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Age Winter Poems | Age Poems About Winter

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

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Details | Rhyme | |

The Winter Blues

The Winter Blues
Robert J. Lindley 

Winter blew in with a scant little whimper 
Fall skulked away with hardly a peep 
Deep cold, blowing winds fit some's temper 
Yet others they sadden enough to weep! 

Snow brings its beauty and shining charms 
Frigid air sets furry critters about 
Blizzards blasting forth set great alarms 
Where frozen forested cries ring out. 

Nature knows best and gives as she pleases 
Hardest season sets the coming stage 
Death and pain, of which Spring then eases 
Time for each, says the wizened sage! 

Cold chills, hang glisten silent through the night 
Decembers solstice sets the stage northbound 
Jack Frost pretends to be Earth's white knight 
Dark days of winter winds; ice-kiss the ground 

Autumn renews chilling barren vows, 
Wonderland enables the sun on numb 
Icicles form, a voice shared -leaving nature roused 
Winter's blue melodies washed down with rum 

A cold peril storm, enjoying the winter sky 
Frostbitten dawn, desolate sunset of worthlessness 
A leafless desire to intensify nature's supply 
Loss from exposed skin, of hopelessness 
Snow, Sleet, and hell; patients needing detox 
Atlas Spring gives way to the Viral Equinox 

(Robert Lindley and Poet Destroyer co-write) 

~ ~ A Poet Destroyer Collaboration ~ ~

Contest: Collaboration Celebration- subject- Winter Reflections. 
Sponsor: Poet Destroyer A

Copyright © Robert Lindley

Details | Free verse | |

When Winter Enters the Heart

When winter enters the heart,
snowflakes gather in rosy chambers,
like ghosts of crows-every breath throbbing 
sluggish songs of longing and loneliness...
Over time the crows pile on,
my-my how they live to pile on,
like bones of long ago loves...
Suffocating songs
leaving only an avalanched refrain....
but the soul is still flowing and howling
like an early winter stream
nobody dares to cross
those icy blue eyed thinning veins.

but there is a flock of warmth
in every winter heart,
buried beneath dead songs of crow and time,
they just need a pinch of flint and pine
to release the warmth from the glowing...
my-my how they beat to release rose budded songs 
from a million springs ago.

Copyright © Anthony Slausen

Details | Free verse | |

Wolf And Owl Take Shape

            Wolf And Owl Take Shape

Smoke and red cinders rise together in retrograde simplicity
On counter rotation, winds sing through birch and oak 
Marbled moon remains sour yellow through the ecliptic edge
Cryptic night, where owl and wolf find warmth and cover
Nestled in the coarse blanket warn by Tabitha, the young one 
Her tribe sleeps through winter
She holds them in her mystic spell, mild heart and smile
They breathe cold mist together in history hallows
Unfolding cold reveals their open eyes
Reaching out into the distance as wolf howls
Unknown mysteries of life feel their kinship
Heaven opens up to them crisp on the fire light   
Wolf moves his wool but only slightly in a twitch
Owl takes flight, returns alarmed
Back to the blanket and young girls arms
It rests with comfort feathers by her heart
Wolf and owl take shape, Tabitha smiles
They all take one long last breath and hold it in
Wait till spring to release it again below the mystic stars

10/17/14 Free Verse, Prose Poetry, haibun – Poetry Contest

Copyright © Earl Schumacker

Details | Rhyme | |

Prayer To The God Of Winter

Prayer To The God Of Winter

Ye foolish God of Winter,
 How dare you paint this land in white
 Tis' enough the wind and brutal cold
 The cold raging in, seeping in at night
 Pains that rake deep this body old!

Why think thee the beauty overrides,
 Are not the aches we cry often about
 Witness to your malicious white attack
 Shall we gather here to scream out
 Or silently moan behind your back?

Cease now, with this cold fluffy stuff,
 Think thee , all so dearly love snow
 While you send this floating rain
 We dare to curse, so you will know 
 And perhaps, not send the white again!

