Long Snow Poems
Long Snow Poems. Below are the most popular long Snow by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Snow poems by poem length and keyword.
The mist lies low on Christmas morn,
Soft as an angel’s wing,
While sounds of joy are gently borne—
Today is born Christ the King.
We wake to dawn’s obscured first light,
Veiled in low-hung cloud,
The day is cloaked in holy sight,
In heaven’s hush endowed.
No crown of gold, no marble throne,
But straw beneath His head,
Yet heaven bends where He is known,
And angels’ hymns are spread.
The woods hold breath, the rivers still,
The night bends low to hear,
As if all things by vale and hill
Knew God had wandered near.
The oak remembered ancient breath,
The yew bent low in vow,
For life was sworn against all death
In straw and starlight now.
The stars grew dim at His first cry,
The sky itself went swiftly by;
On that day the Empyrean Star arose
To herald forth the way—
The Son of Heaven, born of Woe.
In fragile flesh, the Word made near,
A mercy born this day,
The hope of all the waiting years
Now breathes in infant clay.
So stand in awe this silver hour,
Where earth and heaven cling,
For love itself is born this morn—
All glory to the King
Now keep this hush the world has known,
This breath between the years,
Where God lies wrapped in mortal bone
And sanctifies our fears.
May peace like falling snow descend,
May light the dark undo,
Till love made flesh shall rise again
And make all things made new.
Ominous bays of hellhounds thunder in the bleak night
As a shattered glass slipper is found amongst powdered ivory snow,
The glint caught within incorporeal warping moonlight—
Leading to a blue grey corpse, mangled with frozen tears cemented in place.
Hands clenched around a copper timepiece,
The minute hand paused at one past twelve.
The putrid scent of desperation still hangs heavy in the air.
A note, scribbled in vermilion, is tucked within her bosom:
I'm sorry. I was overwhelmed—and so very lonely. She came to me with promises of grandeur. All I had to do was make a pact: be home by midnight, or my soul would forever be hers.
How could I resist? She seemed so innocent, with the smells of childhood lingering—conjuring up all that is glorious.
Besides, you, my dear family, seemed not to notice, nor care, about the pain quietly consuming me. So I took the deal, inked in blood and sealed with a poisonous kiss.
If you happen to find this note, I never made it back in time. And my fate lies within her mercy.
The Spirit of Christmas..
Pure white delicate snowflakes..
Falling from the sky..
Upon the sky snowflakes sway..
They dance merrily..
Winds embrace the snow..
Together they both create a vision of exquisite beauty..
The spirit of Christmas fills the air..
A sip of eggnog..
Sweetness of baked ginger bread cookies..
Spreading love and cheer..
Reflections of Christmas..
Give unto others..
Share the magic..
Share what one lacks..
Deliver gratitude and kindness..
The Spirit of Christmas ..
A choir of heavenly angels singing..
The harmonious sounds of Christmas carols..
Sprinkles of magic surrounds..
Omitting joyous love
Spreading Inner peace..
In unity we celebrate the birth of Jesus..
The Anticipation of Snow
David J Walker
No matter how old I grow
The anticipation of snow
Beckons the memories of my feet
Deep in rubber boots
We called galoshes
Stepping into a virgin white
World of crisp cold
The crunching sound of
Crushing snow to the ground
Below leaving the footprints of tread
Evidence of boys and girls
In a playground world of winter
The picture window in the front room
Framed the storm from the warmness of
Our house where falling snow is quietly accepted
Its joy is in the arrival
Its secrets in the style of survival
The bitterness excepted
And the face of each snowflake a
Fingertip printed in the icy touch of winter
No matter how much may fall
You cannot count them all
Banked by the snowplows at night
Ink of life cannot bleed for eternity,
so I place dried petals in between,
crucial chapters of my memoirs.
When we stop breathing poetry,
our crestfallen pen, left in silence -
where do we poets go?
Is there a special place,
where the ink flows forever,
like waterfalls of mercy -
where thirst quenches
through poetic potions.
Releasing unspoken words -
can you hear the messages?
Floating in the tepid breeze,
brushing against your face,
forming goose pimples.
When our spirits make love to poetry,
we radiate like rays of sunshine
warming the world.
We do not speak poetry,
it whispers to us,
like spotlights in the sky,
soothing scars upon the moon.
When we cry poetic tears,
we pour like raindrops,
refreshing seasonal blossoms.
Our muse battles storms,
like lilac lilies in the snow.
We illuminate like a timeless rainbow,
absorbing all spectrum of vibrancy.
