Long Blizzard Poems
Long Blizzard Poems. Below are the most popular long Blizzard by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Blizzard poems by poem length and keyword.
this middle aged rue stirring bummer
haint no stranger to cold,
when dark hen stormy wintry days
eggs hit from Arctic portal en fold
ding Atlantic Seaboard
in a blizzard of bitterly, blindingly, and
brutally sub zero temperatures
from an occasional nor'easter
fiercely gripping hold
the majority years, sans this prolific
recalcitrant scrivener lived
in various and sundry abode
housed within Southeastern
Montgomery County, Pennsylvania
with 19*** zip code,
and during my boyhood recall,
how massive ice sheets did erode
the (then) opened expansive farmland,
in preparation for planting time,
where runnels of frigid water flowed
with childish cheeks exposed to glowed
after hours upon
many a green acre got tilled and hoed
despite feeling energized and refreshed
with arms and legs n'er fro zen
aye didst eagerly await with exuberant yen
kickstarting thy body electric
experiencing hearthstone nook
designed and built by Christopher Wren
after heading indoors counting fingers
and toes to make sure, i still got ten
soon hearing the chorus of fauna,
and floral kaleidoscope of color
aground or taking wing
thus, upon thawing out thoughts
drifted toward approaching spring,
the season revitalizing
dormant natural inhabitants,
whose excite (like mine) didst ping
announcing the debut of fecundity
nsync with screeching from the lizard king.
This Spring Equinox (i.e. man date:
12:15 PM Tuesday,
March twentieth two thousand eighteen)
doth rejuvenate
inviolable hibernating animals
and plants, and me equate
to experience sensation,
whereby entire being does inflate
and (despite marital status),
nonetheless envisions another gal asthma mate
no...no...no...please do not think this chap
mean spirited and under rate
the woman (at present taking a siesta,
and i breathe easy),
who oft times doth henpeck, a trait
inherited many a chic hen
(with tantalizing tail feathers)
now (until she awakens)
proscribing yours truly to wait
for my repast most likely ad hoc
moist ideal for any nerdy kid to knock
senseless, the worst facet of self important jock
consisting of pop slop mock
Hungarian Goulash, a melange
of relics from age old meals
transformed into a petrified sawed little rock.
Farewell old pard, I write this letter to you. Well, I guess I’ll saddle up and ride out with my new pard, he’s only a colt at three.
He’s a real beauty, a real eye pleaser and sure of foot with a cutting pedigree.
I’ll go on out to the rough country where the sky is blue, relive the
old times and try to work the rope a bit, so I won’t be thinking of you.
We were pards for many a year and we both tote the scars to show
and that cold back you had fairly tossed me hard every morning before you’d make up your mind to go.
But we never shared a cross word that ever meant much among friends,
Though, you did take a few hard comments when you got ornery now and then.
We purt- near worked in all kinds of weather, rain, snow and even a blizzard or two.
We shared our misery out on the plains when the cold winds off the mountain blew.
We’ve covered a lot of country, any closer, I don’t guess any pards could be
and though you weren’t much to look at, it never meant much to me.
You loved your job and worked it well with light rains and leg ques.
And there were times when you led the way, and I took my ques from you.
You were not a natural cutter, but you weren’t scared of bulls, cows or steer
and you worked the tight spots eagerly, never showing the jitters of fear.
We were pards, alright, never just a way to get the job done nor pleasure for me,
You loved it too, riding the open range with only the basics that kept us wild and free.
Why did you go and leave me, you just laid down in your stall and I was left alone.
I tell my stories and old pard, I tell yours too, since you’ve checked out and gone.
I look back through the years as I sit here looking over the grass growing high on the range.
How love for a horse can feel so right is hard for this cowboy to explain.
I can’t help but riminess’ and wonder, were there times you just didn’t feel quite well?
You always took to the saddle and in my selfish way, I never cared to ask, and you didn’t tell
We’d ride out and pretty- soon, you seemed glad you came along and there were
times we trailed in late, long after the sun had gone.
