"What falls out in the forest stays in the forest"
The tree is trimmed,
Proposing passion, protecting sweet sweat
Naked with nothing to bear or wear
Nature's breath lightens the atmosphere
She breathes in, he breathes out
The sound of rain drumming down deepens
Every form is near its end,
Deep in this forest night
A Gentleman among the trees,
Hibernating new seeds
"On the other side of the forest"
He guides my path, with ebony eyes
A convincing vent, I swallow
The fear is broken, I sleep in glee
The whispers disappear
Dying in peace by the secret bayou
Broad leaves lay under raw landscape
Stilled by the chills he quills
A quarter past midnight
Mr Romantic prepares my sheets of Winter
Copyright © SKAT A | Year Posted 2015
December 25th- The Christmas Wedding
Surrounded by seasonal silver bells
Scarlet passionate pink poinsettias sit
Entwined by Christmas and Wedding bliss
Frosty winter weather warmed up by:
Rings of “I Do!”
The eyes of Eve hide underneath a white veil
A bride walking down the misty mistletoe isle
Wondering why the majestic mustang moon sank without trace?
The aroma of pine trees idle into the death-defying fog
Fine firm decorated ribbons snug unopened gifts
Mistletoes wait above the tenable tint threshold
Kissing and Cheering
New Christmas Vows
In her hands, a beautiful bouquet
-Bridal flowers for the maids
Forsaken by dark dusky dullness wedding cloud
Flustering fragrance thicken the chestnut cold air
Ornaments endured dreary tears
Despising the drapes of fog
That covers the newly wed winter show
Harmony withdrew from that winter wonderland
A white gown, not meant to be
Christmas crushed by her greed
The unkind erratic earth exchanged her own silent vows
In a horrifying hoary haze
A heavy foggy breeze dropped in like debris,
Blowing her tiara dreams away
On this very exact Christmas Day
Copyright © Poet Destroyer A | Year Posted 2013
Dead Winter Stray~ By: Poet Destroyer
Nearby paces, Combatants lost under the cemetery walls,
“Blessed Men and Heavenly Remedy Women of Ages,”
Feelings of dance at the beginning of nightfall,
Scenery of fire, sadness passing this history page,
In that distant curve, somewhere nears the sundown stream.
Far away from the vision of mortal eyes,
A child plays as beautiful and pale like the sunrise.
She plays on the coast this beautiful but pale, sun raised child.
Pursuing nature, in a hushed angelic lucidity,
“In hushed angelic lucidity!”
Fragile fastened, to those adequate bones.
Profound deepness beneath the snow winder dust,
Below the memoirs of her floating vessel,
Reminisces of water drowning down rivers and streams,
A shattered female kneels in salvation.
An anvil so heavy it troubles the mind.
Lost in profoundness, in what might have been.
What was, for a moment in this period?
The grimness of her weak vessel dwells.
A lifeless winter strays around.
An album so old and dusty,
A christening gown not ever embraced.
Infinite, the woman and pale child of sunrise,
Soften footfalls beating out the torments.
Countless nights seeing the day of unspoken headstones,
Feelings of dance will never rest this heartache.
Eternity, in a dance of unconditional need,
Their hearts unite as one...
A closing of mother and child…
Dead Winter~ By: Catie Lindsey
There walks Warriors in that graveyard,
Holy Men and Medicine Women of ages;
at night you can see their Spirits dance,
setting fire to history's pages.
In that far corner, up by the stream,
far from the eyes of publicity,
she plays on the shore, beautiful Raylene,
catching poly-wogs, in silent lucidity.
In silent lucidity.
Brittle now, those fine bones,
deep beneath the snow drifts of winter,
beneath the memories of her body afloat
down rivers and streams of Remember.
A broken woman kneels in prayer,
a heavy weight on a burdened mind,
somewhere deep in what could have been,
what was, for a moment in time.
