Tag Archives: poetry

Early Winter Poems Continued

Three winter poems.  In the first, I watched as a cat tried to catch a bird on the snow.  In the second, I was driving home from my second job and it was dark and snowy and I was a bit sleepy.  Finally, I was walking one day and being very careful and saw a foot print.  Enjoy!

.

Providence

By Scott L Vannatter

12/16/85

.

.

Soft pad, feather-light step upon the fresh mounds.

Hardened by the cold, the Tom creeps forward.

.

Small sparrow, unknowing prey, tips across, tiny beak

darting in-out, gathering small bits of bites.

.

Within reach the neck ripples, ready for launch,

sinews stand tight, flexed by instinct.

.

Front paws, claws out, stretch upward, hungrily.

White buckles and opens its maw, swallowing coldly.

.

Taking flight, the young bird sails over the saving crevasse,

the yellow eyes gleaming from the depths.

___________________

Silent White

By Scott L Vannatter

12/16/85

.

.

Lights fade, dead noise, only tread on ice,

A steady hum, reminder of the world, not distraction.

Half a length  of the long arm to talk me-to-me.

Quiet conversations, the night folding, the stakes pulled.

Half-dream, the world screams with silence.

Strings of white stretch car-to-car, a chain of brightness,

ready to wrap the tree.

Vent on, the fresh chill wakens, window down, clearness shines.

.               White ball of cold light glistens the snow hump,

.                 stretching shadows long, spot-shine of purity,

.                   star-covered earth sending points back.

.          Past, present, future all rolled thoughts jumping, merging,

.               all time as one, no time, everytime

.           Thoughts groping, hoping for answers, but none.

.          Then beauty creeps in, crowding out and love answers.

_______________________

Memories of Snow

By Scott L Vannatter

?

.

.

Trudging up the white mounds to the walk,

steps icy, glassy, frosted ground-windows of water,

fear of quick descent into blackness, I move slowly.

.

At the upward corners I spy a memory.  Little shape,

sole-in-snow, a print, not unlike a camera creation, the

ridges are ant-mountains, zig-zag pointers showing the

Have been, was once.

.

Movement transformed to solidness, the journey continued,

is continuing, will continue – memories remain.

.

Some deeper, touching ground, concrete, foundationary.

These tiny remembrances of play and childhood fade

into the day, forgotten but by one.

______________________

Namaste,

Scott

Time After Time – A Poem about Life

I went through a stage in my poetry in college in which I felt the shape and flow of the words was very important to some things.  I liked this one.  Sorry about all the periods at the beginning of the lines.  It was the only way I could find to get the words to stay where I put them in WP.

_________________________

Time After Time

By Scott L Vannatter

2/6/86

.                                                               Creeping,

.                                                                               Sulking,

.                                                                                               Drooling,

.                                                                                                               Weeping,

Age drags toward rendezvous

.                                                               Death,

I,

On downhill slalom, race as though a difference in

.                                                                                               When, where, how, why.

Why?

.                                                               Why not?

Pressure builds,

.                               Pleasure of ease sounds gong,

.                        Do not ask for whom…

.                                                                                                               You, me, all,

.                                                                                               Eventually.

Time spent-                                                       Sentence, actually-

.                               Pounding life’s rocks,                                    Picking, prodding,

Loving hateful life…                                                                            …What else?

.                               Ladder-after-ladder                          Rung-follows-rung

.Up                             Up

.     And            And         And              And                             So on and so on and…

.               Down                       Down

Philosophical tediousness,            Strain to goal-                                   Rug Jerked.

Dust off,                              No…don’t look back…Pain there.

.

.                                                                                       Change those clothes and

.                                                                                       MmmOooVvvEee OooNnn…

________________________

Namaste,

Scott

Poetry 101 Continued…

I looked back through all my posts and realized two things:  First, I have posted almost 60 pieces of poetry since I started this blog.  Second, I have not shared my Christmas/Winter poetry with you.

I know it is summer, but that is the best time (really) to think about Christmas and winter – while you are warm and cozy and can go outside without a coat.

I love the Christmas season.  I have let that slide a bit in the past few years.  That needs to change.  I wrote my Christmas/Winter poems one year and had them bound stapled into a book pamphlet, copied, and gave them to friends and families.  Here are a couple.

____________________________

Christmas Means

By Scott L Vannatter

80’s

Hustle, bustle, squeeze through, “Excuse, please!”