But now I look back on the past and sentimental thoughts tears my eyes and burden me.
Good-by old pard from your old friend, you were the best any pard could be.
One December Night
(Continuation to the End)
All that year Santa had hoped and had tried to find a child's love that would strongly abide.
But month after month he was given the boot. It didn't matter whether he showed magic or
gave them some loot. Many children were selfish. Not one gave a hoot.
Until one cold blizzard night, in a stormy plight, the frog rang the doorbell and walked
right on in. In the warmth of the house, after ousting the mouse, four children accepted the
frog for his good. It was a happy sight for the frog there that night. Yes, they showed him
great kindness and genuine love, the
spirit of Christmas shown down from above. The purest of love without expectations turned
the frog into Santa who promptly gave each one hugs. “I'll be back with my sleigh to leave
gifts on Christmas night. Thank you dear children for your gifts of love tonight. Leave me
some cookies. I shall eat no more bugs! He laughed as he juggled three gifts in the air.
Then, soon disappeared out of sight by the moonlight.
The children, still laughing and squealing with joy, had broken a spell put on Santa
last spring. And the mean old witch that had made him a frog, sat sadly outside all alone on
the log. She had made him a frog with a croak, out of tune. She wanted his voice instead of
her own. Christmas carols she had heard bring so much joy. She could not carry a tune for
one single song. She had hoped she could sing if she stole Santa's voice. But the love from
the children left her no choice. The spell had been broken by love's sweetest choice.
But while they were happily playing about, they noticed the wand from the brown bag lay
out. So they went to the witch and gave her a voice. And taught her that goodness over bad
is a choice. So together they played with the now happy witch. Who gave up her evil and to
goodness did switch. The gift of pure love and light in the world is a gift to all who give
heaven a whirl. For even the wickedest of wicked have some goodness in them. So,
encourage the right and to evil say, “Take a flight!” (And let God be the judge…)
© Dane Ann Smith-Johnsen
December 5, 2009
Inspired by:
Poetrysoup member's Contest Anything Goes!
Sponsored by: Constance La France (I took you at your word... It's a LONG story.)
I was blessed to know a woman in my life
Who faced hard times, struggle, and strife.
A Chinese immigrant, she came from a poor town
Lost her husband, was kept from her daughter, but not kept down.
She had three other children who were born here
Getting them a better life was her biggest fear.
She had to fend for herself and them alone you see,
Speaking little of the language in this foreign country.
But, she had always lived a determined life
So she fought back...with a fork and a knife.
She opened a restaurant in a small community
Where her gracious manner made her friends instantly.
Her children would grow up in town with new friends
The restaurant she opened was the mean to her ends.
She worked very hard...sometimes eighteen hours a day
She never complained because that was her way.
Her life's expectations knew more successes sublime
The restaurant grew...one egg roll at a time.
She once told me of the anxiety she felt at the money she'd spent...
Laughing said, "My uncle said sell 2 qts of Chop Suey/Day...you've got the rent."
She was a woman who chose kindness as she felt had to her been shown
To people far and near her generosity was known.
She was thankful that she had the opportunity
To give back with love rather than animosity.
I first met her over some 30 years back
She struck me from the that moment as a person who had the knack
To make others feel at home though strangers they be
She certainly did, because she did it to me.
I still remember her caring for me...it was shown
Once caught in a blizzard, she opened her home.
So often was there a path to this woman's door
Though she stood, less than 5 foot 4.
Her heart was as big and wonderful as one would want
An earthly angel, she was heaven sent.
Though her health began to wane later in life
She never gave in to that world of strife.
Her eyesight began to fail and it was difficult for her to see
But that didn't stop her or her generosity.
She loved people and filled everyone with cheer
Ever thankful that she had had a life here.
Though she is gone I'll never forget her face
Or her love of life, devotion to family, and unstoppable pace.
To me I'll ever be thankful to have had the joy
Of calling her "Ma" ... ONE IN A MILLION~was Connie Moy!
