Mama’s Refrain

Hatless, wind ruffled hair
winter snow flake dandruff
red ears and mustache icicles.
Iowa snow gnome I am
when I see my breath.
Ninety percent of your body heat
escapes from your head.
Well mom, that’s why I’m so cool!

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Photo: corner of Boston’s Court and Tremont Streets several winters ago. Story behind the giant tea kettle: manufactured in 1873 by Hicks & Badger; a “sign” outside the old Oriental Tea Kettle shop. Signs were common in early Boston to identify shops for those who could not read. On January 1, 1875 a contest was held to guess its capacity and Boston’s Sealer of Weights & Measures officially measured it.  10,000 spectators stood by as 8 boys and 1 tall man concealed themselves inside the kettle. The court was officially measured to hold 227 gallons, 2 quarts, 1 pint, and 3 gills. An attached mechanism produced steam. To this day, in the cold winter months, steam is seen coming out of the kettle. Starbucks made a wise decision to place their store here!
Poetry prompt: final assignment in Fall 2015 Poetry Apprenticeship with Holly Wren Spaulding:  write an “advice” poem — perhaps from shoulds and should nots of your early days!

 

Some We Leave Behind

Stubborn firs stand warm and smug
beside the giving trees,
shadows now of skeletons
against clear blue skies.

Ground glitters red and gold,
cracks beneath the rakers’ feet
as he piles the oldest, most brittle
atop the crimson bright.

Tis time to take our leave
and slowly say goodbye
to those once colorful days
of leaping, laughing youth.

Photos from walks and visits this past week.

Juxtaposition Tales

He laughed at the brightly colored
bird mobile above his head,
crib swaying slightly
each time his chubby legs kicked
inside the pajama bag.
The premature butterfly,
monarch colors still pale
fluttered lightly, insistently,
beginning to outgrow its cocoon.

She was plump with curves,
delicious for his taste
and he wondered if she would be interested
in a bloke like him.
The tabby cat slurped milk
knowing she could use her paws later
to lick off vestigial drops.

The moon lead him down the path
until he reached the dock’s end,
a point of no return in his fogged mind.
The cricket struggled
to rub his wings together one more time,
his sweet song coming to an end
with the killing frost.

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Photo Credit: Juan Sole

…and the Seasons Tilt

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Aspens quake in fear
Sycamores pretending happiness
turn smile-happy yellow,
while the Mighty Oak
blushes crimson red.

They know Winter lurks
behind crisp cool autumn air,
her cold heart waits impatiently
to unleash harsh winds,
strip them of their dignity.

They will stand naked for all to see
rattle and shiver with no recourse
while we don puffy coats
bright red stocking caps
and hand knit yellow scarves.

We add layers of color
while they stand
dark limbs exposed,
the transition time
when the seasons tilt.

Photo:  October 14, 2015 in Boston Public Garden.