Winter Hate Poems | Examples
These Winter Hate poems are examples of Hate poems about Winter. These are the best examples of Hate Winter poems written by international poets.
"Fear of something is at the root of hate for others, and hate within will eventually destroy the hater." -George Washington Carver
"Men often hate each other because they fear each other; they fear each other because they don't know each other; they don't know each other because they can not communicate; they can not communicate because they are separated." -Martin Luther King Jr.
hatred is fear we let ourselves enjoy
scooping it on like ice cream in a cone
not thinking that this hatred will destroy
the only happiness we've ever known
welcome to my hard heart, please won't you stay?
hatred is fear we let ourselves enjoy
It's a sad seed growing in winter gray
bitterness steals the very heart of joy
spirit of fear will play us like a toy
the unknown chasing goosebumps up spines
hatred is fear we let ourselves enjoy
in weakness I give up what once was mine
a peace that only true love can employ
I thought a little hate would be just fine
I now know relief, Forgiveness deploy
hatred is fear we let ourselves enjoy
I am not complaining.
Not that you would hear me
Even if I did.
But;
My father hates me.
I am not a story teller,
And I am no poet.
You can be sure of what I tell you.
Passionately,
My father hates me.
One winter night he burned my blanket
With the stub of his cigar.
He was not remorseful.
Because,
My father hates me.
One Christmas he gifted me a calendar of the previous year
Because he thought it had beautiful flowers.
To this day I appreciate it.
But it changes not that
My father hates me.
One day when I turned eighteen
He thought I was old enough
So he chased me from home.
What father?
My father hates me.
Regardless,
He says his love for me is beyond words.
I know he could take a bullet for me.
But,
My father hates me.
#StvnyPoetry
Weapons of Wonder
By Mark Stucky
If humans must wage war,
let it be upon our own evils.
Let there be genocide on
violence and divisiveness,
malice and indifference,
prejudice and inequity,
foolishness and falsehoods.
If humans must make weapons,
let us weaponize goodness,
arm ourselves with love,
beat peace into plowshares,
and (nearly) kill with kindness.
Such are the wonder weapons
we humans of the world want.
(First published in Valiant Scribe Literary Journal (Issue 2, Winter 2022) 45. See also my poems “Closed Community Prejudice (an Alphabetized Memoir),” “Firearm Requiem,” and “Hate Vacuuming.”)
(Photo from pexels.com/photo/pretty-brunette-using-a-bubble-gun-16380687.)
Hate Vacuuming?
By Mark Stucky
Vacuum cleaners are pneumatic nobles,
built to cleanse our offices and homes,
sucking dust from floors and crevices
to discard in trash cans
(where dirt belongs).
What if we could also build a machine
to vacuum hate from our world
and to hurl hate into hell
(where hate belongs)?
What if it could suck base instincts
from souls of supremacists and mass shooters,
mute divisive talk shows, podcasts, and politicians,
and permanently delete dark social media posts?
From each of us, would it also siphon out
grievances, grudges, prejudices, and pain,
with torturous psychological turbulence...
but then heal us as our last dastardly
dust bunnies disappear?
To heal ourselves, our communities, our nations,
can we really assemble that marvelous machine?
Can tools of truth, justice, and love
help us to eradicate hate?
(First published in Valiant Scribe Literary Journal (Issue 2, Winter 2022) 43-44. See also my poems "Closed Community Prejudice (an Alphabetized Memoir)," "Races," and "Weapons of Wonder.")
One more time
One more time
Call my name loudly dear
With love and passion
The trains of cunning
Two men in a vast field of grain waited for the trains
to meet on a one-track railway line, one a mathematician
had worked out where the train would meet
the other was a reporter skilled in muddying the news.
Of the train drivers, one has a skilled hand used to getting
his way, the other was an upstart backed by western money
and told to call the older man’s bluff.
And there, in the brilliant winter light, they saw the trains
At great speed nearing, the point of no return.
There was a side track where one of the trains could stop
And let the other one through, but would they choose
To be sensible; we shall not know.
I mighty missile struck the track and blew part of it away
The driver of the eastern train was able to stop, but not so
the driver of the western train that ran onto the prairie
that had no cowboys or cattle and exploded.
The mathematician was happy his calculation was right
the reporter wrote an obfuscating article telling readers
the west had won; the man from the east smiled his
calculations had been spot on.
“Ukraine, Winter of Discontent”
The many winters of our discontents
Lie in trenches with the dead.
Mothers in pain.
Boys lost in vain.
Nothing plainly gained.
What empire will repent?
Saving souls from Hells bloodied gate.
Piled high in trenches is their fate,
As priests lament their deaths
A crown will not relent.
What cause is there so prodigious?
Slaughters all who differ?
Lays waste to metropolises?
Kills without remorse?
From where cometh this hate?
Through what gate?
What kind of man
Leaves babies seeking breath?
Women without life?
Boys piled high in trenches?
Empires laid to waste,
Many without faces,
Many without places,
All for what?
Pride?
Envy?
Jealously?
One man.....
44 million seek redemption.
Let him
Lie in trenches with the dead.
