Narrative Winter Poems

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

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Details | Narrative |
September tries to convince herself,
Making pretend that she is really, truly,
A Summer month, albeit one of dying fire,
Holding at bay the chill of Autumn winds.

October plays temptress with her Duality;
Sun to warm the back of your flannel shirt,
With punkin' frosting nights, crisp and cold.
Air so clear it sears the throat like a glass of cider.

November comes dark, wet and gloomy.
An ancient harridan forced to bridal bed.
Chanting "fools, there's time before winter comes,
Still time enough for love."

December mutters in her sleep........

Copyright © William Kershaw | Year Posted 2010

Details | Narrative |
Winter be but two weeks old and already they lament.
No passion seems as strong as their loudest prayer for spring.
Spring will come when it will and wake the grasses and willow.
Let Natures brief time of slumber last long enough to rest her.

The winter be time for beauty to be found on ice etched panes,
And bayonets of glass, hanging from every eave to be seen.
Winter be found in crystalline air so pure only heroes inhale it.
And footsteps crunch like breaking luttuce upon the snowy ground.

Beyond winter times will speed and rush their way forward.
Spring then Summer and Autumn sprinting to their ultimate ends.
Let winter luff her way on tiny frozen feet while fire warms yours.
Add another log and settle in for a long nap and a dream.

Copyright © William Kershaw | Year Posted 2011

Details | Narrative |
Gone are the fields of winter white
soon to be replaced by hues of greens and yellows,
in the interim, fields of barren brown and dirty gold
turned, to breathe warm air from departed winter chill

Plumes of black and gray from mans machine
kneading the back of Mother Earths desire,
before impregnating her with the many seeds 
that will produce offspring to quench mans many needs

oh, how lonesome she looks, so alone
holding yet to some remnants of children past,
left only to cradle her dead, left by man
yearning to suckle new life, as only a Mother can

Above, from the heavens, Father prepares
to germinate those so many seeds,
with life sustaining necessities only he is allowed
sunlight and life giving rain, loosened from the clouds

within days Mother is impregnated
she can feel the multitudes of organic life,
moving within her womb, yearning,growing, needing
the escape, to be warmed and nourished by the Sun

Minutes turn to hours, hours to days
suddenly weeks pass,and yet another life,
giving rain, descends from guilded clouds
arms and fingers, of her children, open, sustained

nearing the end of a warm and wonderful summer
it is time for Fathers other children,
to reap what he has sewn
time for Mother Earth to let her children go

My, how they have grown, tall,lush and full
of the fruit they were meant to bear,
to provide nourishment for the masses of seeds
grown to maturity, in need from the father

Again, the gray black plumes of mans machine
come to life, they move through her fields,
her children, like a predator among prey
until, she is left again, with remnants of children past

Soon she will be blanketed again in winter white
gone will be the warm breath of life,
her children taken from her, she is again barren
only to be betrothed to a promise of new life.

I wrote this on a day trip to Illinois from Iowa across wide open farm land.

                      God Bless....Taz

Copyright © Richard Pickett | Year Posted 2010

Details | Narrative |
Our fig in January, entirely denuded now
like my heart in your absence, is but
more beautiful, if possible, in its seasonal
solemnity than in summer's exacting extravagance.
The trunk, grown massive in manhood, is a citadel
of strength supporting the curving bowl of its
branches as they bend back into themselves, becoming
the bare black sculpture of winter trees Hemingway
described in Paris in the Jardin of Luxembourg
where we used to walk, following in his footsteps.

These prayerful branches, grown as large as
the beanstalk giant of storybook lore, cup
the sky, making a sieve through which rain filters,
better for unobstructed passage to its 
earthbound blessing, clearer for the distillation.

Above ground two massive roots, more visible
in winter definition--veins from the beating heart
of the tree--though siblings still, sprawl out 
in different directions, then disappear wherever
they are traveling,  who knows where?  Not
climbing skyward like Jack on his leafy ladder, 
but earthward out of sight toward a Southern
provenance, toward Provence, perhaps, 
as if impassioned for home.


Copyright © Nola Perez | Year Posted 2010

Details | Narrative |
As evenings dark began to close in
a little girl wipes her nose on her sleeve.
Listless and hungry she walks in the snow
a poor and lost soul, one cold New Year’s Eve.

Her dead mothers slippers were much to large,
they were flip flopping while crossing the street,
two wild carriages coming full speed
made her lose them, now she walks in bare feet.

She glances in windows as she walks by,
families eating and making good cheer,
her pains from hunger she tries to ignore,
she’s starving and freezing, poor little dear.