Pray Ye, merciful God of Winter,
 A reprieve from bitter slicing cold
 A time to warm old bodies and bones
 Here us, honor this plea, don't scold
 We that beseech thee in desperate tones!

Robert J. Lindley, 08-08-2015

Note- Fall is here, winter is just around
 the corner. I love the beauty and majesty 
of snow but the cold often can be brutal.
This poem is about that brutality when 
it is extreme and so harms so many.
Thus the great beauty does not compensate.

Copyright © Robert Lindley

Details | Blank verse | |

She Skips Stones Upon the Sea

Your eye's light shines like our moon, her moon...
she skips stones upon the sea--

...although we're just dancing 
between the idea of shadows.

How can I hold the soul of a girl while
she's walking little stars on a string?
The night sea crashes as the moon,
at lightspeed; paints a Picasso upon every wave.

Open your celestial door and help me walk.

Sweeter words have flown,
but these are the only words I've ever known.
I'm so tired of chasing dark shadows
that disappear in the warm morning sun.

Some just wake up and walk out my door--

It makes my face grow longer as
the world turns me to face my
forty seventh winter wind.

Copyright © red barchettadrive

Details | Ballad | |

Ode to a Cherry Tree

Peering through plate glass at a puzzling view, In the midst of hot coffee’s morning ritual brew. Staring out with amazement and wonderfully struck, By our Cherry Tree’s overnight sensation run amuck! By nature’s own standard, cruel joke she has played, Million blossoms wide open one February day. This juvenile sapling knows not what it feels, Sprouting vivid Pink colors, the show it now steals. From those all around laying dormant in state, Expecting nature’s cue to blossom their own petals awake. And by then poor young cherry will have muted her splash, Replaced by green leaves summer storms will soon thrash. But alas all this splendor making warm visual sense, In the short time required for fresh java to dispense. Tomorrow I’ll once again observe through plate glass, The wonders waiting just beyond cold winter’s Rye Grass. Submitted to Giorgio A. V. Contest themed: Impress me with a small poem II! 1) user name: wedge 2) choice of motif: nature

Copyright © Michael Wegman

Details | Free verse | |

If I Shall Grow Old 2K13

If these eyes shall become blinded, and if this
hair shall come to be combed thinly and grey;
No, it would not be the end of the world.
I would still see beauty therein this world through
the songs of Crickets and Feathered Songsters.
The breeze would yet whisper and trees still dance.
I would yet smell the freshly bloom of Spring.
I'd still endure Summer's sweltering heat.
I'd yet feel Autumn's leaves crunch 'neath these toes.
I'd still long to be fireside with Winter.
Disabled or not, perhaps I'd yet walk
therein wonderful imagination.
How I'd be forever young at heart!
Then just as one journey came to an end,
I'd indeed greet another with a smile.

Copyright © Anthony O. Mitchell Jr.

Details | Nonet | |

Forgotten Winter

Weighted now with ancient mystery she stands among serenity in full bloom of twilight's sigh with abundant bouquets of wild sage and thyme that makes aging possibly worth the wait nights weighted with dead leaves and hidden wounds vanish in the wind while autumn disappears leaving only the springtime frozen in forgotten winters leaving dreams of a second childhood
____________________________________________________ For the contest: "The Old Age" sponsored by Dr. Ram Mehta

Copyright © Carrie Richards

Details | Verse | |

A Sign of Winter Years

All these years a hook of the leash tail thumping against the floor a splash of happiness out the door-- But the morning's heart is dashed watching him sleep when I leave
____________________________________________ 5/20/15 Submitted for Nette's Contest: "Septet II" By Carrie Richards

Copyright © Carrie Richards

Details | Rhyme | |

All That's Sure Is the Season

Approaching the winter of my years,
Never yet found my reason.
So much laughter, so many tears,
Yet all that’s sure is the season.

