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Prose Poetry Snow Poems | Prose Poetry Poems About Snow

These Prose Poetry Snow poems are examples of Prose Poetry poems about Snow. These are the best examples of Prose Poetry Snow poems written by international PoetrySoup poets

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Details | Prose Poetry |


Segun my child! My son!
Soon, the cock will crow at dawn
And the east will showcase the sun
Soon, you will leave my home, 
To found your own
With words of wisdom, you won’t be alone.
Like a mini-skirt, advice is too short
But it covers the body’s vital lot.

Hear me.
Your brother is not your friend,
He is another you, but independent
So your love for one another, allow no dent
For the sons of men…
Every journey far destination brings
Nature presents a transport means
The snow has the snow dogs
The desert has the camels
The long distant road has the horse

Even technology came to aid us
For the road, we have the cars
For the seas and ocean, the ship
For the rail, the train
The sky has the airplane
All, to lead us through our destiny lane

That is it with man’s life and the battle in it
For whatever fate comes to us, so be it
As the future hungers like a wild beast
Likewise on it, your eyes be firmly fixed
Take a deep breath my child, and learn this
Every master was once an apprentice
Be it the prophets or the dentists

Fate is most times very unfair
Be not defeated by the things you saw
For life is more like war
And all is fair in love and war.
But whatever life’s battle you face
Nature will surely with remedy surface.

When you fall or fail
Don’t ceaselessly wail
Inhale…count to ten, and then exhale
Turn stumbling block to stepping stone,
So the builders reject, will be chief cornerstone

Two Demi-gods are on man’s destiny entrance
Their names, Consistency and Perseverance
Segun, to them, you must bow
No matter what, no matter how
On their feet, bring your head down

I know my son, I know,
That adventure is the blood of the youths
But by rushing the moment, the petals are bruised
So, calmly assimilate my child, calm study
For so, Apostle Paul admonished Timothy
Never be the first to hate
But to forgive, be the first and be in haste

My son, all humans can’t love you
If they all do, then they want to kill you
Likewise, all humans can’t hate you
If they all do, then they want the best for you
What people suffer to get, yet you so easily get
That you must never despise
For it is your miracle in disguise

For the sons of men,
Me, myself and I comes first
Don’t follow that context
If you find the opportunity to rule
My son, take the alternative to lead
For where rulers doom, leaders bloom

When fortune knocks on your door,
Be quick to offer him a sit
Use your wisdom and condor
To keep him and give him no exit

Copyright © Isioma Esemene | Year Posted 2011

Details | Prose Poetry |


The river flowing tumble of snow 
jackets the buildings and the road 
on the last twilight of 1998. 

As the sky is slowly draped by darkness and coolness, 
there I am on the coldest loneliest walk of my life.

All around, I can see some dancing colored lights.
The houses spells the happy shadows of families. 
Some sharing a meal.
Some laughing out loud near their Christmas tree.
Some on the middle of a party.

Christmas carols flying free on mid-air like:

"...But heaven surely knows
That packages and bows
Can never heal a hurting human soul..."

With only a coat, long thick black hair kissed by snow
and some old worn socks to warm me,
I traverse the street-- 
finding, finding a place I can call home.

About six days ago... I was also with my parents,
so happy, though we only share some bread and cheese
plus porridge that Christmas day. 

Me and my parents hugged every night
allowing me to stand the icy nights of December 
under the roof of our wooden worn-out home.

My parents though they can't read nor write, 
they diligently work day by day for our needs specially mine. 
I wasn't given any gift nor we can't everyday eat some meat.
However, my days with them are filled with fun-loving memories.

Not until...

a monstrous fire eat voraciously 
our home and three other houses nearby.
My father though old with arthritis 
carried me fast as he can to a safe place
and so my mother but --- 
father ran back to the house 
to save some of our things but unfortunately...
The roof of our home fell.
The fire so ferocious swallowed everything including my father.

My mom and I dealt with this pit of tragedy as one 
but later I saw my mother slowly, slowly crumbling down.
She more than me is slowly falling down faster. 
Her lamp of hope blown out. 
And not long, past six on the same day my mother died.

Hence as the surrounding gets cold 
so is the the life of me gradually reaching the freezing point.

