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Winter Elegy Poems | Elegy Poems About Winter

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

Details | Elegy |

Passing

To see her blog, adorned with pastel tones
Widens the gap that pervades my bones
For now we eat her passing meal of plain white rice
Leaving us all alone, without much needed fashion advice

The red light district has lost an inductee
For I would have love to be involved in her naked party
Yet for now we must all be content 
With the debauched path she hath went.

Sadness invades a binary world
Where tweeters and bloggers hearts have curled
Bringing back memories of Madonna’s ‘Like A Virgin’
Her fashion advice precise like a mastoplexic surgeon

I remember the fervour when you were followed by Kath Kidston
A similar experience when I had my first Jar of Branston
Yet when you found out the intensity with which I was following you
You wanted to change species and become a Gnu

You learnt to accept my frequent outpourings of love
When you finally spoke to me, I felt as free as a pure white dove
But upon your departure I feel pathetic and hollowed
The best I can hope for is the number of one of the hot bloggers you followed

She was always my muse, my intimate inspiration
No-one can cause such an outpouring of personal perspiration
My heart now yearns to see her type a special tweet
One that would make Mr Sexton act like a dog on heat

Now the world mourns the passing of Lily Fulvio-Mason
I can still see her face reflected in my wash basin
With every heart beat, every full blooded pulse
My sadness streaked blood makes my body convulse

But now it’s time to go, my heart says goodbye
The pain eats my nipples like the Syrphid Fly
I can finally see your body laid in an eternal rest
And now I can now finally uncover your breast.


Details | Elegy |

Elegy for Neil

Our great Balboa has left the hillock bare
And two waters converge in evening mist
Where from our vision he made us stare
As the divided dimensions rose and kiss
So sleep the sailor, so sleep the caravel
So sleep great Balboa, toll, toll your knell. 
              A sprig of spring is all autumn's promise
              Winter is for children play, and for hubris.

The navy man has taken his golden wings
On glinted them against the silvery dusk
The eagle rising fro the earth sweetly sings
On dust-rock horizon where triumphs husk
The veil that cover human tears and fears
With tragedy that all mass and matter wears
              A sprig of spring is all autumn's promise
              Winter is for children play, and for hubris.

So Balboa, remember your craft on one engine
The sound barrier rescinded, brings you to earth
The grave has no remembering, O the final spin
That undo all dream of birth! fair Deist now inert
Shall only watching moon alert us of this memory
The great walk that expanded the edge of history?              
               A sprig of spring is all autumn's promise
               Winter is for children play, and for hubris.

Conquistador of the modern world, great sailor
What tribes did you subjugate beyond Korea, tell
What corn you planted, what gold in your valor,
What new dominions now your great spirit swell?
I hear Darien laughing in the silence of the moon
I see the caparisoned horse, and the taps balloon 
                 A sprig of spring is all autumn's promise
                 Winter is for children play, and fo hubris

They come, they come, stolid mourners slowly
The riderless horse ignorant you are gone, gone
Forever, grief bowed us, and pride lingers greatly
Thanking you for gyral cycle of an ambitious dawn.
But Balboa do you hear them, can you see tears
Can you reverse the plunder of the vernal years?
                A sprig of spring is all autumn's surprise
                Winter is for children play, and for hubris


Details | Elegy |

My Great-Grandmother, Great Mother

My great-grandmother is sitting
outside in the winter sun,
with a double-felted deel, 
snow white hair, 
and a hat,
just taking it in.

I play at her feet, and I
make a racket, 
running fast about,
I raise dust in front of Great Mother,
whom even the birds ignore.

The quiet fire in her gentle soul
was once very fierce they say
but all I see when I look at her, 
is the calm warmth in her eyes,
while I play at her feet
with the clouds, rocks
the desert spirits, and the sky.

She moves with effort, no complaints,
she takes upon all the worldly cares
feeds, clothes, and shelters me, 
fetching and tending,
to food, water, and fire--

Ah, fire, they say, she broke hearts
of men who rode over mountains
who crossed icy rivers; 
and they say, she knew,
Knew, and her hair grew more gray,
when five of her seven children--
the exact moments they each died.

As I play with the clouds,
the rocks, the desert spirits, and the sky,
I know my Great Mother--
she lives in them all now,
somehow in that cold winter sun, she's still
sitting there with a double-felted deel, and a hat.
As I play at her feet, running fast about
sometimes I glimpse her snow white hair, and,
she takes upon herself 
all of my worldly cares.


Details | Elegy |

The Winter Flower




The golden hue of ringing of leafy bells-
so yellow and orange as the dawning sun-
sings a mellow whispering tune that swells
in the air of the thickest wind who sung.
The air of mist bows to the ground-
and morning fog seeps up to the mourning tree.
Mysterious to the depth of the roots who sleeps just down
the trunk of the sturdy crooked tree.
And so it gently slopes in a mourning tune
just over the decaying flower covered in a winter coat-
just as the colors of Antlantic sun set.
And off the limbs of branches the leaves gently float
unto the moral flower as a blanket to an eternal rest.


Details | Elegy |

The Gardener

He spent the golden years in his
garden growing vegetables like weeds.

With a Midas-like touch, instead of
gold, everything turned green.

Spring, summer and autumn, something 
about growing brought him great joy.

Perhaps he saw in the garden's changing
seasons a semblance of life others did not:

Childhood as spring when like young 
shoots he first grew,

Work and family as summer when his
crop began to yield,

Retirement as autumn when the fruits
of his labour were consumed.

And winter... well winter was his time
to rest and reflect on his crop.

He died in the winter of his being,
content with his harvest.