The grayness of her frail body lingers,
in a dead winter of the unborn,
on page forty-nine in the family album,
in a baptismal gown never worn.
Together they dance,the woman and the child,
their soft footfalls pounding out the sorrows
of many days at a worn out headstone,
many dances to come, many tomorrows.
Together they dance, The Woman's Dance,
their hearts as one...
the woman and the child.
~By: Catie Lindsey~
(for Catie's: Re-write contest..)
Copyright © Poet Destroyer A | Year Posted 2012
The Fall of The Winter King
He had risen to power
fueled by a vicious and ruthless determination
to reclaim a lost throne.
His tactics had stunned the unsuspecting,
laid barren the fields,
blanketed the forest,
silenced the sounds of life itself.
A dictator, seeking no counsel,
accepting no offers of surrender,
driven by the desire to destroy
the kingdom that had usurped his throne.
Rumors spread of a daring bud – sprouting -
a tune hummed by the imprisoned trees
adrift on the whipping winds of war
in defiance of the heartless king.
A call to arms sounded
by the most gentle, the most delicate.
The first acts of open rebellion,
The resounding crack of the ice jamb
the aching roar of the river’s rage
surging over its banks
awakening those still held captive.
Slowly the insurrection took root
buds gathered in hidden clusters,
trees quietly bloomed
muffling the screeching gales,
offering safety to bands of rebels.
Flocks of warblers met -
feathered archers - hurling their
darting arrows against the glare
of a cold king’s horror.
Sweet grasses spread across
the brown, despoiled fields -
a verdant gauntlet tossed in the face of dread.
Flowers crept from thawing dungeons
waving their colors,
swarms of banished pollinators
followed the call to duty.
The ebb and flow of battle -
clandestine sunrise maneuvers.
The resurgence of heart,
the growing hope of warmth.
As memory of the chilled repression
faded preparation was made
to receive the beauty and bounty
of a new and peaceful King.
John G. Lawless
For SKAT’s Winter’s End – Poetry Contest
Copyright © John lawless | Year Posted 2015
Call it what you want!
I call it, his favorite season hunt...
Two hoofs imprinted near the riverfront.
Echoes calling my soul with a loud, ferocious grunt.
I smell it in the air, lost upon the white golden stair.
A deep frost dwelling all over his lair.
Tangled by the frozen grip of my hair.
A decision, I declare to give what he won't spare.
This man has no red suit..
Lurking in the white to recruit.
A midnight suicide clouding me with pollute.
I pause my tongue on mute, lost in a white castle chute.
Headed straight into a shivering blazing star path.
The land of snow covered like a bubble bath.
Breaking icicles like crystal glass, suck3d by the milky-way mass.
Multiplying bruises like a cascade, enjoying the aftermath.
Finding a way to slit the pain in my domain.
I grab a coat and lace my name to Mary-Jane.
Inserting the finest line to ease the drain in my brain.
I drink the icy scotch, and drop a silver nickel into the devils cocaine.
Fallen in to his bait, its too late, I got 7 lines on my dinner plate.
I'm covered up in snow, enjoying the amazing way to suffocate.
Eight beats to every minute is my new heart rate.
I'm reaching for the white golden gate, where the white devil waits.
Drowning like liquor in a frappe mixing the winter's high tide.
Death to my soul is where I hide under this white blanket neutral side.
Too heavy to uplift this storm lost in the devil's cold custard suicide guide.
Waking up in a coma, in a world where white collides with the rage of suicide.
(( Trapped in a snowy blizzard))
Copyright © Poet Destroyer A | Year Posted 2010
I stood on the balcony one night,
The land was bathed in luminous light,
The air was filled with winter's chill,
Frost had covered the window sill.
I stared into the sky above,
My heart had swelled full of love,
The galaxy glowed with bright stars,
Lights so heavenly, from afar.
The night shone bright on every hill,
Yet, everything was quiet and still,
Through the valley no wind did blow,
The little village blanketed in snow.
