14 comments

  1. James Seamarsh

    Winter brings the warrior stars, my comrades in arms, my comfort and reminder of home so very far away. It is cold, cold enough to freeze the slush and mud. No fresh snow, no gentle quiet, only a plateau of footprints with icy ridges and icy scree. There is no walking quietly, and I am glad of it. The crunch announces the arrival of friend, never foe. For who would be so foolish as to cross that barren battlefield thinking he would not be heard and challenged.

    I sit now, with the other young men of my village, hidden behind our wall of boulders. I listen to the silence. I cannot sleep, must not sleep, for it is my turn to keep watch. The night is clear and cold. I keep my nose down, sheltered by my wrap, to keep my nostril hairs from cracking. It is my ears that bear the brunt, remaining uncovered, unable to hear if encumbered.

    When I was younger, before, when my winters were spent in warm comfort of fire and house, I would stare at the elders, unsure and afraid of their scarred earlobes. My father was among them, the “Order of the Tattered Ears” as I thought of them. It was not until the summer of my changing that I finally found the courage to ask, “Had his ears always been deformed?” I remember how father had rumbled a hearty laugh and smiled. “So many questions, too many questions,” he had said, not angry as he often was. “Perhaps you will find your answers, come the dark of winter, and the time of the warrior stars.”

    Was it less than a year ago that I had asked the question? It had been less than six moons ago, but the memory seemed a dream.

    When I was a child, father had told me the stories, during the long darkness of winter. We would go outside, “to be men,” he would say to the women. But it was the women who chased us out into the cold, to get more wood, more water, more food. “Wait, take time,” he would say when I showed too much enthusiasm. “It is hard work, too hard for women.” And we would sit and look up into the winter sky, and he would connect the points of light with his finger, trace the hidden shapes and tell the stories.

    And so the warrior stars are there for me, their stories distant echoes that I heard differently now, since I had killed a man.

    I lifted my head and listened, but it was only the wind chasing snow over the rocks. I looked up, searching out the familiar shapes, finding one that heralded morning. But it was still high, and the light of the crescent moon had not yet shown. The night was not over. I shrugged to keep the cold from seeping down my neck. A quick sniff and I knew it had gotten colder.

    We had been told we would stay only one moon, which meant we would leave in four or five days. Perhaps the challenges were over. Certainly they had diminished, now that the nights were colder. I no longer dwell on living or dying, not like I once had. Perhaps I would return home, perhaps. But I knew home would not be the same.

    Hearing only the quiet of a still, cold night, I lowered my nose and protected it once more. Right now, I am alive, and should I survive to see home once more, I will have joined the order of the tattered ears.

    1. mcullen Post author

      Oh, I just love this. It took me away to another place and time. I especially like, “father had rumbled a hearty laugh.” What a great verb! This says so much about the father that I can see him, his burly form in a heavy coat. I also like, “look up into the winter sky, and he would connect the points of light with his finger, trace the hidden shapes and tell the stories.” Although not an especially tender scene (I mean, being in the cold, collecting wood. . . ) . . . this is a touching moment between father and child. And the apex, “since I had killed a man.” Said so simply, easily, it’s message almost missed. I like how you shifted to “I lifted my head and listened. . . ”
      This is powerful writing. Thank you for sharing.

  2. James Seamarsh

    Winter brings out the sadness in me, and so I often write poetry to ease its exorcism:

    —–
    Winter Solace

    Snowflakes gently drift to rest,
    Blanket of purity,
    Beauty in death’s slumber revealed.

    My soul
    Leaves
    No footprints.

    —–
    Winter Past

    The wind floats white over the snow,
    Footsteps quickly forgotten,
    A path that left her untouched.

    Perhaps wise,
    Perhaps safe,
    Perhaps easier.
    Who will ever know?

    Now gone,
    The moment slips from my grasp
    And freezes into the past.

    1. mcullen Post author

      Strong, visual imagery elicits a strong reaction. A melancholy, a poignancy, strong emotions. Thanks for posting.

