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A Poem: The Transcendental in January 

"Winter midnight

My voice does not

Sound like my own."


Snow to ice

January is The Month of Cripples.

It all breaks down.

The roof is lame

The pipes lame

Snow tires bald

Feet in boots numb

Legs ache.

One dozen wild turkeys slide & bob

Beneath the suet cage

Where mad squirrels feast.

The plowman comes & goes

Bills arrive like stink-eyed cossacks

Night with the cold soul

Of a black jewel

Night of bitter stars

Comes & stays.

Bones muscles

Revolt against us—

Between the scattered snowclouds

The moonlight frozen

Upon a cemetery of seeds

Blackbirds huddle

January is The Month of Forever.

The jack rabbit

The white tailed deer

The pileated woodpecker

Noble, fleeting & quite ridiculous

Spot checks ones grip on sanity.

Thoreau said

"There can be no black melancholy

To him who lives in the midst

Of nature & has his senses still"

& Thoreau said

"Deal with brute nature. Be cold

& hungry & weary"

& Thoreau said

"You must love the crust of the

Earth on which you dwell more than

The sweet crust of any bread or cake"

& I say

"January is The Month of the

Dark-Hearted Comedian."

Speaking of...

  • A poem by normal.


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