What joy the Yule is going to bring,
At the break of dawn, the town will sing,
Making this, one eve to remember,
On one magical night of December.
But, in this fantasy land it is late,
And this seasonable panorama is great,
I want to take this long walk alone,
Through unchanging scenery, I wander from home.
I'll take a candle to light my way,
Upon the ice, I could walk until day,
I made it up a deep, glittering bank,
In the glistening snowflakes, my feet sank.
A million diamonds now covered the land,
I pulled my mittens on, over my hands,
The snow could never melt in this cold,
The Northern degrees of stories once told.
I will enjoy the winter as in days of old,
The still photographs of the past unfold,
A thermometer shows the drop of degrees,
The thaw of the snow I hope not to see.
Mirrored is my reflection along the river,
Quartz crystals of ice, makes me shiver,
Icicles hang from a cabin, near the woods,
Silently, wolves and elk in the forest, stood.
Reindeer and rabbits run through the snow,
A memorable sight in the lovely moon's glow,
An owl calls out from high in a tree,
Imagine all this, as a keepsake to see.
Tomorrow the snow will make the children sing,
To the hills, a toboggan they will bring,
Soon, we will hear his sleigh bells ring,
And, all the Christmas bells will be jingling!
Written by : Kelly Deschler
For Leonora Galinta's contest - Christmas Epic
Copyright © Kelly Deschler | Year Posted 2013
A robin's song is heard nearby,
so faint and sweet is the sound.
Showing now it’s winter’s end.
For the baby birds will flap their wings
and cry to their mothers.
The wild mare will gallop to her secret place
and lay in the green fields again to bring a
new life to her band.
A snow leopard creeps along the craggy mountains
a white owl flies silently back to her den.
But on the breeze a change is felt,
Blowing now on past.
Showing forth a hint of thaw,
upon this winter cast.
Every day the sun does shine
with just a bit more heat.
The air seems just a bit fresher,
with every breath more sweet.
Green needles sprouting
A rebellion taking place
Against snowy ground
Winter's end comes with soggy streets
and green saplings
of young love and renewed friendships.
Immigrant season, empty hands
looking for work,
finding promise in pockets of dust,
bringing back the birds,
competitive as pretty sisters
bickering in birdsong, speaking of seeds.
Spring, wetting itself,
wipes muddy feet at the door
then passes through without notice.
As the sun warms the sidewalks,
The sandy beach and our soul.
Green sprouts everywhere,
in a brightness of different shades.
Gone are red cheeks, cold icy lips,
Layered clothing and frosty fingertips.
January 18, 2015
Form : Free Verse (Epic)
Copyright © Dr.Ram Mehta | Year Posted 2015
The path was long and winding; the snow falling, not making a sound.
His hands thrust deep in his pockets.
He hated being here with the wind howling all around.
His fingers clasping a golden locket.
The snow made it hard for him to see.
The ice wanted to freeze his tears.
He didn’t think he could stand this pain.
They had been together so many years.
The trees met overhead, the snow had difficulty getting through.
He didn’t find relief though; the wind cut like a knife too.
She was dead. he had to accept it and the time of year was here.
How many had it been he didn’t know, but it was definitely more than a year.
It was here again, and it was a night like this, fighting the falling snow.
She told him it was over on this very spot, where their love did grow.
The fight they had it was vile, he could not stop, and she pulled away.
She tried to run, he could see in her eyes, but then he made her stay.
He grabbed at her, the necklace broke and she let out a cry.
His fingers clasped the knife handle, even though he didn’t know why.
It suddenly flashed as though with a life of its own, and the snow at her feet went red.
He looked at her beautiful body lying there, and he knew that second she was dead.
He came back every year, always surprised, that they had never found her
When there she was standing, beckoning him, the snow swirling around her.
He rushed to where she stood; he knew the spot so well.
Her arms were open wide, his breath seemed to stop, his chest began to swell.
