JANUARY SELECTIONS:
SONNET 73 Paraphrased by Ronald Jones
The fall of autumn leaves, denuding trees, Regales in crispy crackling song-like sound. A crunching tune arising 'round my knees From boughs where boist'rous birds of song were found... The price I pay is youthful years now passed, For like their way, I too, have served my time And so accept the years I have amassed. Those waning rays, now set, forswear my prime. But still in me, you see a spark, a glow, Though ashes stifle embers, I'm still warm! So let me crunch and crackle, you must know We all return from whence we came, in form. Let love abide, despite my dimming light, And then, as darkness comes, my midnight's bright.
Late Snow by Larry D. Jennings
Emerging from my chrysalis, I see the face of Winter’s crystal tressed milieu abiding still. Her breath confronting me; instead of flower petals washed in dew.
Something’s awry, for Nature’s call was clear. “Emerge and go into a springtime’s youth!”, away from prison chambers, which adhere to limbs, still barren; gnawed by icy tooth.
I sense no respite near. With these furled wings, a flight to other climes is not a choice. Rime covered now from chilling wind which sings my dirge. Life’s verdict read without a voice.
Upon the silv’ry shroud from fate’s wry hand lies death, a rainbow frozen in time’s sand.
December Streetwalkers by Eric Linden
December darkness nibbles bits of day until there’s hardly any left, it seems, at least not much. Ice covered ponds and streams are Meccas for both young and old to play a game of shinny. Children on their sleighs go hurdling down embankments – mortal screams, as off they spill into a drift. Two teams in forts let snowballs fly each other’s way.
Electric lights in rainbow-colored hues adorn the busy city streets and stores where shoppers bustle back and forth, like bees. And everywhere you look, each avenue has yards and homes alit in bright decors; wreaths hang on doors, garlands on leafless trees.
It’s almost solstice time. How woeful nights appear to one misguided, tortured soul who works nocturnal downtown streets where lights, like bright electric stardrops, hang from pole to pole, aglitter in December air.
A speaker somewhere overhead blares out What Child is This, then Jingle Bells. “Who cares?” she thinks, and moves away. “It’s all about the mighty buck today, which I ain’t got and by the looks of things, I’ll never get.”
Salvation Army bells. Their plastic pots hold hope that expectations can be met and no-one goes off hungry at this time. Each contribution helps – five dollars or a dime.
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