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Ray Sharp, The Bard of Liminga
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© Ray Sharp and Bard of Liminga, 2008 to Present. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without written permission of the author and web site owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Ray Sharp, Bard of Liminga and raysharp.wordpress. com with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.
Tag Archives: cold
Cold Respite
Startling silence after a three-day storm – minus-five and everything settled and smooth, snow resting like a kind of truce or like the moment of sleep-slipping after hard loving on silken-white skin.
Lorca en Nuena York
Bitter winter mornings, in my head, shoulders and down my spine, my pain is hewn in the shape of the cross. The cold pounds my hands and feet like nails. Is that how it went for you, Poeta en Nueva York, self-exiled … Continue reading
Cold Comfort
Think about all the fishes in the sea, small comfort. It is not a question of plenty, it is a complaint of distance, of cold and voluminous sinks and dark, uncharted waters recirculating between currents. The way the ice forms, … Continue reading
15-below
The sun is weak from the cold, low in the sky, a pale yellow smear dragging itself through dense ice fog. One bright red stop sign is the only color in this monochrome of whites and grays and darkest evergreen … Continue reading
January in Central Missouri
My friend, son of a dairy farmer, said His dad was going hard, as per usual, and damn it if he didn’t blow out his appendix Which was so perfect a line that I had to start this poem with … Continue reading
Winter Dreamscape with Black-capped Chickadees
A field of women with pine cones for breasts. Chickadees perch on them, clinging at all angles, sideways, upside down, pecking for seeds. The most disturbing thing is how the birds are wearing tiny knit caps, black ones, jaunty, never … Continue reading
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Tagged breasts, chickadees, cold, dreamscape, east wind, pine trees, poem, poetry, seeds, winter, women
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absolutes
houses like tombstones in neat rows buried under snow winter’s a tidy death picked clean to bone white is the absence of color cold is a lack of energy silence is the voice of the dead what you hear when everything stops … Continue reading
Posted in Uncategorized
Tagged cold, death, poem, poetry, silence, snow, white, winter
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