Was this forgiveness, was this release, would he now be able to sleep?
She was here, his mind he thought he was losing; he might be able to keep.
He held out the necklace, still with the broken chain.
She wrapped her arms around him and they were suddenly one again.
His feelings, were in turmoil, he didn’t know how this could be
Then he felt his blood begin to boil, and surround him like a red sea.
Her smile was wide; an icicle glinted as it entered his heart so deep
She said you are with me now, but I promise you will never sleep.
Entry for Dead winter Written By: Mandy Tams
Copyright © Mandy Tams The Golden Girl | Year Posted 2011
Slowly, so infinitely slowly
Winter releases his frozen grip.
Gradually the earth starts to warm
only to be plunged back by icy storms
that coat the world in white once more.
Yet inevitably Spring begins to win
as she warms the lands causing new growth.
Snowdrops first show their charming faces
with crocuses close behind sprinkling colour.
Ice finally frees the frozen waters of the lake
and tuneful drips of water strike rocks and soil.
The dull greys of winter now fade away leaving
golden sparkle of sunrays that smilingly beam.
Causing birds to sing as they collect twigs
and fleecy sheep's wool to line their nests.
Busily the insects go to work pollinating
and cleaning up. While the trout gleefully leap
to grab a fat fly and with splash dive down.
The lake gleams in a myriad of colours
blues shot through with silver and purple.
And Winter fades to a distant memory,
near forgotten in the warm Spring days.
contest: Winter's End
Copyright © Shadow Hamilton | Year Posted 2015
Fresh snowfall on my porch
A story of not so long ago.
7 inches above my ankles
The neighbor's chimney smokes like a cigarette.
The doorbell rings, I shudder and tremble
I breathe in the moment before I twist the knob
He was there alone.
A man with eyes, likes the moon
A hunter in a black coat
He storms in, shoving me out of his way
He twists around and reveals his name
His name bleeds through my soul
My mind begins to white-out every memory
I firmly get a grasp on reality
A wanted man
Carrying myself up against the bookshelf.
My eyes start to shed a course of rain
His eyes are bright green with golden specks,
pierce in the logical way of the hawk
I cradle on the sofa, like a child
This stranger who stood before me
Wants more than the warmth of my home
It's snowing deep down my flower bed.
It's too cold outside.
The fireplace can act no more
It's too cold inside!
He proceeds slowly, towards the kitchen door
I see him reaching for the stainless steel
Soon the beat will end,
I inhale his eyes that are the size of the moon
This visitor, at my door,
He whispers into my ear.
"I'm preparing the ways of good and evil.
Now go, be free into the promise land."
Copyright © Poet Destroyer A | Year Posted 2011
A sweet flower's funeral
displayed in the cold months
of snowy weather and bone chilling shivers.
A sweet flower burned away, dried up;
buried six feet under.
Oh, my sweet flower,
how you once bloomed with no remorse,
like a madman blooming with beauty
and a glorious halo over your head
shinned with such power and blinding glory.
Oh my sweet flower how you have gone now,
resting in peace in the land of paradise.
Oh, my heart it is weak when I see your face,
of once beautiful smiles and warm embraces.
I can hear your crying out to be free.
Snowing and bone chilling cold ripes at my soul
and feelings of sorrow rage through my blood,
boiling my hatred to the world, for losing your
sweet and ever glorious beauty.
What I would give away, if I could be with you
one last night, one last night together
to hold you in my arms, to smell your sweet perfume
that brings back sweet memories of you and I.
What I would do to be with you,
such romance travels through my heart in the highways
of my veins in my body, love is all throughout me,
and my heart breaks when pictures of you start to collect dust.
My love for you, my sweet flower,
is still ingering through the air,
as I travel and look upon a tombstone
which shows your beautiful name.
Come to me my dear flower,
when spring comes,
come to me my dear, sweet flower.
And bloom once again,
twice as large as last year,
and ten times more beautiful then last year.