The north winds cold breeze keeps blowing her face
catches her breath as it blows back her hair.
She spots a dark alley where she can lay,
Tired and windblown she can no longer care.

She curls in a ball tucking frozen feet
carefully under her old blanket cloak,
she leans on the building, closing her eyes
now given up and her spirits are broke.

A shaggy old dog, nudges her gently
she hugs him and draws him close to her heart,
smiling she whispers, we’ll go together 
when Jesus finds us, we’ll never more part

Then both of their eyes close, she bathes in dreams,
sitting at a fire, with food on the hearth.
When she awakes, a lady stands smiling,
pats the old dog saying, good boy old Barth.

The Little Match Girl by H.C. Anderson
Most terribly cold it was; it snowed, and was nearly quite dark, and evening-- the last evening of the year. In this cold and darkness there went along the street a poor little girl, bareheaded, and with naked feet. When she left home she had slippers on, it is true; but what was the good of that? They were very large slippers, which her mother had hitherto worn; so large were they; and the poor little thing lost them as she scuffled away across the street, because of two carriages that rolled by dreadfully fast.

Written by Brenda Meier-Hans 
Contest: A Christmas Tale
Sponsor Debbie Guzzi

Copyright © Brenda Meier-Hans | Year Posted 2014

Details | Narrative |
She curled her tail around her toes,
Covering whiskers, chin and nose.
An ear twitch here, another there;
She claimed as hers the easy chair.

Tormentor of both mole and mouse,
She spent the summer out of house.
Plundered, pillaged, night and day,
No mercy for dim witted prey.

Summer passed and then the fall,
As bitter cold left wintery pall.
The feline wanted none of that;
Once more she posed as family cat. 

She lay about each day and night: 
Purred when stroked and feigned delight.
Her bowl, her chair and toilet place, 
Were all she claimed as sovereign space.

The season wore on long and cold.
Outside most life seemed put on hold.
The feline lay there still as dead,
Entombed within her winter bed.

Come now the spring with days of fair;
The old cat stretched within her chair.
A well placed nose near open sill;
She felt the much diminished chill.

Then rushed to door that still was closed.
Cries from her pleading throat arose.
Weaving through her mistress legs;
"Let me out," brash feline begged.

As chipmunk fed in hemlock crotch,
Unfettered cat dashed off the porch.
With one quick scramble up the tree;
A winter cat she ceased to be.

Do we not marvel at her grace,
Ere all those months confined in place?
The cat resumes with guileless ease,
Her summer reign of fields and trees.

Copyright © Diane Lefebvre | Year Posted 2015

Details | Narrative |
"Well Captain how we working this one."" umm; so Billy is this your first Winter Rescue?"
"Yep" "All right you're with me" "I thought I was going to be with Tom" " Hey kid your 
better off with Harry. Rick and I have been partners many times before." " Ok guys keep
your spikes on until we hit the top of the avalanch floe. that's a good 5 or 600 feet down
Stay away from uprooted trees, it takes less than 5 pounds to send the whole tree down the mountain, possibly causing the floe to become the base.Rick, Tom there's a goat trail 60 meters to the west follow that and we will meet at Nesting Rocks. Every 2 minutes flick your Amber lamp 3 times each in our direction. Keep your radios on but I'll be the only one talking; unless YOU find a Save. Flash us in 5 minutes when your in position" "See You at the snowline boss."" Harry. Why do they call you captain and boss
 "Senority, I been on the Squad for 18 years. Let me know if you get any numbness in or
tingling feelings in your hands,arms,or legs." What about my ears?" In a couple of hours
your ears will be burning, which is good, they'll help keep your face warm." How, Why?"
"I don't know, I didn't event ears, I just know that they do. There's the signal, Let's get started. Be sure to tug the tether with each movement you make. I signaled them in two minutes I want you to signal them in amber." " Why amber?" Yellow light can be seen farther away than white light."
                                   To be cont.

Copyright © HGarvey Daniel Esquire | Year Posted 2012

Details | Narrative |
Sunday morning
time for sabbath sacraments.

He steps into gusty wind,
some fat splatter sweeps of raindrops
fall across his porch roof
on down through roaring river valley,
forceful push, then ebb,
February wind storm with fat rain,
a wondrous primal pair
he adores.

Neighbor birds start their liturgical dance
and ritual songs of regeneration
without him.
Already flying quick floating dives
into drama time,
singing back to Brother Wind
howling on his way.

Calling, chanting cantors, conjoin
swelling sacred anti-gravity songs
co-arise blissful sweeping sound,
grace filling atmosphere swirls time-rich
sacred rites across his house-bound skin.

