Best Permafrost Poems
Permafrost upon the boughs,
in a glistening diamond wood;
where the water meets the Terra,
thin sheets in semi-melt
perform a slow ballet.
Winter's whimsical nature comes with
fickle freeze, cold pervading every fibre
How I remember you, red hot
against the white snow
Smoking volcano
against permafrost desolation
How your aura lingers in my brain
fleeting perfume, breeze of ozone
The sweet sweaty scent of long nights
leathery lines grafted in my skin
The fragile steps we took, tension
of our vulnerability in closeness
Sweet brokenness, tender hurt...
Worlds of ice can not find my
Duvet of snowflakes, simulation of
soft warm goose down
Mirroring remnants of our souls
that sleep in dreamless reminiscence
***
May 17, 2017
Copyright © Darren White
icy daggers serrated his chilly mind
memories sharp as polar bear’s claws
wielded reminiscent evocation in pain
how he longed for selective amnesia
heart and reason at war with the enemy
a battle only to be won if he surrendered
to inevitability that conflicts were useless
unless of course they concluded in cease fire
his father had fought at the Russian Front
which left his own upbringing out in the cold
no Potemkin façade could melt the chagrin of
twelve years of Germanic menace and madness
both of them prisoner to emotional deprivation
trans-generational transmission of trauma in action
it was bitterly cold in the heat of many a moment
and icicles festered in the young brain to be formed
shape up they said – fight flight or freeze
food for thought no doubt but what about feelings
many winters have passed and the old man is dead now
took many secrets and memories into his grave
the boy now in his sixties decided he needed a snow man
carrot charcoal eyes and Che Guevara’s bandana
collected drift wood from a beach of forgiveness
and danced around the bonfire of exorcised hurt
until permafrost yielded to fire and passion in time
he had been his own antagonist for far too long
The leopard kills for love
sun burns for souls,
the moon moans for blood
stars frost the steppes,
the fire of your eyes
warms the wastelands,
alone the horse rides
Tree of Life leans to the winds,
the arrow strikes deep
a wound becomes wise,
the griffin sees you sleep
in this dream somebody dies,
lightning hesitates for your heartbeat
the storm doesn't stop for sympathies,
The storm doesn't stop for sympathies
pick up your head and move towards Truth,
permafrost phantoms play for promises
amid the hills of hero's, ancestor's proof,
Kurgan Tombs keeping treasures young
from the Northern Lights to the Pontic Plains,
memories of millenia the Scythians have sung
from Hyperborea to the Pyramids,
with bow and battle axe liberty was earned
empires paid tribute to their valor,
they were the Masters of Eurasia's fortune
their spirit will always seek a new frontier,
the world pulled them away with a modern dawn
only the sun knows where to find the future,
Only the sun knows where to find the future
only the future knows where to find hope's clarity,
We embrace the song of the suffering vulture
rely not on the feed of death's charity,
We venture through the danger
exposed to the ancient elements,
predators prowl with patient hunger
We are prepared to wear the weapons,
Colonizing the wilderness with wisdom
We bring industry and culture,
there is a dance we call the Soul Storm
in which the falcon rides karma's fire,
when the Devil blows war's iron horn
destiny demands that we be the debtor,
J.A.B. 2020
Phoenix Defrosted
Given by the Sun God the good of the moon and some lucky stars
he sits full of fortune love and still in miraculous amazement under
the bright rays of southern soil soaking unbelievable kindness and
mutual compassion granted by soul searching and Higher Power
Love had been made before from a different fabric and the colours had
quietly faded to screaming silence frozen into glaciers’ clefts of darkness
Chances lead the way and permafrost was not forever when the mask
came off with all its distortions mangled ice melting into novel beginnings
It took him searching of feeling thought desire and some meeting of minds
revisiting gently rigorously what had appeared to be the only prospect
one of soundless demise and shattering unfeasible stagnant arrest in the
prison of domination wilted marred marriage depression and torment
Agony struck and it however ignited a passion unknown a mating and union
conjoined at hips and above for always and in all ways a heartfelt dance with
the Universe high and below inside and within a mango grooved delta of
Venus hot soothing lava engulfing new lovers’ poetic trees in poetry’s motion
Considering failure in cause and success in effect of landslides misfortune
bad luck and bad choices he is fortuitously graced now to thank destiny
constellation of karma kismet pure hard worked for chances where one thing
leads to another when the ashes are reshuffled and second fire is sublime
06th September 2016
I am the tundra barren cold and numb
A frozen wasteland where no light can reach
Between these poles, my insatiate self-succumbs.
In icy silence where no whimpers humb
My thoughts like glaciers grind, erode, and breach
I am the tundra, barren, cold, and numb.
The Amazon within once vital thrumb
Of life and hope now withers out of reach
Between these poles my insatiate self-succumbs.
Anxiety a howling blizzard's sumb
Entombs me deep a creature bleached of speech.
I am the tundra, barren, cold, and numb.
Depression creeps permafrost of my slumb
While echoes of lost joy my soul beseech
Between these poles, my insatiate self-succumbs.
Yet in this waste, where all seems overcome
A seed of strength cracks ice defies the leech
I am the tundra, barren, cold, and numb.
