Before Winter is Gone

[Bonefish]

Before winter is gone, I thought it would share some of my winter poems that are just sitting here do nothing.


A Winter’s Walk

On a winter’s walk
Snowflakes raced across
The fields in horizontal lines
Pushed by a stiff northern wind

Snow laden fields
Lay in a wind-blown crust
The old wagon road
Was covered in a snowy blend

Along streams
Long melting icicles
Hung from moss covered ledges
Dripping, dripping into snow-laced pools

In windless meadows
Large fluffy snowflakes softly fell
In delightful winter silence
Upon evergreens as scented jewels

Roy L. Nave
December 1994



Anointing

As the evening light
Faded into darkness
Unexpectedly
Fast moving snow Clouds
Partially obscured
A faint Quarter moon
Along the old river cliff road
Flakes of snow
Very large
Very wet
Lavishly, softly fell
Melting
On my face
Covering
Leafless branches
Moss laden ledges
My path
My presence
A divine winter benediction
An unexpected winter anointing

Roy L. Nave
March, 2008



Let Winter Have Its Time

This morning
Snow fail before sunrise
Leaving a blanket of downy white
On vaporous chimney tops
Black birds huddle in the sunlight
From under the pantry door
A cold draft creeps
Across the kitchen floor
Through frosted windows
And snow laced seals
Redbirds sit noble and fluffed
There’s not much I can do or say
But watch as cold gray clouds
Pass the time of day
Come sit down beside the warming fire
Open a bottle of fine wine
Find a book of mystery
And let winter have its time


Roy L. Nave
1995

[Tyme2fish]

I'm waiting and dreaming for this winter to pass.
Old Man winter, you can kiss my

[waterdog101]

I'm waiting and dreaming for this winter to pass.
Old Man winter, you can kiss my

ha ha ha Tyme, you're a poet and don't know it, you can make them rhyme anytime.

[Bonefish]

Waterdog, you brought up a good point. It is my feeling that everyone should write about what they see and feel at times. Especially, when it comes to recording family history. There has so many gone before us that we know very little about. There are so many things in our daily life that worth putting to pen. My mother died when I was born and the only way I could know her was through others who knew her. I am so thankful I have recorded the things she did and the person she was. The only person now who knew her is now 96 years young and can not speak. This brings to mind another poem I wrote sometime ago.


A Small Broken Stone

On a cool late autumn day
The wind swirled across the lake
In ever changing patterns of blinding silver
Along a leafless horizon
Across the fortuitous water
Thick gray clouds began to mask the sun
Leaving only streaks of golden rays
As I began to walk down a well-worn path
One by one leaves of color blew pass me
I could sense a change to winter coming
For a moment I paused to look upward
At the thick gray clouds moving quickly overhead
When I looked down to move on
It was at that moment
Under an old cedar tree
My eyes fell upon a small broken stone
Through the fallen leaves
Lying decumbent upon the ground
I could see a stone with carved lettering
As I knelt down to get a closer look
The following words revealed
“Baby Sarah 1847”
The abandonment of this small broken stone
Lying so contemptuous upon the ground
Affected me profoundly
Who was she
How did her stone get here
Where did her stone belong
Who failed as caretaker
Who knows how many stones in time
Lie broken, lost, and forgotten
Only God

Roy L. Nave
November, 2012

[waterdog101]

Waterdog, you brought up a good point. It is my feeling that everyone should write about what they see and feel at times. Especially, when it comes to recording family history. There has so many gone before us that we know very little about. There are so many things in our daily life that worth putting to pen. My mother died when I was born and the only way I could know her was through others who knew her. I am so thankful I have recorded the things she did and the person she was. The only person now who knew her is now 96 years young and can not speak. This brings to mind another poem I wrote sometime ago.


