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 | Year Posted 2015
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...
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 | Year Posted 2013
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 | Year Posted 2014
Quiet as twilight when i am in the mood
Breathless tree standing still in the wood
Casting shadows behind as long as i could
Night has come, knocking gently on my door
Dead calm appeals me to live for a while
Away from the dust and the madding crowd
Where the water moans, and the wind does wail
And when the light fades, in darkened shroud
Dead is the calm, it's time to behold the sky
Just in the mood, so sad, it's time to cry
Still sleeping birds, that stop to fly
Death has come, another day is passing by
The stillness of twilight takes me back to my past
When, being a child, i would run windward so fast
And leave my footprints, with a track of hazy dust
Oh! how sad i feel, if i only could mend the rust
Stillness of the twilight makes me watch the west
When, ablaze is the sky, the sun sets down to rest
Night falling slowly, stressing the pain to last
Dark shadows whisper softly, now they are cast
The stillness of twilight is a GOD send
Grasp it before it slips from your hand
Pick up your pen give it poetic twist
I take delight to write when i am feeling *triste*
Triste: French meaning = sad
Copyright © True Feeling | Year Posted 2015
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 | Year Posted 2015
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 | Year Posted 2015
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 | Year Posted 2014
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. | Year Posted 2013
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
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 | Year Posted 2013
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 | Year Posted 2015
winter's sunbeams flow
through dotted cumulus clouds...
ancient hands revealed
Copyright © Sara Kendrick | Year Posted 2015
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.
St. Stephen’s College.
Copyright © Suyash Saxena | Year Posted 2013
The falling leaves
drift by our window
in autumn days, we now behold
We spend our time
with autumn flowers
and dry crisp leaves
of red and gold
Since we left our spring
the days grow short
and soon we'll hear old winter's song
But we'll miss the golden years of autumn
when winter snow comes along
From spring to fall
we both did follow
our youthful joys of long ago
and now with days
when leaves are falling
we face the time
of winter snow
Autumn days are short
and yet we know
a song of love for us still plays
Though we'll miss the golden years of autumn
our love will warm our winter days
April 26, 2016
Contest: Write Me A Song
Sponsor: John Hamilton
I used the same Lyric form, number of syllables and meter
as in the original lyrics displayed on the site as only two stanzas
(but I doubled the stanzas to four in my poem).
"Autumn Leaves by Natalie Cole"
Lyrics printed on site:
The falling leaves
drift by the window
The autumn leaves of red and gold
I see your lips,
the summer kisses
The sun-burned hands
I used to hold
Since you went away
the days grow long
And soon I'll hear old winter's song
But I miss you most of all my darling
When autumn leaves start to fall
Copyright © Sandra Haight | Year Posted 2016
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 | Year Posted 2014
I do not know?
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 | Year Posted 2013
LIKE FALLEN LEAVES…
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 | Year Posted 2015
Jam packed vehicles on ice laden road,
Angst and harsh voices rising aboard,
Chill of winter as if gone astray,
Killer Jack must be on his way,
Frozen hearts thumped in scare,
Ran amidst the thick snow layer,
Once recall those crazy tales and myths,
Songs of boy who bit noses to give a chill,
Time defined him a harbinger of weather !!
Written Dec 4th, 2015
For contest by Shadow
Awarded 7th place win
Copyright © Dr. Upma A. Sharma | Year Posted 2015
Dawn to dawn now flying fast
Only the darkest coldest nights
Do I look to every cycle and savor to the last.
When all the ghosts of past are frozen
Friends and lovers lost and chosen
Recycled, neatly folded into downy blankets molded.
The thaws instead I dread
When cruelly cracking melt and mull of ice like spice to rains
That fades and muddles in my soul the little that remains.
Copyright © Jody Cutler | Year Posted 2016
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 | Year Posted 2014
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 | Year Posted 2014
WINTER, 1948 [40 Saxton Street]
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,"
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
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 | Year Posted 2015
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 | Year Posted 2015
The snow is falling and I am so cold
It might be caused since I am so old
I heard them say I'm not good for
And that all I do is lie on the floor
If I could talk I could say how much
I have pain
And when I lie down its hard to get
Why did they leave me here in the
snow and cold
I've no one now where shall I find
I'm so tired I must now lie down
It's very strange I feel warmth
beginning to creep
It's becoming harder for me to
But I hear dogs barking where
can they be
A beautiful dog is now standing
He said I'm going to a place with
no pain to bear
That's where the dogs are barking
is what he said
Not to worry he tells me now I'll have
a warm bed
Copyright © Elizabeth Smith | Year Posted 2016
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 | Year Posted 2014
Dry crinkly winter
Wrinkled parchment skin
Telling a thousand tales
Chilled marrow of bones
Bright embers aglow
Winter crackles are such fun!
Copyright © Karam Misra | Year Posted 2016
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 | Year Posted 2013
for winter’s spinning---
the remembered skeins
of my yesteryears
© Debra Squyres - 01/11/16
Copyright © Debra Squyres | Year Posted 2016
As frigid as my heart the wind blew in
The bracing cold upon my face was nice
My veins already tart -- prepared for ice
Like darkness, filtering down where I have been.
Age is raison d'etre lost, not gained
Splintered, flaked loves long extinguished
No longer can they be distinguished
Yet the frosted fragments have remained.
For now, my tingling digits hold that broken past
The somnambulant freeze just helps it last.
Copyright © Jody Cutler | Year Posted 2016
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 | Year Posted 2015
Try to open your third eye
Sharp your sixth sense
You can clearly see
This earth is still passing through ice-age.
People would say
This summer was the hottest ever!
If you’d inquire, you must see
The sun is now heatless
Not able to melt the deposited ice
Of this helpless earth.
Who knows when these fossils would get back
Their lives, how ?
Who knows, after stepping up how many stairs
Life would take the shape of human ?
Who can predict the exact moment
When this civilization would reach
At the zenith position of the square
In the lightless sky
When would this indolent sun
Burn the impurities of million hearts ?
Oh! The belated winter is unbearable
Fear in my body
Impotence in my flesh
I’m collecting my bones
To set fire and burn my soul.
One day ashes of my body would be deposited
Under the igneous rock
To irrupt as a Volcano.
Copyright © Neelamani Sutar | Year Posted 2016