Winter walks with weight of wet wadmal;
somnambulism from dawn to dusk,
shoulder-hunching in sweat-scent of the crowded trains,
Winter is pale faces focused;
illuminated in sheen of smartphone screens
as snowflakes melting on asphalt.
Winter is coughing strangers,
rush-hour sandwiched, stacked together
for paychecks to be burned on Christmas gifts.
Winter is tight-rope walking.
Evening on Karl Johan Street by Edvard Munch
A 55 for hedge.
—
December 8, 2017
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Living on the equator but longing for snow
Passion for writing ignites my soul's momentum
A journey through the seasons with two adopted whippets, a poet and a camera
Hoping to inspire the world one word at a time.
2 years, mental illness, bucketlist
Meditations from the Midwest
Love your second stanza. Beautiful image there.👍💙
This is good. Somehow I imagined the scenes of Dickens’ Christmas Carol, sans smart phones…maybe the painting added to that. This made me want to take a nap!
Not because it was boring! But cold.
I was picturing Charles Dickens too!
You recall the urban winters of my youth on the Great Lakes(a cold place, where many Swedes settled) and your lines are stark and strong about that other winter within–another heavy woven fabric of mood and circumstance that is equally wet and burdensome. I especially liked “…pale faces focused;/illuminated in sheen of smartphone screens/
as snowflakes melting on asphalt…” Thanks for playing Bjorn, and at the 55, visiting is optional–usually rewarding, but not compulsory by any means, so read when/if you choose.
I concur. Well said – and rendered.
This is sharp, well done.
Your attention to detail puts me in mind of Ezra Pound.
Great compliment, and yes it was a poem in the back of my mind…. couldn’t say white petals on a black bough… but it was in my mind.
Coughing strangers, Rush-hour sandwiched…..the depressing scene all too common
“tight-rope walking” wearing shoes soled in ice… and the safety-net is made of summer lies.
Winter isn’t all parties and cookie exchanges. Our modern trappings are paper thin, and winter winds blow right through them.
It definitely walks the tight rope.
I just commented over at Audreys about how this time always seems a rush to death. So much expectation pulls us forward, to holidays, to new years. Ultimately to it being over so we can find something more.
The sleepwalking slod in wet clothes. Blah. Ha.
Interesting progression of congestion in this Bjorn.
the eyes of the Munch painting perfectly suit your pen
Bjorn every line is my favorite. The first stanza is probably my very favorite but it’s happy to be with the rest of its word family. Love it.