Crystallization of the Soul (Frostbite)

Iditarod

vacation’s peak

where the wilderness

reenacts the fates forged

by cryogenic rendering

Tennis racquets tripping toes

pressing patterns upon

the treads of snow

Wolves amass over the icy ridge

watching, waiting

for the submissions of untrained eyes

Frozen, under glassy shards

frigid little stings, so harsh, so very

persistent is its brittle bite

Eventually, when in a perpetual state of numbness,

the pursuit of warmth grows forgotten, somehow

arriving at the point, where frost and irrelevance mix 

A Winter's Night to Be?

                        I.

It’s been seasonally unseasonal

With slight refrigeration and but

A sprinkling of salt, this winter’s

Been a pleasant disaster thus far.

It’s been about an hour and fifteen

Moments now, since the monotone

And balding mainstay with the same

Black suit and black bowtie (which is

The only distraction the viewers are allotted

In order to cautiously avert one’s gaze from the

This man’s blind-emitting reflective Temple-born overt glare.)

He instructed us to batten down the hatches

For the midnight hours will deliver, with a fair

Amount of certainty, much more than the typical

Thirty-five percent, super-bowl-like guesswork,

That’s oft perceived as Elite

Amongst the castes & fan-boys, in the world

Of meteorological prognosticating. 

                 

                            II.

Forty-five miles each and every hour of the overnight,

Will terrorize the mountains first, move into the plains

Then swim about the lake, holding still, circling, just long

Enough for the temperatures to spike below, from forty-one’s to

Twenty-two’s, depreciation, if included in a piece referencing

Ages, might spark some spiked memories of their own, at which point the lady of the lake effects will show her force, that despite the spattering underachieving mother our nature has proven this winter thus to be, the lady shan’t be so kind this stormy first month night.

The howling will begin, like banshees in search of souls to tease, and then the clacked-clacking of the skeletal shells of trees, rocking, swaying keenly in the dark, where a barely visible half-cloud covered moon, illuminates the long raspy branch-like fingers as it scrapes against the uninsured side panels of Home.   

Soon the sound will be reduced to the silence only heard in sleep—

Those temperate delusions we dream to ourselves, where pleasant anecdotes and grandiose scenic enshrinements emboss the frontal portions of our yet to exit REM state mind. 

           

                             III.

Gently snuggled under:

A.      Faux Silk sheets, Gold

B.      Faux Chamois ½ blanket- Blue & Gold

C.      Cotton blanket, full, Red, White & Blue

D.      Original Comforter couldn’t bear to part- Tan and White(ish)

E.      New Comforter, plush, Gold

Head nestled amongst:  3 pillows, and a monster green pillow thing, mainly meant for decoration, yet used on occasion, when I don’t want to wake the dogs from rest, yet need a brief respite from the daily.

Unprepared I close my eyes.  Yes, I watched the news, I just said I did, detailed it quite so-so if I don’t say so myself, but it’s been mild, it’s been calm, and horizontal snowfall hasn’t been seen in years, a feat that’s rare, even here.  So I close my eyes, unprepared for the morning groans over snow, where still in pajamas, the eyes watch the snow-globe outside, as if some wizard is constantly flipping us bottoms up and renewing the invigorated non-stop snowfall drifts.

Luckily, I have an out.  All I have is an appointment.  I can cancel if I must.  For four letter’s white, look much prettier, when behind the frosted pane inside.

And the eyes roll underneath now enveloped lids.  The chest rises and falls as breathing beings often should.  The only occupation of light is a small blue dot flashing.  The only remnant of sound is the sound of slap-chop or one of its kin.  As it does appear I fell into the evening hibernation a bit prior to pushing power on the satellite receiver, television, all-in-one control, remote button. 

And at some point, my hand must have slid, as it now lays draped over the side of bed, fingers must have given way, as the carpet now holds the remote in its overnight vacation place, away from it’s controlling friends, by the nightstand, next to the window and the comfy leather viewing chair. 

                                           IV.

But none of this I can see for myself, it’s a picture, as seen from the guardian angel that hovers above me during dream.  And I must say, I cannot complain, he’s done a swell job for the most part, always paying attention to each dream dreamt and then some more.  Yet, I do believe, knowing him the way I think I do, he most likely covers his eyes during those certain types of dreams… only lifting away a finger or two, for a very brief pecking of time.  Curious.  Interested, but coy, and red, regarding the ruffling of his wings, and the slight increase of light, shining in unexpected rhymes from the halo above his head.

         Winter.  Outside the pane, approaches tonight.

Or so the forecaster guessed, and, I do so guess as well, that tonight, I do believe, that there’s about a fifty-three point nine percent chance that I believe his prediction will come true this night.  But all will be fine.  All will be …

But a confession I must make.  I cheated.  My big toe always gives the chill away, hours before the temperature drops.  And it doesn’t matter how warm and cozy the socks are worn to feet.  When it’s cold, I’m all too well aware of the numbness in my foots frozen thumb. 

