Read a Poem
Cleveland Winter
by Ray McNiece
Cleveland
Flats look brighter in winter
when
the sun blares full force
over
sooty snow making rust glow
above
post-apocalypse postcard.
The
doldrums have given way today
to
blue sky contrasting Lake Erie ice
out
to the Crib, around Whiskey Island,
back
to three skyscrapers like silver
teeth
sticking out of the cold, grey skull
of
dead industrial Rockefeller giant.
This
world freezes faster than it thaws
and
burns more quickly than it grows.
Today
Cleveland stands out clearly
as
if it will not all melt away someday.
Cleveland Winter by Ray McNiece. Used by permission of the author.
About the Author
Ray McNiece has authored monologues, CDs, and eleven books, most recently, a collaboration with photographer Tim Lachina, Breath Burns Away (Red Giant Press). He also co-edited the anthology, America Zen (Bottom Dog Press). Among his many awards, Ray has received a Creative Work Force Fellowship, a Community Partnership for Arts and Culture grant, and residencies at The Cuyahoga Valley National Park and the Jack Kerouac House. The current Poet Laureate of Cleveland Heights, Ray received the Cleveland Arts Prize Lifetime Achievement Award in 2021. In 2022, he was Awarded a $50,000 Poet Laureate Grant from the American Academy of Poetry for his “Poem for Cleveland Project,” which you can be a part of by attending Cleveland Elders, Tell Your Story in Poetry - Cuyahoga County Public Library.
Write a Poem
Write a poem describing a grandparent’s hands.
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We swung 1 2 3
Up into the air
We hung 1 2 3
Upon our fathers thumbs
His hands big, strong, rough
Large beyond most men
His heart big, strong, soft
As he held our hands
His hands built, sowed, fixed
They seldom choose rest
They worked mill, home, yard
Busy all day long
Until his hands held
His cherished bible
His soul large, strong, kind
His hands in prayer sought
God's love 1 2 3
All that we have left
Of our father's hands
That seldom choose rest
I enjoyed your use of contrast in this poem. Nice.
Still having challenges posting poems for some reason. Please visit my website for Day 22: Our "Great-grandmother's Hands". https://tovlis.wixsite.com/tovliwriter/tovlis-writings Thanks.
Two Hands
My father’s hands were strong:
he rubbed a sore ache
or patted a back
or shook a hand,
not gripping to squeeze or
overpower
but showing that what
he said before grasping the hand
he meant firmly,
hands that went to work when
hands that had worked for him
said it was time to work.
And my hands,
holding crayons and pencils and books
needed to clench to be firm,
not having worked .
Oh, to feel the strength of those hands again.
Not a fistbump or high-five,
A good, honest shake,
And then a hug.
Great grandmother Lula
Stirs the butter into mashed potatoes
Both hands weak and misshapen
grip the wooden spoon
Too short to see into the pot
she dips in a gnarled finger
for a taste and absently wipes determination on her floral apron.
BEST LOCATION IN THE NATION
They laugh
At us ...
We let them
We agree !
The sticker's on our back
Our thoughts
Put on by us
<KICK ME>
Tee-hee
Our river burned,
But not our woods
Our earth shook
It was said
The Lake sent snow
On roofs, not mud!
We're by-passed by flood
We're happy,
Or should be.
Yet we complain
Of April rain...
Haw-haw
Tee-hee
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paints a very nice picture. beautifully told.
Love the poem, Ray, although I did not like the winter!
A Grandmother’s hands strong beyond care
Show all of the love she’s delivered so rare
Constant and loving and beacon of care
So next time you notice an elder perplexed reach out and help for they have done all that’s nlessed
such a nice little "morality" poem. Enjoyed.
Perfectly-made French tips,
War-driven typing fingers,
Small, soft palms that barely managed to clasp around my hands.
A strong, firm grip on the steering wheel.
Held dining utensils like an artist would,
Openly warm gesturing for me to accept countless gifts from her hands.
A loving hold to stop my gesturing hands,
To share the warm gratitude for a job well done.
A graceful elegance to every bone, muscle, and fiber, every wave and move of her hands. It filled the air with bright, vibrancy.
Bringing to life the pleasant comfort of her words. A knack for the computer arts…
And ability to short-hand I only vaguely recall how awestruck it was to see.
So strong, yet so worn-for-wear….
really nice. it read like a poem-story. Thank you for posting it.
Loved "Cleveland Winter.". Spoke to my heart. I wrote this about winter in February in Cleveland years ago.
It is Saturday February 23rd. I live in Garfield heights, a suburb of Cleveland in Northeast Ohio. Anyone who has ever lived in this area realizes the chances of this being a beautiful day are slim.
Today is not beautiful and yet there is an air of promise about this day. The heavy snow that fell the past month, building and building into a Great White Wave pressing against homes en trees, has suddenly receded in the spring like warmth of the past days to reveal patches of green earth.
Today, is I view the grace guys and wet Earth my heart is caught in the rhythm of the song Ohio weather has sung to me since my birth. Today the notes are a sweet light crescendo building and then abruptly stopping, unfinished, a mystery is to how the melody will end.
Will tomorrow bring a dark clash of bass notes or flow pleasantly on? Oh, how often past gray February days have sung me the same song and always my foolish heart has been filled with their sweet promise.