I write because my time is limited and my imagination is not.
Infuse frost with a chilled, clear intellect Immunize it against all writer’s block Grant it the liberty now to select
By D. J. Reddallabout a year ago in Poets
Some nights, you move through The snow, and some nights, the snow Moves coldly through you
I can make my large form invisible Through stealth, cunning and a touch of magic Which lets me hear your complaints, risible
Winter in Quebec Speaks maple syrup French Sweetening the snow ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The struggle to appear to be yourself Carefully curated, polished, refined; Your shame and guilt and strange flaws on the shelf
Juxtapositions Of icy doom and snug warmth Expose two beauties
Your beauty blossoms When the contents of a book Become parts of you
Temptations are ubiquitous and strong A swarm of appetites is every soul To some sort of demon, many belong Tranquil serenity should be our goal
Ominous headlines Warnings of imminent doom Just the new normal?
When I was small, Christmas was magical But mature reflection upon the past Fills me with guilt, for greed fanatical
I watched him write a novel and a play While smoking and drinking a cheap champagne; In another, ostentatious display He tied his shoes while fixing my sink drain
Oh, how I envied The exquisite tenderness With which you played him