To few, all my days;
So many spent simply breezin’.
Should I regret their waste
When all that’s sure is the season?

What’s it been about anyway?
Perhaps there is no reason.
Did so want to learn the truth,
But all that’s sure is the season.

Always tried to consider others.
‘Tis much easier to be pleasin’. 
How many are my friends?
All that’s sure is the season

Felt the urge to make my mark.
Fame or fortune was my reason.
Fear of failure was my tether,
For all that’s sure is the season.

A man of Christian faith,
Hope God finds me pleasin’.
Fair chance tho’, I’ll go to Hell,
Yes, all that’s sure is the season.

So what of value will I leave?
Hearts and souls I may be teasin’
With too few words too few will read,
While all that’s sure is the season.

Approaching the winter of my years, 
Never yet found my reason;
But thank God for each extra day I search.
Still, all that’s sure is the season.

Copyright © Robert Candler

Details | I do not know? | |


The frost sets in deep in my bones
I feel it gnawing at my soul.
It tells me that each time the wind blows
I grow another day old.
But it's the cold that ages me most
In summer i was beautiful 
And i would wear floral perfumes
when the wind didn't play with my hair.
But now i'm distorted in my mirror
Crushed by the weight of the rain outside.
The cold tumbles upon my head
and i cannot see the sky.

Copyright © Aimee Thomson

Details | Free verse | |

Last Sonnet

Hither I stand, at crossroads,
And then I gaze, at the yonder end-
The vague horizon from where I began;
And all that I may ever deem
Is that- my days
Have been a waken dream.

Hither I stand, at the edge of my dream;
Then I wonder, at the depth of my trance-
An adventurous journey through the wondrous woods;
An idyllic stroll through the vicissitudinous meadow;
And from the final station as I depart,
All that I can ever say, is that
Perpetuation has been a rouge
Of fleeting phases of my life.

Suyash Saxena 
St. Stephen’s College.

Copyright © Suyash Saxena

Details | Sonnet | |

For the Late Midsummer

Show me a clear midsummer’s day, and I
Shall reveal the coldness lurking beneath
For which the mortals heave a knowing sigh
In kind, the winter bares her savage teeth

Yet we, who know better than to implore
Play games with Time that are cruelly coy
Always to have less than ever before
And thus is the fickle manner of joy

To depart tenfold as quick as it came
Seeking first the ones who try to hold fast 
For all who dare speak that elusive name
Breathe tender eulogies of summers past

Fear not, for the blush of this earth entombed
Shall run our blood until we are exhumed

Copyright © Nola Basey

Details | Senryu | |

winter sunbeams

winter's sunbeams flow through dotted cumulus clouds... ancient hands revealed
For PD...

Copyright © Sara Kendrick

Details | I do not know? | |

The Snow

Snow burdened the weary leaves,
Drooping in view of the shivered fence.
There I sat blushing my knuckles,
Uncertain of movement around this chair.

I remember the etching stone,
With silent squeaks,
That circled my brain.
Grievingly aware of departing clouds.

There I sat with no muscle,
To find with sight a consuming abyss.
Littered with glinting, white eyes;
Like a madness scatters nails.

And then dark oversee,
Dark, blackest light
Spat out my eyes...

Burn an old barrel.

Snow burdened these weary leaves,
And I surveyed the depth of the fence.
For now I may hang out my hands,
Sitting alone on this frozen park bench.

Copyright © Aiden Asoll

Details | Prose Poetry | |




Here in the winter of my long lived life,
the leaves of my head now fall to the ground.
Destined like leaves of trees gone dead, 
the winter winds will soon blow my dust around;
and like fallen leaves, I’ll be done with this world’s strife.

Oh but when the scythe of time snips my thread,
would if I could be like leaves of trees---
who in due season, go happily to their death:
leaving their wooded---naked bones with nothing left
but the bark of reason guarding their earthy homes
through whose lonely arms, the chilly breeze freely roams. 