Come to me in the first months of spring
in my dreams, so I could sit and talk with you.
I miss you already,
and my heart crys,
my eyes flood with tears of sorrow.
I miss our love we shared.
warm cuddling embraces
and beautiful displayed in a picture frame.
Now I hear the tapping of raindrops on my window pane.
That is all that keeps me company,
that and the rose you gave to me
and a picture of you and me.
Love is endless, even when blue eyed Death comes to visit
and play a game of chess with us,
we all play our game, my love.
I shall go tonight
in my sleepy slumber
and dream of you in the times of our height in our love for each other.
My lost love, you are gone, resting in paradise,
but never forgotten my sweet flower.
Copyright © Chris Boskovski | Year Posted 2013
I do not know?
Instance of combustion
Light, Heat, Flame
A burning mass
As on a hearth
21 February 2013
Copyright © Smail Poems | Year Posted 2013
I stand solo, aloof in the snow, a precipitation
of words cascading from a nebulous eye
Fathoms wide, forever dripping like wax onto
a punctured paper serving a Sanskrit sky,
and spreading into sibilant sentences swiftly
sliding from syllable sorcery to soulful serenades
so silent in the shunting shout of white. Poetry
fills a churning void where novels cannot wade,
Phrases solidifying into idolisation of emotion
itself, isolation of the isometric individuality that so
Crushes my keeling cavern of thought, ever
careering from caustic career path to another new low,
Which so seems to crumble into crazy paving’s
counterpart. In this first freeze-frame we can all grasp
A fraction of the familiar, oh so fractured by the
fumbling nature of enforced form. Freed by the gasp
Of a photo-opportunity glowing phosphorescent
with firsts, I am no longer framed by the festering
Constraints of non-fiction, and folding my fond
farewells carefully, I hesitantly face a vision pestering
Me, fearing the fiend that would open maw and
gnaw beneath my feet, evoking an avalanche of the
Vernacular, but I am further past this unfed
existence now, loosened from the fickle friendship of a
Winter thaw. Focus not your gaze on the grinding
gauze of the greats, for the pressing pestilence of
Perishable poetry is elsewhere pondering its parallels
in posturing and post-modern pining for forlorn love.
Praise no other; I am poetry.
Copyright © Dan Keir | Year Posted 2013
All the noisy critters, warblers and the morning, young horse rider
have taken with them spring's harmony;
no longer can galloping beats and songbirds make this black, forest
echo with their delightful sounds of felicity;
winter has indeed stripped it of every beam of light and lovely flower.
That handsome troubadour who came from France was happy,
too anxious to get to Florence and live in courts of prosperity
and galloping on the unpaved roads below the majestic Alps
never thought of his mademoiselle who was also dreaming,
drifting to places where true romance lived in sincere hearts,
but sadly this was done on wishful thinking
from a rose-bloomed balcony as Juliet did...
without the intention of ever being wed;
hear her loud cry, " Troubadours don't remain faithful
for long...their desire for adventure makes all null! "
From that castle where noisy ravens gathered,
and shrilled, Marie with tearful eyes looked
over the enchanting black forest dullest than a grey, swelling cloud
which blocked the sunlight from entering her cold window
not frequented by a thrush that stayed behind
for unknown reasons and took shelter in the tower below;
" Poison is a sweet drink and when one is denied love! " she declared.
Copyright ( c ) 20015 by Andrew Crisci
Copyright © Andrew Crisci | Year Posted 2015
A self-written poem begun in Christmas Time,
While it tasting the soup and looking for rhyme.
In the kitchen, neighbor with the quiet tomato paste,
The sorcerer's apprentice, a poet pretty well placed
Near Soups (ciorbe) with characteristic sour taste
With luminous face and much grace added the rest:
As he was sipping and tasting from raw and cooked.
His group had a passionate look at what was booked
For the dinner: These might be meat and vegetable soups.
