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Winter Narrative Poems | Narrative Poems About Winter

These Winter Narrative poems are examples of Narrative poems about Winter. These are the best examples of Winter Narrative poems written by international PoetrySoup poets

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Winter Slumber

Winter be but two weeks old and already they lament.
No passion seems as strong as their loudest prayer for spring.
Spring will come when it will and wake the grasses and willow.
Let Natures brief time of slumber last long enough to rest her.

The winter be time for beauty to be found on ice etched panes,
And bayonets of glass, hanging from every eave to be seen.
Winter be found in crystalline air so pure only heroes inhale it.
And footsteps crunch like breaking luttuce upon the snowy ground.

Beyond winter times will speed and rush their way forward.
Spring then Summer and Autumn sprinting to their ultimate ends.
Let winter luff her way on tiny frozen feet while fire warms yours.
Add another log and settle in for a long nap and a dream.

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Iowas Child

Gone are the fields of winter white
soon to be replaced by hues of greens and yellows,
in the interim, fields of barren brown and dirty gold
turned, to breathe warm air from departed winter chill

Plumes of black and gray from mans machine
kneading the back of Mother Earths desire,
before impregnating her with the many seeds 
that will produce offspring to quench mans many needs

oh, how lonesome she looks, so alone
holding yet to some remnants of children past,
left only to cradle her dead, left by man
yearning to suckle new life, as only a Mother can

Above, from the heavens, Father prepares
to germinate those so many seeds,
with life sustaining necessities only he is allowed
sunlight and life giving rain, loosened from the clouds

within days Mother is impregnated
she can feel the multitudes of organic life,
moving within her womb, yearning,growing, needing
the escape, to be warmed and nourished by the Sun

Minutes turn to hours, hours to days
suddenly weeks pass,and yet another life,
giving rain, descends from guilded clouds
arms and fingers, of her children, open, sustained

nearing the end of a warm and wonderful summer
it is time for Fathers other children,
to reap what he has sewn
time for Mother Earth to let her children go

My, how they have grown, tall,lush and full
of the fruit they were meant to bear,
to provide nourishment for the masses of seeds
grown to maturity, in need from the father

Again, the gray black plumes of mans machine
come to life, they move through her fields,
her children, like a predator among prey
until, she is left again, with remnants of children past

Soon she will be blanketed again in winter white
gone will be the warm breath of life,
her children taken from her, she is again barren
only to be betrothed to a promise of new life.

I wrote this on a day trip to Illinois from Iowa across wide open farm land.

                      God Bless....Taz

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Our fig in January, entirely denuded now
like my heart in your absence, is but
more beautiful, if possible, in its seasonal
solemnity than in summer's exacting extravagance.
The trunk, grown massive in manhood, is a citadel
of strength supporting the curving bowl of its
branches as they bend back into themselves, becoming
the bare black sculpture of winter trees Hemingway
described in Paris in the Jardin of Luxembourg
where we used to walk, following in his footsteps.

These prayerful branches, grown as large as
the beanstalk giant of storybook lore, cup
the sky, making a sieve through which rain filters,
better for unobstructed passage to its 
earthbound blessing, clearer for the distillation.

Above ground two massive roots, more visible
in winter definition--veins from the beating heart
of the tree--though siblings still, sprawl out 
in different directions, then disappear wherever
they are traveling,  who knows where?  Not
climbing skyward like Jack on his leafy ladder, 
but earthward out of sight toward a Southern
provenance, toward Provence, perhaps, 
as if impassioned for home.


Details | Narrative |

A Long Cold-Chill

I watched the penguins woddle along,
On cold-hard ice; where they belong.

From water to land, they scurried around,
Flapping their feet on frozen ground.

Herds of them were standing still,
Settling down to a long cold chill.

Mother passes her egg to father carefully;
Knowing he'll care for it, so, naturally.

He'll protect it from the harsh-cold nights,
In a warm snug pouch away from sight.

For mother must find many fish to catch,
While father stays until it is hatched.

Long-dark days of Winter will change to Fall,
Returning mother, with, her familiar call.

Such a sweet sound for father's ear,
Ending another, long-cold Winter year.

Giving father penguin a much needed break,
For their chick is born and fully awake.

With such a huge urge to quickly eat,
Yes, many tasty meals of fresh, fish-meat.

