New Year's Eve 2-for-1 Special

photoart: ralph murre

First

by Peggy Trojan

New Year's Eve

nine days before I was twelve

Tommy, visiting next door

came to visit me, baby sitting.

At midnight

he sat on the arm of the chair

and leaned to kiss me.

That's all.

No embrace,

no meaningless words.

Nearly seventy years later

I remember our surprise,

the silence,

how warm his lips were

and how soft.

~ first published in Boston Literary Magazine

photoart: ralph murre

REVELRY

by Bobbie Krinsky

Heading out under a moon

as luminous as last year’s Solstice,

my old dog and I ramble

side--by--side 

into the raw country wind:

Two old bitches taking  a stroll

beneath the stars,

minutes before New Years  Eve,   2003.

While I plunge through snow hushed  fields

flooded with silver, 

my girl prances like a pup

and paws through shadows

of winter’s trees splayed across  midnight’s

ice blue light.

 ~ first published in The Wisconsin Poets’ Calendar

Think Ice Fields

photo: ralph murre

Think Ice Fields                                                        by Bobbie Krinsky

  Howling wind   wild waters                                                                       slamming wild waters                                                                                        flash freeze                                                                                                         Saw tooth slabs                                                                                              bathed in sunset’s fading fire                                                                                jag through black nights

 endless days

                                     white-on-white

  till Earth tilts back                                                                                                 towards the sun                                                                                                   and blue ice                                                                                                          moaning for midnight’s moon                                                                     shudders and shifts                                                                                     tumbling blocks                                                                                                    big as rooms

                      over and under                                                                                                         slabs splitting into chunks                                                                                                           and chips so thin                                                                                                                      they crackle                                                                                                                                like shattering glass                                                                                               as they bump and bob past                                                                              black-banked willows  

  branches plumped                                                                                                so yellow with sap                                                                                        everywhere I turn  I hear                                                                                    wind chimes                                                                                                             and the red wings’ spring songs                                                                         ringing across   open waters

~ first published in A Slender Thread (Little Eagle Press)