Inclusion here does not mean the poem has been chosen
for the Snowman Burning Ceremony.

Grief in the Month of March

Even the winter dies. Old drifts of snow
Lie strewn like dirty rags in the barren yard
Flapping against the hedges. Our ancient foe
Cannot deceive us in the month of March.
We know that we will die, death will appear,
The carnal temples of our flesh will fail.
Grief from a hidden spring of salty tears
Will leave us mourning what we cannot tell--
The snow will melt, sending its waters down
The river in a flood nothing can quell,
Washing away roads, bridges, cities, towns--
Sweeping our old foundations in its wake
Turning the frozen spring into a lake.

-- Gracia Grindal, St. Paul, Minnesota

January

Black and white
like a zen painting.
To contemplate,
but also to connect.
The slippery ground
resists the feet.

Trees unleafed
and steadfast
could serve as masts
for human sails.

And in some other sign
could show,
though tethered,
how ends of branches
feather
up to the sun
in hope.

One hand
cups the other's
frozen fingers, furthest
in the blood path
from the heart,
just as the one
three-year old
cradled her twin
frozen
in the jeweled,
sparkling night.

-- Syma Cohn, Minneapolis, Minnesota

An old poem of winter I dug out this year... written winter of 78-79 I think.....fitting on a day like this...

Snow (the Mid-winter Blues)

Stock-piled high in open-air banks
Like cord-wood in neat row ranks,
Along the roads, either side;
Rather boring, I must confide.

It's all we've seen, for days on end;
Driving good people around the bend,
Cabin-fever is running high...
We're all hoping spring is nigh.

Yesterday it got kinda warm;
Only 10 degrees below the norm,
We all went out, hoped it would thaw-
Some actually cried-when they saw....

It had started to snow. we were getting more!
Snow drifts piling up over our door!
I'm going to go crazy, stark raving mad....
I can't see the outhouse-- it's really that bad!

-- Steve Steinmetz, Jordan, MN

Some submissions from Charles King's language arts classes at St. Francis Junior High

To Kill a Snowman

Fire, fire burn real bright
Tell us who'll be burned tonight.

Snowmen everywhere will freak
To see a fellow snowman shriek.

Melting, mushing, squashing, squishing;
You'll bet snowmen will be wishing

Soggy heaven, up he'll go;
His mother, she will mess him so.

We'll send him to his fiery tomb,
Spring's arrival is his doom,

To welcome in the spring's delight,
We'll kill a snowman this dreary night.

-- Amy Sampson and Adele Worcester, grade 7

Thirty degrees below
Seven feet of snow
Bright red noses
Frosty cold toeses

All that wind a blowin?
All that show a snowin?
All that snow to shovel,
My voice is under a muffle

I dream of summer
Like eggs frying in a pan
But I'm still here
With ice, snow and cursed snowman.

I can't wait for the day
When the snowman will pay...I've got a strong yearning
for the day the snowman will be burning!

-- Ben Green, Grade 7

Welcome Spring!

Spring is always welcome here,
The green grass and fresh air.
A chance to play baseball,
Make a diving catch,
Hit a home run right over the fence.
Green scenery blowing in the wind
Better than white.

Shorts and Tee shirt are all you wear,
When you're running in the cool spring air.
Never any shoes, just bare feet,
Laying down and tanning on the beach.
Ninety degrees, your fingers aren't numb.
Oh, I can't wait for spring to come!

-- Mike Vogle, Grade 7

Spring
  wraps
blankit's crimson fingers
blankthrough a crystal glob
blankand peels back
blankthe veil of winter
  every vestige
  of a past world
  is cast
  towards
blank a golden stream
blank of crystalline remembrance,

blank the dust blows forward
blank and the dust blows back ...

-- Terell Paris, Grade 8

Alas spring, the snow melts
the cars rust, the cards are dealt.
Skiing stops, no more ice,
March madness, it's kind of nice.

-- Aaron Spalding, Grade 8

It's the death of winter
and the birth of spring.
I can finally get rid of this snow shovel
this ugly thing.
We?ve been begging for a snowblower.
All we ever get is "when you're older."
All winter all we do is dig
why is the driveway so big?
I can never wait for spring to come
will this winter ever be done?

