midnight in winter Ice on the window: skin of the world we do not want, the word the lips refuse to spill. The enemy. The fragile, dermal glass is there, impotent shout against the winter. Voice cries out, silent, inside: whisper, mutter, shiver, curse. A distant train from someplace warm howls. It carries memories of
It needs strength to break the ice when it’s frozen as solidly as silence. Or so I thought. It needs strength to break the ice, to break the mould and reform. Or so I thought. But just suppose, the ice gives up it’s power and allows the colour to break through, bright so the delicate
Snowshoeing—March For M and K Frozen branches of barren birch cast blue-grey shadows on the Long Trail, blanketed white. Trees encased in ice and snow, shimmer against cobalt. Cheeks red, ruddy. Our noses, eyes, sting and drip; tiny hairs now miniature icicles. Still, our bodies warm as we climb. We peel layers, swiftly stuff them
Please enjoy our latest theme issue of “Out In The Cold” featuring 7 poems and 2 prose pieces! We have some terrific pieces this month.
Old order is subject to decay, they say, and when fate summons, old statues fall freely. Heart-held loves, friends, hatreds, foes: all. Yes, all give way to mighty time’s sway. Bright, fearless, grand, green youthful years with each passing year grow thick wisdom layers, while marching on its way, time fills with fears the cup
Old Acquaintance I hope to see you in the new year if my town isn’t on lockdown and your city lifts its restrictions you know it’s been a mighty long time You can’t really share a pint over zoom, now can you? And you certainly can’t pass it on the left-hand side no matter how
i learned to avoid going out for new years (a candle lit for Noelle) during countdowns i was always emerging: the washroom, the bar, or outside for some air with all the starry lights an auld lang syne is sometimes a shadow wanting to touch my hair my lips my partner expected my return his
Fallen snow inspires a blank page Infectious germs excuse social solitude Shortened days awaken the dormant night owl Enduring darkness allures the secret soul-searcher Scant warmth sets the spirited pen in motion
Seed Futures catalogues arrive fill my mailbox in December barely weeks since the garden ceased to produce I have just tucked it up for the winter, in drab browns and greys lidded compost bin, raked brittle leaves scoured pots and trays but inside there is colour if only on the page – bright gold blossoms
Your June Picture the year as a clock and it’s straight up 6. The world spreads before you like ketchup. Don’t shade your eyes, you miss a minute. You are thirsty—bee pollen is everywhere, so many flowers, so many flowering chances. No vagueness, just brilliance, each color, every contour— Awake! Anew! Alive!