***Inspired by the story: The Little Match Girl by H.C. Andersen
and with some lines from the song: "My Grown Up Christmas List" by K. Clarkson

©O. E. Guillermo
Sponsor	Debbie Guzzi 
Contest Name	A Christmas Tale
Placed 2nd

08:33 pm, December 17, 2014

Copyright © Olive Eloisa Guillermo - Fraser | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry |

When Snow Came To Waltz

 When Snow Came To Waltz

Like animated dancing silhouettes
Stilled in time—
Caged on all sides by the chilling whiteness,
We waited in frozen

The sun had abandoned us, leaving
Only a faint reflection;
What could he do anyway?  All
Is like a maximum security of nature
Lock down.

Struggling with itself, the human spirit
Wearily weird with wanton wrath—
Warning unheeded.

Bending knees cringed
In once forgotten prayers—searching;
Howling winds and chilled waxed ears listened.
Void answers. 

Whispering fires wane and beg with hunger; but
The wood cupboard has gone bare—and electricity?
She ran away and hid in the bitter dark!

As promised, blizzard waltz in and sat quietly.
With stoic patience, she waited to dance and go her way.
But our fuel dance cards had turned to cold ashes.

Copyright © millard lowe | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry |


in a moment of contented thought - the snow floats down to meet me -
like a small child emerging from a deep nights sleep - i stretch out my hand and 
receive a tender kiss - that chills my fingertips and warms my heart -
my hair becomes like frosting on a birthday cake - as tiny, perfect promises of 
laughter begin to cover my being -

too delighted with the wintry gift to shake it away - i invite it to stay and play a 
while - and as memories of a past childhood come into view - i am infused with new 
life and sweet energy - and there is a new found meaning to my day...

as long as the snow floats down to meet me - I will make time - for snow
and him 

Copyright © Lisa Lee | Year Posted 2011

Details | Prose Poetry |

The North Pole Journey

As we approached the ice bergs our ship seemed tiny
they towered high above us as we crept into the bay
we could see the Eskimo's and their sleigh's waiting
now we would complete the next few legs with them

Our goal is to reach and set up camp at the North Pole
loading our supplies onto the sleigh's and getting on
soon we were speeding along, the ground very bumpy
clinging on, ducking  branches as they whip  back and forth

A wonder world of pristine white and hues of various blues
only broken up by the line of trees glinting brightly green
large ravines off to the side, one slip and you would be gone 
to a cold icy grave buried forever in this lost icy world of snow

Onwards over the harsh landscape, we need to reach camp 
before its dark, to unpack what's needed for overnight stay
light a campfire settle and feed the husky's waiting patiently
cook and eat our food as we share a few beers and some jokes

All too soon its dawn, temperature is -20% we have to break
things free from the ice, before we can eat and pack up
husky's are linked up and ready, what a din they are making
so excited to get going, this is now the final stage before the pole

We fly down barely noticeable trails that twist and wind slurry
left behind us, half a days travel left not too far to go now
some we leave the tree line behind, in front nothing but snow
ice bergs so big you could lose a couple of houses inside them

At last we see the buildings ahead and people pouring out 
they will return to their own lands until it is time to relieve us
six months we will be here recording data about weather
and other things, watching polar bears and noting their habits

All this just for some insight and some data that will get buried
as for us well we have the open space, the freezing cold
each other to help past the long nights, day is only 6 hours
18 hours of dark, and fearsome storms that will be our lot    

Cut off now until spring returns and the reindeer return
they have wintered far to the south now coming back
they will give birth here on the icy plains of endless snow
and we will return to so called civillization until next year

Copyright © Shadow Hamilton | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry |

Macchiato Man

fresh white snow falling
into his black hair
he sips his caramel coffee
and smiles up into the sky

Copyright © Brandi Elizabeth Brown | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry |

Climate Change

I’ve been trying to figure out why five toes on each foot is considered normal, or why two ears and two eyes and one nose is considered normal, or why when I look in the mirror I look older than I did when I was twenty or thirty because aging is considered normal. Then I started to think about all the animals that lived in the jungle and wondered if they thought it was normal to spend a lot more of time hunting for food?  That’s when the study of biology and mathematics and chemistry and astronomy took on a new meaning. I realized that mankind needed the word normal so we would be able to recognize what was abnormal like the amount of carbon dioxide that was polluting the air or the fact that the snow and the rain had become smarter than the Climatologists who thought they could forecast the weather without considering the word change.  

