Lumbering, awkward it stalks forward
Heavy gravity unfolds
Laying icy fingers across the land
Her touch of death cleansing
Sterilize
This killing frost
Blanket of white
Like the lamb
Restore innocence
and purity
for sacrifice
She is vengeful
for we have debased her tableau
Made mockeries
Boulevards lined
with ugly grey slush mounds
Our poor bones reject
her annual cleansing
and chafe in the harness
for warmer climes
Chase the low winter sun
to find where she sleeps
Could be someone you know
Maybe someone no one knows
Battered we fight on
against a sea of blows
Fierce winds, spiteful
pinch your nose
Your childhood fears to haunt you
Vague, foggy memories that taunt you
from your slumber
Yet still they will not daunt you
From a purpose, if one can find
that bane of humankind
Conscience
In urban tunnels now we burrow
escaped the green and rolling furrow
to this poor redoubt
This grand cathedral of sorrow
We seek the warmth
of fiery courage that glowed
in our heroes
Keep these in distilled spirits
to share when winter gives her lash
In our holes
We pretend that we are warm
She can but be mad
Ratbag stuffed in a smart suit
Hair on fire
She shrieks at the flames
of fallen iconoclasts
below the fold
Needs trussed up for gutting
Serve with Belgian pastries
and marmalade
(I like marmalade)
And wanted to mask
the sour taste of bad fruit
Lost in the vapors
Blue mists that melt
into dark hills beyond
Escaped those captors
There was no succor
from their well
And the man who wants nothing
Can not be bought
for love or money
Mete out your punishments
They’re for your own amusement
Here in the vapors
No consequence
Those who make things hard
Do so for no good reason
but their advantage
Often still I find myself
Staring across rooftops
To gaze Ms. Kerr’s chimney
It towers proud and russet
above the crisp eaves
of her well tailored plume
Like her auburn tresses crown
her own well manicured estate
When trees are bare
My eyes descend her ivied bricks
to the window’s glowing wink
A glimpse of the warm comfort inside
and her sultry curves in silhouette
Like drinking warm cider
Cashmere and lined stockings
The way she bit the earpiece
of her glasses
Now headlights turn
cast their glow from the alley
And the house is left dark
beneath Ms. Kerr’s chimney
Today plays the hangover suite
March of the bicarbonate sodas
The city groans
from beneath grey blankets
of damp cloud and concrete
Missed her alarm, still dozes
All quiet like Sunday
No trains, no planes
The quiet, it abstains
from being broken
by helicopter’s drone
In the dark pre-dawn
almost alone
A wheezing cough
in the distance
Disembodied voice
from the fog says
Smoke if ya got ’em
Laughter carries
riding upon the mists
to settle upon windshields
Chariots sleeping
To later freeze
and thaw again
The moisture survives
where laughter evaporates
When again the city wakes
Pavement still analog
What sounds this silence breaks
and whither goes the fog?