They had to choose till the coming of the helping troops
For the pig`s sacrifice rite, old mixture of joy and grief
Under the hot and long debrief of the pleasant smell-thief
Tripe soup (ciorba de burta) hard prepared from beef,
And calf foot soup (ciorba de vitel), with green-gold leaf
Pickled soup (supa de moare) with pork and big rice;
But use the dice to decide between spice and allspice.
From the slaughtered pig the village` families prepare:
Carnati - sausages kept in special aromatic smoke
Of wet fir and oak burned at small fire as enjoyed by folk;
Caltabos - sausages made with liver sprinkled with beers;
Toba and piftie - dishes using pig's feet, head and ears
Suspended in aspic like a frozen symphony in red
After cups of plum brandy and before going the bed
Tochitura - pan-fried pork to bid it a farewell, twice
Served with mamaliga - palesta , and red wine with ice,
Or boiled wine with pepper and cinnamon against frost;
So that the pork can swim and the verse were glossed;
Piftie - inferior parts of the bashful pig, mainly the tail,
Feet and ears, kind of meal like taken from a fairytale
In which all are cooked and served in a form of gelatin
In this naturalist field, all the poets smile like Mr.Bean;
Jumari - small pieces of pig meat are fried and tumbled
Through various spices if after all, you are a little troubled
And may falter some poetical from the famous songs
Like "So, good people drink…" couples of diphthongs
Since Saturday to Thursday and make colorful the gray.
This poem was written in the Night of Tuesday to Friday.
( And later we`d find that the housewife had covered with it the pickles cucumbers jar.)
Copyright © Ovidiu Bocsa | Year Posted 2012
The smell of coffee: hot and bitter in the cold winter night
With the rhythm in the left hand and the rhyme in the right,
He wrote a poem in his secret pocket,
A wistful star like a speedy rocket
Ready to leave this planet intense blue
In search of other traces of life anew.
He remembered after mother had died,
In the cold touch ,stalagmites and stalactites cried.
Father and son felt a strong taste for sweets.
As in the sunset, the blind boatman meets
With an awkward touch the water`s ring
But generally they needn`t to eat anything
For a while they rested an extraordinary team:
Father insistently (sometimes boring) told him
All his recollections:childhood,war and the rest…
All muscles and teeth pressed hot, like ice on the crest.
The son learnt them by heart, and later
He would retell them to father, even better…
One was on duty to wash the dishes;
The other tried to follow his wishes…
Their only joy was to read and read and read…
One had to cook at home ,and to bake the bread
In a bread factory:He was happy even when he was sad.
He could recognize each bread: All his loafs were bad.
He was like Chaplin in “New Times”.
He was speaking in figures and rhymes.
He wore a monk beard and father was much more younger.
Looking through the window: grey hunger and anger …
At the weekend, he used to ask his father
About the favourite meal, but rather
He would find a surprise the next day.
Each day was windy winter and grey…
Father had the same touching answer:”Something good”.
In the strange interference ,water and fire ,one was rude.
Solitude was their common friend stealing in like a lizard,
But, in the afternoon they played sweeping their courtyard.
They had leaves in autumn and snow in the winter.
The sky was grey without sun, the clouds were bitter.
Father was counting the leaves, in the old horizon
The son was painting the days ,in the cold horizon.
The war with the falling down leaves fighting hard
With red faces like an inveterate drunkard .
And years after his father met his final hope,
The son would stop in front of the sweets shop ,
Ready to buy recollections as Christmas tree sweets.
Copyright © Ovidiu Bocsa | Year Posted 2012
His smile was as warm as the summer sun.
But his cold-cold heart chilled the soul.
Debonair, golden hair, he often had to run!
Those notches scratched in his paltry pelt,
Lay evidence of his lusty embrace.
He was a hit and run, son-of-a-gun.
Many young women,
Slapped without a trace.
A new fair maiden fell for his heat.
He ripped virtue out, with a lusty hold.
