As the morning dew turns to frost,
Once again, we are blessed by beauty.
But at a cost.
For humans, the cold isn't much fun.
But ask a husky, they'll say they love it.
Because it gives them
the energy to play and run.
Eventually, we love it too.
It brings the promise of family, food, and something new.
there are girls made of storms,
and girls born of fire;
but the ones I love best are roses.
they’re beautiful, with thorns,
and roots that reach deeper than the winter frost.
Two posts emerged on my Facebook,
And sorry I could not peruse both
And be one user, long I stood
And scrolled down one as far as I could
To where it went into a long blockquote;
Then read the other, as just as shared,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was classy and about footwear;
Though as for that the likes there
Had rated them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
I believe with no comments written back.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever tap back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two posts emerged on my Facebook, and I—
I read the one less thumbed-up by,
And that has made all the difference.
Lost in this Wonderland.
He tramples in a sheet of soft hail.
Chills crawl up his body like a spider up its web.
His lips form blisters and cracks.
His ears begin to burn at the touch.
His body turns bluer than an untainted ocean.
He longs to find what he lost.
The breeze hits him when he least expects it,
bitter cold punches in all directions.
The screeches of the wind grow louder.
The mist of his breath in the air fades.
All hopes of finding it are gone.
A shimmer of light grows in the distance.
His frostbitten fingers reach towards it.
The spirit of Jack Frost moons over him saying,
“My son, I have what you are looking for.”
His previously sullen face turns into a smirk.
Mr. Frost embraces him and gives him all he was searching for.
“Finally…” he says.
A winter Poem of a lost man who is given something when he encounters the spirit of winter himself.
Behold the heavens!
Her army erected of snow draws near
To autumn's gates; they storm
To make way for their queen to
Take charge of his throne.
By their blizzardous shriek,
His nation shrivels briskly
Till they are not;
A faded memory, an echo from the past.
Breath that shivers, news of misfortune.
Thou instill much fear within us
For thou greet our lands with turmoil
And trample our sweat
With thy gelid might.
How art thou not an
Offspring of death,
when thou delight in our flesh?
Harken unto me!
Give not in to her mayhem,
For although long is her stay,
Short is her terror.
She decided to build herself a road,
instead of taking 'The Road Not Taken'.
I sit at Robert Frost Farm
On a bench so tall my feet can’t touch ground
I move them around and pretend I’m sitting on a cliff
But I’m surrounded by twigs
And dead yellow grass
It feels like spring but it looks like autumn
The trees are still bare and the landscape barren
Stripped down and beaten
Like a hollow survivor
Waiting for sunlight and just a little water
I sit here blindly like a silent on looker
I stare right through the tattered survivors
An old lady in the distance yells something friendly
But I can’t hear her so I stare and smile
Copyright Barry Pietrantonio
it's cold in here
red frost, cowboys are shivering
dancing on puddles
slippery floor of memories
posters of dead ghosts on the walls
mirrors don't reflect the cowboys
their shadows are transparent
the piano man takes them on a journey
Today is a good day.
morn's cold sheet of frost
shall cover our small township
in an icy freeze
Oh, lavish rays pour upon me your favor,
The warm flush of naked light gives me life,
My skin teeming with sensation,
A golden blanket enveloping me,
The cold of the frost has withered,
Leaving only your burning love,
Through you, I can feel all,
I am not afraid when you are near,
How can I be?
When I can sing praise to your shine.