Poems du Jour

Seasonal Weather
By C.K. Armistead
12/27/2015

That Vandal, Banshee wind
Charges down the plains
From the North
Roaring its displeasure
Rattling fences,
Overturning suburban trashcans
Making the steam rising
From the neighbor's heating vent
A ragged banner, flung violently
Southward,
As if issuing a challenge to Texas.

The sparrows huddle in the
Lee of the house
Popping out now and then
To steal seed from the feeder
And return to the shelter
Of the small evergreen shrub
Beneath my window.
Breathless in the face
Of the wind's onslaught.

And here I sit, behind double-paned windows
Cozy in my room, cup of hot tea
In my hand
And books to warm my soul
Insulated from
That howling Banshee's roar
Though I can feel it,
Yes I can.
An ache, a twinge of warning
In my joints, in my very bones.
Winter has arrived
In his noisy chariot
Behind his howling steeds.


Second Wave
By C.K. Armistead 12/27/15

Now Winter's most insidious minion,
Cold
Picks and pries and seeps his way
Into our homes, into our bones.
All our modern comforts cannot
Completely banish him.
He finds the loosely fitted window,
The poorly insulated wall,
The edge of an aging floorboard
And flings his icy darts at us
As we read, or rest.
At night, only the warmth
Of many blankets-
And our bodies -
Keeps him at bay.
But when you must get up,
He waits to nip at your toes,
And breathe chills down your neck.
There is a warmth in our hearts, though,
That can thwart him.
Love.
Thoughts of those we love
Can send warmth spreading
Outward from our hearts
And can stop Winter's true cold
From harming us.


Oklahoma: 12/27/15
C.K.Armistead

Grey
So dreary and dull
The Oklahoma sky that usually
Sparkles the bluest blue
Cold
So cold that the North wind comes
Screaming down the plains
Freezing the puddles
Trapping the fallen oak leaves there
Like flies in amber
Snow
Not pretty, not yet.
Just a hardscrabble
Central Oklahoma frosting
 So far-
of snow and fallen sleet
Dead grass, dry leaves
And bare branches
Still plain to see.

Pop's Pen
CK Armistead 12/27/15

Fountain pens are living things
Tools with a soul-
Closely associated
With the one who uses them
Many have I collected,
Some very fine
And a joy to use,
But this one,
This one is special.
It's been to War
And back.
It's written letters I've never read.
It has languished long years
Saved in a drawer
Unused.
Its song stilled.
I have inherited it,
Cleaned it,
Refilled it,
And given it a chance.
Now it sings for me
Helping me tell my stories
And remembering
My Pop for me
By the wear of its nib,
The wear on its body,
And the fine accuracy
 Of its point.