Sound of incense sweeps down his river,
north to south with warmer hopes and natural wealth intentions,
remind him time for political baptism.

She incants from the bathtub
in short gusts of heated blast enculturation,
conjoining his internal gospel choir,

Chirps her oppositional descant
challenging and prophesying and occupying
in full-voiced roar of need
as want
right now,
and seldom bothers a please,
much less a thanks
for caring as best he can
to hear her appositional rhythms and patterns,
irritating flows of hard-blown breath
with pearling attitude.

Storm and brew
birds cheer rage in her brain
shouting at co-arising gravity
to blow another way
within her exegetical universe,

Her way,
the only way
she can imagine
to function in a reverse and upside down
political world of unheard powerlessness
when inside
she can only find her loud-voiced demands
to turn life around,
spin this slippery wind of Earth
to blow in her right liturgical way.

Baptism completes this wind drenched requiem
of full-life as anti-death survival
to cooperate this week's regenerate vocational intent
and eco-political practice.

She joins her dad
for one last look
through jaundiced droopy eye
at drenching rain that could fly back
from whence it came
if only wiser timed to start this day.

Birds now pray their benedictions
quietly in wind-protected nests
while he listens to swollen postlude protest
against eco-agitating time,
uprooting old gnarled systems
decayed for newer holistic use
as compost fades into swaying trees
flown back to join upriver's grace of windblown time,
and forth to rejoin downstream's centerous roots
through winter purging Earth
decomposing dance.

He closes his door to time's external grace
to watch a smile warmly cross her chronic face
like a gust of refreshing wind
through a rainy karmic life.

Copyright © Gerald Dillenbeck | Year Posted 2016

Details | Narrative |

Winter is about to hit full force It is inevitable but each year, us Canadian dudes Wish for it to be milder and less snowy than usual Can't stop us from begging the Ice Fairy Princess In her infinite wisdom and grace and beauty For just this one time to spare us poor citizens Of the True North Strong and Free A phrase that's part of our National Anthem They say we're a hardy bunch but as we age It gets tougher and tougher and tougher Okay... why don't I try this Dear Ice Fairy Princess, if I promise To be a good and honurable citizen For the whole of 2015 Could you please, please, send us an extra mild winter With just the occasional light snowfall In return, I promise to never call you that bad name again Yours truly, Jack xxx © Jack Ellison 2015

Copyright © Jack Ellison | Year Posted 2015

Details | Narrative |
The feeders were empty, dejected, forlorn.
The lady who filled them had suddenly gone.
Her time here now ended, she wakened no more:
Gone from her gardens, departed her door.
This little much mattered to birds on the wing,
With winter now over, well into the spring.
All busy with nesting, caught up in new life.
No hunger in summer, no cold, bitter strife.
New homes to be built: sturdy and staid.
Songs to be sung and eggs to be laid.
Sheltered and nurtured; the young ones appear.
A sure rite of passage in the spring of each year.
Fledglings near grown will be taught how to fly
And soar past the tree tops up into the sky.
They will learn of the hawk and its hunger for flesh:
Of wicked, sly felines that hide in the brush.
Then late summer grows weary and tired of play. 
It goes to bed earlier and earlier each day.
The fall time all golden and valued the more;
Birds sense coming peril past winter’s cold door.
Those who remain for new season’s sharp sting,
Grow restless, uneasy, not choosing to sing.
Old feeders hang empty, no seed to be found . . 
Below only barren, forbidding, cold ground.
Blue jays and the doves, all the species of finch,
Chickadees, titmice, now feel winter's pinch.
Woodpeckers, nuthatches, cardinals and crows,
Will all group together to face winter woes.
Then a morning arrives with white flakes in the air.
Frigid and stark; the day reeks of despair.
First jay to arrive at the earliest light,
Gives out a sharp cry to all others in flight.
There's someone out tending the feeders below,
Tamping the snow where the cracked corn will go.
And filling the hollow in that old rotten stump:
Sunflower, suet, dried fruit and some nuts.
Bleak landscape has kidnapped the scene down below,
But all’s right in the hemlock, as well as the snow.
New feeders abound, where old feeders once hung 
And with someone to fill them, let the new winter come.