Copyright © Howard Dion | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry |

Der erste Schnee/ La primera nieve/ First Snow

Der Wald ist ruhiger geworden,
auch in dem Tal ist Stille eingekehrt.
Die Bäume hüllen sich in Schweigen und warten auf das
erste, leise Weiß.
Vereinzelt ziehen Elstern ihre Kreise 
und ein paar Krähen rufen durch die Zweige, 
ihr nimmermüdes Krächzen in den Tag.
Auch über Feldern und den Wiesen, die immer noch
mit Grün gesegnet sind,
trägt sanfter Wind des Winters erste Boten.
Ganz fein, ganz rein
und zart wie Porzellan,
so gleiten erste Schneekristalle herab zum Boden,
wie von Zauberhand.
Dies ist die Zeit der Kinder,
die der weißen Pracht entgegeneilen, mit kleinen
Händen, ungeübt, die ersten Flocken fangen.
Der erste Schnee, das ist die Zeit der Lichter und der Kerzen,
das ist die Zeit der Hoffnung und der Liebe,
das ist die Zeit der Wärme in den Herzen.

El bosque está más tranquilo ahora
y sobre la valle calló tranquilidad.First Snow
Los árboles se envuelven en silencio,
 esperando el primero blanco.
Algunas urracas tiran circulos aislados y cornejas
 llaman a través de ramos su incansable grazuado al día
Sobre campos y praderas que todavía están benedictos con verdeza,
un viento suave lleva los primeros mensajeros del invierno.
Tan fino, tan claro y delicado como porcelana
planean los primeros copos de nieve hacia abajo de la tierra mágicamente.
Esto es la hora de los niños,
 que dan prisa para encuentrar la magnificiencia blanca
y para coger primeras copos con sus manitos, pequeñitos y inexpertos. 
La primera nieve, ésto es el tiempo de las luces y las velas,
el tiempo de la esperanza y amor,
el tiempo de calor en cada corazón.

The forest is more silent now,
and also is the valley. 
Trees are wrapping in silence and wait for 
the first quiet white.
Sporadically magpies pull their circles 
and only a few crows cry through the branches, 
their never fading craws into the day.
And above fields and meadows, which still
are blessed with green,
a gentle wind carries  first messengers of winter.
Quite fine, quite pure
and delicate as porcelain,
first snowy crystals glide down to the ground,
as pulled by magic force.
This is the time for children,
rushing towards white splendour with tiny unskilled hands
to catch the falling flakes.
First snow, this is the time of  lights and candles,
this is the time of hope and love,
this is the time of  the warmth in every heart.

Copyright © Gert W. Knop | Year Posted 2010

Details | Prose Poetry |

Things To Give Away

Tarny was a little bear 
A teddy bear he be 
Coat was as white as snow 
To this we all agree 
Tarny was a Christmas gift 
Given to a lady fair 
Was sent by her Tarnished Knight 
How she wished that he was there 
Tarny wore a little coat 
Where pinned upon his sleeve 
A note from her Tarnished Knight 
Said "will you read me please " 
"Sorry I can't be with you 
On this Christmas day 
I know its very hard for you 
That I'm so far away" 
"So I am sending Tarny 
For you to now embrace 
I will be there very soon 
Then I will take his place" 
"Tarny has a special gift 
He'll make your dreams come true 
Just close your eyes and make a wish 
You will see what he can do" 
Tears now flowed from her eyes 
Squeezing Tarny oh so tight 
Closed her eyes and made wish 
To dream of the Tarnished one tonight 
That was some time ago 
In another Christmas past 
Once there was hopes and dreams 
Somehow they didn't last 
Tarny now is put away 
Never sees the light of day 
Shares a space with odds and ends 
In box of " things to give away" 
Fleece once of snow flake white 
Now has stains of crimson red 
Came from a broken heart 
Oh! how Tarny bled 
So if you find a little bear 
Slightly stained in red 
May not be a teddy 
But this Tarnished Knight instead 

Copyright © Donald Eissler | Year Posted 2012

Details | Prose Poetry |

The Reflection on Seasons in the Supposition of Snow.

I stared at walls and contemplated colors~

I believe it was after midnight~

he spoke of nothing as I imagined the importance behind us, as I imagined the breeze that
was affected by his voice, as I realized nothing intrigued me...

and here we were.

His arms spoke of goosebumps, little shivers up my spine, and September had this way about
her that I wished to somehow capture in mason jars that would decorate the rooms we may
sit in come snow, I knew the reflection of fire across skin and I kissed possibilities as
I watched our seasons...