                                         V.

         Sleep tight dear dreamers

         Dream soft dear sleepers

         Stay warm.  Stay nestled—

Cozy in your beds, where,

         If you can’t fall tenderly on

Your own, whisper internally,

A sweet, sweet song, but only after

         Praying your prayerful words

In the darkness of between the flickering light,

And if possible, if you can, if you’re not alone this winter’s eve…then kiss your partner on their cheek

                           Cover them tight, and bless them peace in dream

And… let each other’s body glow, keeping each the other’s full frame warm…on this predicted to be, awfully chilling winter’s sleep…

Oh, I don’t care too much for…Oh, Let it snow, let it flow, Oh I don’t care too much for snow, but oh…

With love

In touch or

In dream

You won’t be cold inside or out

And then…

It won’t matter what middle-aged balding, bow-tie wearing man with a monotonous voice says about the cold, cold weather he predicts to come, on this cold, cold winter’s eve, on this cold, snowy cold, winter’s night to be.

Sick

To excretion

And sweat

I’ve no choice

But to deflect,

All and any inquiries

Into the matter of

health.

To rattling cages made of rib

And all the gelatinous masses

Vacationing in, I must accept

Any and all, lack of

Comfort experienced through,

Confined in this condition, relegated

To such positions of internal anarchy

As to the removal of

Such insurgents,

A healing process works its way,

One I find to be, entirely cruel

When it comes to the rehabilitation

Of the self inside

 

Immunity

Each is born with a trait,

Some nurture it, promoting growth,

Others do not water it, and waste the gift God gave to them,

I do neither, yet the trait remains the same,

I understand definitions,

But the meaning, the emotions,

I must pretend and watch, then follow others, silently in tow,

 Incoherency is all I hear,

As you whisper to my ear,

Others certainly would be seduced,

Instead I must ask what you spoke,

The majority of the who am I, doesn’t bother me,

The coldness seems to act as a guardian or a shield,

If others sentiments are interpreted as they were meant,

But without feelings, I am left unknowing,

And sadness if I could hold, its voice would unfold in such a scene,

You are here, and so am I, dote you do, oh so lovingly,

But then I catch an odd notion from your eyes,

As they understand this endearing tenderness

Means nothing to me

The Cold Front

Vile words echo again,

Nine to eighteen inches overnight,

Perhaps this is premature, could be different this time through,

Another town, some other day,

On cue the host adds a caveat, minimum nine tonight, guaranteed,

Better bundle up, this one’s going to be nasty,

Smacking the dash as I park the car,

No need for anger, no reason yet,

Rust decorates the slush as I close the door,

Dark clouds pouring in, a new chill as flakes fall,

Guess that promise was filled with emptiness,

Ho, Ho, Ho, Merry Christmas, three months after the fact,

Deck the Hall, What’s this guy stalking me?

With boughs of holly, blah, blah, blah, and then and then

An unconscious response, from fist to beard, Four cops swarm

With guns drawn, but forty minutes later Santa said he holds no ill will towards me,

Conveniently I walked, into the Store, but some foreigner starts yelling we closed, we closed,

All I want is a lousy loaf of bread, some milk and some eggs,

Pulls out a bat and starts swinging, bells jingle as I’m exiting, cops nowhere around,

Staring at the walls, she’s still not home, should I worry, my heart begins to race,

We’ve been through this one before.  I’ll sit and wait as the darkness fills the clouds black and grey

I’ll watch the front as it rides on through, and picture her pacing and rehearsing the excuses she’ll use.

When Desires Vanish

When desires vanish, and warmth's removed,

I can’t explain how we arrived at this place,

Seems like just yesterday you had butterflies,

And I was scared to death,

But the truth is too easy not to see,

Yet we deny any notion of problems,

Not sure when the trouble began

But I am aware it’s not just one,

Nor is it only the other,

There’s too much space and not enough smothering,

Lately I feel invisible, alone without any of the immutable benefits of isolation

But we don’t argue, we don’t fight, we don’t bicker and we don’t bite,

When we’re out we sure put on our pretty faces,

Looking good to strangers on the street, perfect masks for you and me,

The house we share we cross paths here and there,

But home to us, is defined with two entirely different entry cases,

Some days I wonder why we even bother,

Then moments pass and I recall how this all started, remembering exactly why,

But there must be a solution, some type of resolution,

A set, a control, some sort of working model,

For this vague and non-substantial, bland relation, empty, vacant and hollow are the

Words spoken, with the clarity and closeness expressed between two strangers,

Each conversation sounding like extended copy, each selling to the other coldness, an unknown

 To where little smiles and gentle touching forms, are enough to prevent any deeper, meaningful discussions