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
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..)
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))
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
The blade is frozen - feels like ice,
arcane the skies of winter's war,
'the Valkyries' bold entice
today to fight alongside Thor.
This great of days is best to die,
the snow, white shroud, persists around
to slowly muffle his war cry,
on skyward Kingdom he'll be crowned.
© G. V. 07-27-2013
I do not know?
Instance of combustion
Light, Heat, Flame
A burning mass
As on a hearth
21 February 2013
in blue midair
It was the twenty first of January, and cold
a needling thin rain was fellow to my thought,
she stood across the mirroring of nightly mold,
continuous the icy raindrops fell, and wrought.
How argent the details became, tho' in my glance
two distant waxen lights saluted to entice -
- "behold my soul because the night's eluding dance
invites the gazing travelers to fade on ice."
And then my thought reshaped two passengers to pair
amid that solitude and needle-stinging rain,
details that spun life's gyroscopic lift, and flare,
across the road evolved to a melodic strain.
The rainfall was transformed to skyward route and mirth
concourse of invitations to absorb me from
perceived time's borderlands that mirrored my life's worth,
descending droplets hit upon the screens to thrum.
Continuum of silver flight, in blue midair,
beloved of winter she became, betrothal grace,
rain's queen enthroned she was across the night and fair,
her laughter fled above cold January's embrace.
© 08-18-2013, G. Venetopoulos
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.
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.
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.)
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
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.
He knows the fog that counts his steps tonight
So proud, the crow, stands on the wires, alone;
what made him bleed before the brinks of light,
defined by emptiness and mountain stone?
The fog surrounds the crow in early dark
what else deserved to be once more recalled
remained to warn the souls that stare and hark
"this shroud descends your being to enfold".
Ethereal, departs on his ascension trail,
stouthearted is his life's long path, my Lord;
the crow unfolds in white engulfing veil,
his stalwart wings on Mistral's wailing chord.
And infinite became his nightly flight,
above the cedars croaked his skyward rite.
© G.V. 06-11-2013 All rights reserved
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.
The green fields of summer,
now covered in white.
the whistling music of,
prairie winds that tend to bite.
cottonwoods drop the used up limbs,
another winter is here in ole Wyomin.
A test of endurance in an unforgiving land,
northern breezes bring snow once again.
the mountains covered in a scattering of white.
glisten gold shimmers in the pale moonlight.
off in the distance, coyotes howl,
along with the hoot, of a great horned owl.
November, sees the mercury plummet to 40 below.
frozen solid everything; wherever you go.
frostbit friends still greet you with a smile.
knowing life's going to be this way for quite a little while.
out on the river fog rises until,
stopped by the artic inversion,
at a four foot sill.
Now around March after the lion has left.
and the frigid Canadian breezes subside just a bit.
starts the emergence of cooped up, cabin wary occupants.
just wanting to welcome the great warmth home.
soon as it's arrival, you turn around and then,
riding low over the plateaued land,
here we go again.
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."