There's no stopping distance despite the desire to break clocks, minutes and miles are
irreversible, I've found, so I counted them, the hours, and made sure he was touchable and
only an arms length away...

My August arms brushed across his chest, he had the ability to calm though summer still
danced through his heart, my fingertips traced over the forgotten eyelashes that
desperately tried to escape sight and I breathed, sending wishes to the walls that
surrounded us, to the edges that had yet to decide their color, that touched nothing...

yet captivated my attention.

There were shadows that covered us~

I think they appeared right beyond midnight~

but I knew we were swallowing September,  I supposed we'd create minutes that would make
us smile come snow and we'd kiss in the reflection of fire...

escaping distance

with the whispers that affected skin.

Copyright © JeanMarie Marchese | Year Posted 2007

Details | Prose Poetry |


Soltive pre ordained priest warlike additives initially a Jesus Freak becoming cold 
hearted in the winter. Bane has come with hatred of simple minded people. Sexual 
orientation is nill. Macabration indentation on the quilt. A welcome matt with a towel 
for spills. I have a small fortune tied. Up is not an option now. There is only snow up 
there eventually. The water line is nearer the river then the streaming stream of 
water near me on the highway catching all the melting riverlets as they run away 
from home in WinterBane. Some men still have strength but they abuse it think to 
break down boarded ruins tearing down old barns and cornors of old abandoned 
houses where homeless and poor people might find shelter from the rain. Where will 
they find to dwell. Because of wealth they have a large area to heat in WinterBane 
they have a larger of a structure the more expensive in the WinterBane with sleet 
coming down in Sheets of Ice looked like a solid wall of water hitting me Frost icing 
clothing no thing was DRY ice all over me a few moments after I stepped toe out of 
sheltor walking on the SIDE of the road cant walk on the roadway slipping on the ICE 
stepped offroad walking in the treelined. I found what looked like a Najavo Hogan 
brogaded outside there was clothes hannging on branches a Babylon Garden in the 
snow. While the whole city was whited out at degrees zero. The goose has a liver. 
Oh Pâté the liver rules the Goose is cooked with too many alcholic incumbents while 
the minutes of the meeting Read all old activity reported long ago nothing is new 
under the sun. Nothing there is nothing is there nothing in my past has preparred me 
for my future education has failed me for the alcholic eye was ruined for functioning 
in SOciety degenerate reborne. Nothing smelles worse to a man then sex mixed up 
with tobacco and alchohol how can anyone live as porn objects and still survive the 
toll booth smells like whiskey before three pee em it takes the heart to control it 
takes the lust to want. I feared to die for I was sinnor I feared one day to lay 
underneathe the snow ensheathed but then one day has come to eye EYE Fear No 
Snow EYE Fear No Snow I am a man. The snow no longer bothers me. I am beneath 
it all, My soul is not inside of me. It leaves me when I fall. As I lay here 
silently,wating for the trumpet, It will blow! 
I do not any longer fear the snow. 
Copyright © 2006 charles hice

Copyright © charles hice | Year Posted 2009

Details | Prose Poetry |

How Did Santa Claus Broke The Reindeer Back

How Santa Claus broke the reindeer back

I am just disappointed he is such a play ball; he refuses to joined the community gym, he have no consideration for a hard working reindeer like me. Please do us all a favor and stop telling everyone that you’re tall and slim Mr. Claus
Santa put this in your pipe and smokes it. I am forming a union; you can contact my Lawyer Mr. Tin Tin

 I need some Fringe benefits else I am going to quit; year after year after year I chauffeur you around
This is not a smooth ride on green grass, it’s cold, cold snow “please looked around.
Breaking into people houses late at night, dropping off toys, we are plaster on every walls and poles
Santa this reindeer is off radar; you get off your fat ass or hire Casper the friendly ghost.

Copyright © Annie Lander | Year Posted 2012

Details | Prose Poetry |

Glistening Silver

Glistening Silver

Glistening silver on water’s edge like thousands of diamonds for my hair - 
Snow covered mountains hide summer flowers of purple, pink and gold
while black bear and deer search for left over apples from October’s harvest.
Ellijay is crisp and cleaned to perfection by nature’s wind and cold - 
The cows hide inside the old, red barn up the hill.
Hickory trees barren of fruit, yet a lone woodpecker flits back and forth looking -
searching for substance from the thick bark only it can penetrate. 
My prayer for snow covered mountains has been answered.
Seventeen years of Florida sun has scorched my throat and mind.
I wanted to see New York snow in North West Georgia -
One full Sunday of snow falling for my eyes to fill
 in the glorious beauty of winter’s wonder.