Spring is different, all can play
Because the cursed snow has gone away
. In spring you can go for a bike ride,
Or play in the woods, you seek, I'll hide!
Lay in the grass, watch plants grow,
I'd like to see you do that in the snow.
I wish winter wouldn't take so long.
Enjoy the rest, another's coming along.

-- Sara Lien, Grade 7

Snow melting, flowing, seeping back into the earth
Like a bad dog gone on the carpet.

Buds popping, chicks hatching,
Impatient students sitting in desks
Waiting for that bell to ring
Setting them free into that bliss of summer.

The snowman sits, waiting, innocent
As if winter will never end.
I look to my right,
The kerosene can in my hand tells it's future.
As I douse his body I laugh a sick laugh
And I kiss his mouth.
I know it will be our last.

-- Jake LaVigne and Justin Hansmeyer, Grade 8

The death of winter is the birth of spring.
This cold, old wrinkled season has died.
The line of dirt that wrinkles the snow at the edge of roads
Is now a part of the stream that brings life to plants and flowers.
A fresh, new sunny season has been created.
The sun comes from behind the snow,
Burns and kills the snow
Shining light into blossoming flowers. Bitter cold winter is murdered
By the warmth, the refreshing air.

-- Kristi Stuber, Grade 8

Kill, kill, kill the snowman!
Slit its throat, pour its blood.
Cut off its nose and eat it like Bugs Bunny.
That would be funny.
Pull out the coal eyes and burn them to ashes.
Roll the eyelashes in window sashes.
Take his top hat and put it on,
Pretend you are Uncle Scrooge ... you're gone!
Smack him with a hammer called Sledgie
Yank his undies and give him a wedgie
Little stick arms, break them in two.
Jump on them, kick them with your shoe.
Take his buttons, put them on your coat,
Toss him in the river, see if he'll float.
Tighten his scarf, make him barf.
Steal his mittens
Feed them to kittens.
Slice him right down the middle
Bash the remains with a big fat fiddle.

-- Justin Bloch and Corey Lindstrom, Grade 8
(Who style themselves as two strange and greatly disturbed poets.)

The birth of spring is
The sweet smell of dewdrops on the
Fresh green grass that tickles my
Nose like a soft eagle feather.

Its the blue birds returning
From their winter vacation.
The birth of spring is
The colors of a rainbow
During a light shower as if someone
Had painted tie sky with pastels.
It baby squirrels getting their first
look and taste of the world around them.
Spring, the most beautiful season.

-- Becky Murray, Grade 8

Winter Thaw

Some argue that the spring thaw
is the most delicious time,
recurring with the knowledge
that the winter will be gone.

But I prefer the winter thaw,
the one that never came last year.
It is the hours of lucidity
that always precede death.

When it arrives, I try to warn myself,
to say, "It will not last. Beware." And then
the sound of birds just after dawn,
the scent of melting on the air
and I am in an Easter of my childhood,
my freezing fingers search for plastic eggs
beneath the trees, and the church fills with its
hyacinths and Easter lilies, smelling
of a spring that has not come.

I open up my coat,
step out into the February night.
I start out walking
in defiance of the winter.

-- Patricia Davis-Muffett, Minneapolis, Minnesota

Winter harshly sets aglow,
on snow and ice,
an offer for promises and flowers,
of renewed life given from our earth.
Thus we shed our burdens and steal ourselves
to change,
understanding what we already know.

-- Phil Monson, Duluth, Minnesota

Comes the Dirt
  Comes the Sand
  I don't care
  Mr. Snowman
  You're a Has-Been
  Sniveling Form
  Down the Streets
  In the Sewer Storm
  Hello Bud
  I Thee Adorn

