The Great Blizzard of 1888

On March the eleventh, history shows
No one was worrying, "What if it snows?"
The weather was warm for March on this date;
And spring, folks were certain, wouldn't be late.

Curious crocuses peeked above ground,
Birds chirped in chorus, new life was around;
The trees, sap rising, despite winter's blight,
Were bursting with life, buds ripe with delight.

Soft breezes blew, as kids played in the lane,
Joy harmonizing a springtime refrain.
But by late afternoon, casting a pall,
A mantle of snow fell, covering all.

Temperatures chilled, ice coated the trees,
And soon the earth shivered under a freeze.
Snow piled in drifts up to twenty feet high,
Yet on the storm raged, to blot out the sky.

Roads grew impassable, rivers all froze,
Cities shut down, as businesses closed.
Old folks still talk of the blizzard that year;
When winter took charge, her might was quite clear.

Winter - 2014-15

This year we cringed from winter's blast.
We knew the season couldn't last,
But days were cold, and grey, and drear;
We groaned from winter's force this year.

The frigid weather wouldn't end,
Weak sunlight was a fickle friend,
Time seemed to slow, as in a dream,
The snow and ice remained supreme.

We sought relief in little ways,
Good books, hot tea, to ease our days,
And certainty about one thing;
The knowledge that there would be spring.

The turtle

The turtle has a sturdy shell
That keeps him dry and warm as well.
He needs it when he starts to roam;
It doubles as his moving home.

Questions

When the world ends its run
As an exploding sun
Consumes it in its fire,
Will there still be desire?

When the stars start to dim
At the galaxy's rim,
And they're replaced by night,
Will they recall their light?

On lovers

We remember them, those feckless lovers,
As time telescopes, and black night covers
The vestiges of plans we thought supreme.
The answer that we seek, the truth we want,
Resides in darkling memories that taunt;
Those carefree, feckless days are just a dream.
In youth, our lives play like an endless feast,
Until it's finished, and the fun has ceased.

March

Cold Mars, god of war;
The month is full of his work.
He's always busy.

Call me "old man"

I read a script on being old,
And learned my lines; I've got them cold.
I like the role; it suits me fine,
I'm old now, like a classic wine.

All euphemisms are a sin;
Don't call me "senior citizen,"
I know I'm not the only one
Who hates it, if you call me "hon."

And phrases like the "golden years"
Were coined to quell young people's fears.
The condescension makes me sore;
I want respect, and nothing more.

I like my part in this new play,
I explore it every day,
And talking down's something to ban;
I'm proud to call myself old man.