Surprised at the end, not even a friend.
Her heart suffered.
The serpent’s sting –
All alone in the winters freeze,
Seething, in woman’s scorn.
- Loved and left without concern -
She had esteemed him, true.
What to do?
The answer soon was clear.
Death paid the toll in the winter cold.
Her sorrow would forebear.
Debonair, golden hair,
He no longer had to run!
Her smile was as frigid as the winter’s freeze.
And his cold-cold heart lay icy, still.
Death caught this man who left with fast feet
No more notches would he carve in his strap!
She grinned as she patted his manly pelt.
That winter of his frozen golden hair –
© February 13, 2011
Copyright © Dane Ann Smith-Johnsen | Year Posted 2011
No one will tell you it’s my time,
To come back and make people smile.
I am an occasion that comes ones a year,
When the whole season has been full of fear.
I come to drown away the sorrows
of men; and give them hope for tomorrow.
25th December is my mandated hour,
When I flood the whole world with my power.
The power that binds, love and don’t destroy,
But rather fill all people and races with much joy.
It's by this same power that able to bring,
All distant relatives back home and sing,
All the Christmas carols and songs,
That lifts up our spirit and make us fill young.
Mostly I appear at winter,
Where all hot clouds have turned colder.
I believe it is a big sign that all,
Life’s predicaments will disappear and get small.
It is very fascinating but we can see it in all our homes,
When you decide to do a survey or roam.
You will see everywhere with Christmas tress,
Which beautify homes and make viewers glee.
Now to the other side of the same coin,
I like to introduce a best friend of mine to join.
He is popularly known as Santa Clause,
And is regularly seen carried by his horse.
So as a good and caring friend indeed,
He also carries out the wishes of people in need.
You just make known to Santa you heart desire,
And you will see Santa will give you more than you require.
So at this point of my biography,
I like to ask you why people are crazy.
When it comes to me as a festive occasion,
That people will do all it takes to partake of my session.
I guess you do not know the answer,
So I will spill out something which is much nearer.
I can say for a fact that there is other criteria,
That can fill the whole world with such euphoria.
And also I am celebrated all over the world,
And that is my ardent way of casting my spell.
So until I come your way, next year again,
Just remember this is a season where joy rains.
So finally I say this is Mr. Xmas,
And have a merry, merry Christmas.
Copyright © Jacob Osae | Year Posted 2014
The cabin sits against the forest wall
hidden from human site, it stands alone
in the dead of winter, the cold has a jagged edge
twigs snap, upon a sparrow's landing
the freezing wind brushes painfully across the cabin
like an artist, whose hands are brittle with decay
forcing the branches to scrape along the upstairs window
like fingers trying to get inside.
the cabin creeks, showing its age
as it settlets in, for a long winter
outside, the wind continues to show its fury
as the cabin's walls whistle eerily, to see whose listening
the clock chimes downstairs
we are not concerned about the footprints, leading to the back door
they are of no consequence at the moment
but in a few minutes, maybe less
they will be.
the cabin stands alone
in the dead of winter
no one can hear you scream
the deadbolt turns....
Copyright © Kurt Kohls | Year Posted 2011
dead of winter with zombies
running a muck dead of winter
with vampires hovering above
peoples beds dead of winter
is a time for the dead to pop
out of their graves and celebrate
the dead of winter once in awhile.
Copyright © Brenda Barricklow | Year Posted 2011
It was the darkest of nights,
When Sir Chase lay alone.
His drug cravings getting the better of him
He hastily busts out a Garfield-sized rip
While Lady Kelsey withers away
In her dungeon comprised of boonies
and the party queen's children
Dragging her to the depths of despair
Her only light the text message
From her savior, Sir Chase.
Fair maiden, will thou join me?
Let's get wonderfully, irrevocably
Higher than a kite.
Say goodbye to your queen
And her bratlings. Come out with me.
Let's make our way to a magical place.