-- Dawn Wangen, Minneapolis, Minnesota

Very Far North This January Night

A full moon at five thirty-five tonight
and the city bus is almost empty. Two young men
across the aisle speak of school and going off
for PhDs and I think of mine and how recent
that was. "Professor" they say and it does feel good, if not a bit too formal. A woman asks

for Island Park and steps down, stumbles through
a drift at the not-quite corner where we stop.
And the bus rattles over its pavement track
through ice and drifted snow and the moon
slides too, above the Red River dike,
across a near-dark sky, the dike tonight

white and slick from sleds and tubes and boards
the kids have slid on now after
blizzard after blizzard after blizzard.
I almost took a photo Sunday, walking home
from the cafe. I felt frisky and fresh
in the mini-spring we had that day

for an hour, and the colors would've been nice
with hats and boots and bright red jackets.
But I didn't take it. It's hard sometimes
to see kids like that, with fathers
or mothers behind them on the sleds.
It would be fun to show a kid

the snow tunnel squirrels had made
in the park, wonder how those squirrels
had learned to dig, how they find their way
in a snowy maze really meant for
polar bear-chucks. But I feel good tonight.
I do like buses-- the moments inside

that are just for seats, for the sitting down,
for the letting bus be bus. And this early night
is good as well-- while waiting
at the stop for this bus home, it was not quite
as dark, not quite as dark as it seemed
just a day or two ago.

-- William Snyder Jr., Fargo, North Dakota

Goodbye Winter

There comes a time in every year,
in my eye you'll see a tear;
Because winter is leaving soon,
Its flying away like a Minnesota loon.

Goodbye is such a hard thing to say,
When you're used to waking up to the same thing every day;
Now you wake up and the snow is all gone,
And you're kind of surprised you can see your lawn.

Cheer up! Spring is on its way;
It's getting closer and closer each day;
If you're sick of winter, I've got the cure:
Its Spring! I know I'm right! I'm sure!

-- Greta Block, age 10

The Passing Of Winter - An Equivocal Elegy

Spring cleaning,
that ritual
that plays itself out every year,
with great ceremony,
in my mind,
has awakened, early, from hibernation
and is demanding to be fed
a banquet of
dusting and sweeping and mopping
and vacuuming and airing. Winter is less tiresome,
asking only occasional solidarity with its grey misery.
I did not expect
to run into Spring
this early, I was
not prepared to let go
of Winter till I had
defeated it
with my sullen enjoyment
of the worst it had to offer.

-- Suranjan Roychowdhury

I wrote "Spring Storm" last year on the first day of my Spring Break (I'm a teacher) after spending the morning watching a blizzard....

Spring Storm

I tried to pretend it was January again--
The season when I long for a good fall of snow
to insulate me from the world
I tried to conjure up Christmas images--
Sleighbells and mistletoe and ho ho ho
But it's no good--
Beyond the window
Beyond the whirling flakes
I see the budding dogwood
and daffodils nodding
bent over with their chilly burden
I tried closing my eyes--
Dreaming warm summer sun
and scent of orange blossom
But outside the wind is howling
sending spits of snow against the back door
They say, "If you don't like the weather
Wait a minute." So I'll wait
in bed where it's warm
Wake me when it's really Spring...

-- Joanne Draper, Twin Falls, Idaho

When we were a young family, a mom, a dad, and two young children, we made a point to balance eggs on the kitchen counter, come vernal equinox.

Our family aged, the kids are gone or leaving soon, and we are wiser. Eggs will balance on the kitchen counter any given day but favorite traditions aren't known for their logic or practicality. So in celebration of renewal, growth, and the continuity of tradition, large double-A's will adorn our counter as usual.....and if we should be lucky enough to have grandchildren......they'll do it, too.

-- Carol Caouette

What's so bad about March?
Did you notice the trees have buds?
32 degrees and sunny
The ice fishing huts have disappeared
22 degrees and snowing
The owls were howling last night
28 degrees and sunny
My ice dams are dripping
34 degrees and cloudy
The front walk is just a gigantic puddle
38 degrees and sunny
Washer wiper fluid low
42 degrees and sunny
The geese are returning honking
36 degrees and sleeting
Sun set at 6:30- when does the time switch?
36 degrees and sunny
A hole has appeared on Long Lake
48 degrees and sunny
I read outside all day in the sun
45 degrees and cloudy
Did you notice all the buds on the trees?

-- Megan Dayton, Wayzata, Minnesota

March

Peek-a-boo player
Teasing snowflakes and sunshine;
Court jester for spring.

-- Nancy Berneking, Wayzata, Minnesota

Spring Dig

They say that archeology is just long history
Compressed down to inches and feet.
And that expanding the record back to life
Is a tedious scraping on hands and knees.