Copyright © Natala Orobello | Year Posted 2011

Details | Prose Poetry |

A Trip through Winter

Even in our winter season the soul of the coming year bursts through hard thick frost,
Even in high piles of purest white snow, buds grow for our future of the next summer,
Blow flowers stir and seeds my mind with flowers of the rarest beauty of our nature,
It is a miracle of this world a characteristic of not understanding natures jigsaws.

Every leaf every little flower and grain will enrich the earth to sustain its many needs,
It would take too long to enumerate all the flowers, buds the insects in each new year,
A Christmas rose expands its white chalice undaunted by the sharpest of crystal frosts,
It blooms amid overwhelming wreaths of snow and the hardest ground but it never fails.

In the valleys of high mountains the ground is covered with these hardy beautiful flowers,
January has a dear old favorite and my old friend the snowdrop a delicate mighty force,
White aconites, the white leaved colts foot flower grow in the milder months of our winter,
In the woods and hedges insects begin to recommence active life under barks of old trees.

Every advancing day presents us with a fresh and cheering symptom of a clean new spring,
Hedge sparrows and the thrush begin to sing, wren pipes lay, we see a golden crested wren,
Blackbirds whistle and linnets gather and little lambs appear in cold snow covered fields,
The house sparrow, a bold courageous bird, renews his brisk chirping a challenge to cold.

So when we look through white frosted panes of spun glass and look across winter countryside,
When we moan we are bored but it is too cold to take a walk or play in the clear open air,
When we come home from working and complain that their feet are wet, cold and badly wrinkled,
Nature is busy getting her armies together to make meadows wonderful and glades beautiful.

There is no season without a witness of a higher greatness which I cannot understand,
In the cold iron depth of winter nurtures the whole vegetation of our future summer,
Like germs of faith and hope in the heart of man that cannot and must not ever fail,
Little buds grow on a bough, corn peeks from frozen earth, nature has moved a mountain.

Copyright © Terry Trainor | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry |

Winter Ghost

The snowflakes fall,
each one unique and alone,
covering the Earth like returning souls
to mark this winter day.
Quietly I watch Nature perform
Her trick of purity and grace,
grateful for my solitude,
communing with my soul.
The flakes become small,
like dust motes in an old room
with sheets thrown over furniture
and the curtains drawn tightly shut.
I watch the snow fall and tempted, I venture out;
wind stirs branches in the park
and I crunch the soft snow underfoot
as a dog would crunch on a bone.
My footprints leave a mark and I tread backwards,
retracing my steps to the back door,
pondering as I retreat the ying-yang of snow
nestling on the top of a black wheelie-bin.
From an upstairs window I look at the ghost
of the park, covered in white winter's shroud,
 the park is empty, devoid of life's bustle.
Downstairs I watch steam rise from a kettle
and take it outside to pour over dead covered leaves, 
the evaporation is instant, steam rises from snow:
I marvel at the incongruous sight and step back inside,
Satisfied with my experiment and my silent, pale visitor.

Copyright © Peter Taylor | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry |

One More Thanksgiving

The Snow Camelia hedge row is in full bloom. Lovely white as newly fallen snow against waxy dark emerald green.  The sun broke the horizon in a pastel pink but very swiftly turned to a clear horizon.  The area where the sun ball rises is a golden glow. Thank you God for a chance to live another day and another Thanksgiving.  Now surrounded by sounds_crows, roosters, and a bird sound that is just chir-rup really mimics a cricket but not.  The cold is penetrating saying go inside escape the cold go to a warm place. Once again God thanks for a warm place to go and its comfort.  The ambrosia needs to be made, getting breakfast, and four people need to get ready. The sun is touching the top of the trees and duty calls come..

