellow
With toothy florets,
Offering a free final meal of nectar
Before the butterflies, white and yellow,
Choose a loose bit of bark
Or a rolled leaf
Or a silken sleeping bag
To slumber the winter away.


Safe in their dreams
They are thankful I suppose,
And I am not surprised
By this mutualism:
Kindness begetting kindness
People might learn to call it.
Empathy at an evolutionary level,
It works both ways
Such prosperity,
A win-win
In these late warm days
Before the struggles
Of the dark cold coming winter.

The Wind

The wind corrugates the pond
And strafes out a texture to this day:
Dry and wild and northerly it
Lifts up loosened leaves
Late to this dance
Then drops them back without a care
And so they sink and cascade down to
Where the light is liquid thick.
They slumber in this graveyard bed
So mired in winter’s long nights pace
Waiting for the southern breeze

Waiting cold and still.