Here is the first round of poetry received. Inclusion here does not mean the poem has been chosen for the Snowman Burning Ceremony.

Spring Bugs

The dragonflies alight
to dandelion hugs
of yellow green delight,
and kiss the ladybugs.

The ladybugs take wing
with polka dot replies
above the beds of spring,
and tease the dragonflies.

--Erik Richard Knutson, Roseville, Minnesota

Minnesota Spring Mother

My children are disobedient
They shed the costumes of winter
too soon.
They sniffle as they refuse their knit caps
and blow on cold fingers
bare of shunned gloves.
"The snow goes!"
"Look, beautiful!"
They exclaim and point to the naked yard.
I cling to my bulky coat and scarf,
Practical and responsible.
Holding the hand of the dying winter
Like a good relative
Trying not to show eagerness for
its death
Nor anticipation for the inheritance
of summer to come.
Oh, what a great liar I am
Next to my children!

--Kristen Gay
Kristen is one of MPR's Member-Listener Services representatives - Ed.

When the frost first enveloped the pumpkins,
the shiver in my blood was invigorating.
The long interior winter began as a
discovery, not a brooding cloud
grey as December.
As it wore on,
blankand on,
the space inside became smaller, and yet,
more echoes rang on,
blankankand on.
Doubt. Cold. Alone. Dark.

Spring will once again bring back
the outside,
as a warm reach of sun tickles the hair on my arm
like a long absent lover
telling me I am allright,
blankblankit will all be allright.

The memory of Spring joins the echoes
when day equals night.
The memory of the exterior starts a new discovery,
one I have felt before,
but allowed myself to forget on the long night.

But now I have been alone long enough.

-- Erik Hare, Saint Paul, Minnesota

When I was stranded at home during a storm in January (for the third time), I stood by my refrigerator working with my Magnetic Poetry kit. This is what I came up with:

White rain gone mad
Power crushed about
From what could it be
Winter moments scream at me

-- Barbara Midgarden, Bird Island, Minnesota

Spring March 10, 1995

Spring is when my brother died.
Mom and I sitting on either side
and I can't stop saying
I'm so glad, I'm so glad, I'm so glad.

The snow had melted except for the sharp
black crusts round the edges of the driveway.
David's room was suddenly, softly, washed with the absence
of his drowning, jagged breaths.

Spring was when he died, his eyes open,
locked on some new vision
just past our seeing, his mouth hanging
on the verge of some last thought.

The music from "The Snowman" filled the space behind our sobbing,
as that long winter of AIDS in our house
passed into rivers rushing out
through the north wall,

seeping between the siding,
gurgling into the driveway,
running round and eating away
those last frozen crusts of snow.

-- Nancy Ring-Taylor, Elk River, Minnesota

An Ode to Farm Market Reports

A change is sweeping over me
like a blast of fresh spring air
that carries smells of Midwest farms
and rich black soil there.

I'm embarrassed to admit it
but for years I was confused;
but I think I now can understand
farm market radio news.

I used to curse and swear and kick
when reports cut into shows
that let me know how many hogs
were lined up at St. Joe.

I would race right to my radio
when these reports came on the air
and change the dial to something else;
to what I didn't care.

While it may be true I had no need
to know the price of grain,
what I hated was the melting
that reports did to my brain.

"This is impossible to follow,"
I would always quietly groan,
as announcers muttered numbers
in a monk-like monotone.

"Corn two fifty and a quarter,
two lower," the man would drawl.
Until his numbers ran together
and made no sense at all.

"Beans a quarter up for June
to six and ten, July five-eighty,
twenty-five or six to four
and lightweight sows are holding steady."

Try as I might to listen closely
and decode just what was said,
I couldn't catch the train of thought
not even by a thread.

Now I was born in farm land
and know a barrow from a bull;
I know my way 'round corn fields
for all the tassels that I've pulled;

I know fair price for corn and beans
I've seen livestock sold and bought,
but I still didn't get the farm reports
for all that I'd been taught.

But one day like a vision
I began to feel less stymied
as I listened to the radio
hearing numbers flitting by me.

I didn't strain to listen;
just let the numbers glide on by.
Until I got the feeling
of a psychedelic high.

The pleasant buzz of integers
made me feel completely calm;
the droning made me feel relaxed;
I forgot all of my qualms.

You may not quite believe me,
it's not easy to explain,
but I swear I was transported
to a new and different plain.

It was meditation pure and simple
to which I was a witness;
because after I was a brand new man
full of health and full of fitness.

There's no need for meditating
in a levitation dome -
just use the old farm markets
'stead of the transcendental, "Om."

