Iced Windows

cold draft, I shiver
and firm up my will
sunrise view obscured
through ice on the sill

sub-thirty degrees
beyond two glass panes
breach fortress of warmth
amid frosted plains

one finger to glass
turns frost into tears
releasing brief drops
from chill winters fears

raw radiant chill
bracing, brisk and bold
I draw shut the blinds
and hide from the cold

- bardo

It has been thirty degrees below zero for three nights in a row, meaning that as even as we shut up the house each night and snuggle into the warmth of our beds, the chill creeps through the cracks and turns the windows into sheets of frost.

I have reserved some space on this blog each week to be creative, and to post some fiction, poetry, art or prose. Writing a daily blog could easily get repetitive and turn into driveling updates. Instead, Wordy Wednesdays give me a bit of a creative nudge when inspiration strikes.

squall

as the door clicked shut
my headlamp broadcast a stark beam
slicing a path through the winter dark

as I took my first steps
my watch reached skyward for a signal
tracking my pace across the icy walks

as I started to run
my face caught the sudden rush of wind
sensing the winter air stirring ahead in the park

as I felt the sleet
my skin braced to the bluster crescendo
wincing at sudden needles of assaulting ice

as I turned back
my heart sunk at the lost moment
pondering my fortunes timing for not departing earlier

- bardo

I set out at about 730pm last night for a short evening run. From the time I shut the door to the time I warmed up my watch and started running, a rare winter storm, a blustery squall, had descended upon us and the still evening streets turned to sleet-pelted wind tunnels ... all without warning. It was all I could do to retreat back to the house as I was hammered with sleet.

I have reserved some space on this blog each week to write some fiction, poetry, or prose. Writing a daily blog could easily get repetitive and turn into driveling updates. Instead, Wordy Wednesdays give me a bit of a creative nudge when inspiration strikes.

boundary

I am not a poet, but a friend has inspired me to read more of it and think more critically about its place in the constellation of my creative pursuits. Occasionally, I’d like to post a poem here when inspiration strikes.

boundary
demarcated by strict panels of hewn lumber
set against remnant forest
clinging to a river edge
and
traced between the trees
a path
serpentine cut through snow-covered scrub
bracing a tizzy of birdsong
against a distant whir of highway traffic
muffled by branches reaching for sunlight
bare in the january chill
and
traced between the trees
footprints
packing a temporary record into the snow
recalling a moment or a hundred like it
inspired to ignore one more
boundary

-bardo