The hour’s late, so I won’t hold you in suspense any longer.
This week there’s a three-way tie for winner:
Winter Wonderland (not)
by Anne Howkins
In the bleak midwinter,
The garden’s never looked minter.
The snow all pristine clean and white,
Until the dog answered a call of nature.
Nobody wants to go snow-balling
Where the cur’s been peeing.
The snow lays all deep and uneven
Stopping all the folks from leaving.
There’s no feeling quite as unpleasant
As ice filling up your boots
When you’re scraping the path.
Ice cold wind makes us all moan,
Our gloved hands can’t text or make phone calls.
Don’t talk to me about ice-skating,
When you’re an hour or more
From the emergency room.
Dad forgot to check the pipes’ lagging,
And when the temperature is arising,
And when the ice is a-melting
The house will be flooded.
The boiler’ll be broken
And you’ll probably get pneumonia.
by Michael B. Fishman
If I were in the cussing mood I’d have a lot to say about winter.
But I’m not in that mood so I’ll just call it win-TURD.
I am in a Pinwheel cookie mood.
You ever had one of those?
If you have then you knows –
-just how good that marshmallow is on that cookie base
with the rich, creamy chocolate covering the face.
And when you eat them not a creature is stirring and wh
Frigid French Philologies (a descort)
by Rob Stroud
Shards of bleak winter gestate day after day.
The citric cannonade gurgled melodies of complacency.
Echinodermata rides again.
Hagar was not so Horrible.
Beware 48°52.6′S 123°23.6′W.
A Galapagos penguin reads about tobacco.
Captain Kirk sings the National Anthem.
Angkor longed to visit Tenochtitlán.
From lofty Mount Olympus descended Odin.
Soon comes the summer of our discontent.
Congratulations, Anne, Fishman, and Rob! You are the most terrible poets of the week!
After my first read-through, I entertained the thought of declaring everyone a winner. I laughed, cringed, and cried. Then, I decided I couldn’t duck my responsibility. I looked more closely. Anne’s poem rhymes enough to make us think the occurrences may have been intentional, mis-meters enough to raise eyebrows, and definitely contains a terrible subject. Michael’s does the same, in a very different and more cringe-worthy way (and, might I add, kudos to him for rising to the challenge of a half-word at the end). Rob’s poem is hilarious to me; probably because he’s such a proper and educated writer, so the end result is what I’d imagine he might shout out in the middle of the night during a restless slumber.
Like I said, though, I’d have crowned you all victors. Read and enjoy:
by Trent P. McDonald
Oh bloody hell
I slipped and fell
My bum feels bruised
You’d think I’d get used
To stupid New Hampshire winter
Damn, an icicle splinter
In my behind
I need to see if I can find
Just a bit of color
Not this bland view that’s duller
Than a black and white photo of the bruise
On my caboose
If I can be so bold
I really hate the cold!
by Matt Snyder
its cloudy cloudy and cold it is
Swept up and under the deep dark dank chill of the absence of light
All I see is what you see, what you see is far from me as we waver uncontrollably from the bitter
The bitter bitter white
Depressed and withered from the bitter bitter
Hardly a stutter from your cold brittle lips
Chapped and muffled and our layers of clothes bundled tight
Like Randy in a Christmas Story, we are all very much as it seems, a sight
Like the bitter bitter air we see in breath
Bleak midwinter blues
Our hue of death
by Bruce Goodman
I seem to be undergoing a process of shivication
which is no cause for celebration.
Outside the weather is extremely bleak
– did I just hear a mouse squeak?
wee, sleeket, cowran, tim’rous beastie –
and inside it’s no better because I’m shivering.
I have no wood for my fire
so I think I’ll burn my auntie;
I think I’ll burn my auntie.
Fa la la la la this will be no Silent Day
– the smell of burning mutton won’t go away –
put another leg on the fire Auntie May.
A Certain Type of Warmth
Of silent whiteness
Appears within this glassy window.
But something burns
Than any truth. I remember
When we used to go
Out into the snow. I would
Shiver and shake, but you braved
Those knife-like winds.
You wanted to build snowmen
And snow castles and tiny
Snow worlds to rule over.
But now this world is without
Flat and damp. And the snow
the snow rains down
like sparkling frozen water
difficult to drive on
if it doesn’t instantly meltdown
the slipperiness of the road now
that is cover’d o’er with snow
makes it much more likely
to skid and hit a cow
the temperature gauge has binged
to register minus 3 centigrade
that’s 26.6 Fahrenheit
if you’re not metrically skinned
but this is what it’s like
driving the middle of the winter
you can’t see the road through the screen, so
probably safer to mountain bike
it’s not all bad of course,
there’s snowmen with snowballs
and really cold air
that can make your throat go hoarse
Let There Be Light
by Peregrine Arc
I don’t mind the cold or that white stuff they call snow
What I mind is the lack of light, if it’s forty days in a row.
Something kicks in, some hibernational urge
And I find myself laying in bed
Snoring a symphonic dirge
An Alaskan Winter
by Violet Lentz
There’s nothing bleak about midwinter in Alaska
Nothing bare denuded or exposed
Nothing unsheltered unprotected or unshielded
Every piercing raw stinging second of it
Glimmers and glows glistens and glitters
With a resplendency rival to that of a sun
A sun who would rather sink and simper
just below the line of the horizon,
than harm one hoar frost hair
on an Alaskan winter’s crystalline head.
In the Bleak Midwinter
by Joanne the Geek
It’s the bleak midwinter
cold winds are blowing
snow is falling, everyone
is miserable and frozen –
but not me
here in the southern hemisphere
it’s summer and I’m in short shorts
and a close fitting tank top
sitting out in the hot sun
and I think of you all up there
in the frozen north
cold and miserable
and I smile at the thought of you –
because I am an arsehole.
A Bleak MidWhat
by Ruth Scribbles
Twas January in Texas
And all though the house
The AC was running
And it was cloudy and raining
Last week we had snow flurries
And temps in the thirties
Then up the thermometer zoomed
And gave us the sixties
The children all cried
Cause the snow didn’t stick
Where is winter?
The adults wondered too
And sagely said
“it’s Texas you sillies”
Get used to it
So others get blizzards
And we go to Dairy Queen
And order blizzards
To freeze our tongues
And fatten our bellies
Maybe this year or next
And that is the story of our bleak MidWhat!
Boy it’s bleeding bleak
Low chance of me doing a streak
Every day it rains
An everybody complains
Keep hoping for some snow
More chance of seeing Marilyn Monroe
In every lane and field
Dreaded mud congealed
Wind so strong
It blows over King Kong
No chance of seeing the sun
This is no bloody fun
Every day is exactly the same
Redonculous Boris that’s whose to blame
God bleakly ignoring midwinter
by Doug Jacquier
The bleak midwinter arrived in
the middle of winter
and it was bleak.
Not moor bleak;
more bleak than that.
The wind was keen,
not in that American neat way
nor like mustard,
because it was midwinter.
I watched it being bleak midwinter
but I don’t think God did.
Thank you all for playing along!! Come back tomorrow around 10 a.m. MST for next week’s theme.
Winners: D. Wallace Peach created this graphic that you can use (if you want) for a badge of honor as the winner:
©2020 The respective authors, and their poems