Copyright © Diane Lefebvre | Year Posted 2015

Details | Narrative |
He stood still in the chilling winter breeze, with a carrot
for a nose, two sticks for hands, two buttons for eyes, and six tiny
buttons for a mouth. During the day, children liked playing around him,
skating and dancing as they danced, sung, and screamed; the smell
of happiness was in the air. The snowman was the only one who wasn't 
enjoying these playful moments, for he was only a pile of snow
that was put together, to look like a human. 
One night, two days before Christmas,
the nasty-looking gingerbread man crept into the children's playing field; he was carrying a torch."I will melt you, and make you part of the icy floor!" he whispered.  He was once a jolly man, who was cursed by a witch, because of stealing her gingerbread. All his friends and family abandoned him, for he looked strange. Since then, he hated anyone or anything that resembled happiness or smile. “Tomorrow the children will have a different look on their faces….” he thought to himself.   An evil smile formed on his face. 
As he stared to melt the snowman, Santa appeared out of nowhere, riding his flying reindeer that carried many gifts.
“What are you doing my friend?” he asked gingerbread man. “I have brought you a gift. It is a wishing coin!” The gingerbread man was so touched, that he wished that that the snowman was alive, so that he could know how it felt to be alive. He then tossed the coin into the air. The snowman then gradually started to move, and utter words. Surprisingly, the gingerbread man turned into a human once more. The witch’s curse was broken by love.
The Christmas tree lighting was reflecting on a lake; children were sharing gifts, as they sang Carols; the elves were sprinkling magical stardust in the air – it was Christmas after all! It was beautiful to see a man, once a gingerbread man, dancing with the snowman! 

Copyright © Teddy Kimathi | Year Posted 2014

Details | Narrative |

Those winter blahs, they're with us again They can drag us down without doubt It makes us feel like cursing bloody murder Can't take it, I just want to shout After all these years I still can't stand winter Indoors for at least six months As the years fly by, it gets harder to endure As a kid I enjoyed winter once Not a complainer, enjoy life to the fullest But I wish they could cancel winter Might even try coercing those weather gods As I let out an audible whimper I'll continue to try to lead an exemplary life If winter could just be canceled Never to complain about the wind and the rain As long as our winter is annulled This obviously sounds a bit selfish of me There's many enjoying the cold Skiing and tobogganing and having a great time I'm not cut from that outdoorsy mould © Jack Ellison 2015

Copyright © Jack Ellison | Year Posted 2015

Details | Narrative |

This sub zero stuff may finally be over How do we survive every year It ain't civilized, it's downright barbaric This year got a frozen rear Sat down on the coals in my barbecue pit Took twenty-four hours to thaw Till finally I smelled a very strange odour Realized it was time to withdraw A Canadian dude but this is insane Even I can't handle this stuff Told Cathie, better hide all the knives Enough is bloody well enough Likely flying south with the birdies next fall Can't take another winter like this Too old and decrepit, way past my prime As I leave, I'll throw you all a big kiss This sub zero stuff may finally be over How do we survive each year!!! © Jack Ellison 2015

Copyright © Jack Ellison | Year Posted 2015

Details | Narrative |

Mostly mild, wet, and muddy  in winter,
but also chilly, cold, and sometimes snowy.
We feasted on ice cycles from tin or asphalt rooftops;
We screamed and yelled as we fought each other with snowballs;               With patience and craftsman-like precision, we made snowmen as        mothers watched with smiles, making us the best tasting ice cream.
Late nights and early mornings, we waited to hear from the newscast.
“The roads are too bad, and for the sake of safety, no school today”.
Such words over the radio or television are the only ones that mattered.
But it was not all fun and games in the Northern Mississippi Dixie land.
Rain, snow, sleet, or sunshine, there were always outdoor chores to do.
There was wood to cut and to bring in with the coals to keep us warm.
There were hungry pigs, chickens, a cow, and sometimes goats to feed.

One day out near the O’Hare International Airport, my feet nearly froze.
That was when I was driving a VW Bus that was fun to drive until it got cold.
Let the truth be told, Chicago is not just a Windy city by the lake; it’s icy cold. I had my Chicago share of winters in the ‘70’s.
In Chicago, with hardened and freezing bones,
on short days or long ones, life always goes on.
It was so cold that I could hardly walk.
It was so cold that I could barely talk.
It was so cold, yet nothing seemed to halt.
It was so cold that my whole body would shake,                                            and my ears ached in pain as if they would break.
If New York City never sleeps, Chicago never stops.
In the dead of winter, people on State Street continues to shop.
Mayor Daily’s city kept the streets clear, and the buses kept moving.

This year our heating system was first used on Saturday evening, November 7. It seemed that summer forgot to cool down and depart, or even stall; but ran head-on into fall. My trees are still very green, and the leaves are slowly falling because Winter is calling. It’s Sunny California in the Sacramento Region, and Winter is just around the corner. For a few years now, the rainy winter season has produced much heat, but little rain. Our hope is that this winter will be different for a change; perhaps cold and wet.