Yet, for these trees, another season comes like the mornings’ dew;
And they shall rise up from winter’s purgatory and begin life anew.


And though the sojourn here has had its moments of despair,
the flames of  love, faith and  hope have always been there.
So when I’m gone, weep only tears of joy for me;
for I know why the empty cross was made of the wood of a tree.  

Copyright © millard lowe

Details | Free verse | |

Old Man

            Old Man (Splintered)

On the walk, the one with wood, along the dunes, a time to saunter
Shoes with old holes on soles now prehistoric
Clip and clop along the winter boardwalk
In the shoes is slender Sam who slides along the boards
Footwear held together with some threads and prayer
Feet too heavy to lift, due to gravity or perhaps a gentler nature
The old man sits to smell the ocean salt and pelican mist
He sits to feed the pigeons some stale official bread from his own kitchen
Rising from the bench becomes a task for cranes and tractors
Bulldozers are needed to lift the spirits
Sam holds on against the winter wind, filled with concrete hollows
Holds on to rails provided there
He retreats into his shell he calls his life
Picks up a splinter with an ouch along the way 
Through his unholy holes exposed to nature and the wood
Perhaps it is prime time to buy new shoes or soles


Copyright © Earl Schumacker

Details | Free verse | |

Eskimo Dream

            Eskimo Dream

Eskimos know 68 shades of snow
They count every flake
Green blue ones fill children with delight
Parents frozen like the dim light of day
Wait with edges of a knife for prey
They dare not move during the hunt for food
Faces etched like leather on fierce weather
In calmer times they sing
Pound igloos into shape before the pending storm
Mukluks on their children’s feet are old and worn
But keeps them warm on moonless nights  
Against all odds for life
They hold together chanting on the wind
Stretching across all time and land
Singing about their past and colder weather
And yes, about the color white
Sentry huskies sway left to right in fear
And think of caribou 
Soon the ice will cover everything
Settled in the deep
The people sleep
And dream of whale bones by the glacier sea

Copyright © Earl Schumacker

Details | Rhyme | |

My Winter Blue

Misty days and nights call my bluff.
Yesteryear was blinded rough.
We take chances ever so deep.
I myself listed in such sleep.
No winter, whether season or age.
Travels without periods of rage,
Every day of my life seems blue.
Relative back to birth is my clue.
Breaks in periods, life endures.
Lessoning burdens, my soul cures.
Underestimating coldness, a mistake,
Each new day, uneasy, though must make.

Copyright © cecil hickman

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Old Age Greets Winter

The year gets older storms streak the skies I am told age is a quality of the mind,
Do I sit indoors and watch the fog, the dirt, the rain and wind splash on my windows,
So I wonder around indoors in a depressing influence of a winter with its suffering,
Muttering to myself and to others that old age has made me leave my dreams behind me.

Standing by French windows, beaten by tempests, so I shuffle over to an evening fire,
The flowers have gone and longer grass stands among the thickets withered, bleached,
The fern red and shriveled amid the green gorse and broom, even my hope has gone cold,
Plants that waved white umbels to the summer breeze now a skeleton a trophy of death.

The brooks are brimful the rivers turbid covered with masses of foam hurrying along,
Words in my head whisper, if you no longer plan ahead, ambitions dead, you are old,
Our gardens, sad and damp and so desolate their floral splendors are naked and dead,
Decaying leaves have taken the place of verdure and all is gloom and all is silence.

Copyright © Terry Trainor

Details | Free verse | |

Winter Fire

They live as a glimpse of Winter fire,
we feel their heat in the coldest and darkest times,
a burning light of flensing flame intense,
we don’t always understand,
turning our eyes from the glare of soul;
in their waning embers we huddle,
fleeing the ice of life,
until they are but ash and memory...

But we remember the vision in black forests,
that which was revealed by their flames,
a world only seen by the inferno of their pyre,
as we turn from the blaze,
to warm within what the face cannot perceive,
the fury in the raging heart of Winter’s children,
and in remembrance, 
they keep us alive;
until the end of freezing time...

