🚀 go-pugleaf

HOn Thursday, April 1, 2021 at 11:42:16 AM UTC-4, michaelmalef...@gmail.com wrote:
> OLD MAN WINTER 
> Michael M. Pendragon 
> 
> 
> Old Man Winter's killing me 
> With chills that seep into my bone, 
> The falling snow weighs down on me 
> Like slabs of marble stone. 
> 
> Old Man Winter fills the land 
> With crippling blasts of icy breath, 
> Hobbles my gait and stills my hand 
> And hastes me to my death. 
> 
> Old Man Winter drains my soul 
> Pale as a February sky, 
> The snowdrifts form an unbound scroll 
> Of those about to die. 
> 
> Old Man Winter staves my heart 
> Upon a spear of jagged ice, 
> He breaks my will till I'd depart 
> This world and not think twice. 
> 
> Old Man Winter steals my bones 
> And buries them beneath the snow, 
> Hid deep beyond all earthly moans 
> Where frigid rivers flow. 
> 
> 
> ***** 
> 
> WINTER 
> Mabool 
> 
> 
> The Isle of Man 
> The Bay of Pigs 
> The Plain of Jars 
> The Wife of Bath 
> The Sack of Rome 
> The Diet of Worms 
> The Bridge of Sighs 
> The March of Dimes 
> The Apple of Discord 
> The Slough of Despond 
> The Great White Wolf of 
> The Cold 
> 
> 
> ***** 
> 
> DEAD OF WINTER 
> NancyGene 
> 
> 
> I’m as cold inside 
> as the freeze outside 
> though no crystals grow 
> into ice and snow. 
> 
> But my blood is chilled 
> by the winters filled 
> with no hope of thaw 
> from the men of straw 
> 
> who still come to me 
> in the cemetery 
> where I lay my head 
> and my death is read. 
> 
> 
> ***** 
> 
> IF FOUND 
> Edward Rochester Esq. 
> 
> 
> It seems, from exhalation, 
> I’ve developed a small cave 
> around my nose and mouth. 
> 
> My eyes slowly open, their 
> waning warmth see only darkness, 
> the ears still ring from the roar 
> of a frozen locomotive, 
> its tumble burying me under 
> the white weight of a slow death. 
> 
> I hear shouts from beyond 
> my frozen tomb, my fingers 
> can no longer scratch 
> at the once white 
> crystals. 
> 
> It’s odd, this burn developing 
> from an attempt at deeper 
> inhalation. 
> 
> I hear snow cats but cannot answer 
> their diesel cry. 
> 
> One thought remains 
> inside this frozen isolation; 
> I’ll be intact and fresh if found. 
> 
> The eyes now freeze closed, my nostrils 
> have become small passages 
> to goodbye. 
> 
> 
> ***** 
> 
> TOO LATE IN MARCH 
> NancyGene 
> 
> 
> I peer out the window and see gray and snow 
> but the sky is white and I truly know that my 
> heart is black, while the trees are brown 
> and the grass asleep but will soon return 
> to a resurrected world. 
> How can I? 
> 
> I open the door and hear naught but wind 
> but the forest is still while the air is awhirl 
> with the rage of sin and the promise of 
> Spring though I cannot see and should I 
> give in to the thoughts of ends? 
> I step out. 
> 
> It is March outside, and I shake my fist 
> at the angry strafe that now chills my soul 
> in a season of wrong and years of old 
> friends who’ve gone, and I wander here 
> as the horizon melts and I know it’s late. 
> In my life. 
> 
> I can’t fight the cold or the circling 
> storm as I head back home through the 
> path I made and the steps that fade, 
> but I see no light from what seemed my own 
> from those who loved and now 
> I’m alone. 
> 
> 
> ***** 
> 
> THE COLD ARTIST 
> Edward Rochester Esq. 
> 
> 
> Brutal, peaceful winter 
> you sculpt nature 
> turning dormant limbs into 
> picturesque statues. 
> 
> Fleeting is your work, 
> your creative life stunted 
> under the sun, 
> that master manipulator 
> of canvas and stone. 
> 
> We know your show 
> will reopen, the tour 
> will once again 
> amaze and bewilder 
> those eager for new 
> creations. 
> 
> We watch the weather 
> for your return. 
> 
> 
> ***** 
> 
> ICE SONG 
> Karen Tellefsen 
> 
> 
> Waiting at the bus station, 
> a whistle broke the air, 
> warm and sweet 
> in the Montreal December night. 