Copyright © curtis johnson | Year Posted 2016

Details | Narrative |
I was standing in my dining room, drinking a cup of coffee, staring out the window the other day.  Across the street is the school bus stop, so for a brief time, each morning there stands a collection of young students, mindlessly milling around until the bus arrives.  Of note is that this is winter time in Maine.  Temperatures in the teens and twenties are the norm.  Yet, there stood at least two boys, wearing parkas and, to my surprise and chagrin, shorts.  What is the matter with kids today.

Then I thought about when I was a kid and how my mother would always be concerned that, when in my teens, I never buttoned or zipped up my coat.  Didn't bother me near as much as it did her.

Where I grew up, there were no yellow buses.  We all walked to school.  In the summer, it was fun to jostle with your friends, sharing lies and tall tales with each other.  But in the winter, it was quite something else again.  Mom would dress us in the kitchen.  Padded snow pants over which she would pull on and snap up a pair of rubber boots.  They were called galoshes then.  Next came a scarf over which a frayed but warm coat was buttoned, all the way up to the neck.  Lastly, my prized leather aviator cap with shear-ling lined ear flaps, and of course, the requisite mittens, which when very young, were pinned to our sleeves.

Our books were carried in an old green book bag, cinched at the top and thrown over our shoulder, or more often then not, swung around or dragged during our school ward journey.  Funny how I remember all this , but I don't remember ever being cold, even when my face was apple red.  It was just something you did.  If you weren't going to school, you would be playing outside anyway.  Winter was subjective.

So when you hear the stories from your grandpa about how he used to walk to school in waist high snow and how the trip was uphill, both ways, you may want to think back on the fun you had, and how much those kids across the street are missing.

Copyright © Bob Quigley | Year Posted 2012

Details | Narrative |

I'm badly in need of a holiday It happens every year at this time Need to go where the palm trees grow And the sun shines most of the time A total break from everyday stuff And this frigid Canadian winter Somewhere where the moon above Causes the waves to shimmer An island paradise away from it all The every daily trials at home To lose myself on a fantasy island No email, no internet, no phone A place where time doesn't exist Where nothing is done in a rush The pace is slow and oh so easy With surroundings green and lush The vision I see is heaven on earth Hope one day it will all come true Till then I'll shiver and curse out loud As my lips turn a shade of blue! © Jack Ellison 2015

Copyright © Jack Ellison | Year Posted 2015

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People call it a winter wonderland I call it a lack of green Not that green's my favourite colour But it beats keeping driveways clean As soon as we think our shovelling is over Another storm hits with a blast The grass was showing only two days ago My hopes once more have been dashed Silly of me to wish for such kindness I live above the 49th parallel To entertain such wishful thinking is folly Keeps turning, this world carousel Realize the gods have their own agenda They decide on the weather we'll get Winter is punishment for all the damn wars Mother Nature doesn't forget Don't think this is how it's supposed to be It should all be sunshine and flowers We're being punished so let's smarten up Not worry bout who's got the power! © Jack Ellison 2015

Copyright © Jack Ellison | Year Posted 2015

Details | Narrative |

My grandfather
Worked hard all his life
And died
When I was 

I remember him 
Sitting in the dark
By the kitchen stove
On cold winter nights 
Rubbing his calloused hands
Over and over again
Not saying a word 
To anyone
Listening to the voices on the outside
Whistling in the winter wind.

Once I walked 
In by mistake
Breaking the silence
I asked what he was thinking about
Nothing he said 
The his voice changed
Listen to me son
Everyone has a lesson
To learn in life
You’re young now
But later on
You’ll need to know
When to grab life
In your own two hands
And shake it
Until you get
What you want. 

The sudden anger 
In his voice
Startled me like a
Short fuse in the night
And I ran from him.

Grandfather didn’t work during winter
It was too cold he said
The need 
To work more 
To buy more
Never suited him.
What he needed was nearby
A pair of old work boots
A jacket carelessly slung
Over a chair
A pair of cotton twill pants from better days
And a bottle of brandy.

For him, winter was 
Meeting old friends
After Sunday Church
Congregating in the park
In small groups
Standing their ground 
Against all outsiders
On days when the snows receded
And winter’s end seemed close.

Some rested on canes
Others stood tall
Survivors of another winter
Arguing politics
Talking about this and that 
And how well their grown up children were doing. 

Life can go on without us
They seemed to say
To the empty park
And the gray skies
We will meet again one day
But for now 
We’ll stay here until the sun goes down 
And winter returns.

Copyright © Edmund Siejka | Year Posted 2009

Details | Narrative |
Winter Fantasia.

