E. L. Blizzard
Those were the days, when zoom was the noise made by my sister’s Scalextric, while the rest of us huddled for warmth around a single blizzarding screen.
floods all around nostalgic for snow
A skirt of syllables. A wing of words. And how does it feel to be touched by stars ?
swirled in cloaks of mist
shaking out a web of droplets
The nun processes along the cloister lost in prayer
Asleep in her bed she dreams of who it will be
In the refectory she sips through silence
The blare of radio one between toast and tea
from every angle
a view of the sea
An accordion player with a pumpkin belly
sings songs of beer. With songs of beer
and lederhosen shorts, he shakes like jelly,
the accordion player and his belly.
Festivity fashioned by a Machiavelli—
The sizzling bratwursts prompt many cheers
while the accordion player with the belly
sing songs of beer, songs of beer . . .
riddled with hangover
the town mortician
Hidden eyes discern
Nostrils better interpret
Beyond the quarry’s boulders,
Heavy as any burden,
Trees weed upward, all gnarled,
Hollow knot holes filled with darkness,
Open mouths forever silently screaming,
Shadows harboring sentient eyes,
Glowing gold . . .
Ghosts float past an autumn-tainted moon.
Distant Mack Trucks faintly growl.
A tired skeleton, growing old,
Stirs through the mist—stops
For some odd reason at the dead-end road,
Beside the smashed pumpkins—
Toothless and broken maws,
And scans a freshly crushed possum.
Some say poverty is a black hole—
That bottomless pit can never be filled—
Others simply offer too many, too many
Mouths to feed . . .
People missing pieces,
Pussies, or things with “legs up to their necks”
That make a skunk ape shriek—
Children, empty mouths,
Game for the next shovel-full . . .
A hairy arm parts
the age of the forest is negotiable
at the edge
It is likely the Bronx. Battered housing projects. Stretched shadows in groups. They’re the frame. A spontaneous memorial sprung up of mourning candles sputtering. Most have pictures of Mary or Jesus painted on their glass. Some withered roses hanging on there.
The police have cordoned off the crime scene. Mothers are weeping. Neighbors have come out in their robes. Whispering. It seems it was a child caught in the crossfire.
A gang banger with tattoos drawn like a religious text scrawled up to his chin says to no one in particular,
Head bangs, laughter and dancing. Live streaming Foo Fighters at the Roxy.
shared joy finds its way
E. L. Blizzard
Today I want to see how many cars go by. It’s cold outside and there’s not a soul around.
Neither a passer-by, nor a cyclist.
This is the rush hour.
A car arrives. It moves slowly. I think it’s someone who lives nearby and comes home after work.
Others should follow.
from one lockdown