Copyright © Sara Kendrick | Year Posted 2011

Details | Prose Poetry |

Blinding Snow

The man made his way through the deep underbrush
The snow pelted against his face and thick fur coat
The forest quickly turned from brown to white
Snow kept on at a steady pace and he had to move
Or be caught in the raging storm that blew
He knew that as long as he kept moving 
He would survive on his trek to the valley below
The snow mounted into banks quickly
Each step became more labored than the one before
The path became slippery on the downward slops
 the steady pace slowed to almost a crawl.
The once clearly laid out path now
became invisible, he must pick up the pace
It was no place to be caught on the mountain slopes
during a blowing snow storm.
As he continued his trek he only hoped
that he was headed in the right direction.
For the blinding snow hid all from his sight
As the cold began to seep into his body
his fingers and feet no longer could be felt
Yet, he pushed on knowing that if he stopped
he would be frozen or fall asleep.
He pushed on and came to the bottom of the 
mountain just before dusk.
His determination kept him going and thoughts
of his family remained clear in his mind.
He had made it home and counted himself lucky
to be alive for outside the storm still raged.
Early surprise snow storms can catch a person unaware
And he counted himself as one very lucky man.

Copyright © Phyllis Babcock | Year Posted 2011

Details | Prose Poetry |


Winter Survival 
In the Winter of 83 they used to tell me stories the snow was over the telephone 
lines and they rode horses there and walked them OVER the lines see eh? Oh 
ewe beware the stories of men and read only the charlaxfabels over and over 
again. The worst one was back in 2005 the snow was four feet deep they took 
machetes and tore my roof off my survival tent. 
1 Peter 3:9 
 Do not repay evil with evil or insult with insult, but with blessing, because to this 
you were called so that you may inherit a blessing. 
Eye moved my shelter somehow avoiding a fight and learned just to survive 
survival is eating food. Men eat and fight and eating becomes the more important 
of the two what kind of neighbor would eye be if eye had fought with thee and not 
learned the Golden Rule. Eye lived several different lifetimes sack lunches do not 
suffice to rule the hunger in one man. Once eye was worried for existence 
seeming Death was at my door. Women thought me evil not suited up just for 
they love. Fruit is not my forte orange apple even pomegranate found 
persimmons rot on vines in trees not meant to live. Eye ate so many meats they 
kicked me out of storeage land and chased me from the parking lot with nothing 
in my hand. Potatoes is a fruit and not a veggie in my world. Golden throbbing 
corn is afforded to the poor ed.note @39 cents a can at most retail outlets. 
Hominy both gold and white is my favorites. Eye just decided to detective the 
students many behavioral ways and iff eye had three classes in the afternoon 
even if they were staggered over SIX hours the eye would not be in the library 
more than thirty minutes at a time. Be that as it may or as it were the ending is 
the same eye am a student of life. Walk in an endless path with snow up to the 
waisted place then dry the socks in bags and tie them to the feet and hope the 
dry will stay to un rot the flesh and hope the shoes will work and not develop 
sticheing of the holes in the side of doors and tankards full of glass. Coyboy is 
the last to understand a memory taken in the hand. 

Copyright © charles hice | Year Posted 2008

Details | Prose Poetry |

Ninth Fable

 Ninth Fable 
Ninth Fable 
Tragic Love 
Internet Love 
The Love eye have for ewe is just the same as iff we wed. 
The feelings that she gives me are never filled with dread. 
But nothing she can dew would make me ever want to wind up dead but the 
living do the love they do the life time instead. Eye could walk the halls of memory 
and get depressed or eye could become a nun in convicted pleasure and rest in 
convent until death can dew us part death can give me rest but what of love. How 
can a man get so excited at a little green dot a few mouse clicks and then a cold 
white chat box. The ink is never wet upon mye crinkle paper yet there it is its love. 
When she smiles at me eye smile when she frowns eye weep a river of the 
stuffins kept inside it all comes flowing out to make a wrongful death seem 
somehow write the words upon the mended heart depart from worry and from 
woe and take the brand new start and soon it all works for love. Snow White she 
ate the apple and then fell to fast asleep but Charlax came to kiss her and 
awakened her to live. Prince Charlax kisses good. 
Live upon the creek bank fishing for dragonflies in a house of love. Mending heart 
of Charming. Making love in heart. Mye snow white turtle love my pookie 
pochoucntous love my internet thrall. We can have it all just hold on to my 
namme and love. 
Researchers have now proven that love can mend a broken heart. 

Copyright © charles hice | Year Posted 2008

Details | Prose Poetry |

An Angry Man Returns

A man walking down a main street the wind blowing snow onto his face,
A sharp wind gusts down upon him but he walks head down marching on,
He is just a shadow in the winter night but his determination scares,
A thin strong man looks like he would knock anybody down should he cared.