Run-around, up/down, swing-the-door, lock-the-car,

Hey! Mister, Wait!”, change stores, stores change,

Big sale, tent sale, all sale, no sale

Buy’em all they’re going out now. “You’re on the list”,

Two weeks-wait, “Three more weeks till…” “Here he

Comes!” on his lap, cry, scream, “Santa, I wanta…”

Toys, Boys, Joys, the real McCoys.

Here it comes, there it goes, blue light special!

Two-for-one, half-price, cut-price, the price is right!

Save-a-buck, no such luck, “Calgon take me…”

Excedrin headache number… here-we-come-there-we-go,

Then

.     I

.               saw

.                               her

.                                               standing there, doll-in-hand, thumb-in-mouth,

“Don’t worry, we’ll find her…”

“See? There you are.”, “You’re welcome”…

“And, oh yes, Merry Christmas to you, too.

_____________________________________________

Snow

By Scott L Vannatter

12/6/85

Frozen albino flakes swirl, whirl

catching the cold currents rush

forward to a heated doom of contact.

The sidewalks absorb by their millions, billions

turning their floating voyage into a trickle.

Slowly the crystal soldiers take their stand

pounding relentlessly on the yielding earth

pounding, mounding they reach again for the sky.

Rolled tightly, solid and sailing- the target

covered as white hand-made pellets strike home.

A shout of glee and the walls are made even higher.

It is war!  Runny-nosed little bundles, no eyes, no hands

just flannel creatures of action rolling, jumping,

pumping little muscles into a frenzy of white and fur.

A strange war, indeed!  Won not by missiles of white

or pounding of flakes.  Won only by soft, white shining,

warming hearts and flakes to softness.

_____________________________

Namaste,

Scott

A Little More of Life Gone By

Lucky guy. I have a few stories, but no poetry published.

I need to thank you all.  I received some very nice compliments on my … um … earlier poetry and even several agreements that I should show more.  So, I have several things on my plate now.  First, there are about 5-6 more posts of this early poetry.  Second, I promised to expand my FSF selection “Charmed” into a full story.  Finally, I still have Friday Fictioneers and Five Sentence Fiction to keep going on a current basis.  Well, that makes me busy on here and that’s excellent!

I shared that early poetry and I, of course, shared the easy stuff.  There are a few that were written that I call my “dark” works.  I had broken up with someone who I had tried very hard to stay with.  I should have left earlier, looking back, but I didn’t.  She wasn’t in love with me and the post-stroke me would’ve said, “see you” long before.  It hurt me and caused me to view relationships much differently after that.  I guess I was always waiting for “the other shoe to fall”, which is even funny after my “shoe” story in my second marriage.  I thought I had written about that, but couldn’t find it in my posts.

Near the end of my second marriage, my wife was not doing much to help things.  She had a lot on her plate, but so did I.  We went to a counselor to help her daughter.  As part of that process, my wife and I were asked to come a few times so the counselor could see the environment.

After a couple of those sessions, the counselor asked me if there was anything Diane could do to help us stay together.  I said a good beginning would be to take the 4-5 pairs of shoes she constantly left in the downstairs living room up to the bedroom closet.  Diane agreed.  I thought, “simple thing.”

The very next day began with one pair of shoes and by the next appointment there were, again, 4-5 pairs of shoes downstairs.  The night before the appointment, Diane was upstairs in the bedroom.  I was downstairs.  I threw all the shoes, one at a time, up the stairs next to the bedroom door.

That next day, the counselor asked how the “project” went.  I told her.  Diane said, “I am just too tired to get the shoes upstairs when I get home.  Deciding that there was one last thing we could try, I said, “that’s not a problem.  I will clean out the closet next to the front door and move her shoes down there.  She can just walk in and put the shoes in the closet.”  This was readily agreed to.

When we got home I did just that.  Over the next week, I now found 4-5 pairs of shoes on the bedroom floor instead of the living room floor.  The night before the appointment, Diane was reading in the living room.  I, being in the bedroom, threw all the shoes, again one at a time, down the stairs.

It was at this point I fully realized that she was doing this all intentionally or, at the very least, subconsciously, and did not want to get back together.  So, you see, “waiting for the other shoe to fall” is a very appropriate phrase to me.

