Two glum poems from a hard winter

Perhaps the entry below will explain the sinister tone of these verses.

1. Winter Solstice, LA: Arrival

It’s dark here too, but wet--
harbor lights oily and only
someone else’s news.
I’m sick,
panicked from
the claustrophobic flight, sinuses
squalling and squirming
like preemies -- no, like
poor harridans shriveled and brittle in
wheelchairs in a hospice ward.
Enough of that. Black waves spread out
in waning moonrise.
I missed full monty, and what’s left
Is less, is less, a lunar solstice
cringeing into soggy waxen dawn.

2. Coming Home: "Light Chop"

...the pilot says, dry and neutral, businesslike
as puffed up little bags of peanuts jiggle
on a flight attendant’s tray. Things change:
the Continental Divide’s the culprit, wreaking
waves on earth’s upheavals
and, six miles high my body's fill of air and water
settles toward my feet, ankles bad balloons wanting
a joyless drift to land. My ancient heart
flutters, querulous. (I use a fancy word
to soothe my fear) as clouds rise up and bump us--no,
we are going down into all that cumulus like
a congested head, sliding into a sinus infection
we call Detroit, just a light chop, he says,
to get us drained all out on frozen ground.