When the muse strikes, I'm compelled to write poetry; try as I might, I cannot ignore it when it does, nor conjure it automagically. So, when the iron is hot? I strike.
When unexpected snow began accumulating, so did a niggling insistence to write. When I share my poetry, understand its revealing vulnerability. I'm not schooled in verse. I don't know the rules. I just write…my soul writes. Sometimes its silly, other times profound, but always it flows from creative instinct.
I wish you'd try your hand at it–I used to be one of those who said I couldn't write poetry. And then one day I started writing and fell in love with it. If you're in any way inspired, won't you share your offering in comments? I'd love to celebrate with you!
Unleashed by frosted manna
Childlike hearts devour.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The key, a frozen wafer
Unique as companion lock–
An entrance in swirling pirouette,
Grand and welcome and turning heads.
Coaxing laughter's carillon and dance of feet and soul
Dizzying child delight.
Marking time in white
Etching memory with footprints in frozen sand.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Man of Snow
Man brought to life in spherical mound
Fashioned in cold, sticks and stone
Sculpted by eager and expectant hands
Dressed in imagination
Finished in satisfaction
Reflecting the smile of his maker.
Meteorologists Is a Big Word for Adult Weather Guessers
Two words school kids want to hear
"Go home!"–they erupt with a cheer–
The snow, a surprise
Missed by all weather guys,
'Tis, indeed, a happy new year!