Hello and Spring was not early this weathered year.

Every year there is another crisis in the family, and the prairie seems to envelope all in a great horizon of either hope or despair, and sometimes both at once. Here there have been some warm happenings, and a possible early spring with a crisis of the family thrown in. I could not write for a week and even now I am slow about it.

But we have also had the warmest weather, least snow, and mildest winter here in the north country. Except that yesterday we felt snow, and tonight the greatest storm in over ten years threatens to immobilize us. Or, perhaps it is all hyperbole form the weather forecasters, seeking their own particular brand of adrenaline.

Here are some thoughts on that. Any suggestions as to how this first draft could be made better are deeply appreciated.

Global Warming

Global warming strikes our great white north this year
confusing the living, plants, pets, and shut-ins alike,
now cold, now sun, now rain, now ice, now mud.

Tonight we watch the way of snow upon the earth
we smelled it in the air yesterday, stealing sky colors.
Now, it comes swirling with wind, like wedding skirts.

The brown dead grasses have withered more in mild air
no heat, not frozen, sunlight low on the southern porch
there is no green, no growth, no chances yet, for spring.

Tiny high-tailed sparrows flit from food to food
with the redbirds, the gray tits, and foundling squirrels,
dashing to warmth in holes, nests, and warrens dear.

Spring will not rise for moons this far from tropic seas
winter, like jealous sisters, grabs her chance flinging
desperate storms, deep snows and frigid kisses.

The rat without a shadow sleeps dreams of ignorance
and we prepare for snowy onslaught, men even speak
of ideal storms upon the prairie: laugh, we live here.

Childhood days of thirty and forty and fifty below
3 meters of snow and more to sled or pull the dogs
Now a mild winter, warm, lacking ice and we are soft.

A foot, a yard, a meter more of white stuff, not falling
flung horizontally in winds that could shave your face
blizzards in the yard, rabbits cower, we by the fire, sip.

Will the power die? Can the early plants survive?
Who knows, who cares, we live in this and every year
greens spring forth, and hockey games are played.

About dragonpoet

But sometimes what you write is neither polished nor useful. Then it arrives here. With lots of sentence fragments and beginning ideas. If you wish, please comment on what you find. If you don't like the politics, don't comment. Here, we deal with the writing.
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2 Responses to Hello and Spring was not early this weathered year.

  1. Clartedubois says:

    I was here nearly as soon as it was written…
    How wonderful to come back to it…
    The first reading calls always some kind of reply.
    Over the sights you describe,
    As much as I want to let them enter purely into my mind,
    Too strong comes a kind of “surimpression”…
    Or better said overprinting.
    And that blurs everything.
    Now, I can at least see it, smell it, taste it.
    I don’t know for other readers…
    But I have it with all your texts, Long Shiren.
    That kind of twin evocation…
    And I think from now on, I will read it.
    Then, I’ll write the answers in my own place.
    This done, I will wait.
    Later, I will come back,
    And like today, I’ll enjoy it without interferences…
    It makes me feel for that place you describe so well.
    This is so wonderful to see the world with poet’s eyes.
    With you, nearly everything is alchemized!

  2. clartedubois says:

    About Diversity and distant Worlds

    The contrasts or differences between our places are infinite,

    I never realised before how Minnesota was close to Canada…

    Compare: the tardily storms raging in your Northern Country

    And the Gulf Stream which, as always is warming our shores…

    The Ice Queen visits you still, here, Scotch mist is outpouring,

    Or simply” brown rain” as they describe it in the verdant Erin…

    Those showers are lush and abundant in our youthful spring.

    As much in mine than au Beau Pays des plus Grands Bardes.

    Did I tell you I was so obsessed that I possess a Celtic harp?

    Does it come from the Mists of Avalon and Morgan le Fey?

    Or is it by reading and reading, the Mary Stewart’s version?

    She is the voice of Merlin, called by her, yet, another name…

    If you don’t know, would you trust me when I enlighten you?

    How many times, does she not make the poor guy drew rains?

    Quite often! As much as it is required to be where he had to be.

    Cruelly, she deprived him of witchcraft or his gift of ubiquity!

    Ireland! My Enchanted Country, how I do long to be with you…

    “Wake up! Clarté! Where have you been?

    What the matter with you?”

    “O! Poet, I can’t help it! Pardon me!

    From Bantry Bay to Dublin city,

    I am enthralled or spell-bound;

    the conjuring words are not too strong.”

    Please, Clarté, this is no proper job,

    you can better, give it a finer try”

    “Yes, Poet! You are honest!

    I can better; I have that curious tendency…”

    Another divergence is your grass so dead when it shows at all.

    Now it plays hide and seek under the so cold and virgin snow.

    I dread and fear the cruelty of your everlasting blasting winds…

    But then, the men, there, are so tender; they enfold their ladies

    With woven woollen plaids or handmade Hamish patchworks…

    Meanwhile, our buds bloom in forests, gardens, groves, lanes.

    Our fields shine green emerald, other by now are ploughed up,

    Waiting for crop growing or cattle’s, mainly cows, to pasture!

    Poets, for me –don’t ask me why –the first flowers are yellow.

    Not true! To proof me wrong: Here is the orchard of Philemon!

    Trees “whitening”, his meadow is whitish-green by snowdrops.

    If some crocuses are of gold, others are pale or violet. Violets?

    Are violet! In a few weeks, at one of the nicest neighbourhood

    Of Brussels , at a stone toss from where Marco, the dear friend

    Lives, the Japanese cherry trees will blossom so exuberantly or

    So deliriously, their petals will paint the streets all pink.

    But, forsythias and how do you call those little round flowers?

    Are they Bamboo bushes? And do agree, buttercups of all kind,

    Are they not yellow? Do you know that magical, musical piece

    From Sir Edward William Elgar? Titled: “The Starlight Express”.

    It is all about fairies and children’s dreams. There, the song

    “Dandelions and daffodils” comes to the tune of the goats’ bells!

    Sure, here are the culprits that are colouring my spring yellow!

    It could have been the end, then dog’s and hen food were needed

    At the supermarket, how to resist those multicolour primavera?

    My heart was full of a gentle and silent joy, but blood and joy…

    O! Please, dear Angel, heal broken hearts, I hope and pray and …

    Many of the bulbs I chose had to be like the vital fluid: scarlet.

    Except for the lilies, they are such a pure gift: White lilies!

    The only ones were called Oriental or Cassandra! Yes! Dragon!

    I don’t know why! And what a name for such a pristine flower!

    I prefer the like of Canna’s or Calla’s also said Zantedeschia’s…

    For Primavera, I buy a red Shirley and a few pompon Dahlia’s!

    Coming happy from the shop; I heard the joyful trills of a bird!

    Is it a Merlin call? I searched, watched: there on a cypress’s top.

    O! What a small one! O! Bliss! I fetched the binocular! Too late!

    A turtle-dove! Yes, dear, he was all alone, perching in its place.

    Believe me; all in all, I was comforted it was not the Peregrine.

    To you, LSR

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