In the Cold and Bitter Winter, Jonathan Sion [animal farm read .TXT] 📗

In the Cold and Bitter Winter
– Compilation -


Ten Poems

by

Jonathan Sion

Fire and Ice

In the cold and bitter winter,
When frost’s fiery fingers chill;
When lumps of frozen ground,
Iron clad in ice lie still -
Under a deep black, morning mantled sky;
Then wonder I, at the fallow wasted land,
Where in the summer, green grass grew,
And every daye freshe blankets of floures,
Sprinkled the meadows with dusty showers.
Where in springtime, warming gladness,
Thawed the land from its sadness.
Now, she is gone; south, you see -
Other fields and flowers to free.
But come back April, May, and happy June
And springtime, with her fulsome bloom
Will wake the scents to fill our noses;
Then, we’ll know the saying true:

“With patience, you shall gather roses.”

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My Way

I saw a vision,
Paint it... Paint it...
Write it in paint.
Color it -

Make the dark clouds light or pink.
Dip your brush,
Do not think. . .
Make the coffee colored day

Your way,
Your way

Pray - and say -
- We will play
With created things,
Make the winter trees,
Wear a summer breeze.

Call the children,
Come and see!

What I can do.
And you can, too!

When everything is black and white,
Look in your book bag. . .

See the light
Did you know that brilliant white
Makes all the colors,
For your sight?

Take them. . .Paint them. . .
Make your day!

Do not be sad,
Do it my way,
My way,
My way.
Do it
My way. . .
Come. . . and play!

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First Frost

The first frost of the year!
Even if I would,
This I cannot ignore.
I must leave my book
And take a look.
Come along with me and see
Tiny flashing icicles
On blades of grass
Smiling at me
Stretching themselves
In the morning sun.
What a wonder!
What a beauty -
God’s breath frozen on the ground
Look! Look! - what we have found -
Thank you Heavenly Father, Mystery. .
Another day of love,
To add to our history.
----------------------------------------

Always a Joy

I walked my dog under shady autumn trees
Blowing red - golden green, were the leaves.

Falling so soon. . .this year.
The air is fresh,
The contrasts clear,
Willows, conifers in the air. . .

How could you God,
Make things so fair?

Nothing has changed since I was a boy. . .
Blowing autumn leaves are always a joy.

Always a joy.

Bright breezes, spread along the ground,
Making the older leaves an eiderdown.
Crisp red apples in a vat ~
Steaming cider,
This and that. . .

I don’t know why we ever complain?
How can we. . .
When autumn comes again?

-----------------------------------------------

Wolf

Who is the maker of this midnight fire?
Who the Creator of this ravishing desire?
Who is watching me in the dark?
As I stretch and bark and stand to see
Deep into the farthest reaches of the forest -
Of the evergreen forest -
Running forever, tumbling, even or rough for miles;
Siberian steppe and tundra unfold
The moose’s antlers are caught in the thicket
The moon rises,
Spitting sparks the fire hisses:
A wet branch,
Green sap transmuted into fiery fuel
Wisps of smoke curl up
The sky is obscure
Covered by smoke…
*
Then the wind comes
I shouldn’t have spoke..
With one heaving sigh,
Mother wind breathes
And the smoke disappears
And leaves
A vast vista, greater than I can say
Stretching from here to Oyster Bay.
Covered with ice,
Barren branches blackened,
Fiery furnaces of woodsmen unburdened.
In a week, a month, it will all be gone.
Here there is nothing,
Empty stretches of land,
No notices, no fines, no humankind.

*

I am the wolf,
I see with blue-gray eyes -
My coat is fur; spotted with grey
My mouth moves and tongue licks
There is nothing out here in this waste
This rich, wonderful, beautiful waste.
It’s only I who see, the falling fir tree.
No one in the forest except me and mine
My mate, my cubs, my pack
Some bears -
And the cold, brilliant North star
Unseen in cities fog,
Here burns brightly.
No humankind to ravage the scene
No bulldozers, strip miners, earth moving machine.
Only I, and the life in me.
He lives in the wolf
As he does in humankind.
And when the flesh dies.
I do not mind.
But humankind cries.
- As for their endless whys?
I sometimes do despise.
While they ask them and wonder,
I listen to the rolling thunder,
Watch the lightening in the skies.

Join me and be wise.

-----------------------------------------------

Sitting Alone with Trees

Sitting alone
With two trees: conifers,
Black trunks, horizontal branches
Stretch a pattern on the sky,
And the bank runs down
Into pine needles,
Aromatic cones,
Coloring the way,
To the sidewalks on left and right.
That lead to the horizon today.
They,
Are painted neatly
With two parallel strips of grass.

Nearby, a convoy of ships pass
Through blue straits and cliffs.
Now we’re in a sunny clime,
Tangiers, Gibraltar or Anaheim.
Then, over the horizon, they disappear.
Leaving invisible ocean waves,
Moving ceaselessly beneath
Lofty fields of heather and heath.