> Foreign and unknown, 
> but I liked it, 
> so I attended it. 
> The whistle must have heard me listen, 
> because a bearded whisper asked to 
> sit with me, 
> and my pleasure froze to fear 
> in the Montreal December night. 
> 
> 
> ***** 
> 
> SPARRING WITH OLD MAN WINTER 
> Edward Rochester Esq. 
> 
> 
> I stare out at your threatening ways, 
> you stare back, intimidate with a lion’s roar 
> as I put on the layers needed to fend off 
> your attack. 
> 
> You’ve been known to take 
> no prisoners and that becomes my challenge 
> as we touch gloves, my face soon becomes numb 
> your weight is heavy, the slush and powdered white 
> become a formidable foe. 
> 
> But this day brings a draw as clouds break 
> allowing your escape. 
> 
> I stare at what remains, nature vs man, 
> and a dirt puddle soon to freeze over. 
> 
> They say a re-match is due Friday, 
> my gloves reach for the bag of salt 
> as I whisper ‘bring it on’. 
> 
> 
> ***** 
> 
> WINTER NOIR 
> Edward Rochester Esq. 
> 
> 
> So stark the snow in black and white 
> as I watch through her window 
> this icy night. 
> 
> Stay away I was told, but it is this storm 
> the wind, my frozen thoughts that make me bold 
> and I knock as if home a delivery. 
> 
> “Yes”, sung out more softer than shout.” 
> 
> “Delivery”, which was more than just true, 
> the warmth, the apron of this lady I knew. 
> 
> and I was in. 
> 
> I took a finger swipe at the batter, it seemed 
> a cake was being made her scream would not matter 
> for the pines outside were bending in the wind, 
> she knew right then letting me in. 
> 
> was a mistake. 
> 
> “You were told to stay away” 
> 
> “I did but this winter storm forced me 
> to play. 
> 
> What is it with storms of wind and ice 
> as my nice smile reveals a frightening vice 
> for I knew that cake wasn’t made for me. 
> and soon all will be able to see. 
> 
> I left her on the ground covered in white frosting. 
> 
> 
> ***** 
> 
> DEAR SNOWMAN 
> NancyGene 
> 
> 
> I knew that you would have to leave 
> but I thought that my feelings would 
> not thaw before you left in the spring, 
> 
> though I grew used to your solid presence, 
> your wry smile and sporty hat, the 
> warm pipe and thin, enveloping arms. 
> 
> You didn’t mind the chilly weather and 
> were at home in holly or sparkling lights, 
> buttoned up or unrestrained, making 
> chasmic inroads to my wintering heart. 
> 
> We laughed, spun in the drifts, 
> drifted in the clouds, welcomed the 
> storms with an eagerness that 
> 
> pleased me, who never thought 
> of myself as someone who would 
> open her door to a man who needed 
> 
> to move on with no commitment of love 
> or responsibility, who didn’t say much 
> about his past or future but lived only 
> in the cold reality of the present. 
> 
> Sometimes I would think I saw you 
> in the front yards of other houses in 
> the neighborhood, and I would wonder 
> 
> if you had other families, children to play 
> with, ladies who admired you, in other 
> seasons of your white-bred life. 
> 
> The afternoon you melted away into 
> the bright sunshine, dropping the few 
> possessions that I gave you, I cried the 
> 
> frigid tears of a woman who had been 
> fooled by the strawman, frightened by 
> the bogeyman, fleeced by the conman, 
> 
> and now you are a memory of roundness 
> with Nature and acceptance of difference, 
> as I see Harvey opening the backyard gate. 
> 
> 
> ***** 
> 
> SNOWBOUND 
> Michael M. Pendragon 
> 
> 
> Did Summer ever know these walks and ways, 
> These quiet paths packed down beneath the snow? 
> Did sunlight ever warm our works and days; 
> Did daisies wave and dandelions grow 
> On rolling hills where barefoot children play? 
> 
> Did robins sing and frozen rivers flow, 
> Or brittle branches know the touch of Spring? 
> Did roses bloom and balmy breezes blow 
> Did fireflies glow and swallowtails take wing, 
> And was there ever such a thing as May? 
> 
> Did Summer ever come this way before, 
> Were skies once blue and forests emerald green? 
> The snow's piled high against my kitchen door 
> Till scarce a trace of color can be seen -- 
> A charcoal sketch of black and white and gray. 