I no longer shun the farm reports
but always give a listen
with palms turned upward on my knees
in a lotus sitting position.

Farm markets are a prayer-like chant,
like magical incantations;
a mantra for Midwesterners;
free-verse lyrics of plantations.

With mentions of cash crops and cows,
reports tell us we're home
in the Midwest full of fresh spring smells.
It's even worthy of a poem.

-- Shawn Plank, Sauk Rapids, Minnesota

Spring Flight

When the light returns
She rises and soars again
Over white winged walls

-- Greg Davis, Minneapolis, Minnesota

With credit to Robert W. Service for the form and substance, Re: the Cremation of Sam McGee. . . . Burn on.

There are strange things done in the morning sun
by Minnesotans tired of the cold.
The midway trails have their secret tales
some which can't be told.
The ball park lights have seen queer sights
but the queerest they ever will see
was that equinox morn when spring was born
and MPR burned up the snowman.

The snowman came from the deep cold north
and brought the frigid with him.
The nights got long and the days got dark
and the sun seemed to just crack the rim
The creatures huddle at dryer vents
and the mosquitoes suckled prestone.
We longed for the warmth of the golden orb
and an end to the weather questions.

We get bored in our burrows and look for relief
in the lengthening light of each day.
The piles of snow wherever we go
cast shadows cross road and walkway.
We yearn to get out. We're ready to shout.
The snowman must go! Can you hear that today?
Its dripping and melting. The advantage is ours.
Seize torches and chase it away.

Us folks of the north are loyal of course
to the ravings of radio public.
Loyalists all, we listeners call and
pledge bucks by the barrel and bucket.
In turn, burning permit in hand
and with the help of St Pauls' fire finest
MPR sets a trap for the white ghost that plagued us,
the monster of cold and icest.

The creature is caught. Our relief is apparent.
How quickly we want to forget.
How long was our winter! How cold and snowy!
Get on with the burning, you bet.
Get rid of the ice and the potholes
and the snow and the salt and the sand.
Let "radio warmth" do its work once again
The snowman must go. Bring the sun to this wonderful land.

There are strange things done in the morning sun
by Minnesotans tired of the cold.
The midway trails have their secret tales
some which can't be told.
The ball park lights have seen queer sights
but the queerest they ever will see
was that equinox morn when spring was born
and MPR burned up the snowman.

-- Tom Kalbrener, Minnesota

Snowman, Snowman, burning bright
blankWe're gonna set yer *** alight!

blankYou better get as cold as you can,
blankCause We're gonna toast you like a fryin' pan!

blankYou can try to be brave,
blankbut in the end, it'll still be a watery grave!

--James Nevala

Clear Faith

Without apology we give ourselves
to that first spring day,
like a returning lover, long last, at the front door.

Like swarming white armed zombies
we file out of our houses
to smile, close our eyes
and breathe the cure.

I envy again, after my small winter worries
about how anything survives outside at thirty below,
the chickadees' clear faith
singing out from the edges of the yard.

-- Nancy Ring-Taylor, Elk River, Minnesota

We're Waiting

My snow buntings want to transmigrate into
Strawberry blossoms

Bouquets of wild flowers can't wait
To play peek-a-boo in greening meadows

White pines have been modeling noisy tiaras
Of red-winged blackbirds
And blue jay

Dandelion and goldfinch seeds
Make ready to sprout happy miracles
In my yard

Freshly painted rainbows practice dives from pools to dark May clouds
While bullfrogs roll up their sleeves
Ready for an early start on the manufacture of a summer supply of thunder

Tall Norway censers prepare to sprinkle orange incense
Over swarms of hunting swallows

Robins absently nit-pick the lawn

Rehearsals are over
The stage is set
Everything seems to be ready

If only you'll smile
And bring on the sun
Our spring can begin

-- Ken Kalish, Park Rapids, Minnesota

Good Bye to Old Man Winter

With icy breath and frozen toes
We take apart these silly clothes
That covered up our work of art
That long has graced our snowbound yard.

"Be gone you man of snow," we shout!
As shovels hit him round about
The middle of his fat behind.
I don't need you to help remind
Me of a long and dismal time.
Be gone, and let me say in rhyme
That burning is too good for you,
But that is what i plan to do.
I'll set your little twigs ablaze
And hope the fire goes on for days.
And when the heat gets to your nose
I plan to watch it as it goes.
I won't be sad to see you go,
A burning memory of the snow.

-- Colleen Hofelman, Pipestone, Minnesota

Poetry Submissions: 1 - 2 - 3

Snowman Burning - So Long, Frosty (video) - The Snowman Cometh