Silence calls
I hear the message.
‘Just take it day by day,
And don’t forget to pray.’

So I heard.
Or was it just a bird?
~ No matter ~
I got the message.
Poetry is nothing but a vibrant play of words
A pattern against foliage -
The leaves being the pages.

Then I see, by chance,
A strange and haunting dance,
Gravity playing with Grace.
Making this familiar space,
A place we call ‘home.’

Our senses say it’s real.
At least that’s how we feel,
While gravity pulls us in
And grace draws us out.
They knead us like dough,
Shaping souls compounded,
And then we’re left to rise,
While they chase
Through the skies.

Hiding in the clouds,
Laughing in the mist.
I even spied them kissed
By the splendid Sun,
Shining and smiling -
Like he’s always done.
Then Gravity and Grace return,
And proudly say,
‘Look how our babies have grown today!’
Then they,
Put us in the oven
And in an hour have new souls,
Fragrant to behold!
---------------
Oh yes! That’s how it’s done.
Don’t be fooled by stories from anyone.
Storks bring baby bodies from high above
And drop them into cabbage love.
The souls,
Made by Gravity and Grace
Are gently placed into the babies,
From a mysterious place.

They turn into “we,”
And “we” are then set free
To roam the world and be.
This story of our origins
Was created by Norwegians
Before their imagination
Was spoiled by education.

I think it could be true?
Certainly for me and you?
I liked it when bread did bake,
To make souls, like a sort of cake.
Or have I made a big mistake?

Oh, poems are such fun to make. . .
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The Dogs’ Bark and the Caravans Pass

To be attached to Life alone - is joy.
Detachedly attached, in wonderment and awe
As the world passes in caravans by my door.
I have settled you see.
My craft shop, and sleeping tent,
Is enough for me.

Where are all those people going?
Where is that frieze in front of me going to?
So blind, so hopeful, so trusting -
Statuesque they sit
Upon wagon, bench and cart
Waiting to see the light
Wanting with all their heart.

The caravans pass and the dogs' bark.
They do not know,
They go round and round,
In endless procession
A merry-go-round.

"We've passed this place before!"
says a young man near my door.
"Stop! I want to get off."
But the elders sigh,
And look at the sky,
With watery eyes,
As they've always done -
Sitting still, and looking tall
Waiting.... waiting for the call.

The young man jumps off,
And comes to me.
"I've had enough," says he,
"Let me stay with thee"

He goes to my tent,
And sits quite still,
Watching the caravans,
Toil up the hill.

"This is it. I am here.
This is my destiny,
My journey's done."
"Are you sure?" I say.
"To sit in a tent and wait all day
To sit together,
In every weather.
Waiting for the One, who is to come.?"

"Yes!" says the young man.
"He is there.
And we will wait -
Right here."

Meanwhile the caravans move on,
The dogs bark long,
And we listen to
Their melancholy song.

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Pennsylvania in the Snow

Today I let my puppy into the snow.
Boy! Did she go…!
She sniffed the air and went quite mad,
Rushing about, like an Eagle Scout –
Burying her nose, in the drifts and flows
Of pleated, plaited, folded snows
Blowing in from the big ‘ol West,
After dumping tons upon the plains
And finishing her wrath on Pennsylvanians.

This guilty lot,
Did not think it odd.
Saying with one voice:
“’Tís the will of God ~
The Lord sends His snows
On amateurs and pros –
His will is the perfect agency,
For all that happens,” They groaned and intoned ~.
Then they declared a STATE OF EMERGENCY.

Oh dear, so I feared.
Sirens blared, tempers flared,
Police officers glared
Looking sacred.
Because their squad cars were stuck
In mountains of snow,
With all the rest.

But their sirens blared anyway,
Making us all feel guilty,
About the fluffy white flakes,
Big as pancakes

Then a bearded Mennonite,
Put his hand right
Through the window
Of a police car
And switched the siren off.
For a moment, there was a deathly hush
As the snow came down,
And wreathed the man in the hat,
With a soft white crown.

The officer whose car was silenced,
Looked small and red, cold and numb,
But managed to blurt,
A phrase he had learnt,
At the academy.

“Mr. Herr,
Anything you say from now on, Sir,
Will be recorded,
And taken down to be used in evidence
In your trial.
I am arresting you for obstruction of
A police officer in his lawful duties,”

So he said.
Then, importantly he turned the switch of the siren back on,
But the battery was gone.
The car gave a mournful howl,
And died; the police officer cried.

“My son,” said the Mennonite, who had silenced the siren,
“Be at peace. This was the Will of Almighty God.
Now take it like a man, if you can.”
But the cop was a goner,
And lay in the snow,
Sobbing his heart out,
Like a black, injured crow ~
Such was the effect of the blow
To his siren.

To him, that siren was a symbol, you see,
Of power, might and mystery.
It was as vigorous