> 
> 
> ***** 
> 
> FROSTBITE 
> Michael M. Pendragon 
> 
> 
> Christmas came on snow white wing 
> With chestnut fires and caroling; 
> The goose was stuffed, the pumpkin, pied 
> While gingerbread men ran to hide 
> In stockings hung with tinsel on the tree. 
> 
> We stopped to watch the old year go 
> With volleys of confetti snow, 
> Banged pots and pans and raised a cheer 
> To welcome in the newborn year 
> With midnight's kiss and champagne-scented glee. 
> 
> Then January brought more snow 
> And February watched it grow 
> Till knee deep snowdrifts swept across the land; 
> And in my snowbound home I understand 
> That Winter life is not the life for me. 
> 
> 
> ***** 
> 
> WINTER IS MY BITCH 
> Edward Rochester Esq. 
> 
> 
> You return and cry 
> frozen tears at my doorstep, 
> you disrupt tranquility 
> laying mines along the way, 
> one false step 
> provokes my need 
> to retaliate. 
> 
> With a shovel, I will beat you down, 
> toss you aside, mix your tears 
> with salt until you retreat, re-group 
> planning the next attempt, looking 
> for the fix you need. 
> 
> In the beginning, you were welcomed, 
> young and fresh, full of frolic, then you changed, 
> demanded full attention, now watch 
> as age made you the enemy. 
> 
> Some may sing to your gentle float, 
> but I know the real you, you are now 
> my bitch begging a beating 
> and me, the pimp of nature, 
> will gladly provide. 
> 
> 
> ***** 
> 
> FORECAST 
> Edward Rochester Esq. 
> 
> 
> It isn’t often gulls huddle, 
> usually enjoying their space, their fight 
> as they grab at scraps tossed 
> from picnickers in full summer. 
> 
> Today winter becomes the foe 
> and they huddle as one, their feathers rise 
> as if whitecaps have transferred 
> to the parking lot inside 
> a desolate boardwalk. 
> 
> Shoppers also huddle 
> eager for sales despite 
> threatening skies, scarf-ends dancing, 
> Fedora’s get a helping hand 
> maintaining their perch. 
> 
> Winter, what upheaval it brings, 
> and what joy to those as schools close 
> and mittens hide fingers 
> as cheeks are stained red. 
> 
> Natures madness, the constant 
> danger of ice underfoot, 
> the child's joy of fresh built 
> snowmen standing 
> at night-fall, while inside, 
> hot chocolate accompanies 
> the weather report. 
> 
> “It’s not a fit night out, 
> for man nor beast’ rang out 
> from the mouth of Mr. Fields. 
> 
> I now agree. 
> 
> 
> ***** 
> 
> WINTER WARMTH 
> Michael M. Pendragon 
> 
> 
> The smoky scent of cedarwood and pine 
> That crackles through the wood stove's cast iron grate, 
> The chocolate kisses from a Valentine, 
> A glass of sherry when the hour grows late 
> And carolers gather round the parlor door; 
> 
> A patchwork quilt to warm the night, 
> The careless glow of candlelight, 
> A mother's arms, a lover's sigh, 
> Fresh-from-the-oven pumpkin pie 
> And fireside memories from the days of yore; 
> 
> All these and more restore my snowbound heart 
> Like warm rum on a snowy Winter eve, 
> I settle back and let my cares depart, 
> Snuggle my hands inside my flannel sleeve 
> And dream of what the Summer has in store. 
> 
> 
> ***** 
> 
> LAST WINTER 
> Michael M. Pendragon 
> 
> 
> This Winter well may be my last 
> With icy blasts of sleet and snow 
> And cold North winds that whisper low, 
> "Your time has passed." 
> 
> Winter days blow cold this year 
> And Winter nights grow colder still, 
> I can't escape December's chill 
> Or February's tear. 
> 
> The Winter snows are piled high, 
> The cold seeps through my cabin door, 
> I lie down on the hardwood floor 
> And fear the end is nigh. 
> 
> The Winter nights are long and cold, 
> The coldest I have ever known; 
> I shiver in the dark, alone 
> And feel myself grow old. 
> 
> This Winter well may be my last 
> My old bones ache with each new snow, 
> Though Spring may beckon, this I know -- 
> My time has passed. 
> 
> 
> ***** 
> 
> WINTER’S BEAT 
> NancyGene 
> 
> 
> A winter can slap down 
> at times a clacking 
> or the hard edge of gale winds 
> that is heard before dawn. 
