Poetry

When the Ball Dropped (haikus)

You said we would meet

again next year; we both laughed

at the half-truth.

* * * * *

It did not escape

your sense of humor just how

each new year begins.

* * * * *

On the fields, courts, and

buildings we dropped the ball–then

feigned celebration.

Poetry

The Snow of New Year’s Eve

I didn’t plan on writing tonight

until the snow dusted the ground

and flew around in the cold, piercing wind.

I had cleared a foot of it

a week or so ago

but taunting, it returned.

Once, not so bad. Tonight, not so bad.

It might just want an audience.

The powder up past my ankles

has returned to the ground

and sky–

I can’t see where I once walked

through it, I can’t see the individual flakes

that gave the plow a run for its money,

I can’t see the snowman the kids built

down the way with its rugged smile

of gravelly teeth–

I see the ground with a hint of snow.

It’ll be back. I’ll be back.

The truck, the snowman,

and trillions of new and unique

bits of snow

will be back.

And that’s more than enough.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

I usually write a corny story for New Year’s Eve but I can’t even finish the other stories I’ve started writing. Here’s a poem instead. It’s 40 minutes away here but wherever you are, have a blessed and happy New Year!

The real C. D.

Poetry

After All This Time

The lowest-flying dreams

bounce back off the atmosphere

into the vastness of space,

on course for collision

with everything in the universe.

I try to live in the moment

absent of such fanciful dreams

but I can’t help but smile

when I hold you close–

there’s stardust

in your touch.

Poetry

Storm

The twinkle in your eye

was no reflection,

it is the winds.

I know you, I said.

I recognize the storm.

Would those eyes bear tears or rain,

a blissful mist

or natural phenomenon

without rival?

You were always a calming storm,

but I seem to bring out

its destructive side.

Won’t you rain on me, storm,

won’t you talk to me?

Poetry

The Question

I saw a vision of the future,

to my suprise–my joyous suprise!–

I saw what seemed to be

an image of you.

Like a beautiful painting

you had grown older

but with every bit of fascination,

grace, and maturity still about you;

some art has always been more

than what the eye can see.

I wandered over to you

but the dream ended

before I could ask you

my question:

did we have to compromise

our values

or did we compromise

as two hearts and souls

in love?

It was only a dream, I confess,

but we will meet and remember one day

to hopefully forget

the question.

Poetry

A Draft Came Through the Pane

A draft comes through the pane.

There’s wood on the fire now,

yellow flames dancing above

orange embers in the stove.

The snow falls heavy outside,

covering creation with a blank slate

so that the world

can paint the picture

of their choosing upon it:

a painting of romance,

a picture of abstract suffering

perhaps.

A picture to make sense of it all?

Very little makes sense

but all is clear from this seat

by the window,

snug inside and warm.

A draft comes through the pane.

Poetry

Tidings of Comfort and Joy

Oh hear the angel voices

that come from high above

proclaiming Christ the Savior,

the purest gift of love.

Hear the words of God fulfilled

and see the Young One grow

in stature and in favor

so that all the world may know

that the Lamb was born this day

in little Bethlehem

and all people in their sin

are rescued, safe in Him.

Poetry

The Point of No Return

To forget the sins of the past

is folly

all present things considered–

like where would we be?

what would we know?

who would we know?

Wouldn’t dare leave that

to chance or fate,

sun, moon, or stars.

You think that I’m a fool

but we’re both standing here now.

So now I must know:

did I forget something

or did you?