Between these poles, my insatiate self-succumbs.
Sitting on the frigid feeble symmetrical snow * * *
Watching snowflakes amidst the afterglow * *
On a permafrost park bench we've come to know * *
With hands, toes & bottoms benumbing below * * *
*
And the trees painted pearly wonderland white * *
Upon reflections of Christmas coming ever bright * * * *
Layered back with my red hat this wintery night * *
Whishing the sun will sleep in before waking light * * *
*
Feeling like I’m sitting on a crispy comfy cloud * * *
Where the branches display their beauty proud * * * *
Hoping that the snowy streets not get plowed * *
Wanting to scream Merry Christmas to all aloud. * * *
* *
* *
Nov.17.2018 * * {_______}
The Park Bench At Christmas ******** V V********
Sponsored by: Sara Kendrick *************************
Pic # 4
Placed 1'st...thank you
***************************************************************
When the heart feels the
weight of unvoiced verses,
as the verdant embers of Venus
follow the frozen warmth
and the permafrost flickers
of persimmon and cinnamon,
like poetry slipping through
tortured time,
I stand at the cusp of
withering wishes,
like the silver of Luna phasing
above the lamented lighthouse,
cemented with mistrust,
embedded with uncertainties,
afraid of the crashing crystals
cradling my claustrophobic psyche…
O silent scribblers,
scrolling through words of woe,
forgive my impulsive ink.
I’ve long been a runner,
fleeing familiar fickleness,
exhausted and drained
in the midst of melancholy
that lingers across forlorn pages,
like coldness amidst a summer breeze,
like darkness dwelling
in the driftwood dust
of dawning dreams and rising roses,
rinsed with regrets of musky musings.
I race through miles of solitude,
chasing nirvana,
escaping the shackles
of black-thorn springs,
where breathing seems
like a miscalculated
step to misery and interrogation...
I am a misread flame,
entwined with forgotten footfalls,
reveling in solitude,
where sonnets of love
and elegies of sorrow
no longer pierce my soul,
like rusted steel.
I drown in syllables of zen,
alone but not lonely,
silent but not silenced,
anchored in the aesthetics
of self-love and serenity,
hypothesized by
the hesitant galaxies,
as if I am the conceited constellation
that wanes when
storms stir my senses.
But I refuse to pull the stars
into the hellish arms
of vagueness,
so this is me
saving you from
sweltering soliloquies
while homing
fragments of lucidity on
my own astral avenue…
On the frozen side of the sun lies Svalbard.
A barren, treeless stretch of land
Buried beneath snow and stillness.
Here, the cold doesn’t just bite;
It consumes.
The whirlwind air scrapes skin with surgical precision.
For months each year, the sun abandons the sky.
Svalbard drifts beneath a vaulted night.
Darkness bleeds through permafrost,
Settling in the earth’s frozen marrow.
But beneath this ice-scarred wilderness,
Where avalanche and ash calcify,
A vault lies hidden deep in the mountain’s underbelly.
It cradles the future;
A womb of waiting seeds,
Asleep in rows of glass and steel.
Hope, suspended in time.
In this tomb of preservation,
Life isn’t gone.
Just waiting with a promise of rebirth.
And when the sun returns,
Brushing marigold hues across glistening glaciers
Like a kiss upon Snow-White's lips,
Those seeds will stir with life.
They will remember the sun.
They will rise.
I've been waiting for someone to shed some light,
To take my hand and lead me back
Into the arms of the earth.
I've been ankle-deep in frost-kissed puddles,
Wishing for the welcome mat to sweep me
In out of the rain, and into their flame.
Are you the flame
That I've been looking for? You make my head light
In a way that isn't amatory, but in a way that makes me
Wonder if calling it love would make you send me back
From whence I came, and lick me into puddles
Till I seep straight into the earth.
You beckon me to your earth
Like a lantern's flickering flame,
But you're not burning out. You illuminate the puddles
That used to be my oceans, battle my dark with your light.
You gain ground until I am naked and taken aback,
Because the exposure does not strip me
Raw-- in fact, it envelopes me.
We've got our feet planted firmly in the earth,
Neither scaring easily nor asking for our words back.
And I beg how long it's to last, this flame;
Upon that subject, I squint away from the light
Expecting you to tread through me like puddles,
The way a child stomps on rainy street puddles,
Finally turning on your heel to flee me.
Through the trees overhead pokes a sweater sewn of light
That soothes the permafrost into a softer earth
When the sun's flame
Strokes its back.
Should I hold this back
On the tip of my tongue, till the words form puddles
In my mouth? Or would it be better that the flame
Consume me?
I could live out my years masked by earth
Or brave the touch of light.
I heave my hopes back with me,
A dam oozing puddles, white-knuckling the earth.
If I let go, will the flame leave me a shadow, or a light?
