the sieve and the sand » snow

Fallen Snow at Evening on a Plastic Playground

beighartman — Fri, 21 Jan 2011 01:24:09 +0000

Vantage from the park bench surveys fallen snow like manna from heaven, raining frozen stars in promenade.
Sparks of spirits springing into step; orbiting fires spell majesty in constellations.
Grated clouds in the cold bring warmth, and a silence that I eschew and do not quite yet understand.
It adorns, gowns every vista in panoramic pageant, the bride made without stain or blemish presented to her groom.
But this bride of cold feet, indecision and logic soon tatters herself.
Countless footsteps in snow unknowing, tracking innumerable roads to sanguine eternities bending backwards to vaults and beds, stages and beakers finding steps to stairways, up mountains, ziggurats, podiums, passageways, pyramids; zenith ascensions and tombs.
Bare trees pronging branches like upside down octopuses, arching tines; a million fingers stretching heavenward;
One-hundred thousand forks spoking to the skies, waiting to taste paradise.
Every atom yearning upward, gravity shackles in opposition and the snow descends to cover us.
The Bible I read says you made all this, but how?
The scope to see is inconceivable, if only I could understand why? But who would you be then?
The demand for attention is indomitable; I’m jumping off the edge of me and falling into you.
The plastic playground, a Lincoln log cabin made life size:
with green plastic tiled roof, with red plastic cross beams, with yellow plastic fencing, with swirling blue plastic slide, with brown plastic walls; a menagerie of color.
And a bridge, bowing to the most tentative of pressure, connecting plastic palace to another plastic palace.
Swing sets: here, gripping tangible yes! almost, slipping BACK! there, gone, distant, lost! nothing.
Rings, rings, links of promises looped together, groaning to stay fast, afloat, and hold on to their terms of words and actions.
Built wrapped around one another, the weight of integrity, the dismay of compromise.
Whine chinking, frictioned, shrieking like witches cackling over cauldrons foretelling prophecies of fallacy; moving, but always stuck.
Higher! So much, not enough! Enough! When? Too high! Too high! The chain slags, snags, jumps, rattles, can anyone withstand?
He curses him, the air curses him, slaps cracked lips.
Snow soggied foundations, rubber and woodchips loosed on disillusioned endeavor unmatched by fallen snow covering hills in white stitches.
Every blade of grass illuminated in whited pencil pricks, competes with hungry moon.
Frozen in white, Lethe has forgotten itself: petrified waves, streak rippled statues, apocalyptic landscapes. Oblivion pauses.
The snowflakes smile, slide beyond, absorb sound, render me unto solitude and silence where all is holy.
The brave beauty of heaven stands naked; shades of ash transmute to linen white; transient, poised and everlasting.

vanishing

Julio Chapluzki — Tue, 23 Feb 2010 20:41:02 +0000

snow fall this morning,
melted away by the afternoon;
fearful me-taphor.

7:00 AM

Julio Chapluzki — Tue, 23 Feb 2010 15:12:58 +0000

dragging out of bed
into the living room,
watching snow flakes
slowly whipping,
slowly whirling,
blown here
blown there,
finally coming to rest,
in a white bed,
looking so warm,
looking so cozy,
leading me back to my own bed
to sleep away the day,
warm and cozy inside.

An (In)Convenient Truth

beighartman — Sat, 13 Feb 2010 20:17:52 +0000

Record breaking
Back breaking
Shoveling driveways
Walkways
Throughways
Doorways
No way can there be this much.
Seventy-plus inches of snow,
More on the way,
And spinal surgery by age thirty.
Global warming, my foot!
Here’s an inconvenient,
Or maybe convenient truth
Depending on how you look at it:
Al Gore is a liar.

snow day

Julio Chapluzki — Sat, 13 Feb 2010 04:09:02 +0000

as a child
i thought
nothing was better
than a snow day:
staying home
warm inside
cold outside
free to build
free to roam
free to enjoy
being free.

and i love it still.

Haiku

beighartman — Mon, 21 Dec 2009 01:51:33 +0000

Snow slowly falling
Through the frosty winter air
Resting in my mouth

in a hurry

rcribay — Wed, 04 Feb 2009 00:02:05 +0000

the orange
alien glow of the
lamp posts, like
a gossamer fire,
lights the flakes of
snow as they flick
by in a hurry to hit
the ground
and melt.

ho ho ho

rcribay — Sat, 20 Dec 2008 22:08:00 +0000

when i step into the evening
it feels like snow–
absent a blanket of
white–strings of light
blink silent shouts.

-_

rcribay — Tue, 16 Dec 2008 23:28:57 +0000

rain taps at the glass
in such a subtle staccato–
by the time we look
it’s snow.

night. berlin ’99

Roger Mugs — Sat, 04 Oct 2008 12:51:33 +0000

silence causing snow falling on
cobble stone empty roads
lined with trees we duck to pass
under the leaves as we walk this
peaceful night

the first time you knew snow
‘i want a flake to land on my eyelash’
you beam as we skip then walk
hoping we wont get where we’re going
passing by a statue of an italian chef
daily specials written in words we cant comprehend
we go inside to watch the air battle the
white bombardment
the ground begging to lose the fight
slowly being buried under blankets of white

walking home its quieter now
only one light on the street as our feet seek
to glide to the crevasses between worn brick
hoping for surer footing
and i know this night is salvation
when you light with joy and begin to cry

‘look look! a flake on my eyelash’

i think it’s the brisk clean air i miss most of all. (hoping i wont one day reminisce about today’s reminiscence)

Roger Mugs — Mon, 01 Sep 2008 01:20:29 +0000

the sunshine reflecting from the snow
on a saturday with nothing to do
stale, repetitive breakfast spiced with chalula
i try not to stare at the pine needles
so much as to let you know they’re more beautiful
than our your conversation

and we stroll

its cold out, but too beautiful for anything save a t-shirt
my feet cool and dry in my shoes and a jacket
a little too tight
breathing the crisp air you talk about your guitar
your hopes for a band we both know will
never materialize

we pass over grass we know we’ll leave soon
and dream of a place better than this
(dirt made mud filled snow now slush)
knowing full well we’ll later dream dreams of this day
recalling the cool brisk air and the joy we feel
knowing we’re soon to be overcome
reminded we cannot beat the cold

more needles and pine trees and squinting through fall
the beauty of spring – the life of so many things
and the death of our shared plight
a place we’ve found so comfortable

balconies where we pledged to smoke at least one bowl
of vanilla black cavendish
friends we were sure would never fall in love
places we were sure we’d never leave
and times we were sure about which we’d never
reminisce