©David Nickle Read 2015

Copyright © David Nickle Read

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Old Age Greets Winter

The year gets older storms streak the skies I am told age is a quality of the mind,
Do I sit indoors and watch the fog, the dirt, the rain and wind splash on my windows,
So I wonder around indoors in a depressing influence of a winter with its suffering,
Muttering to myself and to others that old age has made me leave my dreams behind me.

Standing by French windows, beaten by tempests, so I shuffle over to an evening fire,
The flowers have gone and longer grass stands among the thickets withered, bleached,
The fern red and shriveled amid the green gorse and broom, even my hope has gone cold,
Plants that waved white umbels to the summer breeze now a skeleton a trophy of death.

The brooks are brimful the rivers turbid covered with masses of foam hurrying along,
Words in my head whisper, if you no longer plan ahead, ambitions dead, you are old,
Our gardens, sad and damp and so desolate their floral splendors are naked and dead,
Decaying leaves have taken the place of verdure and all is gloom and all is silence.

Copyright © Terry Trainor

Details | Free verse | |

WINTER, 1948

WINTER, 1948 [40 Saxton Street]

for W.W

The winter nights that pass now
are so unlike the winter nights
that passed before, that I often
struggle back in those suspended moments
when sleep grapples for a hold,
to once again hear the voices of those nights
and smell the smells that lingered
in those well-worn days,
and see my grandmother
standing over her coal stove
where I huddled on frost-filled nights
watching my mother and father,
aunts and uncles play penny poker
while I broke pieces off an old straw broom,
poked them through the grating
and watched them explode into a kaleidoscope
of orange and blue and then die out,
twisting and snaking, all black and stunted.
When the top of the stove got finger-searing hot,
I'd lean over and let spit drop from my lips,
watch it bubble, scamper and dance across
the hellish top until it disappeared in a hiss, a wisp.

There were laughs and shouts
whenever someone won a hand
and raked the pot across the porcelain table-top,
occasionally dropping a precious penny or two
for me to reclaim from the darkness underneath.
While they played, I sometimes crawled
through my grandmother's bedroom,
past the creaking and groaning bed
where, on another night, they hefted
my grandfather to his feet, to the ambulance
that wailed him off to die;
past the rounded, heavy-handled bureau
where she kept the clutters;
the wrinkled and tattered paper bags
of string and stubs of tooth-marked pencils
wadded, worthless bills of the Confederacy,
stamped with the faces of bearded men in stiff collars --
	"Naming your children after Confederate
	 Generals makes for slow, steady drinkers,"
	 Atticus said.
and now I think of the uncle named for Lee
and the nights I hoisted him
out of Eddie Connor's Tavern.
There were half pieces of Juicy Fruit gum
in gold cameo boxes stuffed with coins
			and uniform buttons.
There were photos, frayed, crumpled-edge,
pale with time, of old women in print dresses
				and always, aprons.

Into the parlor as softly as the old black cat
she kept to find some uncle dozing on the couch.
With a screech wild enough for any Indian,
I was on him, arms flailing, legs around his middle
as we rolled to the carpet and fought great battles
over the room and under the teeter-tottering library table.
Once we tipped over the statue of a headless angel
poised on the prow of a half-sunken ship
and a spider plant, its long thin arms
gangling clusters of finger leaves,
and the laughing stopped.
A shout and a scrape of chairs from the kitchen,
and we scrambled to the hall, to the uncle's room
where we crouched in a lightless corner
until there was only the sound of our breathing
and the hot, sweaty, rug-burned sensation
			of battle on our faces.
When the laughter began again
and our breathing quieted,
we climbed onto the bed,
slipped out the smooth, metal-cold
Daisy Air Rifle from its nest
between bed and wall,
gently and quietly lifted the complaining window
and rested the oil-rubbed barrel
on the sill, while our hearts
pounded loud enough
for everyone in the kitchen to hear.