A Small Broken Stone

On a cool late autumn day
The wind swirled across the lake
In ever changing patterns of blinding silver
Along a leafless horizon
Across the fortuitous water
Thick gray clouds began to mask the sun
Leaving only streaks of golden rays
As I began to walk down a well-worn path
One by one leaves of color blew pass me
I could sense a change to winter coming
For a moment I paused to look upward
At the thick gray clouds moving quickly overhead
When I looked down to move on
It was at that moment
Under an old cedar tree
My eyes fell upon a small broken stone
Through the fallen leaves
Lying decumbent upon the ground
I could see a stone with carved lettering
As I knelt down to get a closer look
The following words revealed
“Baby Sarah 1847”
The abandonment of this small broken stone
Lying so contemptuous upon the ground
Affected me profoundly
Who was she
How did her stone get here
Where did her stone belong
Who failed as caretaker
Who knows how many stones in time
Lie broken, lost, and forgotten
Only God

Roy L. Nave
November, 2012

that poem is Beautiful, I loved it. and the part about the broken stone, reminds me of a time, back in the 80's I was deer hunting in Owen county, I had hunted that area many times before and didn't know the little graveyard was there, I crossed a field and moved up in the trees, so I could look back across the field and just sat down and leaned back against a tree, some time passed and I looked at the ground area where I was setting, and a headstone was laying flat down on the ground, as I looked around there were about a dozen more stones, a few were still upright but leaning, but most were fallen and laying down. the trees had taken the graves, if not for the carved stones you couldn't tell a grave was ever there, they were dated back to the early 1800's and the names on all the stones were " Southworths " I don't think I will ever forget that, I spent some time that morning, thinking of how long those people had been there.

[waterdog101]

Bonefish, I love a good poem as much as anyone I guess, and you were talking about your mother, sorry about your mother, my mother is 80 and blind, I try and visit her as often as I can, I took her breakfast and talked a couple hours with her this morning, I know my mothers life almost as good as she knows herself, as she gets older she tells me the same thing over and over, this morning she was telling me that, all the people she went to school and new growing up, all were dead but one, it's a sad thing to think you will out live everyone you new as a young person. speaking about mothers and reading your poems, reminds me of a poem I learned about 40 some years ago, don't know the name of it or who wrote it, but I remember the poem, and I think I'll share it with you all.



I stopped in front of a little church, as I was passing by.
the door was open, it was almost dark and I could hear a voice from inside.
there a man was Praying, and i remember his every word and as I stood and listen closely this is what i heard.
he said I don't want to be a bother Lord, but I sure am feeling blue.
reckon you could change your schedule just a little bit, and call me on home to.
you see I'm so lonesome without her Lord, I don't know what in the world I'm going to do.
so if it's all the same with you Lord, would you just call me on home to.
then through the shadows the old man walked, slowly down the steps.
then feebly through the churchyard, leaning on his cane for help.
and as he tried to kneel again, he feel across a grave so new.
the Lord had heard his humble prayer, and called him on home to.
I often go back to that little church, where I kneel and say a prayer.
and I place flowers on those two graves, where he rest beside her there.
and as I thank my God for the two best friends, I ever had.
my tears flow freely on those two graves, one my Mother and the other my Dad.

[Bonefish]

Thanks for sharing, Waterdog. You too know how important mothers are. I know you are blessed to still have her. Don't forget to write some of her stories down.

[kygorski]

It starts with bright shining eyes, and a wagging tail. The constant tugging on a long leash. Wary foot steps on icy surfaces, frozen finger tips for leaving thje gloves in the car. The cold snow flakesfalling around your neck and ears. Quick stops at fence posts and trees, and always that nose to the ground, and then finally comes your reward, a steaming pile of doggie do, that you don't need to pick up. And salvation is there, a warm truck, a hot cup of coffee, and the feeling of a job well done.

[waterdog101]

It starts with bright shining eyes, and a wagging tail. The constant tugging on a long leash. Wary foot steps on icy surfaces, frozen finger tips for leaving thje gloves in the car. The cold snow flakesfalling around your neck and ears. Quick stops at fence posts and trees, and always that nose to the ground, and then finally comes your reward, a steaming pile of doggie do, that you don't need to pick up. And salvation is there, a warm truck, a hot cup of coffee, and the feeling of a job well done.

thats a good one, I'm glad to see that you've put the cork back in the bottle, and your fingers are able to talk again. I've missed you almost, as bad as you've missed Geo.

[Bonefish]

Flannel Fleece

Blankets, dusters, robes
Flannel, fleece
Coats, sweaters, vests
Cashmere, chamois
Clogs, booties, boots
Plaids, twills
Mittens, gloves, hats
Chinos, pile
Mocs, socks, mocks
Sealskin, polartec
Bibs, scarfs, tights
Goose down, wool
Windblocs, windstoppers
Turtlefur, turtlenecks, capes
Thinsulate and thermax
I can’t wait for the season
When all of these things
Have no reason
To prevent
Me from freez’n

Roy L. Nave
December 2000