Not so with our winter, a covering of gray white
Pages laid heavily across the yard.
This story came down hard and fast with
No break from the relentless compilation of snow.

Our warm November prehistory gave way
To a millennium or two of December.
January ice ages found us deep in our caves,
While February has become a dim, dark-age memory.

March, however, promises a renaissance.
Stirring to the suggestion of warmth,
We begin to gather our recollections into tidy
Piles that tell of our adventures.

But patience and methodical care are
unrewarded by this slushy emergence.
Spring makes quick work of the strata
That flash by before melting away.

Just last week, opaque ice hid the past.
Then Monday, the mitten lost last month
Pokes out of a drift and lies bedraggled,
Silently mourning its discarded mate.

A day or so later, a precise, warm wind
Scrapes away another layer-- oh, that time:
Bits of shattered plastic, remains of a car grill,
Scattered in disgust after a freeway spinout.

And what are these pillars of packed snow
Left by the house as the drifts sag away?
That is where the ladders stood while
Mercenary roofers did battle with ice dams.

Another sunny day and the record is almost erased.
Between patches of snow, the dirty grass
Displays a winter of accumulated debris
Jumbled into a puzzle beyond interpretation.

But what are these persistent snow monuments
Resting like a toppled Stonehenge in the backyard?
What made the misshapen lumps of snow so hard
That they endure, briefly, past their time?

Oh, yes!. There was an age, a time, oh, just a day
When snow was fresh and new and welcome,
Back before shoveling drifts and falling on ice,
A day when we welcomed the snow.

On that day, in that time before we hated winter again,
We ran outside to play and fall flat on our backs,
Marking out angelic silhouettes, then rising to roll giant
snow monuments to our future history.

-- Jim Dontje, Minneapolis, Minnesota

I m Just a Tundral Supplicant

Is there nothing in this dark and windy tundra
that lets the light come through,
that gives reprieve from cold and flu?

Will the long day come
when feet run free and bare,
when wind blows through our hair

instead of through to every cell and bone?

What suffering we ve done
to come this far and, yet
to still feel its effect,

this longest winter ever known.

We re facing now, the threat of flood;
the great barrage of earth s great purge,
the censoring of any urge

to plant our fields or turn our beds.

Sun, great equalizer that you are,
please move a little closer,
please hasten your arrival.

What is it that keeps tapping in my head?

Oh....Spring......here you are!!

-- Louise Carroll, Stillwater, 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 OU GO,
A BURNING MEMORY OF THE SNOW.

-- Colleen Hofelman, Pipestone, Minnesota

Winter's Embrace

Winter.
You come to me like a Knight,
Clad in the cold long days of dark,
Rattling my windows
While your icy wind fingers slip through wall cracks
and holes in my clothes.

Some, run to their shelters far from your reach.
Others, resist with blowers, plows, shovels, and salt.
But I, bent forward, wrapped in woolen and down
Am determined to follow my well warn paths
That you so easily erase with the arm of a storm.

Enveloped in your tomb of cold
I feed my soul ,at dusk,
With a long silent ski
On trails that trace the hidden contour of the woods
Crossing, combining, and splitting from the paths of deer.

AH! This storm, it is different.
You've advanced with your army of wind, ice, and tall drifts of snow.
But I stand tall!
Smiling with the spring laughter of the chickadee's song,
The shadows are shorter,
Tree buds grow fat,
While the skeleton of my garden past, starts to crumble to ash.
The water will wash You away.

So Winter, my dark-sided Knight,
Your passionate kiss and icy embrace
Is only a fleeting farewell.
It is time that your fury and power now turn to the back side of the sun.

-- Barbara Riegel Bend, Roberts, Wisconsin

The Snowman Watches Fireworks

It's the Fourth of July
before the Snowman knows
winter's over.

He's read about inertia
and the secret forces
of nature.

This is what holds him together
through the summer months:
the thinking and thinking.

You are allowed to forget
when you are thinking.
Overhead, the bombs are bursting in air.

Just beyond, the stars look like spilled milk.

-- Richard Smyth, St. Paul, Minnesota

Poetry Submissions: 1 - 2 - 3

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