To Listen to Music While Reading this Poem, just Click Here!
Click Here To add this poem to your "Voting Possibilities" list!
A Chair Lift Who knows the will of the tall pine, whose snowy beards paint the line? Whistling wind may tell his tale; many have pried, to no avail. One could scream. Loudly. As I did that dreadful day. Or as I did, too, one could sit straight-backed in the pew and pray that we’d go away. Who knows, really, the iron mind of the soft bough, snow laden cone bearer whose slender fingers delicately stretch in dendritic balance? They stand watch. I feel them smirk. One could cry. Quietly. In this pristine church, this playground, a littered vale, snow and ice winter in, the vast amassed whiteness whose windswept trees dance in zephyr’d skits. The high wire ride to the top: arranged meetings, greetings, sunlit faces propel smiles across the cloudless miles dance, waifs, peak to peak. One should pray. I toss out the heavenlies – snowy mountain peaks, azure skies, awesome nature huddled beneath, steep upon, deep within, carelessly quiet – in awe. Later - Fingers of fire dance for me. The mountain, dressed in nature, with gondola cars hung like jewels from a necklace oblivious, too obvious, too patient. See. Even the icicles define me. Frozen in time. Windblown. Melting away. On Fat Tuesday her mother explained why the older girls with sharp breasts were on the balcony. Loudly, between the cheers, over the whistles. She stared briefly, returned to the queens whose peacock feathers and diamond studded tiaras unleashed the dogs – I felt her blush and return to the safety of the litter at her feet. America - Oh, forget it. It’s snowing again. I could call it jazz. But it could be blues. I am unclear about the distinctions, the requisites, the concepts. I discovered nothing new. Was it jazz? No. Snow is not jazz. It was blue. |
Sorry, there are no critiques for this poem in our system... If the poem is older, the critiques have been purged!