  3. mcullen Post author

    Arlene Mandell writes:
    Wearing Shawls in Winter
    There’s something secretive about wrapping oneself in a shawl. Portions of the neck, arms and breasts are concealed in a layer of cashmere, silk or velvet. There’s something decadent as well. This winter when the weather is especially fierce and when a writer may arise before the heating system turns on, she may shiver in the chill air. On one such bleak and rainy morning, I reached into my closet in the semi-darkness and accidently retrieved a black velvet shawl hanging beside my fleece bathrobe. It had sequins and long silky fringe. I had never worn it before. In fact, I had no memory of having seen it before.
    Feeling a bit like Anna Karenina, I draped the shawl over my sensible nightgown and slipped into my writing room. The fringes tickled a little. Inspired by the ghosts of Jane Austen and Emily Dickinson, I wrote until the sun rose over the Mayacama Mountains and Ringo licked my ankle to announce it was time for breakfast.
    ~ Arlene Mandell writes, cooks, gardens and daydreams in Santa Rosa.

    1. mcullen Post author

      Lovely, Arlene! Your opening sentences draw me in, as warmth from a roaring fire. Now I want to drape a shawl around me and enjoy the sensation!

  4. mcullen Post author

    Winter, by Elaine Lannert

    Winter – last season, dark season, wet and cold season, Yet there is such a comfort to
    curling up in front of the fire, joy to hear raindrops on the roof which turn the amber of
    autumn into emerald fields. Mother Nature is giving notice it is time to shower. When
    grey clouds are my ceiling and wet pavement my floor, I feel an explainable surge of
    energy.

    I don’t think there is a time of year when the aromas in the kitchen are ever better be it
    soup simmering, meat roasting, pies baking or cider mulling.

    A sense of home and hearth, warmth and comfort become my overcoat for this special
    time of year.

    As I grow older, I am learning to enjoy and embrace all seasons of the year as I embrace
    all seasons of my life.

    1. mcullen Post author

      Oh, Elaine, this is exquisite. Your writing is rich with color and texture, “turn the amber of autumn into emerald fields” and “grey clouds are my ceiling and wet pavement my floor.” Lovely! Great big smile here!

  5. farmlark

    Claudia Larson writes: Cold

    When people hear that I’m from North Dakota, 99% of the time they
    involuntarily shiver and say, “Boy! It’s cold up there in the
    winter, hunh?” They say it as if living there during that season is
    a punishment. I usually reply, “It never bothered me.”

    It didn’t bother me to stuff my dress into thickly padded snow
    pants, shoving the full skirts into the pants with wedge-like hands.

    Although it was annoying to get red, chapped wrists after a bracelet
    of skin had been exposed to the snow, then itching in the warm house,
    it was worth all the hours spent digging snow forts, breathing icicle
    air, eating handfuls of snow, riding cardboard boxes down six feet
    tall snow piles, trudging across the pasture in subzero weather to the
    slough where snow ruffles were frozen, along with pennyroyal and
    burdock.

    There was no CNN to tell us that we were suffering extreme cold and
    blizzard conditions. I loved the mind-clearing temperatures and the
    snow drifts piling up over the country roads. I accepted, like the sun
    rising and setting every day, that every winter there would be at
    least one power outage, leaving our house dark and chilly except for
    candles and the gas stove as we waited for Dad to tinker with the
    ancient generator until it kicked in to give us electricity.

    Snow was simply part of our playground. There would be piles of
    cleared snow in our farm yard and in the Liberty Elementary country
    schoolyard. Standing atop on those white mountains, still tall come
    springtime, I could hear the newborn lambs mewing from the neighboring
    farm.

    One winter night, Dad didn’t get the ’56 Ford sedan into the
    garage during a blizzard.
    The next morning, we kids climbed onto the utility room bench, looked
    out the window and saw nothing but the radio antenna sticking out of
    the snow, waving hello. I can still feel the feet-dancing excitement
    that slid me out the door and into the snow.

    Claudia Walen Larson left the prairies over 40 years ago, but
    they’re part of her blood and bones even while she lives in
    Sebastopol, CA.

