Memories of Cold

During the hot summer days, my thoughts often turn to cooler times. Here are couple of poems about some memories of cold.


White room

Bulky Bulwark of a door pulled opened,
memory of Ali Baba shouting, “Open, Sesame!”
Walking into a magical world of iced white;
cold air brushes my face as the spirits
of the this cold microcosm flee to summer.

Rows of coarse screened cabinet doors
filled with beef, pork or venison
all kinds of meat, all shapes and sizes,
wrapped tight with white butcher paper
sitting, as a congregation in prayer.

I breathe in slowly, so the frozen daggers
will not freeze my tongue, throat
and pierce deep into my lungs.
I breathe out, a fog drifts
Gliding away like clouds
lifting up mountain slopes
after a summer’s rain.

A taste of cold
iced air, sublimated frost,
condensing on my tongue
cold moisture running over the edges,
a cool relief from the summer’s heat.

Going to get venison steaks today
soon to be broiled, with mashed potatoes
gravy and
yucky veggies.
The green and orange,
they alone will hold my plate
when I am done.



Cold Steel Mud

Cold day of rain and mud
soldiers riding through grungy streets
swords rising, hacking flesh,
cold steel, flinging blood still warm.

Arm sliced deep
another cuts my face,
then my neck.

Falling to ground,
limp arm,
doesn’t
break the fall

Gasping for air, sucking only mud
shaking, rolling my face to the sky
spitting the muck
just one breath of air, just one.

Horses hoofs,
bones, leg, hip,
cracking, crunching;
only sounds, nothing more.

Mud warming, oozing
flowing, a tepid shiver,
warms my shoulder and neck,
like warm lips kissing my ear;
a pillow to lay my head.

Grotty cold rain flows into sleep;
till I wake, to a stranger, a woman,
wiping the vernix from my face.