I have been very quiet on WordPress the past few weeks. I have spent this month getting organized in my office.
To begin I sorted all the paper that had accumulated in the last several months. I now have my stories and writing in folders so I can find a story and get it organized to go out to a publisher or agent.
Then I looked at the closet jammed full of stuff in no particular order. Everything came out and in putting it back, I discovered a notebook of my husband’s poems that I didn’t have cataloged. I located printed copies except they were printed in the mid 1980s on a 9-pin printer with a font that I don’t have with my new printer. Actually the words were fine, but they were often surrounded by strange coding that had to be deleted before I could transfer the poem to the file with the others.
I am a bit like a dog with a bone–when I start something, I can’t let it go until I finish. Yesterday, I declared to be finished. There are still some bits of bone here and there to clean up, but that is not daunting. Richard was a person who wrote lines of verse here and there, often leaving poems unfinished or in handwriting. Even in the nearly five years since his death, bits and pieces pop up when I open an old notebook.
Therefore, I have decided that for the next several weeks I will publish one of his poems. Here is the first one:
WINTER TIME FRIEND
Friend, O Friend,
Get close to the snow,
the gift of winter,
While you can.
The snow dunes molded by wind
can be a friend, a refreshing
challenge to the finger, toe and eye.
Fly and plop in the drift,
wade and waddle through the
crusty, crunchy freezing crystals.
Savor the stimuli on the nose,
laugh at the determined
fluff above the mitten.
Wonder at the shadow and shape
of infinite grays, whites and
curves and arcs arranged for you
by the wind.
Stare at the forbidding flow of
powdered sunshine freely dancing
to the tune of January.
Let the snow be your playground,
your pool, your pillow,
Allow yourself to indulge
the joy of frolic,
While you can, my friend.
Richard E. Lake 18 January, 1979
One thought on “A POETRY BONE”
There was a time when I did those things. Now, the cold penetrates, the ice instills fear for my old bones, and warm, sandy beaches are much more inviting.