It was a month of poetry for this writer. Winter inspires the poet in me. Make sure to scroll down to my recent books of fiction. I think you may enjoy them.
18 BELOW
Dull silence on frozen tundra—
till house doth creak,
crusty windows leak,
layered blankets I seek.
Full woodland forest groans—
while critters squeak,
none will dare to peek,
frosty bird’s frozen beaks.
Still, winter’s weary air—
dogs dare not speak,
waiting for next week,
God’s weather makes men meek.
FAITH
Last week, I walked in still woods as lazy flakes dropped from heaven like downy feathers. With phone in hand, I lingered near a snowy branch filtering winter’s sun. This moment, captured in a photo, inspired a poem I wrote after reading Emily Dickinson’s “Hope.”
‘Faith’ is like fluffy flakes
that rests upon brittle branch
and whispers words with melody,
and lingers long, long.
Frigid winds, echo jealousy
with stillness so very bold;
as night settles into ebony—
faded horizon of gold.
I heard sands of earth,
buried deep beneath,
where trust is birth.
As translucent snow.
P. Wolf
THE TREES WORSHIP
The Trees Worship
I stepped from path to path,
trusting—timidly
the canopy of trees above;
moss beneath my feet low.
I lacked woodland whimsy
not knowing my path’s end.
Given a wee bit of wisdom,
I called on experience.
Even the trees can worship,
hands high to the heavens.
May my heart lay ever opened,
with eyes filled with holy praise.
P. Wolf
LEARNING TIME
Once a week, I have the pleasure of working with my grandkids for a school day. They are home-educated, just like their father had been. There is usually plenty of discussion about school subjects and everyday life. Yesterday, the names of great poets came up. Frost, Dickinson, Whitman, and others were talked about.
I have been writing poetry for fifty years. Decades ago, I published a quarterly chapbook of poetry from poets across the nation. I’ve taught poetry classes and participated in poetry readers. I wouldn’t say I am an expert, but I’ve been immersed in poetry for a long time.
As my granddaughter recited her poetry lesson, she was memorizing at least a dozen poems by great poets, I realized how poetry has changed. In an instant, I decided to make a poetry point.
I composed and recited the little poem on my picture post to the kids. Both of them stared at me. “Well, did you want to guess what my poem is about?” The kids looked at me, puzzled. That’s when their pup started dancing around. Smiles filled the room.
As much as I appreciate the effort and thought in modern poetry, compared to “Stopping by Woods,” a poem by Robert Frost, and so many other poets, some of today’s creations fall short.
That was the extra lesson my grandkids were taught in our schoolroom yesterday.
LOKI
Black as flowing waves,
prancing across winter’s bay,
four legs, one pink tongue.
P. Wolf 🐕🦺
(A clearer haiku: a Japanese poem of seventeen syllables, in three lines of five, seven, and five, traditionally bringing about images of the natural world.)
We had a reprieve in winter here in Wisconsin in early January. All the snow had melted. My daily walk wasn’t in thick snow boots, but in light shoes. It was me, my dog, and whispering pines.
PINES CALLING
Pines Calling
crows cawing, cawing, cawing
winter’s landscape settled
roads wet, but passable
on foot in Wisconsin winter
tiny chickadees babbling
bring hope—spring is near and far
I receive enjoyment from nature
evergreens stand swaying, swaying
whispering needles of mild sounds
winter’s breathe, chilled, refreshing
it’s here I find myself pacing down
wet roads next to stately pines
ingredients from my chilly morning
humming, humming a new song
P. Wolf🌲
Patti Wolf 