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

Animal Cruelty

*****Chick, Chick, Chick


Factory farm raised and led;
in the end, factory farm bled,
Rick, a chick, was yellow and red,
living in a cramped cage and fed.

“It’s Rick!” the little chick said
as his beaten head again bled.
He blinked his eyes instead
while they also turned red.

“I have my own name,”
said Rick, a little confined chick.
“It’s Rick! I’m not to blame
if humans don’t get the trick.”

In his beginning, Rick
was small, weak in frame,
not at all a worthy chick,
and unquestionably lame.

By feed and water and corn
little Rick the chick grew.
His keepers, never forlorn,
were a gleeful, chatty crew.

“I have my own name,”
said Rick, little unhappy chick.
“It’s Rick! I’m not to blame
if humans don’t get the trick.”

Rick wouldn’t squeak or squawk
about the abuse he endured,
never thought to talk about
relatives ever penned and secured.

Then came the stormy night
when Rick and others fled.
Stepping hard with great might,
they escaped, and many bled.

“I have my own name,”
said Rick, a little yellow chick.
“It’s Rick! I’m not to blame
if humans don’t get the trick.”

Of course, freedom couldn’t last
with many humans close behind.
Rick and others had a past;
hands around them did wind.

Now all’s quiet in the shed
where Rick and others bake,
for time’s not long ahead
’til humans come and take.

“I have my very own name,”
said Rick, little fenced-fed chick.
“It’s Rick! I’m not to blame
if humans don’t get the trick.”


Credit: Photo courtesy of


Living in the now


*****Nature’s Man-Made Disaster

In waters thick with sinking oil, black oblivion bows
Nature’s lovely creatures struggling to live in their now.
How has Man caused such sorrow?

The gorgeous Gulf Stream waters by Nature still glow,
but oil gushes by hours into their sacred flow.
How can it continue so?

Gallons of crude force the Pelicans and pretty birds
aloft; black-oiled, wet wings send them back to Earth.
How will they prevail?

Living in a midnight of oil, rescued Pelicans now
by day get a washing of Dawn soap, and how!
But will they see their tomorrow?

Oysters that used to be many for a living,
now sink to a murky grave, void of giving.
Can Man correct this wrong?

Shrimp float up from the water onto the Louisiana shore;
fish no longer breathing increase the deaths by many more.
Which can live in their now?

Watery creatures to watery, briney deaths continue to go.
Recovery, generations away, will never be better than slow.
How can Man claim no foul?

Can turtles swim in their now? Nor do oily birds usually rise.
Nor is it Nature’s true lot to exist in danger of Man’s lies.
The Gulf’s sad now remains still.

Nature’s Man-made scars over many years spontaneously heal;
feathered, shelled, finned souls grievously wronged can’t appeal.
Man, too, must live in his now.

No time now for Man to argue, name-call, and assign blame.
Cries from Nature’s own to live in their now remain lame,
unless Man reaches deeply to rise.


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