a note*

Everything I post here I have previously published on the many other blogs I have had. This is a place for my favourites to rest. These are the wings that taught me i could fly and that there is life waiting, far beyond the ridge.

If you care to comment, just drop me an email at grayhawk77@yahoo.com


Wednesday, July 11, 2012

The cold, Mean bastard

Just a cold, mean bastard. When first he rode into town with spurs janglin and buckles shining, we oohed and awwed to the tip of his wide hat. Somethin new to this dusty old prairie town. Somethin not same ol same ol. We gathered our skirts and dipped, all demure and welcoming. He brightened and livened the place up. Threw money around and bought drinks and fine cigars. We all gathered to his stories.
Ah, he really was nothin new though. Rides through bout once a year on his fine white steed and always outstays his welcome. Pretty soon he's all alone at the bar wearin the stink eye on his back. No longer allowed in the big game and even the hard legged, tired eye old saloon gals want nothing to do with him. Sheriff can't run him off cuz he ain't broke no laws and, after all, we're the ones who invited the dirty louse.
They call him Winter. (when they're feelin polite) And now his steed is just a sway back dirty old grey. He came in all cheery and thanksgivingy sportin turkey and football. God how we played to his piping. Following behind in a silly line like young school girls at the heart hop dance. He threw out green and red like candy from a float and we Wal-Marted our little asses off. Then there was sledding, and skiing, and hockey and so forth and so on...but somewhere...it just got tired. and old.
The turkey sandwiches are long ago expired, football has gone the way of the tepee, his broken down float throws out flu bugs, and we curse the occasional pine needle that prods our foot. Even the heart hop dance feels like a twenty year reunion and our little pink buds are now sloppy 44d's bustin at the seams. He'll do that to ya.
No, the hour is late and we're tired and he's just a cold, mean bastard after all. We'd lynch the miserable son of a bitch but we know all too well, after a time, we'll curtsy and flutter as before.

If only he wouldn't stay so long.

Turkey on the table
football on the cable
Aunt Louise in her crazy dress
cousins and friends
we rarely see
Charlie Brown
and the Grinch
on the brand new tv
my but this season does bless

frikkin snow
and forty below
I need a jump
I need a tow
I need some heat
I need to know
that spring
is not somewhere
beyond my reach

pass the cookies
pass the nog
too cold outside
I guess I'll blog
and think of sun
and skies of blue
forget the mud
forget the flu
and forget,
you bastard, Winter
that ever

I ever loved you