However, I did not always feel that way.  Here is a poem which I find very difficult to put on here because it tells how I felt when we got married.  As I said last post, I do not always feel the same way as when I wrote the poem.  There are some grammar errors, too.

Diane

By Scott L Vannatter

6/1/93

   Lying awake some evenings while the night settles in,

I look at the gift sleeping next to me, and I am amazed.

I think back on the misery and heartache of growing up and

of growing old, and I am confused.

I feel the sheets shift softly up and down, the rhythm of

your breathing, and I am breathless.

I hear in my mind your voice and heart speaking as one to

to me, and I am happy.

I smell the perfumes of you, your hair, your breathe, your

spirit, and I am home.

I think ahead of our years remaining, the joys and sorrows

to come, and I am content.

For you are Gods gift to me, a match without equal.

You are my comfort, an assurance of tranquility and love.

You are my breathe of life, fresh and clear.

You are my happiness, my song of joy and love.

You are my home, my place of security, trust, and acceptance.

You are my contentment, that which overshadows all tensions.

You are my life, my love, my all . . . you are Diane.

________________________

Namaste,

Scott

A Bit of My Life Gone By

Not mine, but yeah, you get the idea!

My lovely, wonderful daughter, newly-married and newly-Ph.D, came over last Wednesday to help me continue cleaning out the garage where my things, among others, have come to rest peacefully since I moved in many years ago.  Initially, I went out after a couple of years to find that I had left boxes of photos in that damp, hot / cold environment.  I lost quite a few, but did salvage a large number.

Since that time, my stroke happened and I have neglected forgotten neglectly-forgotten (my word) to further the process.  Most of it will be trashed, but I know there are still a few boxes worth holding onto.

Back to the near past – we cleaned for awhile, then did some other needed chores in the house.  I work slowly now (more slowly) and have to stop a lot for breaks.  However, I did find a couple of boxes of items and we managed to get a couple to throw away, too.

One of the things we found was a folder containing some of my older poetry that I have not shared before (see post).  I thought that I would share some of it with all of you in my extended family.

I ask that you remember a few things:

1)  I am not editing any of it – it is the way it was.

2)  Just because I am printing it does not mean I still feel that way (you will understand).

3)  I do believe I write much better now. (I know, my opinion)

So, here we go:

1) May 1st, 1985 I entered a contest at College for poetry on Campus.  I received an “honorable mention”.  I think the idea of it got to them more than the poetry.

 

Phobia

By Scott L Vannatter 4/8/85

.

I fear the loss of my own life

The pain that it might bring.

But to fear the dark for the dark itself,

Is that so strange a thing?

.

And closed-in places, the ones with walls,

Should fear not linger there?

The loss of air, the skin tight squeeze,

Why should it not raise the hair?

.

Afraid of dogs, of planes, of heights,

The panic starts to steam.

My heart beats faster, the sweat to pour,

And my mind begins to scream.

.

Afraid of marriage, of love, of sex,

Surely many feel this way.

But to fear a bird who is high above,

There I hesitate to say.

.

Through my life I strived so hard

To try to comprehend

The reasons for these fears of mine,

And seek a timely end.

.

And then at last I beat my fears,

Now l live a life of joys.

Yes, nevermore to be afraid,

Oh God!  What was that noise?

________________________

2)

Questions

By Scott L Vannatter 9-20-91

None know the questions burning deep within.

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The ripping soul-tearing nerve stabs that ask of life, answers.

.

Often asking and receiving not, giving and having not, crying and

Heard not.  The scream primal breaks free, ache and wretch of soul.

.

.                                                             Loneliness silences the questions.

Heart pumps crimson, stirs the inquisition of psyche and probes

Deep to core of that eternal emotion, fickle and painful though it is.

.

Asking repetition of clarity and need of hope for chance, the lover

Strains afraid to ask, to ask not.

.

None know the questions burning deep within.

___________________________

Please let me know what you think.  I have about a dozen more, some darker.  I would love to share them all with you, but only if I know you would like me to.

Namaste,

Scott

saania2806.wordpress.com/

Philosophy is all about being curious, asking basic questions. And it can be fun!

North Noir

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I read lots of books, from mythology retellings to literary fiction and I love to reread books from childhood, this is a place to voice my thoughts for fun. I also like to ramble about things such as art or nature every now and again.

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QUALITY LIFE

. . .

love each other like you are the lyric to their music

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