If you’d like to purchase a poetry chapbook from my Fall 2008 poetry class, please check out my website at www.snowppl.com under the ‘Publications’ page. I have two copies available, one with a red handwritten cover, and a gold handwritten cover. Images on my website.
In support of this I’ve decided to post my poem Winter Souls. I read this poem at The Power of Poetry event in Glendora last Friday. The entire room paused on poetry to discuss what the poem meant, and its implications. I thought that was very cool! I hope you like it.
Biting winds, cold as frost
Mornings early in winter.
But winter is not yet come,
A small formality in a general
World that cares little for such.
Walking among the blizzard snow
Strange for this time of year,
Cold nips playfully at my nose,
Letting me know it will bite much harder
As time goes by.
I do not mind, I am bundled warm
Ready against the cold.
For it is a playfulness of a child
That beats this snow down
And not the vigorous pounding
Adults disperse when they choose.
The cold resembles my thoughts:
Despair painted in white.
Beauty I cannot see is there.
Reflections of life, of troubled times.
The world should still and rest,
But forces drag us to seek riches
We never see. Hunting
Always for the next break.
The ‘coulds’ obscure our limitlessness
As managers do their workers.
Life is nothing but winter,
Reveling in the death and silent
Cold that reflects how we live.
No surprise that we all have no goals
Enslaved to a passionate desire to not die.
We shackle ourselves to those
Who can give us enough to trudge.
What existence is this?
Nothing but nothing, inside nothing,
More hollow than hollow.
Shining tubes tell us otherwise,
‘Happiness exists’. Silent as snow
They secretly tell us, ‘but not for you.’
Happiness is fleeting like Indian summer,
Winter always there to show the truth
To those who would listen.
Cold, hard, unfeeling. Winter is in our blood,
Something we must grow to accept.
There is no spring of life, nor summer passion,
Nor fall peace. Just winter’s inexorable march.
Death’s pallid face we refuse to see.
Nothing is so true as winter, no glamours
No false tidings, just plain, honest.