1st Place Winner - "One in a Million" Poetry Contest
O mother, who was so beautiful, yet, troubled with everything
that may affect on the son’s well being; and therefore, grew old.
O mother, who was so elegant, yet, was so concerned about her son;
she always worried and was thinking what if the son wet from
the spring mist, or what if the son falls on the flowerbed;
and therefore, grew senile.
O mother, such a great and virtuous, is well stricken by the years of moons, winds, stars, and clouds, and now, clumsily clinging on the trunk of a big tree, the grown son who stands tall with the root taken deeply in the ground, as a withered thin branch.
When a rain poured violently, the mother who never had a day
of peace thinking of her son, became an umbrella over my head.
When a blizzard raged, the mother who never had a day of serenity
worrying over her son, became a blanket over my body.
Although the umbrella was old, beaten, and spokes were broken,
a drop of rain was unable to wet me. Although the blanket was the rags
sewed here and patched there, the blizzard was unable to take my body heat away.
To give a life to the son, I know the mother,
you underwent the excruciating labor pain,
the pain that is more painful than the chopping yourself with an ax.
To bring up the child as a decent man, I know the mother,
you underwent the trouble after troubles of trials caused by
your mischievous son.
You were the woman of great heart and sagacity,
you, therefore, were able to accept all circumstances with equanimity,
good and ill, joys and sorrows, honors and dishonors;
you offered your life and all to your son with love,
understanding, and patience.
O mother, though you knew it was useless,
you stretched the withered thin branch out in air
to shut out a wild wind that was shaking the tree from the trunk.
O mother, though you knew that the wind was
beyond your strength to hold, but you did anyway,
because you loved your son so much; and as a consequence,
you were violently blown out from the trunk to fall on the ground.
Dear mother, you are, from the tomb where you are lying
as a little stone pillow on the grass,
recalling the memories of happy and joyful moments
while looking at your son proudly; recalling the memories
of tired and sorrowful moments while looking at your son worriedly.
In Memoriam Quietly Always Close
Are they whispers, then, settling
So gently upon that slightest breeze wending
Over the granite crosses and statues of cradling angels,
Which stand in their long cemetary rows?
Stating each name of the one passed on with
There-on etched, too, the noting of time alive
And telling of the beloved, who hum there their slow laments;
Who send up colorful balloons to celebrate their love and
Take far their silent greetings in the sky.
Are they lullaby heartsongs, which
Rise on sprigs of heaven-bound light,
So tunefully sweet for love’s addressed, aided
By a league of angellic composers
In their lyrical rounds from above our earthly sphere?
Are these the places of our hushed sympathies?
The places we lay over our dear ones
All the broken pieces of the grieving heart’s still longing
To stay in some way forever near, and, so, we linger thoughtfully
Criss-crossing the undulating final verdigris
Landscape, which embraces the last remains ~
Resting on in heaven’s wait for that further journey going on.
Are these faint mists surrounding
So many hours of our own remaining days —
Which are spent summoning back the stories, the touches,
The eyes that happily cast their glance into our own —
Not truly our tears
Being turned to magnifying memories,
Prayerfully appearing with each
Dusk’s close of day and placid rise of the radiant moon?
Do see that the soundless falling is our aching?
Is a furor — burst of pure, white snow:
A flash of a blizzard, looking nearly weightless,
Landing in silence, but
Incongruously, falling heavily down, into those forming crystalline layers
To dress a seeming lace-like çover over all the stone markers
With a luminous beauty, revealing a metaphor, ineffable
~ Blessed markers of life itself set here before us
Within reach of meeting the Divine.
—————————————————————————————-
(c) sally young eslinger 6/5/2023
(Written for Jennifer Wilson & Maggie Hopkins in loving
Memory of James Hopkins, spouse, father, & friend) Also written with the inspiring power of images of the 9,000 marking gravestone crosses in Normandy, France, and sights of Arlington Cemetary, Washington, D.C.
