Winter Slumber

Snow falls driven by bitter wind, shaking bare trees and green evergreens. Earth slumbers beneath a white blanket. The sky gray with cloud.

An Autumn Woodland Trail

Cool autumn wind blows softly
Through the bare and leafless trees.
The woodland trail now covered
By those fallen denizens;
Fallen from on high,
Leaving branches naked
Against the pale sky
Of that more distant sun
Waning in the equinoxial Fall.

Sinking slowly into anticipated slumber,
Is the woodland nodding.
Winter sleep beckons
With dreams of spring to come.

But let the autumn linger
Yet a little while,
To dream of summer past,
As I walk another mile.

J. William Newcomer (November 15, 2016; All rights reserved.)

Do Not Disturb So Easily

Do not disturb so easily
The dead who lay beneath the sod;
Unknown to those who live and breathe,
Forgotten by all is the life they trod.

Stroll reverently among the graves;
This no place for light frolic or jest.
Remember soon will come the day,
You will too lay there among the dead.

Do not disturb so easily,
Those, who in rest, await the Day.
While you walk so blithely,
Giving no thought about your way.

Do not disturb so easily
The dead who lay beneath the sod.
The day will come when you too,
Will also go to meet your God.

J. William Newcomer
September 28, 2015 © All rights reserved.

Days fall shorter.Trees shed their leafy glory. An expectation in the air. Subtle changes herald Autumn's reign. It's coming! It's coming!

Summer

The apex of its ascent now reached,
The sun begins its slow retreat.
Days slightly shorter start to be.
Summer flowers in riotous color we see.

An uncertain expectancy in the air,
While we enjoy the summer so fair.
Change the seasons must, they say,
But for now we enjoy this summer day.


(Copyright © July 1, 2010. All rights reserved.)

The Wood-pile

OUT walking in the frozen swamp one grey day
I paused and said, “I will turn back from here.
No, I will go on farther—and we shall see.”
The hard snow held me, save where now and then
One foot went down. The view was all in lines
Straight up and down of tall slim trees
Too much alike to mark or name a place by
So as to say for certain I was here
Or somewhere else: I was just far from home.
A small bird flew before me. He was careful
To put a tree between us when he lighted,
And say no word to tell me who he was
Who was so foolish as to think what he thought.
He thought that I was after him for a feather—
The white one in his tail; like one who takes
Everything said as personal to himself.
One flight out sideways would have undeceived him.
And then there was a pile of wood for which
I forgot him and let his little fear
Carry him off the way I might have gone,
Without so much as wishing him good-night.
He went behind it to make his last stand.
It was a cord of maple, cut and split
And piled—and measured, four by four by eight.
And not another like it could I see.
No runner tracks in this year’s snow looped near it.
And it was older sure than this year’s cutting,
Or even last year’s or the year’s before.
The wood was grey and the bark warping off it
And the pile somewhat sunken. Clematis
Had wound strings round and round it like a bundle.
What held it though on one side was a tree
Still growing, and on one a stake and prop,
These latter about to fall. I thought that only
Someone who lived in turning to fresh tasks
Could so forget his handiwork on which
He spent himself, the labour of his axe,
And leave it there far from a useful fireplace
To warm the frozen swamp as best it could
With the slow smokeless burning of decay.

Robert Frost (1874–1963)

This is one of my favorites from Robert Frost.

This Field

This field I trod upon.
This field I plowed.
This field I dragged and disked.
This field I cultivated and harvested.

I sunk my bare feet into it’s soil.
I watched
....It’s corn grow,
....It’s wheat turn golden,
....It’s soybeans ripen in the pod.
I mowed it’s hay.
I sweated under it’s sun.

Watched the rain soaked up by it’s cracked ground;
Watched the evening mists rise upon it;
Watched the snow driven by the wind over it’s stubble.

Seeing it’s fence line silhouetted against the moon;
With the stars glittering as diamonds
And pearls against the velvet night.

This field holding early years of my life;
This field where I worked, thought, prayed, laughed, wept.
This field, a part of my life not forgotten.
This field, a part of my heart and being.


(September 8, 1998, Copyright © 1998. All rights reserved.)

Winter Earth

The earth lies silently
'Neath its blanket asleep.
The wind cuts raw and cold
Into the marrow deep.

Over open meadow;
Over woodland place;
Under its white blanket,
Quiet sleep upon its face.

Days begin to linger;
Sun's rays slanting steep,
Calling to the earth
Under its blanket fast asleep.

Promise of resurrection
In its bosom keeps,
As it lays beneath its blanket,
Dormant, dead, asleep.

(Copyright © February 2, AD 2001. All rights reserved.)

(I was looking through an old journal of sorts and found this poem I had written, but had never published. I thought it appropriate for this time of year.)