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Daksh Apr 30
Frost; Snow or ashes?, her tears
rain down on me.

Floating and falling, attentive but lost
into you.

Closed the door and went downstairs
with you in my mind.

Kicked the pedal and saw you from the window
with tears in your eyes.

last seen, crying in the bathroom
if found: tell her, I'm in the sky

I will wait for you
deadhead Apr 22
this morning i saw
frost laden dandelions
shining in the sun
idyllic steps
are bare
in green
make months
in golden
year the
gavotte in
her little
black dress
that the
music of
spring in
vapor of
the string
makes her
frosty as
the hills
This winter night
What fell from the sky
Landed on my cheek
Cooled me
Gave me chills in my soul
Wasn't your lips
Unfortunately not your soothing words

And just like that, it melted
As did other snowflakes that made their descent
And I hated this Valentine's Day
For not letting me freeze
In your presence.

Ifeanyi N. Okoro  © 2.14.21
Where's my Valentine?
Pitched your tent upon the clouds
And dwelt beneath our dome sky
To make do with
Thy short stay
By sounding thy trumpet,
Accompanied by converting our
Climate into snowy

Mine enmity burns against thee,
For you have halted my
Elected days
Of exercise by surprise; a tool I
Sharpen daily, to polish
My physique.
Blessed be the Bleak Black Skies
Where wintry winds wind far and wide
For fairest fairies heaven’s vault ignite
– My mind meandered whilst outside.
“Beware Beloved boy!” – Babushka bawled
“Lest your sleigh slides down the sleety lake
Come quick inside to escape the cold
Except my heart this Yule you yearn to ache”

Seven summers since have passed
And adamant as I always am,
Torpefied are my toes atop the tarn
Yet bare-bodied I be
Showcasing my shivering sheath
Red cheeks, red nose, and red feet
Keen to knuckle under Kári’s decree
So, I submerged myself swiftly
Below Boreas’s biting abode
Concealed in the coldest calmest of waters
Within Winter Wonderland’s whitest
For that freeze that forces you to fathom
that Corpses can’t feel the cold
I couldn't decide on a title so is either "Frostbite Freedom" or "Winter Waters" :)
Laokos Jan 31
my dear fellow human,

you have been wintergreen against my heart. a sharp brilliance of blinding light captivating me within the infinite breadth of a wandering moment. my lungs frosted first freezing figures of frozen firs upon the memory of each breath. my blood ran cold like that winter river and I was a fish beneath its icy exterior and you have been wintergreen against my heart. a cold slap of circulating change penetrating each layer of protection. you have been wintergreen through them all and now you are wintergreen against my heart. a fresh perspective from the core of my being to the scales of my skin. a permeating resolution of piercing glacial coolness frosting the valves and chambers of this brumal beater. you have taken my breath from gelid gilded gills and scattered the shattered pieces of peace across this boreal landscape. from the hiemal heights of arctic aurora aura's to the lower polar valley's suspended in diamond dust--you have been wintergreen among them all and now these roots are too--cool, clear and growing--and i have never been so grateful for the cold that pierced and kissed this wintergreen heart.
Within his paw
smeared bloodied red
by a deliberately mocking thorn
sat a
blanched ripple-y
guarachera strip of cloth
confined narrowly
between the love and the life lines.


what remained of her
remained of the underthings

fluffing rows of silk
the heavy skirt had been raised
above the ankles
the creases no longer hidden in shadow,
one leg hoisted over the back,
the reigns held expertly.

Hey Beauty!
As it happens, the card numbered Eight is
Strength (also Lust)

She had surely fled
She has surely flown
through the trees and away
Not on foot at-all
while the three saw her pass.
great speed.
The two sisters
with that prince vulgaris looking on
Three daemon goblins watching from a distance
a disturbance
a smallish crashing
and afterwards
a scrap, sleepy and unfurled, relaxed
within the leaves that shudder
and give up the delicacy, slyly
into stubby fingers

The Woods are Laughing!
Did you notice any scent?
Did it linger between
the thumb and the ring?
the remnant of her flowers,
Petals flouncing, swirling
in odorous potentiality.
a scrap, yes
a deep seated souvenir
Can we re-fabricate the whole from this little thing, you think?

we want her.
there are things that we want to do with her.

dangerous, they lean in close, nostrils flaring slightly
searching for the ambergris or the sticky  jasmine
settling instead to gaze upon
the still clutched
still a little springy
sprightly, o! the remnants of her liveliness
and ***** and yet
No memories

3: at least let us show you the stage that we’ve built
with a clean sheet for the curtain,
paper cut-outs
and some sticks.
it’s called acting.
the wine and the wafer.
hidden in the trees’ darkening
‘the mattress’ lays where
the leaves will crumple

meanwhile, he’s petulant:
- why, if you’d just get off of that high horse!
- how long are you going to resist?
- are you STILL angry?
- why won’t you just let me stick it in you?

she telegraphs her response, cough:
‘you do know that in this
particular scenario
(fingers pointing downward and across
as if to suggest
that the scenario
had a specific location)
You are the wolf, right?
The wolf...

I, the girl,
am in the forest with my basket and
I have got a
cute little
blood red
crushed velvet
swing coat
With matching hood and a single task
(with those other two *******) have decided
to bore ME with this ****?
Daresay slow ME down?
Of course I will get rid of YOU.
Wait, who am I talking to?

Let me also add that
there never has been any
high-stepping on my part,
nor ankle twirling,
no mandate to impress a stale balcony,
no sign of gaslit
pink bows
that lay down flat
perfectly upon the straps
that snap
perfectly at the thigh,
NOT to be slid off a buttock (mine)
NOR crumpled into a dubious ball, ripped and torn
and yet I know that
that determined creature,
a hairy monster
more faithful than Argos,
is prepared
to wait a lazy eight
at grannie’s cozy house
in a sickly corner
over-eager and overwrought with
pandered fantasies
and explosions of once sort or another, irrelevant to me.

What I WILL admit to is
that the touch of those grubby fingers
transubstantiated at my waist
as usual from behind
impatient and
always too quick to make himself a beast
to rid himself of being a man

knowing how way
leads onto way
but I doubt if I should ever come back’
In shape and life more like a monster, than a man. - Edmund Spenser, The Faerie Queen
Evan Stephens Jan 11
Mortal pink to gray crest -
the fox sun and cloud hedge
advance thin as wax,
strew frost on the yard,
& wrist peach away,
as light leaks, hours ahead.
The cold hands of January
grasp at February’s promise,
the warmth of March
always just out of reach.

You rub my shoulders,
kiss away the ache
as April continues her rain
over gentle, submissive May.

We sing the song of the whippoorwill,
its haunting anthem spilling
out across the valley floor
when June gives in to July

and August crowns the summer sky.
September will leave
when the colors bleed,
October betrayed by the coming frost.

What will you do
when November comes,
when ice and pain
move in to claim my breath?

Comfort me.
Smile with me.
Lie to me.
Tell me there is no December.
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