> 
> It sometimes beats slowly, 
> not the din of the hail storm, 
> but the tap of the waiting 
> for two feet of white snow. 
> 
> It beats out its rhythm 
> if we can but listen-- 
> when it stops we know that 
> the birds felt it first. 
> 
> 
> ***** 
> 
> UNTITLED 
> Mabool 
> 
> 
> A bunch of depression era 
> bindlestiffs and remittance men 
> standing around a Herman Nelson 
> and one of ’em says to me, he says 
> Son, I run about twenty-one dawg 
> Fort Yukon to Mayo’s Landin 
> the warmest it ever got 
> was fifty-six below ! 
> 
> 
> ***** 
> 
> WINTERED HEART 
> Michael M. Pendragon 
> 
> 
> My hibernating heart beats in its cage 
> With restless pounding till my thoughts redound, 
> Reverberate with rhythmic bursts of rage 
> Whose resonant remonstrances confound 
> The icebound solitude of frozen tears. 
> 
> Somewhere a songbird sings of Summer rain 
> As sails unfurl across a Southern sea; 
> I wait beside a frosted window pane 
> And watch the falling snow indifferently 
> Till life's last trace of color disappears. 
> 
> So I wait safely in my silenced cell 
> And dream about the promised kiss of Spring; 
> Sleep-scented blankets weave my cocoon's shell 
> Where I can hide from Old Man Winter's sting -- 
> My heartbeats throbbing for a hundred years. 
> 
> 
> ***** 
> 
> FIRST HEARD 
> Edward Rochester Esq. 
> 
> 
> Long before 
> a startled gulp 
> of cooling air, 
> her hearts steady beat 
> presents a solo cadence 
> to new bones and flesh 
> housed inside liquid 
> walls of warmth 
> until that slow drift 
> from darkness to light, 
> brings a new beat 
> joining the universal 
> orchestra. 
> 
> 
> ***** 
> 
> HEART BEAT 
> NancyGene 
> 
> 
> Beat, beat, then a jump and a leap, 
> When you entered the bar. 
> There, there, the one with long hair, 
> That you said while passing. 
> 
> No, no, your friend next to me, 
> And you sat two stools down. 
> Thought, thought, how to talk around him-- 
> Would he know to change stools? 
> 
> Thump, thump, my heart in my words, 
> As I spoke to my dream. 
> Yes, yes, I’d love to go dance; 
> My pulse couldn’t slow down. 
> 
> Strong, strong, we’ve been married so long 
> To a synchronous beat. 
> Chance, chance, you decided to stop 
> In that place in my heart. 
> 
> 
> ***** 
> 
> HEY WINTER 
> ME 
> 
> 
> Hey Winter 
> you thought you went and slowed it all down, 
> you thought a cold breeze up my skirt 
> would end the dance. 
> 
> Here’s some news, I dance still, 
> and will toast the sun as it melts your ass 
> into an ugly puddle, until then 
> come sit by the fire, we’ll speak 
> of your demise. 
> 
> 
> ***** 
> 
> WHEN WINTER DIES 
> Michael M. Pendragon 
> 
> 
> The morning raindrops slowly wash away 
> The roadside mounds of piled ice and snow, 
> Revealing mottled clumps of grass and clay 
> As grey as faded dreams from long ago 
> When skies were blue and grass was warm and green. 
> 
> The raindrops fade but clouds still hide the sun 
> And naked trees still shiver in the cold, 
> But seasons pass and Winter's tale is spun 
> And I look back on happy days of old 
> When I was young and April was my queen. 
> 
> Tonight the snow moon wanes above the trees 
> And March winds roar behind the distant hill, 
> The air turns chill and melted snow will freeze, 
> I hug my knees while all the world grows still 
> And dream about the Summers that have been. 
> 
> 
> ***** 
> 
> LAY DOWN YOUR ARMS 
> Edward Rochester Esq. 
> 
> 
> You cannot beat winter with 
> the bones of dead Poplar Bears 
> or magnify the sun off solar panels 
> of suburbia ;you beat winter 
> next to the fireplace, next to a loved one, 
> with a glass of wine or good book 
> and every once in a while you watch 
> for the crocus to yawn, only then 
> will you know your world 
> is about to change. 
> 
> ***** 
> 
> BROKEN 
> Edward Rochester Esq. 