The Land of Good Time,
We've heard so much about it
Shrug off your burdens, enjoy this night.
Don't argue if it feels right.
Leave your cares at the castle
We will be back there tomorrow.
My silver chariot is waiting
To take us to paradise, to a mystical
place of White. Snow, snow, everywhere
It's a winter wonderland for you and I.
He holds out his hand with a tempting smile
And I take it, utterly oblivious
To the chasm of disaster
I stare in the face.
Copyright © Kelsey Lindstrom | Year Posted 2011
No January morning is ever so devastating, the heavy icicles
dangle from the frozen shingles of houses with puffing chimneys;
no eyes will see the misery of scattered, broken snow flowers...
all paths winding down the icy slopes are buried as memories
of summers past, and by late spring, will they return to us?
Ah, fierce is the strong hand of Nature causing fear through vengeance!
The coldest wind howls, bends trees finding no resistance,
only snow is seen for miles stretching into the warmer South;
where are the Eskimo dogs pulling the heavy-loaded sleights?
Where are the chiseled-faced drivers with the fur-covered heads?
Where are the fishing boats loaded with salmon and trout?
Ah, fierce is the hand of Nature causing fear through vengeance!
It'll get dark early, mornings will be cold and evenings as frigid as Iceland',
only the pathetic moon will shed its dim light on that thick and vast
sheet of gleaming ice that bears crack with their excessive weight...
why live in this cold region and wait for the tons of snow to melt?
Travel South, straight into California to catch some healthy sunshine;
your pale skin will turn red, golden, or bronze while smelling the scent of a vine!
Forget these poetic words that end my long epic of sad reminiscence,
" Ah, fierce is the strong hand of Nature causing fear through vengeance! "
Entered in Sidney LeeAnn's contest,
" Dead Winter "
Written by Andrew Crisci
Copyright © Andrew Crisci | Year Posted 2011
The two were trapped in a winter's storm,
Needed food and shelter to survive.
Using their bodies to keep warm,
Nothing else they could rely.
Then he spotted a glow at the summit,
His friend did not want to go.
She was scared they would plummet,
Or get mauled by lurking foe.
He explained it was their only chance,
If she wanted to stay alive.
How were they in this circumstance?
Can they maintain their drive?
They began their assent to the light,
Wind became an evil force.
It was dark and he was losing sight,
They continued a steeper course.
The wind howled like an angry spirit,
She then slipped and fell.
Reached for her hand could not get near it,
She plunged to the cracks of hell.
He stood alone surrounded by death,
Wondering what to do next,
Freezing cold and with his final breath,
Jumped to give respects.
To this day two sculptures are seen,
On the towering pinnacle.
Formed in stone of the King and Queen,
Their creation a miracle.
By: Greg Stanley
Written December 9, 2011
Contest entry “Dead Winter”
Copyright © Greg Stanley | Year Posted 2011
After the age of sleep and death,
the Lion laid down and exhaled his breath.
From it came life and heat,
and up rose the children to their marching feet.
The land became awake once more,
chasing away the terrible winter storm.
the forests bloomed
as summer rain boomed.
the sun came out and washed away the rain,
restoring Man from long frozen pain.
I can not say what it was like that day,
but i can still hear them pray.
"The Winter broke and life is regained, now our tomorrows will never be stained."
Copyright © John Allen | Year Posted 2005
Winter Art. (Fimbulvinter)
1947, mother of all winters, our oak dinner table ended up as
firewood...kept us warm for days. A deep frozen feline stood
on the top of the bin, a clawed outstretched paw, staving off
frosts attack. Days it stood there an epic symbol of valiant, if
hopeless struggle, - brutal art- admired, but also pelted with
snowballs by impish children. Thaw, winter lost its grim grip,
the moggy crumbled fell off its pedestal. The bin lid, opened
nature’s glory ended up among potato peels and other things
discarded without a second thought.
Copyright © jan oskar hansen | Year Posted 2011