Glistening after clouds clear,
from red to yellow to green.
We the word collectors,
soul connectors,
forever weaving like
spiders spinning cobwebs.
What becomes of us
when our pen's shadow
no longer appears.
We may never write the perfect poem,
but poetry reminds us we are alive -
as our words become immortal.
Simple Musing
Silent One
25 November 2020
"Christmas is not just a season, but a state of mind. To cherish
peace and goodwill, to be plenteous in mercy is to have the real
spirit of Christmas."
- Calvin Coolidge
* * * *
* ** * * *
* * * * *
Christmas season is the time for singing holiday songs
and choirs praising Jesus, our Savior, in reverent hymns.
They honor the child who was born to right man's wrongs.
The glow of candlelight flickers as each flame slowly dims.
It's a world in which white quilts cover bare tree limbs.
* * * *
* * * *
With joy I welcome the sweet silence of new-falling snow.
In virginal purity, it tumbles, appearing so velvety soft.
Crystalline flakes frost the panes as I look out my window
and see somber gray clouds, hovering in the skies aloft
while children build a snowman across the village croft.
* * * * *
* * * *
Mantles are carefully draped with boughs of holly and pine
as lights are strung and ornaments hung on Christmas trees.
A golden star on the tallest branch shines gloriously divine.
Gathering near the fireside, families are making memories.
The scene resembles a snow globe full of winter fantasies.
* * * * *
* * * * *
Christmas delivers a message of hope and peaceful repose,
first gifted to the entire world on the night of Jesus' birth.
In the spirit of the season, poets are motivated to compose,
verses that express the magical mood of joviality and mirth
where goodwill and brotherhood spreads across the earth.
* * * *
* * * * *
Writing Challenge - Write A Christmas Poem
11/30/22 ~ Contest sponsored by Constance La France
No need for a special day
To remind us of our love
Always in our consciousness
A treasure from up above
Just like the welcome sunshine
Right after a summer rain
A rainbow of pretty colours
A gentle sweet refrain
A lullaby to relax and soothe us
When skies above turn dark
Gentleness of soft falling snow
A sweet serenade in the park
Two souls adrift at the twilight hour
Wistful of days of yore
Soft shadows in the moonlight
Starlight on the distant shore
The tender kiss of the morning air
Sunshine o'er the hills
The tender song of the morning dove
The call of the whippoorwill
~ Christmas Day Is So Near ~
(Fives and Threes Style)
It's a nice day and
Winter's here
The days are short and the nights are very long
There's peace and all is quiet
And all around you can almost hear the sounds of Christmas now
'Cause Christmas day is only days away
Most folks are preparing their Christmas lists and looking forward with very joyful cheer
Outside the snow like fairy dust falls on the ground
Christmas shoppers hurriedly make their way to all stores, windows displays are beautiful
Children play around making snowmen
There's much love joy happiness in the hearts 'cause Jesus was born.
In just a few more days
Will be Christmas, a most beautiful time
Everywhere
Christmas trees now shine.
Dorian Petersen Potter
Aka ladydp2000
Copyright@2015
December.20.2016
~ Author's Notes:
The "Fives and threes" is a poetry form or style created on, 22/9/2010 by George L. Ellison.
Shouts of triumph and defeat echo from the fields
day in and day out.
Drivers continue learning in that same cracked parking lot,
living proof that history repeats itself;
different shaking 16-year-olds,
same bumped curbs and too-hasty turns.
And Youth floats on,
floats on by.
The sun sets another day,
and the world is casted in the most vibrant oranges and purples
from the Matron’s final brushstrokes.
The Crone assumes control now.
With a wave of her gnarled hand,
leaves skitter across snow-dusted earth
against a background of gray and dying light.
And I drive slowly,
soaking in sights I’ve dismissed a thousand times over.
I’m guided by memories of times once passed
overlayed across my sight,
and through them I view the old roads I used to speed down
with little regard for life and its gifts.
The asphalt I know is further worn,
further whitened by Winter’s reverent graze.
I am not who I was when I last traversed Stanhope Road.
I am older,
wiser,
my eyes no longer veiled.
Fall has passed me to his successor.
I can only hope Winter will receive me with a feather-light touch
and shape me as gently,
for its bitingly cruel reality knows no bounds.
Blood always contrasts harshest with the snow.
NOVEMBER
Cold
breeze blows.
To enter
Snow White Winter.
Appears November.
In early dawn
mystic mist
to peep.
Chilled.