top of page


Long shadows

Bleak stinging wind

Days getting longer

Before Spring is born again.

Brave buttercups

Punching through the hoarfrost

Like little tiny swords

Determined to end Winter’s grip

With their golden fragrance

Is it too soon yet?

Winter-bit leafless trees

Frame ominous gray-darkened skies


I sit on my porch wrapped,

Scarfed, gloved

And woolen capped

Watching and wondering

Will my Winter End

Before Spring’s fresh newness

Begins again?

How many seasons

Am I allowed

Before the grim vigilance

Shadows me


Like a cold winter corpse

Still. Still,

Looking up through dirt

I shall push those tiny daffodil swords


Forcing Spring

I will, I will.

Renewed, Recycled

I will begin again.

I will.

Author’s Note: The painted picture poetic theme: Life after life, after-life life. Quiz: What happened to the narrator?

I set out to write like Sandburg, to copy his haunting inevitable rhyme-less timeless style (I succeeded in the second and forth verses). Yet some distant spirit-force that frames me, sticks a rhyme or two in and between my lines, rhyming regardless. I shall try again next time, not to rhyme nor rhythm, like Carl did. Carl in his introduction said, “Rhyme is not necessary. If words work they work.” Frost rhymed naturally. That’s more like me. Carl? Robert? Robert? Carl? In the end I shall be me, just me. You’ll see. I will.

Did you know that Carl Sandburg is credited as introducing humor into poetry. Remarkable. Unique. Historic. Refreshing. Thanks Carl!

tom tenbrunsel

Carl Sandburg Writer 2023

16 views0 comments

Recent Posts

See All




Post: Blog2_Post
bottom of page