Posted in Sonnet Variation

Beyond Frosted Panes

The silence of this wintry day
attests to nature’s strong display
as whitened blankets wrap around
the sleeping forms which line the ground.

The calmness of this stormy peace
enfolds us with its warming fleece.
Yet even in this quiet place
some move along at steady pace.

A squirrel scampers here and there.
A cardinal darts through the air.
From cozy den, a fox will wake
to gaze upon each falling flake.

These creatures all enjoy the show,
while footprints mar the pristine snow.

© Susan Schoeffield

Posted in Internal Rhyme

Why I Abhor Thor

I don’t adore Thor. He’s a bore, and what’s more
I deplore the sight of his might dressed in white.
No delight do I know from this snow. It can go
back to where I won’t care if it dares to ensnare
with its not very nice slice of hard, frosty ice.
You’re a chore, Mr. Thor. Take your roar out the door!

© Susan Schoeffield

Another poem written for the 3/1/15 post at the Phoenix Rising Poetry Guild to write a rhyming poem on any topic in any form.  If the weather forecasters are right and the next named winter storm pays us a visit, I’m ready for him.

Posted in Quatrain

No Business Like Snow Business

I know I’m obsessive. I have been since youth.
There’s no point denying that hard and fast truth.
When I get a teaser that snowflakes might fall,
I’m on my computer, awaiting the call

on how many inches of snow to expect.
(No wonder my friends give me little respect.)
Though I prefer summer and hot humid days,
a possible snowstorm can make my eyes glaze.

I’m not into skiing down white, frozen hills
or building a snowman with powdery frills.
In fact, there’s not much about snow that I like
except when I’m told that a blizzard might strike.

I know that it’s childish, not fitting my age.
Though I’m up in decades, I’m no wizened sage.
Yes, snow still excites me, at least from afar.
All common sense leaves as it bids au revoir.

© Susan Schoeffield

Posted in Monotetra

Snow Drifting

The biting winds of frosty squalls
envelope shrubs in winter shawls.
The snow forms lines of whitened walls
and still it falls. And still it falls.

Throughout the air, it softly sails.
My plea for warmer days derails.
Increasing depths conceal my wails.
The sunshine pales. The sunshine pales.

And when the flakes fall from the skies,
each one a varied shape and size,
the drifts begin to quickly rise.
They blind my eyes. They blind my eyes.

Then as the storm winds down, I rush
to clear the alabaster mush.
The lawn no longer white and lush,
it’s grayish slush. It’s grayish slush.

© Susan Schoeffield

Posted in Parody

Poe’s Snow

(with apologies to Edgar Allan)

Once upon a daylight dreary,
mounting snow makes my eyes bleary,
but I try remaining cheery,
cheery in my heart, not head.

Ah, distinctly I remember
it was only mid-November.
Now my fire’s just an ember,
ember from a heat source dead.

Bundled up in warm attire,
frozen hands and feet inspire
dreams of when my clothes were drier,
drier ‘til I passed the door.

While the blower coughs and wheezes,
sputters out a hundred sneezes,
its poor engine quickly freezes.
Quoth the blower, “Nevermore.”

© Susan Schoeffield

Our host at Creative Bloomings lives in the now snowbound region of Buffalo, NY. Not sure why, but this parody of “The Raven” popped into my head. Take care, Walt! Hope you’re back online soon!!