The last mask of winter.

The fields

            sluiced with rain

                                    on the leafing

            of memory,

On each rock and scree

            living in the Appalachian breeze.

The mind of frost

            crusted in the corbeil

            undressing in the air.

Where is our consciousness?

            The bluster of stone

streaked in corrupt minds

            on the last mask of winter;

The white surf of the ocean

            (and alabaster sands),

the loneliest tides

            and coffee hush of wind

among the divinity of shadows

                        the bough of blood summer

            moving toward, sinking as the Earth is frail,

streaked in corrupt minds

            on the last mask of winter.

© 2020 All Rights Reserved.

4/22/21: Reposting an old favorite of mine. I was really proud of my style in that period especially getting the encouragement to write for NaPoWriMo 2020. It was an interesting time.

35 thoughts on “The last mask of winter.”

  1. Your poetry is doing absolute wonders for my expanding knowledge of the English language. Every poem a new word without fail & it’s definitely going to improve my chances of completing the Times crossword!

    Liked by 1 person

  2. “Where is our consciousness?” you ask.

    It seems to be stuck behind what we falsely believe to be our truest self. “The mask” is the blank page, it seems, the snow over the fallen Autumn, when the leaves had covered the dying grass.

    We can talk without a face, can we not? We can talk in complete emotionless expressions, not wanting to show who we are, to those we turn towards.

    Your poetry is astounding. Everything seems so hazed when we have experienced a pain, drowned in it, and now unwilling to show our truth, because all we repeat is lies.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Thank you so, so much.

      I love your feedback and analysis. There’s this quote that it reminds me of. It goes, “If I stop wearing the mask, is the mask already my face? What happens when we take it off?” I think it’s from the show Mr. Robot if I’m thinking of it correctly.

      We all hide behind our masks. I think it’s mainly out of fear, and then we begin to lie. Sometimes, it’s hard to know who your truest self is at that point, because as you said, we keep repeating the lies. And sooner or later, they become our “self truths.”

      Liked by 1 person

  3. I see how your imagery has evolved over time, here. I see the common threads, the geography of your poetry, in the stones, the blood – all of that curious imagery that I associate with your dream-like work. It’s a delight to see where we have come from in even so short a time as a year, no?

    Liked by 1 person

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