Frost Poems - Poems about Frost

a chill ... not on skin - to marrow if but for the frigid air a horrid pattern would trace my cheek though not nearly as horrid as the one that faces me upon the glass it is quite beautiful in shape hemmed with frost crystals like Guipure Lace the letters formed perfectly ... I wonder, am I the first? did you practice scribing it flawlessly backward...

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flowers that have flourished in winter made beautiful in the frost, from the same chilling breeze they have grown lost. one flower stands out in its sunny meadow, the other still frozen in a field, envying the other flowers that get to grow along in that meadow, waiting to be revealed. every once in a while the pollen of the flower...

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The silent snow drifts soft and deep, A silver hush on bending trees, The frozen lake lies still in sleep, Its heart unbroken by the breeze. The moonlight spills in trembling white, White scattered pearls upon her breast. And all the world dissolves in light, A place where time is lost then found. No whispered call, no footstep near, Only the hush of winter's...

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They think they’re Keats and Frost of time, Some pen-pushers are frost in time. All they pen, not but passing rhyme, Is set sail, a big boast in time, Which, all of self-promoted stuff Gathers black and white dust in time. Let some prayers be said for them: Their footprints last on coast in time. Heart wishes well, head less than least, I...

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there was a man from Dublin named Josh who liked reading poems by Frost one day in the woods it was said he took the wrong path instead and ended up in Galway totally lost ...

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I feel the frost is coming, the wind now chills my bones. What once was warm a week ago, the cold now solemnly owns....

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night of frost skyscrapers of the metropolis dress in cold snow...

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The clock with wings goes up and down. She sleeps only with backwards time. The glass circle's bridle around Her fishtail eyes where dark abounds. Within the floor, she feels the pound — Grandfather's face in nighttime shines. The clock with wings goes up and down. She sleeps only with backwards time....

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Sucking on the light, midmorning Frost clings to the window’s pane, twisted Praise, adorning the silence – winds Heavy as the slow rhythm, heartbeats Rising from the daily chores, stirring awake The little morsels of bitterness, ice Welded to the glass in misty stories Poetic tributes to the winter’s twilight Signing the moments with a signature Hopeful and knowing that snowflakes Pour out the presence...

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dawn, frozen forests. mortal peril or adornment? plum blossoms tremor....

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When finally those quickened hours come that crept unseen behind tomorrow's door, and waves of yesterdays upon me pour ~ few secrets left of just what might become. In frost, the rush to harvest summer's yield, when all of youth would break the vines of spring, it seems an instant ~ now at last they cling, impatient souls await in vineyard fields. In...

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I know that I’m no Robert Frost; I never claimed to be ‘im, Yet that is not the reason why I write a poem per diem. The writing lets me tap inside And reach my inner being, Which, from the outside, no one’s really Capable of seeing. It’s gratifying when I get Some feedback on my rhyming, Yet that’s not what I need to...

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Delicately balanced on the end of a twig, breathtaking beauty on each little sprig. Lavish hues, orange, gold, yellow and red; veils of leaves above the forest bed. Jack Frost and his paintbrush paint colored leaves with flair. Everything he touches turns magic everywhere. A sea full of color, an ocean of leaves; so exquisite the beauty it's...

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“Two roads diverged in a yellow wood….” Robert, You let the split remain unresolved, and while we stand in awe, staring at your crossroads etched in gold and shadow, do you ever wonder what lay beyond the path you did not take? Even though you say, “I took the one less travelled by, And that has made all the difference.” Did the road arch upward, an unfamiliar melody...

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The world was born of ice and flame Of crystal drops that filled the empty plane When Muspell's heat burned Niflheim And life unraveled from the endless stream And formed a voice whose name was Scream Where shapes spilled out from his unseen dream The waves then rise to cast new sounds Soft yet gentle, the vibrant hums Freed more life from their...

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