> 
> 
> I cried last month 
> seeing her broken face 
> adhered by blood 
> to the pillow. 
> 
> A wet face cloth 
> began to melt and remove 
> her cheek from the down 
> as I apologized, for it was me 
> that beat her. 
> 
> I’ve always told her, 
> the.45 is in the night table 
> and if she sees me snarl 
> or get loud, open the drawer 
> take the safety off 
> and aim it at my heart. 
> 
> “But I love you”, comes the response. 
> 
> If she loved me, why not stop 
> the monster inside? 
> 
> I do hope next time, she 
> pulls the trigger. 
> 
> ***** 
> 
> BEATEN 
> Michael M. Pendragon 
> 
> 
> The Winter snows have crushed my soul like ice 
> And ground the scattered fragments underfoot, 
> Stamped out my will to live till I would put 
> A bullet through my skull and not think twice 
> For those I love or all I leave behind. 
> 
> A wintersworth of snow and freezing rain 
> Have leached the color from December skies, 
> An old man's share and more of hobbling pain 
> Have washed the umber from an old man's eyes 
> And preyed like harpies on his troubled mind. 
> 
> Tonight, the March wind howls outside my door, 
> The Reaper's chill seeps through my windowpane, 
> The ghosts of Summer scurry 'cross the floor 
> And gnaw the ragged corners of my brain -- 
> I crawl in bed and drink myself half blind. 
> 
> 
> ***** 
> 
> UNTITLED II 
> Mabool 
> 
> 
> Jeepers for the life of Criminey 
> Hit don’t matter whatcha do do 
> Colder than the Younger Dryas 
> and there ain’t nobody can’t do 
> nothin about it. 
> 
> 
> ***** 
> 
> SPRING SPECIAL 
> NancyGene 
> 
> 
> If years were miles, I would be low mileage 
> but I have been driven on rutted roads, 
> not highways, oil changes were not done, 
> tires not rotated, some dents and bends, 
> rust unchecked and could use one detail. 
> 
> I have been a non-starter and suspended 
> belief too many times when my doors 
> were open but the windows were closed. 
> Air bag deployed, engine needs a rebuild. 
> One owner, 172 point inspection, all refuted. 
> 
> Hurry, this deal won’t last. 
> 
> ***** 
> 
> WINTER BREAD 
> Michael M. Pendragon 
> 
> 
> The welcome smell of fresh-baked bread 
> Will warm the long December night, 
> When boys and girls are tucked in bed 
> And Mom and Dad turn down the light 
> To snuggle up before an open fire. 
> 
> The mingled scent of barley, wheat and rye 
> Spreads through the parlor, hall and den, 
> Plays like an old-time lullaby, 
> Mixes with candlelight and then 
> Heads for the moon like an angelic choir 
> Upstairs to where the children lie asleep 
> All swaddled tight and warm as toast. 
> 
> Though years may pass, I'll always keep 
> This memory like a childhood ghost 
> Too perfect for my poem to reveal -- 
> Close to my heart in thoughts time cannot steal. 
> 
> 
> ***** 
> WINTER WHEAT LEAVENING 
> NancyGene 
> 
> 
> Sow seed in the Winter, harvest in Summer, 
> Winter wheat flour, ground to make bread. 
> 
> Be cautious of snow storms that hazard your 
> Wheat crop—for without raison d'etre, 
> There’s no role to need. 
> 
> ***** 
> WINTER'S WALK 
> Ash Wurthing 
> 
> 
> While all of you sleep, 
> I wander, restless, and eavesdrop; 
> I spy on no one, 
> not a soul stirs in the cold 
> to disturb this solitude. 
> 
> Closing my eyes against a stinging chill, 
> I can hear the wind speaking to sleeping trees 
> In some ancient language it drones,its voice haunting 
> as I hear the 'shhhh' of its lullaby. 
> 
> (special thanks to Edward Rochester) 
> 
> ***** 
> MILEAGE 
> Michael M. Pendragon 
> 
> 
> How many miles have I put on these shoes 
> Marching my courses from cradle to grave? 
> How many times have I turned in my dues 
> Fallen in battle or flinched at the news 
> Winced at the pain as they tightened the screws 
> When no one could hear me or wanted to save 
> My battered and broken form? 
> 
> How many miles am I destined to go 
> Traveling, journeying year after year? 