Details | Narrative |

The Boathouse

The afternoon Sun casts its bright hue over the boathouse.
As it stands magically from another more simple time.
On the Yarra River the hire boats drift hypnotically in
the slight current.
They're unable to wander far as the ropes stay
reassuringly taunt.
Inside black and white photographs line the old wooden walls
holding history still, for us to look back into.
Photos of the way things once were, of the rivers full
might, of torrents and great floods.
From out on the balcony I watch.
The river glistens in the Winter Sun as it meanders
slowly onwards to end its journey far from here.
A gentle breeze fingers through the overhanging willows
causing them to stir lazily.
A magpie harks a call to the world.
Ducks glide past not looking the least bit interested in
anyone or anything.
As my hot tea grows cold and my scones await coats of  
jam and cream.
I watch two young lovers sit on the riverbank arm in
arm, oblivious to the world. With eyes only for each other.
A canoe disturbs the ducks, one lets out a protesting
quack before joining the others in flight.
I sit back with my now coated scones and smile.
A boat with four aboard comes erratically into view, all
aboard full of laughter and mock encouragement to the
lone rower.
As I sit on the balcony under the Winter Sun,
the day slows down while the world speeds past
The Boathouse.

Details | Narrative |

Baby Powder in a Winter Wonderland

After breakfast I called my little brother June-bug into our bedroom. June-bug got his 
nickname when he turned three, when he tried to say Julian properly it came “”June” 
and it stuck. I adored my little brother we spent endless hours playing together keeping each other 
entertained. Our family consisted of Mom, June-bug and I.  My Father had left us long ago, 
leaving me as a role model for my little brother.  
Grabbing his large bottle of baby powder I puffed it into the air like a volcano, 
June-bug giggled as it settled like fine snow on our heads. His eyes grew bright as I puffed 
the bottle again and watched it settle on his upturned face. 
He laughed some more so I shook the bottle upwards more vigorously.
I spun around letting the powder settle everywhere in the room.
By now June-bug was hysterical with laughter. 
His eyes were the only visible part of his covered face and hair.
I launched a spray at Missy, our tortoiseshell cat.  She had made herself comfortable at the 
edge of my bed. At first she remained still as the powder covered her multi coloured fur. 
Then she decided she had had enough and bolted for the door. June-bug turned to watch 
her disappear in a flurry of dust.  Her small paw prints dotted the once clean carpet.
With the bottle now half full I lifted June-bug onto my bed and let him have the bottle. 
He puffed the bottle into his own face causing me to laugh loudly. 
He jumped up and down spinning the bottle around, spreading fine white powder all over
the room. We laughed and giggled as our room became our winter wonderland.  
Mom came to see what all the noise was about, and we grew silent when we saw the look 
on her face.  She just sighed and shook her head, closing the door behind her, without a 
She re-appeared some time later to give us a bath.  We got to camp out in the lounge 
room. We were so worn out that we slept quiet soundly. 
In the morning, upon our return we noticed the bedroom had been swept clean. 
Not a smidge of powder anywhere.  It was as if our magical day had never happened.
Even Missy was back to normal. 
“Come on June-bug let’s build a fort!” I said taking my little brothers hand and heading for 
the lounge room. Leaving him alone for a minute I grabbed one of the big sheets out of the 
closet and all the kitchen chairs. When mum finally appeared she smiled at us. 
The scolding we had anticipated never came in fact mom never said a word about it and 
only smiled as breakfast was served.

Collab. with Mystic Rose =)

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Dead Winter

I still remembered that night
the snow was heavy and unusually white.
We gathered around the fireplace,
Momma was sharing her Christmas grace.

Daddy went home and brought us presents
Momma stopped her story and away she went
out into the snowy streets 
buying us winter treats.

It has passed dinner and she’s not home.
Our stomach started to ache and roam.
Daddy began to worry,
and away he went in a hurry.

Me and Anna were still inside
looking through the window with eyes opened wide.
Then Anna started to cry,
I was still wondering why
until I saw a shadow in the foggy snow.
Anna squeezed my hand and wouldn’t let go.

A squeak, a squeal - 
a spinning wheel
down the hill
that’d thrill and kill.

It came clashing and crashing
through the glaciers it went bashing
through our door it was breaking, 
left us all shaking and quaking.