Snowman, his coat a trillion frosty threads...crotched by Jack,
the naughty mischief maker. 
Each crystal cast perfect by Boreas.                          #
Blizzard bullies, bustling, jig-sawed sleet,
crystallized in my mindscape of imagery.
Winter Sun dares to melt you down, pasty white.
Your peculiar perfume, suggests ice cubes soaked in lemon-crush.
Shiver, quiver. As goose-bumps frazzle your Arctic world 
the moon shines crazy, diamond flames hang in the lonely sky.
I materialise you...the absent person,
I colour the scene with my paintbrush and bucket.

Bold, stiff... blow a bon-bon kiss,
you sentry on snow-laden ice,
under heaven-hung, bunting stars...
a diamante necklace, swanked by Nyx, Greek Goddess of the Night.
Platted rainbows twist, entwine hues, illuminate
a fibre-glassed squirrel who morphs into a swirl of peppermint puffs
and whirls round in muffled silence.
Rouge-crested Robin rests on cold shoulder, then
alights on umber wings...
Ruby stained Snowman chuckles like river ripples,
egg-white flakes dying to pirouette,
airborne ballerinas, swivelling, spinning...
from knitted, silken clouds, finer than a Fuschia’s blush. 
Come Spring sprinkles of Lime grass and creamed Crocus
blanket my view where you once stood.

Reality or imagination, I am the speaker of this poem,
so Jack, draw fern-like patterns on my windows, then
run away with Nymph shadows...
Even the wind dies happy.

# Boreas...Greek God of Winter.

Copyright © Geraldine Douglas | Year Posted 2016

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The priestess had seen it all well; she had seen it coming. 
The Snow Goddess had spoken to her in a dream. 
“How could this be?!” the priestess asked herself. 
The human nature in her could not make sense of what her visions entailed. 
The reality came to life in the night without the moon, but a night full of stars! The malevolent tribe of the wolves had broken the gates, and killed thousands of knights. They sought the blood of the Queen; the priestess herself! Her divine soul was too much for the vile and dark wolf warriors to bear.
The invaders were ten feet tall, with muscles as strong as steel, and teeth as mammoth as elephant tasks! Warriors of the Snow Kingdom were no match for such an army. 
“I leave my Kingdom’s fate to you my Goddess…” the priestess whispered in despair. As the wolf warriors reached the foot of a big mountain, the auroras began to appear. They were of different colors like rainbow! Their visibility invited a tremor that created avalanches, that buried the entire giant army to their deaths. The Queen’s vision had come true!

Copyright © Teddy Kimathi | Year Posted 2015

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I watched the penguins woddle along,
On cold-hard ice; where they belong.

From water to land, they scurried around,
Flapping their feet on frozen ground.

Herds of them were standing still,
Settling down to a long cold chill.

Mother passes her egg to father carefully;
Knowing he'll care for it, so, naturally.

He'll protect it from the harsh-cold nights,
In a warm snug pouch away from sight.

For mother must find many fish to catch,
While father stays until it is hatched.

Long-dark days of Winter will change to Fall,
Returning mother, with, her familiar call.

Such a sweet sound for father's ear,
Ending another, long-cold Winter year.

Giving father penguin a much needed break,
For their chick is born and fully awake.

With such a huge urge to quickly eat,
Yes, many tasty meals of fresh, fish-meat.

Copyright © Carol B Tyre | Year Posted 2007

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Hercule Poirot entered Santa Claus’s large factory, shivering with cold.  The great detective looked back and saw Frosty the Snowman grinning with delight.  Hercule brushed of the snow from his impeccable suit, wiped his dainty shoes and arranged his moustache.  He was in full trimming though he wondered why he was summoned to Winter Fairy land at the North Pole.

Several elves came out dancing around him singing Jingle Bells.  “Ho, Ho, Ho,” cheered Santa.  “So you’ve arrived.  A sirop de menthe for the great detective. He needs to warm up.”

Always polite, Hercules asked, “You need my services, Monsieur?”
“Of course.  We have a sled full of toys.  Christmas is tomorrow.  Tonight we must deliver the toys.  Six reindeers are ready, but the leader, Rudolph has lost his red from his nose.  Who will guide the sled?”

Poirot almost had an apoplexy.  To be driven in the cold with sleigh bells ringing and losing him his concentration and all because of a red nose?  But he was a man of honour and so he investigated.  Rudolph had a cold and someone gave him a medication.  The red on the nose disappeared.  What to do?  Rudolph came in quietly and saw the glass of sirop.  Poirot offered the glass to Rudolph who began to lick it.  Lo and behold, the nose turned red.