Written to unaccompanied cello Suite 1 in G major, perfomer Yo Yo Ma
Thanks be to God…
An old lady sat near a window, near a window looking out.
With her radio going she sat there sewing, with an occasional look about.
On her thumb she wore a thimble, as she pulled the thread so nimble, enjoying the
light,
While the weatherman’s voice was blaring, declaring a storm in sight.
She began to hurry, and to worry about her Sam.
Had he heard the early morning warning from the weatherman?
While she sat there stewing, the storm greater brewing, she thought about her
man.
“He could work much longer, if only he was stronger— he does the best he can.”
The skies grew darker and her thoughts grew starker in the afternoon.
“Upper air disturbance; expecting turbulence with night coming soon.”
While she debated, the storm accelerated from the north.
With clouds unloading her thoughts grew foreboding, as she paced back and forth,
Qualms of duress she expressed about her Sam.
“Was he wet and freezing? Was he cold and sneezing? Poor old Sam!”
The northern air was gusting as she began thrusting shut the door,
From freezing rain fast falling, while for Sam she was calling as she paced the floor.
Back at the weather station a strange situation was spreading forth.
Not so far away an arctic foray pushed from the north.
It hardly took a wizard to see the shaping blizzard hiding every star,
A whirling cloud formation showed its concentration on the isobar.
Suddenly she started walking, while talking to her Sam.
Once she stopped to listen, ignoring the snow that glistened— then she ran.
She must’ve been unsightly as the lights shown on her brightly from a car,
Driven by her daughter, doing things she taught her, searching near and far.
“Mother! It’s me, Mabel. You know you’re not able to be out in the cold!
Look how hard it’s snowing with the wind so cold and blowing. Forgive me if I scold.
Finding you not there, I looked everywhere up and down the street.
You’ve come too far, so get in the car and dry your feet.”
“Mabel . . . Pa went out this morning . . . but he had no warning the weather would
be severe.”
“Oh, my mother dear, please come here, come here. Dad’s been gone a year!”
Suddenly the old lady was weary, her eyes old and bleary, her body weak and cold.
She had no coat nor jacket, but in her hand a packet—Sam’s picture she did hold.
I was a planetary climatologist, who studied climate variability and change,
Like sweet variability of stunning, green tulips, in lavish garden rearranged.
Studying the said effects on the biosphere, absorbed so many daily hours,
Like industrious days of fragrant, amber honey, after tumbling into flowers.
My labors impacted energy usage, along with food production and health,
And the survival of endangered species, like golden rays of natural wealth.
Faddish flowers fascinated friends, who flattered them, at my broad fence,
Under fleecy, lemony clouds, fast moving, and orange sun, grown intense.
Famished, feasible family feasted, in lavish flowering fragrance of Fridays,
When fugitive, frosty stars flickered, winking at green garden bonsai trees.
I lived in the house of emerald echoes, in vivid memory of nature's sound,
From birdsong to crickets to evening wind, and brook of babbling renown.
Sachets swept away a sudden sadness, as robins sought another summer,
On my street of starry-eyed forget me nots, like a tune with no drummer.
Nobody knew latest neighborhood news, like my nearest friends next door,
Like chameleon sun, crisscrossing teal sky, wholly ignorant of 'nevermore.'
Pink birds were living high, and red butterflies viewed a world, ultraviolet;
And yellow bees went about their sweet labors, since queen bee desired it.
Strawberry clouds sailed around the world, for clouds ever love adventure,
As dogwoods barked in summer's dog days, during a gold noon surrender.
As I was walking home one day, the sun vanished as skies turned ominous.
There was a lightning flash just before the thunder, loud and cacophonous!
Suddenly, I saw a male face in the clouds, that was bellowing and enraged,
Like blizzard winds through naked trees, howling at a lush year that's aged.
Taken aback, like butterflies in gusts, I had come face to face with thunder-
The mighty, furious face of the storm, and I was filled with sudden wonder!
Then came the silver rains, sideways slanting, at the dead end of drought;
And I raced home like all uneasy nature, in the successive hours of doubt.