Frost has been the harbinger in these cold winter months snow now visits,
We all look for frost and snows followed by a bitter salute of an east wind,
Most people wrap up in warm clothes but this man rushing along is unusual,
The Auria-Boreas has flashed forth in our nocturnal sky, a warning for all.

This traveler drives himself through the bleak heath with frost in his veins,
The hissing east-wind in his teeth the snow gathers on hard square shoulders,
This man is up to no good as the anger in his sallow cheeks spark purest hate,
As he rushes past others feel the whip of his flapping cloak as he looks ahead.

He crashes open doors at a tavern in the center of the town and orders a double,
It disappears in one swig he slams the glass on the counter and demands another,
Someone looks his way his steel grey eyes catches theirs they stare at the floor,
This man is different from the others, he has no fear he is a soldier, he is home.

Copyright © Terry Trainor | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry |

Alabama Snow

The long never ending landscape of southern Alabama never runs cold. Today it decided to. The wind was at 
ease and all the snow flakes were about. The cold ground shuddered beneath me but I could tell it was a good 
kind of shiver. The snow fell down in a hurry yet it still took it's time swaying in the wind. All the snowflakes 
danceing around soon started a low tune far off on the wind. The band played a song that the world has been 
playing for centerys. One of love and peace. One that has no bounds or experation date. The song was cold 
enough to freeze the earth but here I stood warm as I basked in my happieness. The world seemed still as the 
orchestra played it's beautiful tune. The wind swirling and twirling as if it were a finely tuned violin. I couldn't 
bare to close my eyes for it was just to beautiful to look away from. As the wind picked up in it's gusts the 
snow felt ever so heavier and the skys begain to melt the love within the snow as all the snowflakes fell down 
as rain. "What a beautiful conversion" crossed my thaughts. The snowed over feild grew dreadfully quiet as the 
beautiful tune escaped into the wind. This was when I sudenly realized I was soaked and freezing. Almost killed 
me but I steped inside away from the Alabama snow. But I knew she'd come back for me.

Copyright © Cate Rock | Year Posted 2010

Details | Prose Poetry |

the compliant press

The compliant Press 

Snowstorm in America, where else? There are snowstorms 
in Scandinavia too, but how cares. In Russia 200 hundred 
people have frozen to death, the news on TV, cover  this in 
two seconds because all camera eyes are trained on America 
and its fiscal cliff-  I hope it fall in to it- and snowstorms. 
There was a time when America was important that things
of this inconsequential nature were important…no more. 
The united states of America´s parochial problems no longer
matter as it is a nation bankrupt like Hellas and sustained by 
useless wars in the Middle East. When the lords of the press
notice that their focus was wrong, the main language thought 
a university will be Chinese and Arabic. And as they gurgling 
drown in the new world order we will hear the faint echo of
democracy and freedom, none which behooves humanity well.
And the lords of the press will serve their new masters with
tame diligence as they served the old masters of power.  

Copyright © jan oskar hansen | Year Posted 2012

Details | Prose Poetry |


its not starking
its falling
its the lords calling
it can be a pain

Copyright © kurtis scott aka curtis futch jr | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry |


In a small hamlet people were outside their dwellings staring up at a heavy black sky,
Wind lashed the trees and front doors a big storm was about to happen and very soon,
Small ice flakes whipped up in the wind stinging eyes I had a big dewdrop on my nose,
After some time the blackened sky opened the winds raged and the snow began falling.

Like a roaring bear gusts of winds blew the nearby sea sending salty spray to join snow,
The wind sweeping across the land fiercely blowing gales loosening objects in its path,
An old man curled up against his fire heavy snow swept under his door and over his eaves,
As snow started to fall harder the flakes were huge swirling in blustery bitter cold winds.

That night was so cold every one went to collect logs for a fire smoke rose from chimneys,
Figures seen in silhouette behind lighted icy windows, doors were bolted the eaves blocked,
Friends gathered in each others houses sipping wine their singing muffled by high winds,
The worst storm that many could recall elders told stories of bigger storms tongue in cheek.

All night long snow fell in the morning villagers went outside to see the damage caused,
The sun shone with such brightness the blue sky and the carpets of snow hurt their eyes,
Icy snow was very deep and big white chunks of frozen snow stuck to bottoms of shoes,
A tall tree stood in the middle of the hamlet heavy lines of snow bent its tough boughs.