> How many times must I drift to and fro 
> Cast like a leaf on the breezes that blow 
> Chasing the dreams that I'd left long ago, 
> Lost on the banks of some faraway year 
> Where the waters flow soft and warm? 
> 
> How many miles till my old bones can rest, 
> Safe in the gloom of a willow tree's shade? 
> When will my bark reach the Isles of the Blest 
> When will my soul reach the end of its quest 
> Clutching at starlight that falls on the West, 
> Wrapped in Death's arms as my memories fade 
> Like the dark at the end of a storm? 
> 
> 
> ***** 
> SIDEWALKS 
> Edward Rochester Esq. 
> 
> 
> They have always been part of my life, 
> from the first cut knee after a run and trip, 
> into the school yards where friends waited 
> for some juvenile nonsense after the bell. 
> 
> They stretched through the Army 
> laying ahead cold and dormant in front of sleeping 
> machines of destruction 
> past the dark firing line of growing up. 
> 
> They brought me to the doorstep 
> where a push of button brought her smile, 
> her mother standing behind 
> checking out the awkward smile. 
> 
> The Golden spaniel greeted her friend 
> with a leap and waited for the scratch behind the ear 
> as we both headed off to the deli 
> and some Double Bubble Bazooka. 
> 
> It lay outside the funeral home where a friend 
> was presented with that permanent half smile; 
> it became a roller coaster ride 
> after one too many beers; it held the stretcher 
> holding a sheet covered father. 
> 
> It held my name scratched with a stick 
> into the fresh pour, my walk of fame complete 
> with date. 
> 
> Sidewalks have influenced the mileage, 
> the bike ride, the hop-scotch leaving little doubt, 
> a sidewalk will take me to where sidewalks 
> no longer exists 
> 
> ***** 
> PRAYER TO THE WINDS 
> NancyGene 
> 
> 
> All Powerful Winds, 
> Sweep away today to swirl in tomorrow; 
> Direct me to what is next. 
> Prevent me from clutching to what has been, 
> What I should have seen 
> And what I have caused. 
> 
> Winds of the Westerlies, 
> Whirl to the East the distress of my life. 
> Protect me from the vortex. 
> Present me with choices I could never pray for 
> When the air was still 
> And my spirit quelled. 
> 
> ***** 
> A BREATH OF CHANGE 
> IS IN THE AIR 
> Michael M. Pendragon 
> 
> 
> A breath of change is in the air 
> As crocus buds break through the snow, 
> A breath of change is in the air 
> But I've nowhere to go. 
> 
> All nature sings that Spring is near 
> Red robins serenade the sun, 
> Their lovesongs charm all those who hear 
> A new year has begun! 
> 
> The nights grow warm, the days grow long 
> And buds adorn the apple tree, 
> The waking world bursts into song 
> In praise of days to be. 
> 
> But April holds no joy for me 
> As I hide in my wintry cell, 
> Where ice and snow are all I see 
> Round walls I know too well. 
> 
> A breath of change is in the air 
> But North winds still blow bitter cold, 
> A breath of change is in the air 
> But I have grown too old 
> 
> To join the robins in their flight 
> As they soar through the sky, 
> I smile at April's joyful light 
> And lay me down to die. 
> 
> 
> ****** 
> ODOMETER 
> Edward Rochester Esq. 
> 
> 
> I noticed I hit 
> 180 thousand on the old Ford, 
> time for new plugs, I suppose, 
> perhaps some synthetic oil, keeping all 
> well lubricated. 
> 
> My neighbor just hit 84 
> as I observed the ambulance 
> back up and loaded him into 
> the back on a stretcher. 
> 
> New oil, plugs? 
> 
> No, he didn't return, the cancer hit the lungs 
> as the rust rings the fender walls 
> on my Ford--we're all just vehicles. 
> 
> Soon, I suppose, my recycled Ford might become 
> a new Toyota, 
> my neighbor, though, will just become powder 
> absorbed back into the earth. 
> 
> I'll dump in a new quart today 
> and head off to say goodbye to a friend. 
> 
> ***** 
> THE WAYFARER 
> Michael M. Pendragon 
> 
> 
> He picks his way across the snowbanked land 
> A ragged man who's older than the stars; 
> Back bent beneath the weight of Winter's hand 
> His battered hat slung low atop the scars 
> That map the contours of his ancient face. 
> 
> He trudges through the snow from town to town 
> Though blizzards blind and frostbite nips his toes; 
> He dreams of firesides and beds of down 
> And in his dreams, his slumb'ring spirit knows 
> That time and snowfall hurry to erase 
> 
> Each trace of footprints chiseled in his wake. 
