by Larry Spiro
The following suite of poetry describes our journey into winter. Quid pro quo best describes living in the Northeast part of this great country. We enjoy the other seasons so much that when winter blows into town we accept it as payment due.
Becoming Winter
Between summer’s damp driplet haze
and winter’s swell before dimming days
she puts on airs of spring and sways
towards him; he comes near.
His gaze is cold and severe.
Winter
Night walks from dusk toward a shivering star.
The stroll is slow and long with crisp snap of
broken ice and clawing clutching wind.
Darkness drip, seep, freeze dragging slow
to retired dawn reeling to awake.
Red blaze ignite the fleeting day where
second seem like minute, minute seem like hour.
Grey skyblank the evanescent light.
Night walks from dusk toward a shivering star.
Interrupt
The wind roars and shrills
blasting through the quaking sill.
She shifts her sheets
and moves slowly from a half dead sleep
towards the darkened light.
barely dreaming, slightly seeing
the grey night shrouded in vitreous white.
Pale fingers press her face
against the rigid pane.
Her dreams sift through frigid lace
and options, identity wain.
Shivering breathes fog the view.
Here and now, near and soon
fading silhouettes against glass,
demur to the static moving past.
Clouds and Stars
by Ethan Bell
A normal day to fall in a cloud
I shot for the stars, but fell in a cloud of expectations
Soft, but honest to my limitation’s dreams fill the room with a warm embrace
Working towards a forever change to feel the growth like roots are the veins flowing like a stream into my beautiful lake
A Plea to the Mirror
by Willow DuBrovin
I swear I hear them speak.
The mirrors…
They whisper slowly as I pass,
and even if I silently sneak, they catch me and
murmur delicate with subtle class
but with the shrill of poison gas.
I swear I hear them speak.
The mirrors…
The people behind the glass
I try to catch them in the act,
yet every time I’m left abase
starting at the eyes abstract
of my lonely, solemn face.
I know I hear them speak.
The mirrors…
Their voices grow louder and with it cold
they breathe my future so they’ve told.
I refuse to listen to the uncontrolled.
And as I flutter through my halls,
they followed behind with taunting calls,
only hissing for me to listen
to the history of their fall.
I know I hear them speak.
The mirrors…
They love to laugh at my pain,
since they know that I know
no one else can hear their reign.
Unfortunately, as for me,
I suffer amongst their vain
as my old bones start to wither with age.
I no longer hear them speak.
The mirrors…
Since I’ve passed some time ago
I’ve wished for someone to call to me so.
Even if their voice a horrific whisper
I would love to even hear the distinct lisper
as I roam my old silent halls.
But oh! A person…
to see me so? Living, breathing, speaking?
A beautiful glow?
I graze the tips of my fingers
against the gentle mirror as I whisper
for the foreign stranger to linger
a little longer…
Yet they turn away, retreating fast,
silence vast, as my pleas remain unheard.
But my voice carries a wonderful glisten!
Doesn’t it?
If only someone would stay
to goddamn listen.