We did not restrain
the shrieks and tears weren’t feigned.

Next morning the neighbors came
and told us that momma and daddy weren’t the same.
I followed them and what I saw
with only a glance made me drop my jaws.

There, two coffins neatly laid
“Uncertain causes” was clearly sprayed.
I laughed and thought I just got played
but grief suddenly fell when the priest prayed.
Nobody helped when I fell limp on the floor
as they carried my parent’s bodies through the shattered door.

From that day on there wasn’t winter anymore.
Snow were redder than red – the color of gore.
Their tombstones were always cold solid steel
and if you came close you’d feel:
A squeak, a squeal - 
a spinning wheel
down the hill
that’d thrill and kill.

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Coffee Shop v2

You're sitting alone at the bar of the coffee shop and you've got the usual.
black decaf latte, today's newspaper, and that pen that smears blue ink.
It’s the same every night, that's why you come back. Monotony is relief.
The only move you've made in what seems like hours was to refill your drink.

Coffee Shop:

You stare at the latte like you’re about to open a gift.
Lifting the cup high, your lips sip the heavy cream.
Tired eyes watch the frosted window and the drift
that carries the uninvited snow effortlessly past you.

The room behind you is burning loud with conversation;
The same arguments, theories, solutions
It's a sickness stuck in the same old rotation.
Like hopeless addicts, they fiend for absolution

There’s talk of Plato’s cave that shrouds enlightenment.
Others discuss Gandhi’s hidden path to the same effect.
They repeat wise men’s words in circles they invent,
leaving what’s more than a hint of ignorance to detect

The sun sets and you're blinded by a glare as you look to the skyline,
the light glows as it sits atop the trees; you look down with a sigh.
Through the window you catch the eyes of a battered man, the look of isolation and despair intertwined.
The man’s face, streaming with tears, tells a story of one too many goodbyes.

What difference does this man make, which he is or what he needs?
You’ve seen it all before; a different movie, the same old theme.
Plus, the tilt of his head and pain in his eyes speak for him of his own misdeeds
Your stare stays locked as you say out loud, “things are always what they seem.”

You have a heavy feeling bring a question that stays planted in your mind
You wonder now if you walk the very path that hollowed this man's eyes.
The thought turns into voices, the words they say are all entwined.
Getting louder now, the more you try to block them out, the more they intensify.

-Jackson Kilgrow

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Polar Vortex

Never heard this expression, 'polar vortex' before this year Wish it had never entered my vocabulary This is a winter like none we have experienced in many many years Bone chilling, beyond human endurance Not civilized, whether you were born in the north or not This is beyond that which we humans can tolerate It's off the charts, record breaking Spring has never been more anticipated than this year Let's hope it's not a sign of things to come Let's hope it's once in a a very long cycle To be remembered as THAT year Never to experience it again in our lifetime Never heard the expression, 'polar vortex' before Hope never to hear those two words again! © Jack Ellison 2014

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Rescue Squad-16 - Part-3

"Well Captain how we working this one."" umm; so Billy is this your first Winter Rescue?"
"Yep" "All right you're with me" "I thought I was going to be with Tom" " Hey kid your 
better off with Harry. Rick and I have been partners many times before." " Ok guys keep
your spikes on until we hit the top of the avalanch floe. that's a good 5 or 600 feet down
Stay away from uprooted trees, it takes less than 5 pounds to send the whole tree down the mountain, possibly causing the floe to become the base.Rick, Tom there's a goat trail 60 meters to the west follow that and we will meet at Nesting Rocks. Every 2 minutes flick your Amber lamp 3 times each in our direction. Keep your radios on but I'll be the only one talking; unless YOU find a Save. Flash us in 5 minutes when your in position" "See You at the snowline boss."" Harry. Why do they call you captain and boss
 "Senority, I been on the Squad for 18 years. Let me know if you get any numbness in or
tingling feelings in your hands,arms,or legs." What about my ears?" In a couple of hours
your ears will be burning, which is good, they'll help keep your face warm." How, Why?"
"I don't know, I didn't event ears, I just know that they do. There's the signal, Let's get started. Be sure to tug the tether with each movement you make. I signaled them in two minutes I want you to signal them in amber." " Why amber?" Yellow light can be seen farther away than white light."
                                   To be cont.