Early Winter
  • Screen Shot 2016-03-10 at 2.47.38 AM

    The flashing scissors of the frost
    Have snipped the leaves that dot the field.
    The trees leak iron-black across
    The sky where evening swallows wheeled.

    A knifey light cuts deep and shows
    Leaves with their intricate designs
    Half sodden in the drifted snows,
    Beneath the moaning, deathless pines.

    And wind like water softly pours
    Over the gnashing river reeds.
    The river that no longer roars
    Died quiet in its bed of weeds.

    Now morning vapors ghost and drift.
    The clouds beyond look thickly whisked.
    There comes a bitter snow to sift
    The frozen earth, where seeds lie disked.

    November 7th, 2013 | journalpulp | 4 Comments | Tags: , , , , ,

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The sawed-off shotgun of literary pulp.

4 Responses and Counting...

  • Joanne 11.07.2013

    I loved this one first. Although now I’m feeling a bit chilled. I may need a cocktail to warm me up.

  • A cocktail! I think I can probably arrange that.

  • This recital of syllables
    Cheeky, but so deathly severe
    resound in my mind–residual.
    section eight, a monger of fear.

  • Oh, I like that, Mr. Kaas. And you’re right: my poem is about death. But it’s also about life, and the cyclical natural of both those things.

    Thank you for your clever quatrain, and thank you for dropping by.

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