Santa and the elves danced.  A great feast took place including the turkey with its trimmings.  Afterwards, Santa offered Poirot a drive back home.
“Don’t worry, you won’t have to enter any chimney,’ laughed Santa.
Sled bells rang, a bottle of sirop was given to the detective and Rudolph drove Hercule home.  

“Happy Christmas,” shouted the elves.  And another Poirot mystery was easily solved.

HO ho ho - Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Eve Roper

Copyright © Victor Buhagiar | Year Posted 2016

Details | Narrative |
I still remembered that night
the snow was heavy and unusually white.
We gathered around the fireplace,
Momma was sharing her Christmas grace.

Daddy went home and brought us presents
Momma stopped her story and away she went
out into the snowy streets 
buying us winter treats.

It has passed dinner and she’s not home.
Our stomach started to ache and roam.
Daddy began to worry,
and away he went in a hurry.

Me and Anna were still inside
looking through the window with eyes opened wide.
Then Anna started to cry,
I was still wondering why
until I saw a shadow in the foggy snow.
Anna squeezed my hand and wouldn’t let go.

A squeak, a squeal - 
a spinning wheel
down the hill
that’d thrill and kill.

It came clashing and crashing
through the glaciers it went bashing
through our door it was breaking, 
left us all shaking and quaking.

We did not restrain
the shrieks and tears weren’t feigned.

Next morning the neighbors came
and told us that momma and daddy weren’t the same.
I followed them and what I saw
with only a glance made me drop my jaws.

There, two coffins neatly laid
“Uncertain causes” was clearly sprayed.
I laughed and thought I just got played
but grief suddenly fell when the priest prayed.
Nobody helped when I fell limp on the floor
as they carried my parent’s bodies through the shattered door.

From that day on there wasn’t winter anymore.
Snow were redder than red – the color of gore.
Their tombstones were always cold solid steel
and if you came close you’d feel:
A squeak, a squeal - 
a spinning wheel
down the hill
that’d thrill and kill.

Copyright © Celine Tran | Year Posted 2011

Details | Narrative |
My twin sister came for a visit to New Hampshire at 30 below,
It was even more frigid when the fierce wind would blow.
Wearing her leather coat from Georgia, she didn’t have a prayer…
If it hadn’t been for a funeral, she never would have been there.

She got out of the car on arrival, and let out a squeal,
Because of a strange noise she heard that made her reel!
She said, “What’s that horrible, creepy sound?”
I replied, “It’s just the snow creaking from your feet on the cold ground!”

She said, “You have to go back to Georgia and get out of this hell hole!”
She was shivering from head to foot…the cold had taken its toll.
Later that year in the summer my revenge was oh so sweet!
It was 100 degrees in Georgia and she was complaining of the heat.

She said, “It is 110 degrees in the shade and I can’t do a thing with my hair.”
I said, “You’ve got to get out of that hell hole you have down there.”
“It is 75 degrees and beautiful, and my hair looks great!”
“You can have the weather in Georgia... this is worth the wait!”

Contest No 220 Any Form or Theme Max of 16 Lines
Sponsor: Brian Strand
Awarded 9th Place

Copyright © Brenda McGrath | Year Posted 2016

Details | Narrative |
It’s October, we find time to go by the spring-house to get the tulips. It is time to prepare for winter and the inevitable coming of spring.  The bulbs look hopelessly dead and ugly, rather pitiful in fact.  We nurture them tenderly.

fall gardener tucks the bulbs in bed till spring's alarm.
Through many snows and chilling temperatures, we do not consider at all what is taking place under the ground. One warm March day we see tiny noses poking up through the soil around the back porch. By April, we are sitting in the swing admiring the result of loving labor of last fall.
seeing the blooms brings to mind dried-up bulbs
How could such ugliness have turned to such beauty in the cold, hard earth? As May approaches bringing other flowers, our short-lived tulips drop their blossoms and say good-bye. But as we've discovered, the wisest of gardeners do not hasten to bother the beauty in its passing.
dust to dust all blossoms shrivel with time food for the soil wilting leaves nourish the bulb hidden in the ground
The bulb remains unattractive throughout the whole cycle of growth. Along in mid-July when all external signs of life have faded, we remove the unsightly bulbs from their bed, putting them back in the spring-house until fall. Without them, there will be no blossoms next spring. It is the care we show the bulb which bursts into the beauty we bless in time. entry for contest: Carlton D. Kennedy's Love of Nature

Copyright © Reason A. Poteet | Year Posted 2013

Details | Narrative |
In the spring 
Who break in the flowers 
And spread fragrance 
To provide nectar for mankind 
Humans who pick the flowers at will

In the summer 
Who sit still and staring at all 
Let the tree be cut down by mankind 
I wandered and wandered 
Wandering for host to compass me