Stories circulating round firesides of travelers lost in great drifts on wild moorlands,
Wanderers that had perished, frozen in the deep snow all lost in the snow laden woods,
In the morning the snows stopped bringing sunny clear skies that shone like lapis lazuli,
The wind whistled blowing top snow into a fine spray leaving a surface frosty and hard.

There was a wonderful feeling walking along hedge-tops and across deep white valleys,
All now filled and level, the frozen mass crunching under heavy steps in snow boots,
Finding only the rivers showing themselves by their wintry hues amid trees and rocks,
Visitors from the north the red wings, thrushes and field-fares flew back to their homes.

Copyright © Terry Trainor | Year Posted 2012

Details | Prose Poetry |


its feel like christma
if there the white stuff
if it sticks and thick
 and make snow ball quick
its fun to run
as the wind blow

Copyright © kurtis scott aka curtis futch jr | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry |


its white
its bright
lights up the nighti 
i dress  right
to blend\LET THE SNOW

Copyright © kurtis scott aka curtis futch jr | Year Posted 2012

Details | Prose Poetry |

The Angel Who Lost Her Tree

Poem had too many words for format, so I just posted link.  Hope you have time to follow link and read this charming Christmas Story. Joe.


Copyright © Joe DiMino | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry |

A Winters Tale

In the wintry countryside, January bares her soul and lets little buds grow,
Under drifts of pure white snow, hedge high frost hardened, there is movement,
Shoots of brave winter flowers wake, and they in turn wake our summer flowers,
Then the rarest of all our flowers the blow flower stirs hidden away from all.

With frosted snow lay-ed and the skies clear, it reflects a lapis lazuli blue,
The new snow that has fallen on top of icy snow the breeze blows it into spray,
The binding of the snow beneath there is hardness that allows us to walk on it,
Walking on snow is a wonderful feeling looking over hedge tops and deep valleys.

It's good to feel the frozen mass crunching under foot but we sometimes slide,
Only rivers show themselves, their wintery hues amid the trees and grey rocks,
And because it has been a snowy winter stories circulate around warm firesides,
Of travelers lost in great drifts on the wild moorlands and snow laden forests.

Copyright © Terry Trainor | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry |

Winter Rose

I lay here in the stillness of night
Like last night, the night before 
Alone with no one to hear my voice
Echoing in the silence against these walls
That slowly close in each night, tonight, every night

I watch these winds outside my window
Brushing the cold snow across the valleys between trees
And I cannot help myself from wondering 
If the cold chill scratches at your window
Whispering in shivers across your shoulders of our pain

Does it echo my love instead?
Does it dream of you like I do?
Does it hold our love like a rose?
Does it breathe across your neck?
Like I do, have done, will do again

I watch the languid snows falling to the ground
Down through the canopy of remembered leaves
A many folded memory they cup fast within
Of you, of me when in these arms you bathed
Inside the rhythms of our hearts beating like one

I shiver within the memory of your body next to mine
Of the way you fit beside me as we two slept to dream
Until dawn broke with pastel shadows across our bed
To fall upon you the Rose of lush and vibrant life
In each moment cast of whispering light from dawning day

I remember watching you in those moments
As if it were this morning, yesterday, the day before
And this memory fills the bed that yawns beside me
Of your waking eyes and smile beneath the first ray of light
When you looked so fragile with a foreshadow of strength

I see you my love everywhere these eyes do fall
In the roses of winter only these eyes can see
I see you smiling in the falling snow bathed in moonlight
In the wind billowing across the twilight earth
I remember you in every shiver to touch my shoulders

Each an echo of your love
Each a dream touching my skin
Holding your soul as if it were a rose in bloom
For this heart still singing of your embrace
And I do, every night, each night, this night

I think of you
And of the day, the morning when . . . 
My Winter Rose
I see you smiling

Copyright © Neal Freeland | Year Posted 2008

Details | Prose Poetry |

Deer Prints In The Snow

No one else would notice 
The little things he saw 
An old letter 
Or the romance books 
He refused to throw away 
It was these things 
Kept as reminders 
To an old heart 
From a young time 
Sort of like waking up 
On a frosty 
Snow filled morning 
You don’t have to see them 
To know they were here 
Just look on the ground 
And see the deer prints 
In the snow 

Copyright © CJ Krieger | Year Posted 2011