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sirius cool

the wind bite
the crush crunch
the sublte grey streaks
of the sleeping summer
limbs cradling winters
from the heavenly fallen

my cigarette on frost nipped
out back the dog on her lead
lifting paws
as the cold pinchs us through
our fur our clothes

the hundred myriad tasks
for today and tomorrow
waiting like the thickening
grey mutation of light
suffuse through its
settled weight
on our mid winter selves

and when its clear
the sharp bright star

the dark night
begins and the
dreams are ready

Editing stage: 


Oh yeah the dreams are ready, and you sir paint dreams with your words. Regards Roscoe..

Roscoe Llane,

Religion will rip your faith off, and return
for the mask of disbelief that's left.

I very much enjoy the personification of the seasons in the first stanza. I can picture a lot of it clearly from the words you have carefully chosen.

san diego....tartan sweater tattered
no pockets...what dam good is that..
hunched over the basement lamps
the cats eyes staring from the board
the little laptop leaning on my knees
my fingers like nimble crabs feeding
in the great grey depths of this sleeping
complex...the bowels of function

bukowski on the headphones the old
six track reel to reel
my wild eyes and hair
reeking of stress and the chore
list tatooed on my head showing up
in dreams later

the stinking dog with her ear ointment
sticky on her head like tanning lotion
for summer revelers
shedding in the dead of winter
who do these shar peis think they are

think of the happiness this poem emoted
standing outside the cold seeping in
spark from the butts burning my chest
the lines in my face deepening with age
and i could have written something edgier
darker but its what i felt at the time
spring does that frozen in her terminus
of wait
gripped in the winds
stirring the freedom of movement
of the limbs

i ache

author comment

I can relate to this, the dog used to lift her paws because of all the salt spread on the pavements, it bit her toes,; but so did the cold. Some have shoes for dogs, I think that a must in Canada as the temp. drops so low.

The sharp night, how I love Winter too, her icy blasts cutting sculptures in the snow, and that stillness, all is muted, all is pure-to begin with anyway. I wrote a letter just now to an ld friend...

Winter's coat is thick this year, all is white,
all is made pure and beautiful, light,
the silhouetes of trees make graceful dance,
their branches swaying in the icy breeze,
pencilled sketches on the sheet of crystal paper,
delicate, each miniature working part,
displaying facets of their art,
reflecting colours from the heavens as they do,
the tyttebær on the veranda still peeping through.

((Tyttebær are translated direct: Peeping berries.))

That is what I see right now out of the window...

And i wrote it straight down for him, a pessimist! and an artist too.

Enjoy as ever, your poems Wolf, love Ann.

"The image of yourself which you see in a mirror Is dead,
but the reflection of the moon on water, lives." Kenzan.

the cold was atrocious, we did not venture far
she would scratch at door...on warmer days
we ventured down the street and trail and
we would see the deer hanging close...
wolves coyotes...only the deer know
and they are shy and bearing of humans
now in this season....

i did not keep her long..her feet are pretty
good and she loves snow....
she is spoiled..

i used to take her on walks
and now she takes me on walks

such how it goes....

thank you

author comment

You've done it again, plucked me out of me seat
and into another world.

Sigh thank you for being here, Brilliant Poem

love JC xxx

("Always and Forever") - (Never lose a holy curiosity.-Albert Einstein)

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