> But far away beyond the snowcapped hills 
> A birdsong trills across a woodland lake 
> And fills his gypsy heart with April thrills; 
> He stops and smiles then travels on apace. 
> 
> 
> ***** 
> TWELVE LOAVES 
> Edward Rochester Esq. 
> 
> 
> I am not the perfect twelve, 
> never warmed in the kitchen 
> of Christ or toasted with a hint 
> of reverence. 
> 
> Ten is my number, the toes 
> and fingers just enough 
> to genuflect before that 
> 'fresh bread' sign outside 
> the bakery, where it's the tarts 
> I yearn for, the cheesecake 
> with a drizzle of strawberry, 
> those crème puffs that will get me 
> ten holy Mary's, come Sunday. 
> 
> I know, I know, 
> blasphemy doesn't come 
> sugar coated but I make up for it, 
> dipping a slice of seeded loaf 
> into the meat sauce, 
> now that is heaven. 
> 
> ***** 
> CHASING SPRING 
> Michael M. Pendragon 
> 
> 
> I race before the Winter snow 
> In search of days where daisies grow 
> And bluebirds fly o'er bluebell-speckled meads; 
> Where mossy banks and rippling rills 
> Play hide-and-seek with daffodils 
> To duck behind a thatchwork patch of reeds 
> Or weave their way through fields of wild flowers; 
> Where scents of blossoms in the sun 
> Find country lanes where children run 
> Or while away a thousand idle hours. 
> 
> I chase the warmth of April's smile, 
> The touch of May, whose eyes beguile 
> The irises and pansies into bloom; 
> Wisteria and lilac vie 
> With snapdragon and butterfly 
> To fill the sky with sirensong perfume; 
> And like the memory of a childhood friend 
> It calls to me from faraway 
> "The beauty of a new Spring day 
> Is waiting for you just around the bend." 
> 
> And so I race before the snow 
> To where May's wanton breezes blow, 
> The budding branches of magnolia trees 
> Where pussy willows swish their tails 
> And paper kites like billowed sails 
> Launch into flight amidst the birds and bees. 
> 
> But somewhere always many miles ahead 
> And I fall back into the falling snow; 
> I feel the grip of Winter, cold and dead 
> And somewhere in my slackened pace I know 
> That Spring is always just beyond the bend. 
> 
> 
> ***** 
> WHEATFIELDS IN MARCH 
> Michael M. Pendragon 
> 
> 
> Like silent soldiers buried 'neath the snow 
> The wheatfields wait to hear Spring's battle call; 
> The earth will warm, and soon the crops will grow 
> To burst with golden ripeness in the fall; 
> But Fall is still a Winter morning dream 
> And snow still claims the field as Jack Frost's own -- 
> And bleak as this acknowledgement might seem 
> Soon plows will break the earth, seeds will be sewn 
> "Persephone!" shall be their victory cheer; 
> Then row by row the wheat shall grow 
> Until the snow comes back again next year. 
> 
> 
> ***** 
> 
> WILD GEESE 
> Michael M. Pendragon 
> 
> 
> The wild geese are headed home 
> Across a thawing April sky, 
> I listen to their joyful cry 
> Resound through Heaven's dome 
> And wish that I had wings to fly 
> Or fortitude to roam 
> Like them across the waking land 
> As marigolds burst into flame; 
> I've countless words at my command 
> And though my soul was never tame 
> I lack the cleverness to name 
> A feeling wild geese might understand. 
> 
> 
> ***** 
> 
> MORNING FOG 
> Michael M. Pendragon 
> 
> 
> A wayward cloud dropped by to sleep last night 
> And left my hometown deep in morning fog 
> So thick the lowering streetlamps seemed to slog 
> Through murky water, limiting their light 
> To glowing halos strung atop the street. 
> 
> Last night it swallowed up the moon and stars, 
> This morning it would swallow up the sun; 
> While hidden in the mist, coyotes run 
> Behind the trees or dodge oncoming cars; 
> Their rhythmic patterns keeping to the beat 
> 
> Within the breast of one who sees them pass 
> While standing like a statue on the grass. 
