Portcullis

portcullis
Portcullis to a frozen fairy land,
these teeth of winter gleam
as they bite the bright air.
If they do open
at a secret touch or word,
creak with the weight of weird
like an omen bird,
then pause at the threshold
and read the two limen words carven there:
“beauty” in script and bold “beware”. — Annette Marie Smith

Still Life: Door in Winter

snowydoorwithc

Sometimes it’s hard to disturb things,
to change the staus quo.
A still life can be beautiful in its pristine
unchangeableness.
But even the quietest door
that hasn’t been opened in the longest time
has new vines creeping across its letter slot,
has freshly fallen beauty at its feet,
has light playing across its windows
like the fingers of a goddess strumming
the strings of a harp made of rainbows and glass.
And me? I am the one who really can’t help herself,
even if it wasn’t her job,
breaking a path through the snow,
knocking on every door I come across
and leaving missives
in unused mail slots that like stubborn mouths
and sealed hearts
have stayed closed till rust rubricates their metal lips.
Don’t say I never gave you anything. 😉
— From the “Places the Mail Took Me” series by Annette Marie Hyder

With the passing of the longest night

Daylight grows,
drapes itself along tree limbs
across the many feathered breasts of birds,
pools in hollows,
kinks sinuously over the tops of city buildings
from the highest skyscraper
to the lowest dilapidated shack,
undulates across the land
a python magnificent and grand
strong and beautiful in its glowing/growing fatness
and look — just look —
at the multifaceted diamonds it wears upon its back.
— Annette Marie Hyder

Happy first day of winter!

Steampunk pterodactyl dreams

The frozen voice of a steampunk pterodactyl cracking its screams open like eggs of despair on the jagged edges of the night woke me last night.

Haha! I had so much fun writing that sentence.

It was all screeching metal and city spanning wings with the darkest things of nightmares attendant in its train. I ran to the window to prove this apparition of fear that had reached with cold claws and pulled me from my sleep.

This is what I saw:

Underneath the nine inches of snow that recently fell, a thick layer of ice has been lurking. That truck is an ice-eater (I don’t know what it’s really called but that is what I am calling it) and the screams I heard in the night were the cries of it feeding. Bon appétit, ice-eater. Bon appétit!


Update:
Laura Rae Fuglestad was kind enough to share this short video she took of the ice-eater’s screams. Thank you, Laura Rae Fuglestad!
Enjoy!
<a href="/files/8/7/2/2/4/151613-142278/So_this_happened_last_night_at_about_145_pm.mov”>Click here to view.

Not Titan, Nor Nephilim, Nor Rephaim, He

By Annette Marie Hyder

An angel, colossal and brooding supine
on the ground
covering miles with one outstretched arm
looks as though it’s carved of marble
in the blue-saturated twilight.

White tongues of cold flame flicker
as they fall hissing
swelling the snow with more of the same
and silently adhering to the back of the great angel
they become so many feathers on his wings.

There is no copper serpent
no idol of beaten gold
no staff bearing almond blossoms
and weight untold.

There are no warm metals
when the angel of winter spreads his arms
and pulls all the small round globes
of warmth from the branches of the sky
and hides them in his robes.

Only silver shining
and sheening,
only silver can be seen
and the tarnishing to come.

A family of jackets

Just look at this little family of jackets. There’s a dad (far right), a mom (second from right), and two teenagers (far left and second from left). And I put this whole family on my back and carried them forth into the cold.

I’m not too proud to move with the muffled dignity of restricted limbs. I’m not too haughty to have a quartet of jackets hitchhiking on the transportation of my person. You might feel the same way too if you hied from Florida and the weather outside your Minnesota doorstep was -18º F. You too might embrace the idea of a family of jackets to warm your shaking limbs.

Happy Monday!

PS The schools are closed again today.

Friday is full of sparks

Sparks
By Annette Marie Hyder

I can hear your breath creak

stretched thin on the scrubbing board of the air.
Your glance is static electricity.
Your hands are heat’s secret lair.
I don’t waste my breath on punitive air.
I spark my glance against yours.
And my hands too
are a place where heat burrows.
Let me show that nest to you.
Happy Friday!