But they didn't.

I cocked the rifle
and aimed it across the street
at old lady Cinderella's shade-drawn window,
sucked in the cold night air
and gently, nervously, hesitantly
squeezed the trigger --
"squeeze it, don't jerk it,"
the uncle beside me whispered.
With a click and a whoosh
the barrel jumped ever-s0-slightly
off the sill, and somewhere in the blackness
a ping resonated in the night.
"Nice shot," the uncle breathed,
and a warmth spread over my face.
"My turn," the voice whispered.

After the card game
there'd be cocoa,
dark, creamy coffee and amber tea
in chipped white mugs, occasionally with 
					broken handles.
Everyone talked, stirred, tousled our hair
and slipped warm coins
into our damp, ready hands.

Heaps of doughnuts, bloody with jelly
pyramided on movie theatre plates
next to wedges of cervelat, sausage
and thick slices of cheese.

Full mouths chortled and garbled about the game
and Uncle Frank, he of the great beak nose
and occasional long, discolored teeth
let out throaty chuckles,
boasting of brilliant bluffs.
We knew that someday we would sit
at that table, snap and slide
the cards across the smooth surface.
Like Uncle Nick, we'd chew a big cigar,
blow rolling clouds of smoke to the ceiling
and watch them drift back around us
like a pale blue scarf.

The night ended all too quickly
when my father stretched and yawned
and unfolded himself from his chair.

I hated to swap the warmth and the light
for the long walk down streets
glazed with frost and people
walking head down and, it seemed, lonely.

We stood in the crisp night air,
stars flaring like kitchen matches,
until the bus ambled up, wheezing and coughing 
                                         like an unsteady drunk.

With a hissing of doors
and a jounce that sent us stumbling
first backward, then forward,
the bus plodded on into the night.

I sat on my father's lap,
braced against the brittle cold
		of his leather jacket
as the bus gently rocked and swayed
its way up Dorchester Avenue.

I lay my head against his shoulder
and all eerie lights
passed in front of my eyes,
slowly blurring, blending
and fading into darkness.

Copyright © RUSS duPont

Details | Verse | |

Conversations on Old Age

The muscles flexed like wings for flight
I saw fell down from heaven like light
The trees shook
Off their callous demure, grew gold green
My masked look
Came where adoration feathered preen
The cold pride that risked my life
The risks that gave me strength in youth
Disappeared in conformance too rife
And I risk done, for old age turned to soot
Undone by trusting to be secure
The man becomes impotent like the child before
Some will not see old age in anything
Except to know dying leaves are gold
And a drying river seems like a spring
Dead winter too as white innocense unfold
Some will not understand metaphors still
Deeper pearls in images of hard shells
The sun gives life and same time does kill
But nothing alive deters the cycled knells
For we conform and then we fall apart
To believe is where the beginnings start
Winter hairs atop the head, and winter beard
That even in the sun will not melt. This tree
Has no green leaf left to show for life. Seered
By the cold barren branches faking all glee
Replaced their groans with creaking songs
Death is kind, it is old age that's glum and gloomy
I fear its frightening, and unfumbling fangs
The little niche of hole to a world so well and roomy.
Bones leak like roofs, and no rain yet
To moist the scales of the crinkling skin
The joy of today is to forget
Memory has no next of kin.
I go beyond the end of the line to write
My children in meaning after my tongue 
Still against the forlorn night
Cleave leaves for specks of dew soft hung.
I have opened hibiscus for your tongue
To bird hum and suck
Its honey out among
Shrivelling stamens sagging into muck
I gave you light that may understand this
Lapse of petals dried
Fantasizing for a kiss
A mouth that left the flesh mob crucified
All this roar of dreams and desires vain
This birth to know, fell
From grace, grows pain
Man's life, the eager urge of empty shell. 

Copyright © David Smalling