In the autumn 
In hollow tree 
Eating my favorite nuts 
But mankind neglect my hiding 
Frozen till unable to extricate myself

In the winter 
In iceberg 
Having my own fun 
The bad action of mankind 
Make the water temperature rise

Melting the iceberg 
Only hope that 
Mankind change their humanity 
Because of the replaced seasons 
Spring summer autumn winter

Copyright © Yap Kian | Year Posted 2017

Details | Narrative |

Winter didn't arrive till February 1st It came on with a vengeance since then Something's screwed up I do believe Such extremes, really can't recall when I know, I know, I live up in Canada The land of ice and much snow But give us a break, enough is enough Can't take this bad stuff no mo' Hardy yes but certainly not foolhardy Been living here for 79 years Don't go out unless it's absolutely necessary In my La-Z-Boy I park my rear So don't ring my bell or dial my number Haven't you heard of hibernation I'm incognito, I can no longer be reached Bugging me is a privacy violation A true violation of my rights as a human An intrusion I'd very much dislike Unreachable by any possible means at all Till damn winter finally takes flight! © Jack Ellison 2015
Author's Note: Temps were 46F yesterday... winter's back methinks has be broken!

Copyright © Jack Ellison | Year Posted 2015

Details | Narrative |
Winter is on the tips of her fingers.
Winter is silver on her breath as she exhales,
oxygen stamped with her name, forgotten
as either one,  
stiffening into smoke like her hair
against the twilight.
Her tears are winter on her face -
winter ice like her eyes when she can 
force them open.

Winter is in her poinsettia smile, 
wrinkles rising
while she remembers this scarf,
the first time she wore it,
that Christmas when he was there
to kiss her nose and give 
her champaine-promise, stomach-flutter
feelings again and again
and see her eyelashes when they filled up 
with snow 
like pearls on a string.

Winter is turning,
a music-box key 
in her throat as she feels her head 
bowing of it's own accord from the sky
to the dirty grey slush of the sidewalk.
Winter stops her ears to people passing,
wondering at a very old woman in 
a ratty old coat
and one
very red, frayed scrap of knitted cloth
bunched up in her claw fingers 
like the blood in her veins, 
becoming winter.

Winter hums christmas carols in her 
heartbeat while she shudders
and sobs against the cold -
and silent night, the virgin birth
slowing into a winter evening
lit only by streetlamps.
She grasps blindly at the whisper
of pipe-smoke and familiar old
love when his ghost hits her 
with a mistle-toe touch on her cheek.

She listens to the ice splinter,
cracking skin.

She wipes her face, trickling down
like the night to the street, hearing 
the clock tick, all those
longing little chimes like winter
on her senses.
It's twelve-o-clock now.

She shuffles on.

Copyright © Hana Ryusaka | Year Posted 2009

Details | Narrative |
Early winter sun; low in the sky

Warm light burnishing the yellow leaves that stubbornly cling to the birches
Silver trunks contrast with their own dark shadows
Russet browns of the larches beyond add a touch of fire
And the lattice of twigs and branches from the oaks and ashes
In harmonious concert, complete the sylvan scene

Texture is added by the gritstone crags here and there
And by the heather and grasses of the moorland foreground
A babbling brook tumbles over rocks and falls
Separating the open bleakness of the moor
From the closed impenetrability of the woodland beyond

The trees cloak the hillside, giving rise
To an amazing palette of colour
As layer upon layer of species and pattern
Weave an intricate canvas painted in unbelievable hues
Of ochre, burnt sienna, and umber

An ancient stone path
Worn deep by two centuries of feet and their untold histories
Winds its way down to the packhorse bridge
And into the woods, airy now in winter, but dense in summer
A dipper walks impossibly under the water before hopping out onto a rock

The pungent smell of mushrooms, making me hungry
Affords the excuse to dally a little longer
I rest against a dry stone wall with my lunch and flask
And bask in the human solitude
As I commune with the abundance of life that surrounds me

Shortly I will have to leave this place
For I have a few miles yet to go
The days are short now and the light will fade fast
But, although I will have to leave this place
This place will never leave me

Copyright © Nigel Fawcett | Year Posted 2008

Details | Narrative |

He had some time to spare and pray.
He worked his farm for years, all his boys have now grown up,
then moved away.

He raised them good he raised them right.
He run cattle so they can earn college degrees and,
then  start living their own lives. being free.

Now it’s hard after his wife has died.
It broke his heart but he promised that he would,
keep their farm alive..

Now here he sits taking a break.
Asking god for a weather break.
all because, his cows needs winter hay.

Copyright © Jack Reed | Year Posted 2011