> 
> 
> ***** 
> SNOW JOB 
> Edward Rochester Esq, 
> 
> 
> Ok, I don't like winter, 
> I did when snow was magical, 
> and cold crystals tickled the tongue 
> as Uncle Weatherbee 
> brought a promise of 
> school closings-- 
> a youthful sleigh ride 
> through wonderland 
> but the fascination, now, 
> is fleeting, a flash 
> of pure white 
> before the muddy trample 
> of boots, plows 
> and hungry snow blowers. 
> 
> I prefer to look 
> at my December calendar, 
> a winter wonderland, 
> frozen in time 
> as my toes melt 
> back into feeling. 
> 
> That sleigh 
> is now tucked away, 
> well past red-cheeked memories 
> too numb to smile 
> 
> I flip that calendar to June, 
> wishful thinking 
> until the plow drives by 
> scraping the ugly mess 
> like a hungry Wolverine 
> in search of marrow. 
> 
> Hearing a bird chirp 
> from the skeleton of a tree, 
> it seems help just might be on the way 
> and the only ice still available 
> will be dropped into a glass of 
> Lemonade. 
> 
> ***** 
> 
> MY SOUL IS A GYPSY WANDERER 
> Michael M. Pendragon 
> 
> 
> My Soul is a gypsy wanderer 
> And when Spring breaks upon the land 
> She runs through the grass to the faraway hills 
> With an old mandolin in her hands. 
> 
> My gypsy love is a wanton girl 
> With her eyes dark as starless nights, 
> Windblown hair red as apples that sets me awhirl 
> And her smile brings a thousand delights. 
> 
> My heart is a barefoot vagabond 
> Chasing sunbeams down rippling streams, 
> Or dancing through meadows where daffodils nod 
> In the spell of their afternoon dreams. 
> 
> My love is a wild and carefree bird 
> That soars through the April sky, 
> And sings of the things that it loves, undeterred 
> By the rainclouds that drift idly by. 
> 
> My Soul is a gypsy wanderer 
> But she stops in the Spring to play 
> Till the winds call her name from the faraway hills 
> And she runs off in search of the May. 
> 
> 
> ***** 
> 
> WINTER, BREAD, MILEAGE, 
> WINDS OF CHANGE & BEAT 
> Edward Rochester Esq. 
> 
> 
> Masks hides some normalcy 
> but doesn't disguise what lingers 
> in the madness as you travel 
> for the common loaf through the slush 
> and skid of winter's anger. 
> 
> Winds carry the stink of gun powder, 
> the fear is etched as the snow lightly falls 
> unaware it will soon cover caskets; 
> the odds of safety have been beaten by 
> madness. 
> 
> Puddles of blood below the condiment's linger 
> as headlines scream once again, sending condolences 
> to deaf ears as spring shoots are exposed 
> out and into the sun; only they will welcome 
> the warmth as everything else goes cold. 
> 
> ***** 
> GUIDELINES 
> 
> "A Year of Sundays" 
> Michael Pendragon, Editor 
> Website: https://groups.google.com/g/alt.arts.poetry.comments 
> Genres Published: Poetry, all styles 
> Representative Authors: J.D. Senetto, Karen Tellefsen, George J. Dance, Robert Burrows. 
> Format: Print 
> Reading period: All year. 
> Reading Fee: No. 
> Accepts Electronic Submissions: Yes. 
> Accepts Simultaneous Submissions: Yes. 
> Accepts Unsolicited Submissions: Yes. 
> Payment: None. 
> Publication Schedule: Yearly. 
> Issue Price: $5.50 
> Editorial Focus: "A Year of Sundays" represents a cross-section of many of the finer poems that have appeared in the AAPC newsgroup each year. Each month members are challenged to compose up to 5 poems on a set of selected topics. Submitted poems are discussed, commented on, and critiqued in the newsgroup. Each year the best of these poems are collected and published in a print volume. All styles of poetry are considered. 
> Tips from the Editor: Actively participate in the literary discussions at the AAPC newsgroup; comment on/critique the work of other members. AAPC is an unmoderated, interactive group, and "A Year of Sundays" was created to showcase the work of its members. The more you participate in the group, the more likely you are to be included in the year end print volume. Membership is free. 
> Contact Information: Go to https://groups.google.com/g/alt.arts.poetry.comments and look for the subject thread titled "A YEAR OF SUNDAYS" - SUBMISSIONS - MONTH - TOPICS. Post your poem/s there. 
> 
> Please check out our publication at: 
> https://www.amazon.com/Year-Sundays-Years-Best-Poetry/dp/B08T4DD38X


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