The Cold Has Gotten Old - poem

  

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com

Dispatches for the Colonial Office

 

The Cold Has Gotten Old

 

 

  For many years I was a self-appointed inspector of snow-storms...

 

-Thoreau, Walden

 

 

The cold has gotten old without Christmas trees

And little lights in all their vestmental tints

No longer counterpoint the dark northern breeze

No visions of spring, no dreamings, no hints

 

The happy lawns of summer are mud and frost

The path to the cowshed is a rattle of sleet

The trail to the fishing hole was yesterday lost

And our boots are too thin for our freezing feet

 

But after our chores boiling hot coffee, please -

The cold has gotten old without Christmas trees!

Coins and Raindrops - poem

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

Coins and Raindrops

There is much to be said for January:
The barn coat in whose pockets you find coins
Left over from a coffee run last year
Spare change from the last chilly day of spring
Dark-webbing trees framing rain-heavy clouds
As fragments of a painting never finished
By an artist of the mind dreaming through
His afternoon walk among expectations
That need not be fulfilled this side of dusk -
There is much to be said for January

The Coyotes Have Taken the Night Off - poem

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

The Coyotes Have Taken the Night Off

Winter at last - the night is silent and cold
The moon and stars obscured by clouds all week
Even the coyotes have taken the night off
There is no symbolism; it’s just nice

When Autumn Slipped Away

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com

 

When Autumn Slipped Away

 

When Autumn slipped away into the night

Taking along her gentleness, her smiles

The creaking walls ticked minutes dark until

Winter arrived on wild winds winging south

And made dawn’s colors hide within the earth

Yesterday’s glowing woods – now cold and grey

Haunted by drips and damps and hopelessness

And voices from a summer’s yesterday:

The world was wan with poor, pale-patterned light    

When Autumn slipped away into the night

High Noon at the Bird Feeder

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

High Noon at the Bird Feeder

A little dog, a streak of dachshund red,
Across the grass speeds to a squirrel’s doom
She wants its blood, she wants its flesh, she wants it dead;
Ripped, shredded, and torn, it will need no tomb.

The fat old squirrel, a fluff of forest grey,
Is unimpressed by doggie dementia;
To Liesl’s grief he leaps and climbs away -
Never underestimate the Order Rodentia!

Liesl’s squirrel clings to a low-hanging limb
And chatters abuse at the angry pup
Who spins and barks and spins and barks at him
Laughing among the leaves, and climbing higher up.

So Liesl snorts and sneers, and marks the ground;
She accepts not defeat, nor lingers in sorrow;
For Liesl and squirrel it’s their daily round;
They’ll go it again, same time tomorrow.

Bipolar Vortex

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

Bipolar Vortex

Global warming? The concept’s tired and old,
For one only knows that today is cold.

The Frogs of January

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

The Frogs of January

Have the frogs of January lost their minds?
This is the season of reptilian sleep,
To leave the winter’s frozen world behind
And keep their dormant lives in storage deep

This balmy dusk is not a time for song;
This temporary warmth is but a cruel tease;
Frogs won’t sing through this winter dusk for long:
The soft winds whisper of a coming freeze.

Deep Dusk

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

Deep Dusk

A skeleton of dead black branches frame
The falling sliver of January moon
While an owl’s threats echo in the darkening woods
And cold stars measure out the universe.