The many winters of our discontents. 3/8/2022
Is it really colder this winter?
Or is the world growing colder towards one another?
Shouldn’t it have been cooler rather than colder?
The sounds of machine guns held by men toting them have replaced those of snow guns…
Where snow blades should have been seen,
Bladed weapons are umpteen,
No church bells can be heard,
But they are simply tolling for the dead.
Men are not masked as Santa Claus spreading joy,
But rather the sickness by going around without masks with an intent to destroy…
Not yet another thrilling winter but…
Such a chilling winter! Such a chilling winter!
ice bound by solitude
as electricity's comfort sputters in doubt
cold intrudes
from vast blind hours
light's sweet after a week without
power
complete
fine lines reroute
heat
ice bound by solitude
light's sweet after a week without
heat
2/28/21
(the syllable count was verified on howmanysyllables.com)
WINTERS WINDS
Winters Winds of intolerance,
are blowing, strongly fanned
by indifference, pride, and hate,
seasons ago … began.
Winters Winds of segregation,
and narrow -mindedness.
bigotry, racism, and fear
compound our … daily stress.
Winter Winds of persecution,
affliction and distress.
Different from earthly Paradise
from which …” man” made a mess.
“God’s Kingdom will come”, usher in
seasons of refreshment.
Kingdon's King changes Winters Winds.
to Calm Winds … of Content.
Dec. 25, 2020 copyright
All rights reserved
Contest WINTER
Sponsored by Emile Pinet
"For someone's joy is often someone else's despair" by Poet X
Excited children grin and cheer to see the snow;
a winter wonderland indeed for them to play -
their parents are not quite as pleased to see it though
(but memories of joy remain from yesterday).
As creatures hibernate or hungry, search for food,
the children's pets will frolic, happy as the kids.
The foragers and playful children can be viewed
from cars that cannot move or only manage skids!
The elderly afraid to leave their comfy homes
-a slip or fall is something to be greatly feared -
will feed the garden birds and reminisce of roams
on snowy hillsides, drives and paths that they once cleared.
And homeless shiver praying that the snow won't last,
their thoughts are far from happy times when snow brought joys,
and pulling blankets up against the icy blast,
their slitted eyes view happy laughing girls and boys.
Excited children grin and cheer to see the snow,
as creatures hibernate or hungry, search for food,
the elderly afraid to leave their comfy homes,
and homeless shiver praying that the snow won't last.
written 7th December for Constance's Created Form contest
If hurt was a man
that man could have been me
If hurt had a face
that could have been mine
When I look into the mirror
The thing I see isn't me
When I look into myself
What I see is a stranger
A stranger hurt and bitter
If hurt was a mother
I could have been her son
If I had a sister
That sister would have been pain
My family would have been shame
All I feel is pain, pained and hurt
Existence might be a gift
But my life is a curse
If words were a place
Hurt would have been my yard
And pain my dwelling
My heart is burren of bliss
Dark like winter Sahara nights
Happiness is an abomination
Abominable to my life
Shame are my in-laws
and Loathe my wife
I know all the hues of hurt
I am a rainbow of pain
If life was a ball game
I could have been the ball
Hurt and pain the players
In a pitch of shame
On the Himalayas winter nights
Hate and shame spectators
Arbor the ampere
My heart bleeds
It bleeds blocks of ice
Ice of painful hurt
This broken heart of mine
And this troubled mind I have
Are hanging like vampire bats
Hiding in smiles during the day
Breaking free by night
To torment my poor soul
I Hate the Cold
Cold, cold, I do hate the cold,
My poor bones feel withered and old.
Joints are tired, muscles have seized,
Stiff little fingers, creaking knees.
Warm Winter Sun is my desire,
or point my toes toward an open fire.
Hibernate till dawning of Spring.
Then I’ll be reborn, ready to sing.
SARAJEVO SNACK
Speak softly to the tune, it plays out in the night,
and never think that Sarajevo hasn't named the song.
Division is the rule, and fools will make our way,
our fear has brought it down on a world going wrong.
I'll still love you in Spring, in Summer, Winter, Fall,
through Sarajevo's night, I'll love you to the end.
and God has told me this, I'll know you after night,
when I fall in love again, and meet you as a friend.
The last of everyone's been written in our rage.
I've told how we will end, in all the words I write.
And these, the words from you, forever sing God's love,
but I'm the fool they blame, for bringing on the night.
Speak softly to the tune, it changes before long,
into a battle cry, dividing right from wrong.
© ron wilson aka vee bdosa the doylestown poet
In spring time when the sun kisses the land
with its warmth and winter bids its adieu,
I put away coats and hats and lay my hand
to pulling weeds I wish there were but few.
Few things are more unpleasant than bad weeds
mixed in with good plants they are a bad curse,
when mowing the grass there is nothing worse.
They make the yard ugly and spread their seeds.
Poison helps keep the dandelions down,
it helps but it's so expensive to use.
I just wish weeds and I could make a truce,
such wish is fantasy of course I frown.
Up and at 'em, aye it's aboot time I know,
hoe in hand to the weed patch here I go.