March Winds Near Spring



***** Wedding Winds Blow

Wedding bells barely heard were ringing
while March winds were grandly swinging
cloudy threats across the lowland plains.
Could they get to the church before the rain?

Wedding guests in pairs were mightily struggling,
headed to the church doors while snuggling
against March winds’ threatening flows.
Would they remain upright, or fall down low?

In they blew ahead of the brewing
of the winds of March’s stewing,
and all in one crowded position.
Were they neat enough for admission?

With much ado they unsteadily went, shaking
away the March winds’ loud awakening,
noisily seeking their assigned pews.
Would they cease their fretting, catlike mews?

Then many families, fretfully people-arranging
after March winds’ sulky misbehaving,
were fraught with sitting in single rows.
Would they all need identifying bows?

In the basement’s little chamber below, glowing
parties of the wedding soon began showing
stress from March winds bent on giving them tests.
Would the crowd above stop being argumentative pests?

Out of the raining storm, came the bride careening,
certainly wishing and wanting to stop her leaning,
and finally beating off the March winds’ tearing.
Would the bride and groom ever reach their pairing?

Late-appearing and smeared, the bride’s arriving
in the March winds’ pounding and stiff driving,
raining affair, caused a horrible, silly fuss.
Would the groom’s stress add to his bride’s muss?

Rows and pews decided, those needing straying
from seats for bathroom breaks were praying
for less of the March winds’ blustery bellow.
Could each person rest and become mellow?

Front-side organs spewed the bride’s walking
song, bringing the crowd’s end to talking.
Outside March winds still shouted and raged.
Could the weather for awhile be caged?

This union in noise and storm blazing
was apparently doomed to more razing
and damage from March winds yet untamed.
Who among them could establish blame?

Nothing could stop the cold relentless raving
of March winds’ increased, crazy waving.
The crowd cowered under great booming thunder.
Would lightning, too, tear them all asunder?

Church windows rattled in terrifying fashion, shaking
and drawing admirable ooohs, aaaahs, and quaking
from those fervently awed by March winds as their foe.
Would the bride, after all, answer a beleaguered “no”?

Minister Lane rose his arms wide, flailingly
called on High for His reason, but failing
to receive an adequate Godly reply,
shouted, “Must we pick a day to reapply?”

A windless sensation filled the quieted room;
then came a Voice from on High; it boomed,
“If you all trusted me fully, you’d not hide,
but take this ceremony to hold outside!”


Photo and Poem from the personal and copyrighted collection of Barbara Anne Helberg



Icy Treats of Winter


***** Snow and Fantasy

Soft and still, fantasy
angels in it lie,
spread with wings
that cannot fly.

It’s dry and high, or
it’s heavy and wet;
its’ shoveled and moved
however, with great fret.

Digging out all day are
busy bodies leaving drifts; they
uncover sidewalks and driveways
with panting, breathless lifts.

Ice blocks rise and fall
as the temperature dictates,
and the sun beams over all
while neighborhoods participate.

Fluffy white days go by;
children on old sleds of charm
slide down hillsides that
meander across their farm.

Hard and frozen and stiff,
the snow will long stay
if ice-glazed top, or fantasizing,
keeps it from melting away.


Poem and Photo from the personal and copyrighted collection of Barbara Anne Helberg

When Winter Comes


***** White Thrills

Of Summer months many often speak well;
it is Winter through which they prefer
not long to dwell.

Blustery, wild, and icy wet with white gruff;
Winter answers a seasonal calling each year.
What contentious huff!

Digging and shoveling becomes the rule
when grand landscapes turn completely white.
Few win that long duel!

In Vermont, Ben and Jerry stay to reside where
great Green Mountains, snow-capped, are
the slippery objects of glide.

The boys’ cold ice cream is lovely to taste;
sold in snowy New England to lovers of white
who display no measure of haste.

Colors of the rainbow and free pints, too,
for those they employ, keeps the curious coming.
It’s a plan of woo!

Others, however, seek the sublime in poetry, books.
They rebuff delirious entreaties to romp in the fluff,
exchanging wise and learned looks.

Tinkling sleigh bells call from valleys and streets
as children prance through the new fall of snow,
giggling sweetly playmates to greet.

Plows and dump trucks work through the night;
by morning’s new, early light have stacked
dirty white piles at the center of streets.

Memories light and merry at the hearth are told
while hot cocoa boils lively on the stove;
no guest of old is sent out into the cold.