Scintillating sun had returned next day, after banishing the tangerine mist,
As benevolent nature was no more angry, its tale ending in an orange twist!
Dear Santa:
Our baby Troll Lilly started a discussion, last night, just to help… you know.
So Santa, I hope you don’t mind some advice from our dear family of Trolls.
Lilly had a question on a problem, about your ride, on your famous route.
She wanted to ask you, what happens when the reindeer get really pooped out?
Yes, she needs to know, what on earth you might do… so to her, you’d get thru?
I tried to assure her that you’d be all right, but she didn’t believe, that was true!
She began crying buckets of tears, so we told her just what we’d do to help you.
The Trolls also piped in, with great ideas to help, so she’d stop all the boo hoo’s.
They decided, their dragons would do, in case of a blizzard, and for extra warmth.
(But they’re too heavy to land on roofs; I cried for a week with mine, it’s the truth.)
Geese would be great in some areas, no doubt! But watch out where lakes are about.
Hunters may be present; Christmas goose is yummy when family gatherings sprout.
Most birds are strong and sturdy in flight, but watch out when full night comes.
They sleep in trees, so you’ll spend the rest of the night, hanging above the ground.
Bears are really sturdy, with great power in every move they ever decide to take.
But I doubt you could wake them in winter, without a truly massive earthquake.
Unicorns would be impressive, but my Trolls say that… they aren’t really real.
I say that they are, but you’d have to be on guard, people want their magic, to steal.
Planes would be impressive, but in a yard… they are really hard… to try to land.
Helicopters are so cool, but you’d be buried in the blowing snow, where you stand.
Dogs are good for mushing, but you might need a smaller sled to stand behind.
But, a few Trolls are perfect, with unswerving stamina, and strength well defined.
Another could help tote toys, sitting behind you and Lilly, who’d be great, by your side.
These ideas cheered her up a lot, she was even laughing, and no more did she cry.
But if you use the reindeer, remember we could be, if needed, quickly by your side.
Have a Merry Christmas, and Santa; please give Lilly a Christmas wish ride.
And you can’t go wrong with reindeer, Lilly, and a few extra Trolls supplied.
Yours truly, From The Eastman’s and their Trolls
I remember a riding pony I had as a lad which was born blind. A filly she was born during an
Arkansas blizzard and we did not know that she was blind at first for we kept our horses in our
barn for several days because of the winter storm. We all had fallen in love with her by the time
we learned she was blind and could not bear to put her down. I remember training her to ride
after she was mature enough and I named her “Pet” for she was my riding pony.
We spent many happy days together riding inside the green pastures.
I remember she never refused to let me ride her even the first time. And she learned very
quickly to respond to my voice and she trusted in every command that I gave her.
I would say, “easy Pet” when we would come to rough terrain or an eroded ditch in the
pasture. She would slow to a careful walk, in response to my voice.
I would ride her down into the lower part of the pasture to the creek in hottest part of the day.
Pet could of course smell the water and when she would come near the bank of the creek I
would again say, “easy Pet” and she would respond by slowing to a snail’s pace down the steep
bank.
Pet would wade out about belly depth into the water where she would drink her fill of the cool
clear water. And I would use her back as a diving board launch and swim to my heart’s delight.
After she was through drinking I would climb on her back again and give her head to her and
she would trot to the barn where she knew I would give her treats, such as carrots, apples,
sugar cubes and so on.
I remember I never did have the heart to make her run full speed as
I supposed that her blindness was burden enough in her life for her to bear.
It is said of truth that one gets to keep in heaven those things of this life that were loved sufficiently.
I know that my beloved Pet shall be my precious playmate again in the heavenly ethereal of the Spirit.
Pet lives on even now in the depths of my childhood memories. Her loving low neighs as she
approached me by smell, and her nuzzles into my pocket for the sugar cubes she knew would
always be there for her. In heaven I shall see my Pet again, and this time she will see me,
maybe for the first time.
For and in honor of Carol Brown
and Contest.