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On Writing And Words Winter Poems | On Writing And Words Poems About Winter

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Details | Free verse |

Winter Poems I

the street is full of poems
hanging, shimmering
frozen petals in the air

He who dares to pick one
makes no imprint in the holy snow.



I would love it if Soupers could give me some critical feedback. I don't even mind very very strong critiques as long as they're constructive. I'm always encouraged by all the positive comments you all give me, but I think it's time to upgrade my writing skills. ;) So come on and take my poem to pieces, people! :D

Copyright © Grace EunSong Lee | Year Posted 2010

Details | Bio |

I Am Poetry

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

Details | Rhyme |


In a bright studio overlooking the noisy street,
I hide from the living to write with a frantic beat;
loud voices and sounds will subdue before dark...
very sweet is the the melody of the lonely lark.

Even when it snows, the view is quite awesome:
watching snowflakes slowly come down and dress 
trees in glistening white...one can feel lonesome
when every audible sound is hushed by stillness. 

How lovely it is when happy faces peak from windows!
They may seem immensely surprised or stupefied;
and some even open their doors and come outside
to observe the fluffy snow descend on the pines' boughs.   

I pause for another minute, then resume my writing...
it's profound observation that inspires the heart and mind,
giving this motivated poet many ideas of positive feeling;
I sense and absorb them, not noticing kids getting wild.   

In a bright studio overlooking the noisy street,
I fear shadows towards evening when feet
make deep footprints that lead to my stairs... 
and afraid of ghosts, I begin chanting prayers.

Copyright © Andrew Crisci | Year Posted 2013

Details | Choka |

Winter Read

alone with my thoughts
rain beats against the window
cadence changes with the wind

fire spiting at times
the dog settles at my feet
written words beckon me

Copyright © Barbara Gorelick | Year Posted 2010

Details | Sonnet |

Last Supper – A Winter Sonnet

I spit the words you made me eat, and then
they land on you as there you stand aghast –
You cringe and stare at what you said; thick phlegm
bedecks your face, a white-hot, slimy blast.

They left a taste, a bitter paste of hate
and painful anger. Tongue to teeth, I fled
the room and slapped the twisted hands of fate
from off my neck as choking life-breath bled.

I tripped, you screamed and tried to grab me back –
Too late for that, and now we fall apart.
The precipice is yawning, grim, deep black
and down I plunge, my ending and my start.

The forge of stellar flame blows hot, then cold
as melting, sculpted frozen wings unfold

Copyright © Rev. Rebecca Guile Hudson | Year Posted 2006

Details | Alliteration |

Winter Writer II

Winters' wandering within
wicked waves of worsening weather.
Wildly whipping winds
whistling through windchimes
tinkling tenderly.

Women wrapped in wreaths
of wool or, if rich,
cashmere coated against
the avalanche of chill
around corners marching,
counting with a
pink pedometer
to ensure a regimen
regardless of winters' waft.

Snow softly swirling
through the thermal drafts
not ready to land yet.
Not really stuck ...

Copyright © Sue Mason | Year Posted 2007

Details | Rhyme |

Blizzard still blowing

The cold winter days
Use to amaze me
The dead trees
The lack of their leaves

The season of death
It surrounds me now
My body frozen
Like the chosen

The pond with its ice
Geese in full flight
Ducks skating across
All I see is frost 

Wind cuts through me
Like a sharp knife
Freezing my brain
Driving me insane

Cold, painful hands
Can't write the words
My thoughts imploding
And the blizzard still blowing...

Copyright © ANDREA TRAVIS | Year Posted 2013

Details | Verse |

Conversations on Old Age

The muscles flexed like wings for flight
I saw fell down from heaven like light
The trees shook
Off their callous demure, grew gold green
My masked look
Came where adoration feathered preen
The cold pride that risked my life
The risks that gave me strength in youth
Disappeared in conformance too rife
And I risk done, for old age turned to soot
Undone by trusting to be secure
The man becomes impotent like the child before
Some will not see old age in anything
Except to know dying leaves are gold
And a drying river seems like a spring
Dead winter too as white innocense unfold
Some will not understand metaphors still
Deeper pearls in images of hard shells
The sun gives life and same time does kill
But nothing alive deters the cycled knells
For we conform and then we fall apart
To believe is where the beginnings start
Winter hairs atop the head, and winter beard
That even in the sun will not melt. This tree
Has no green leaf left to show for life. Seered
By the cold barren branches faking all glee
Replaced their groans with creaking songs
Death is kind, it is old age that's glum and gloomy
I fear its frightening, and unfumbling fangs
The little niche of hole to a world so well and roomy.
Bones leak like roofs, and no rain yet
To moist the scales of the crinkling skin
The joy of today is to forget
Memory has no next of kin.
I go beyond the end of the line to write
My children in meaning after my tongue 
Still against the forlorn night
Cleave leaves for specks of dew soft hung.
I have opened hibiscus for your tongue
To bird hum and suck
Its honey out among
Shrivelling stamens sagging into muck
I gave you light that may understand this
Lapse of petals dried
Fantasizing for a kiss
A mouth that left the flesh mob crucified
All this roar of dreams and desires vain
This birth to know, fell
From grace, grows pain
Man's life, the eager urge of empty shell. 

Copyright © David Smalling | Year Posted 2012

Details | Free verse |

Winter Writer

The river of words
she heard ran dry
as the cold came
into her bones
through the crack
at the bottom 
of the door.

That sublime time
of rhyme came to be
more of a chore
as arthritic hands
fought to hold a pen
type a line ... 
the mind didn't rhyme.

It grew cold and dark
without the spark
of light that often
would appear of its own
accord and, whats more,
wrote the words before
the cold and dark.

Winter settling in
to freeze and blow
the beginnings of snow
in the air, though
nothing stuck.
Nothing at all.

Copyright © Sue Mason | Year Posted 2007

Details | Quatrain |

Answering Jonji

Walk on almond paths
of winter sprigs and thyme
floating upward under steps
you left for me in rhyme
I wish to counter balance
your magnitude and flow
with a whisper and an echo
like the winter winds which blow
Crisp inhale and wonder
with a cup of fresh brewed bliss
while the loose exhale of winter
turns my thoughts toward those I miss
You always memorize me
while you turn to me in kind
with a moment and a whisper
which you always leave in rhyme
I love you like forever
as you warm my hands in yours
as we wind on down our sensory paths
and land on different shores...

Copyright © Tatyana Carney | Year Posted 2005