She thinks in exotic colours
that drip off her tongue
like sharp shining jewels
formed somewhere deep
in the permafrost of her,
the grey matter thrives
in the lava somewhere
rising inside the
lux velvet crimson
pulsing at the core of her,
and births diamonds
that drip off her tongue
like icicles
that could pierce and shatter
a heart or could melt them
just the same
He is like a rhesus monkey
quite short in mind,
small in sound, oh,
but never sound,
the expression on his face,
wanting, eternally perplexed,
the value of his thoughts jumbled,
his darting hirsute mind
running zealous riots around
invisible conquests in
neverending schizoid circles,
rattling the bars of his cage
just for attention,
his words form strangely
for a species trapped
in his own dark age,
each day hardly speaking
but his mind screaming,
passing his hand through
his thinning hair
he is time poor
holding a cup
out for love
to the monkey grinder
all seems lost in poetic translation
yet, it ferments in the daily conditioning,
the small ritualistic routines
regularly delivered in bed before sleep
and upon waking
for one cannot survive without the other;
it’s in the feeding, not in the taking
Candide Diderot. ‘24
I opened my eyes,under.
A bleak atmosphere-
deserted I beheld.
Sinuous channels flowing.
Whimpering
Sounds escaped,
As I walked on vast layer
Of permafrost.
Beyond the horizon,the
World lay bare.
With my heart in my
Hand,I passed thru
Argyle And Hellas,amid
eerie Sounds echoing as
dust
Storms circled,forming
Shadowy figures.
Storms etching
The terrain,light
Coloured dust particles
Created shifting light
And dark patterns.
How came I into this
Voiceless world?
Three thousand miles,
Across is chasm;beneath
Lay the throne of Hades
I thought.
Drawing near,I jolted
As I heard a voice.
In the ship, this voice
Echoed in my ears-
"Welcome to earth!"
Oh, in inspirations winter dreaming, I’ve dream't
Of a mystic valley of the Aurora Borealis,
A chambered realm of frozen colors,
Exploding within reflected light aglow,
In the hushed silence of ice and snow.
Here the pondering thoughts are set from beyond
Limitations of realities boundaries.
I'm a poet on a free fall dive, into the human imagination,
Behold my polarized world of enchantment.
Tender are the delicate wildflower petals,
Gleaming beneath the frozen sun, ice blossoms adornments,
Brilliantly shining in the fields of glitter, amongst
The snow dust's razzle-dazzle, beguiling the eyes of this poetic
Heart.
A Floral tapestry of permafrost, drips with a frothy moisture
Mist of sleet, creating a dappling effect upon the white
Dandelions and ivory daisies.
Taste the frozen honeysuckle upon your lips of warmth,
As the swarming frost bees pollinate this arctic garden,
Stinging with their chilling venom of flash freezing.
Palest crystallized roses, with thorny prongs sharpened edges,
Embraces the colds icy light, but reject the soft touch of
The mortal hands of loves devotion.
The haunting sounds of the Arctic owl echoes, against the
Walls of these alpine fiord's, as waterfalls of avalanches,
Crashes downwards, cascading into the deep valley basin below.
Swirling arctic foam blasts across this translucent terrain,
Shattering the magical splendor of stillness,
And splintering the tender reed unto nothingness,
Except for the spreading of germination's life giving
Seeds of renewal.
Yet it leaves refineries thin fluffy powder, scattered for
The crystal humming birds, it is their sweet nectar’s
Refreshment to feast upon, as the swift wings sparkle,
In the dusk's afternoons setting sun last rays.
Welcome to my symphony of Tiffany, gems stones sacred
Meadow of frozen jewels, radiating luster's regalia
Of glitz and glamour, leaving behind a twinkling celestial display,
That comes from a rich imagination of a poetic heart.
A once dear friend, he now is gone,
But not into oblivion,
I search my heart, I scratch my head,
But it is clear that he’s not dead.
The silence is quite staggering,
The permafrost yet lingering,
Though months have past since we fell out,
I’m still not sure what it’s about.
Forgiveness longed for, but for what?
My ignorance still a blind spot,
The pain I’ve caused you, now my plight!
For this you’ve banned me from your site?
A Christmas past, a birthday too,
A long time since I’ve heard from you,
Though poem’s float in PH halls,
Like window dress in shopping malls.
New verses call to all but me
To comment on their poetry,
But friendship’s what I miss the most,
The sacrament, lost supper’s host.
Oh Lord please tell me what to do
For Daniel’s loss still makes me blue.
His poems come, and then they go,
Like dreams of Michelangelo.
Some lay like honey on the tongue,
Some flail like Gotterdammerung,
Titanic struggles to be free,
My soul design, love’s falconry.
Brian Johnston
February 3, 2015
Poet’s Notes:
Sometimes friendship like love does not always go smoothly. This poem simply acknowledges that, hoping that time may yet provide a cure. PH stands for PoemHunter.com where my friend is a much respected poet.
Existential fear,
erected by the faceless horde;
old yellow!
seismic,
voodoo wave,
dominating weak;
Our Territory and tenure.
Yellow Peril, in all his glory
The depths of disparity,
neither somber or pallid;
chromaticity;
Old yellow!
Impending catastrophe;
A Permafrost wrap
Brazen
Yellow Peril, In all his glory
Hopeful Jubilation,
Bigotry
segregation
Blind,
Sad,
Immortal,
Yellow peril