    1. mcullen Post author

      Farmlark, wonderful writing. Your writing is so vivid, I feel chilled sitting here. I especially like, “the mind-clearing temperatures” and “as we waited for Dad to tinker with the ancient generator” and “newborn lambs mewing” and “the radio antenna sticking out of the snow, waving hello. I can still feel the feet-dancing excitement that slid me out the door and into the snow.” Okay, I like the entire piece. Thanks for posting!

  6. Java

    Winter Prompt #126 by Java
    What if I could just skip winter? Its not just that it is cold and, here in Northern California, wet. Its the way the sky stays this buzz kill grey for days. The look of trees reaching out their scritch scratching bare branches like Carrie’s hand from the grave. As if these formerly friendly leafy oasis of comfort and shade are now trying to pull all joy out of us and suck it into some black hole of desolation. And that pewter sky turns even darker when the day seems hardly to have begun, to become a night sky minus the cheerful twinkle of stars.
    Yes I could skip all that. Maybe. But I do wonder. When that first peek of new green shows up on the skeletal branches. When that first daffodil pushes up sturdy blades like a friend bursting in the door with a shouted, “ I’m here!”, when I suddenly realize I don’t need headlights anymore on my drive home from work, would I be so grateful?
    Winter gives me hope of spring. I am reminded of how hope in some crazy way makes my life worth living. I had a friend once that said hope is just a delusion. Even if it was just his opinion, it made me want to cry thinking he could be right. I don’t want to live without hope. When winter has laid hold over the world long enough, like the new smattering of clover springing up, I can push up tall holding my hope in my hand like an avenging sword. The joy of living will win out eventually. Thanks winter, you make hope real.

    1. mcullen Post author

      I enjoy your writing, Java. I love the theme, I can relate! I especially like, “pewter sky turns even darker,” and “holding my hope in my hand like an avenging sword.” Love the last line. . . Love the optimism of Hope! Thanks for posting. ~ Marlene

  7. Karen

    Winter reminds me of a song I wrote once during a bleak “winter of my soul” period, when I’d experienced both betrayal by friends and problems with the medical profession. I took comfort from and incorporated into the song what Jesus said in Matthew 10:26, “There is nothing hidden that will not become known, nothing concealed that will not be revealed.”
    The first part is kind of corny, and though this song has a “winter” theme, it has an encouraging “Spring” ending:

    “No Man is an Island”

    No man is an island
    Unto himself they say,
    But yet I find myself marooned,
    A shipwrecked castaway.

    What man is an island
    But the one who’s not believed?
    One whose closest companion
    Is the pain no one can see?

    You long for someone just to understand,
    Someone to share your pain,
    But all your pleading, outstretched hands
    Grasp, is scornful disdain.

    No man is an island,
    So I’ve heard it said,
    But no man stands alone
    Like one who’s been betrayed by friends.

    Who then is an island
    But the one fooled by disguise,
    Who finds the cloak of friendship
    Hid the foe unrecognized?

    Between the friendly, smiling face,
    Behind the warm embrace,
    The unseen enemy awaits
    His chance to take your place.

    You search this barren, desert land
    Through endless streams of faces,
    But empty wells are all you find,
    Mirage for an oasis.

    Will you find that kindred soul
    To take your hand and say, “I know,
    I’ve walked this road you’ve traveled too,
    I know just what you’re going through?”

    No man is an island
    Like the one who doesn’t know,
    That Someone walks beside him
    On his dark and lonely road.

    Who can be an island
    When at last you understand,
    The One who’ll never leave your side
    Bears scars of nail-pierced hands?

    Man of sorrows, Man of grief,
    His suffering did not end,
    For every sorrow that you bear
    He suffers yet again.

    Beaten, scourged and mocked,
    Betrayed and left to die alone,
    The Man who died an island
    Lives to give exiles a Home.

    All that’s hidden now will be
    Displayed for all the world to see,
    Shouted from the mountain tops
    Will be each secret, deadly plot.

    Then at last will be revealed
    The secrets that have been concealed,
    The reason for each tear you shed
    Awaits you at your journey’s end.

    1. mcullen Post author

      Awesome writing.

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