Warm maple syrup from trees of great might,
caps bowls filled with shivery mounds of snow.
What a refreshing, lovely delight!

Logs on the fire rewarm the young and old
gathered for a cozy night’s sweet dreams and sleep,
ready to keep out the lingering cold!


Poem and Photo from the personal and copyrighted collection of Barbara Anne Helberg



It Is All There


***** Can We See in Front of Us?

What’s up?
What’s new?
What’s the latest brew?

Do we know?
Do we care?
Do we want to fare?

Is there truth?
Is there Light?
Is our mind ready for fight, or flight?

Will we hide?
Will we explore?
Will we soar?

It’s all there.
It’s in front of us; all around.
It’s ours waiting to be found.

Only Time is against us.


Photo and Poem from the personal and copyrighted collection of Barbara Anne Helberg

Words for Fun Play or Pay


***** A Post Per Day or Ten?

Getting our ducks in a row
absolutely, always will show
that we’re after perfection.

At this site, a post per day
is always a sensationally good way
to strike a positive, productive cord.

Is ten posts per every day
the very best successful way
to build an Internet stock of words?

To have the brightest success
without creating a messy mess,
a writer must be able to stay.

To speed a writer’s happy day
to a fabulous, worthwhile pay,
must ten posts happen regularly?

I’m short the goal of ten, I’d say,
every day of each week I play
on WordPress with my keyboard.

If I were to succeed without pay,
play through each day and stay
at this site, a writing rainbow I’d see.

For without those awesome connects,
and considering comments that affect,
still I’d be short that silly ten per day.

I’m happy to follow, comment, and say
WordPress is the only satisfactory way
on the Internet which to daily write.

With my ducks in a row in my own way,
I’m still going to be short a bit of pay;
short that ten posts per day by a million.

Is ten posts per day the only way to
bring in the traffic, and the best woo
we have to ring up the very big pay?

If so, my ducks won’t align, but be small
compared to the strict wording law,
and $100 a day I’ll be short by a zillion!


Poem and Photo from the personal and copyrighted collection of Barbara Anne Helberg


Poem for…


***** Scrabbled Short Stories

What is this Scrabbled Short Story defined?
It’s a story on a game board aligned.

A story is many times very short,
a sharp, shouting, battling retort.

Very short sometimes is equally soft,
lowered calmly from its mighty loft.

A story can be of few words, maybe six,
as LionAroundWriting says; he’s slick.

A story can be a long sentence, or two;
although, still, it can subdue, or rattle you.

Short stories may be little in letter
and, yet, none anywhere are better.

It’s true, we know, less can be more,
even when reason closes that door.

Scrabbled Short Stories on a game board,
easy words, even hard ones, come in hordes.

We love to raise the story curtain,
and short stories lure us, for certain!

Short is good, reasonable, and lazy
when our attention, at best, is hazy.

Longer stories within us grind; we
can’t listen long — naught! — and be

willing listeners; we know important time
is limited to small, easy, little rhymes.

In the truth’s mirror, impatience, we see;
not a fitting way ever a reader to be;

still, we’ll go short on storyline everytime,
and saving explanations, too, is very fine.

From those scrabbled words on the board,
can you bring a short story sensibly forward?

(Go to
for Scrabbled Short Story fun!)


Poem, Scrabbled Short Story, and Photo from the personal and copyrighted collection of Barbara Anne Helberg

Demise Of A Riverbank Tree


***** Ode to A Riverbank Tree *****

Once I stood tall and strong,
mighty among the riverbank throng.

I ruled like a King,
bloomed lushly each Spring.

Came days of many Summer winds;
my trunk ached in stormy dins.

Aged branches spit and cracked
with the wind’s heavy whacks.

Low I bent, blue, abashed,
ready to break at each crack.

But through the windy days I’d last,
now certain I’d survive any blast.

Alas, the winds of Fall brought more tests,
beating torturously upon my breast.

Huge gusts were too much to bear;
twisted and broken, I gasped, “Not fair!”

No longer mighty, split as by
the woodman’s axe, I stood less high.

As Winter’s ice and cold came in,
I cried and mourned each loss of limb.

Spring again and the final act of fate:
my last upper sprout now a bare, twisted mate.

Roots spiritedly anchor me to riverbank’s tress,
but it’s true: by Mother Nature, I’m much less.


Poem and Photo from the personal and copyrighted collection of Barbara Anne Helberg