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aleks 20h
it's easy to say time heals all wounds,
when every barren branch blooms again in spring,
when every new chick is taken under a safe wing.

but time is yet to wake me from my eternal winter sleep.

i still lay, unmoving, in my barren keep.

even bears leave me behind,
a permanent fixture in their den,
"maybe time will wake him next spring,"
they say, now and then.

the forest whispers above my head,
calling to the last absentee,
but i am no tree,
and spring does not speak to me.
of eternal winters spent observing life around me
DanDoes Dec 2021
Pitter patter
Rain comes down
Spitter spatter
Face with frown

Wet crunching
Under feet
Dreary people
Walk in street

Not
Me

Rain comes down
Air is clear
Family in town
Winter here

Outside cold
Warmth is sweet
Chocolate hot
Marshmellows eat
blank 6d
it’s easy to miss the juncos’ slow, sudden departure in spring;
messengers from colder warming worlds

they arrive a dulling autumn:
peppering notations of life in a landscape encased,
each deep dark demitasse
brewed on increasingly tardy dawns
painting a night sky inverted

standing ankle deep in first snows
searching for leftover springs beneath the detritus

but then they finally emerge with the warblers,
orioles, robins, and buntings

and pointillism fades beneath impressionist palettes
that flash over treetops and underbrush

but the last juncos linger:
quiet familiar trills outside my window each morning
disrupting stillness till it disappears
an ode to the dark-eyed junco

i just ******* love birds idk what else you need to know. about time i wrote a proper poem about them
walking down the street                            
the winters day folded              
              settled snow awaiting damage
waking  as the morning fumbles with city residents
                                    and caravans of cars bumble                        
               unused to the tumble and witty wade of it all

my view is unveiled and hearted
simple vision  in fellow with the other senses
but IT'S THEN ! and then (aftershock )    something was altered
something in perception  was marched astray and put to sacrifice
just a tick off from the uncanny flank of lucid
                         and i know something's not right
my readings rank as nudged
       someone wishes me 'off the case'
what did my senses experience
       that could've been entered into evidence ?
i stop in the street and stoop my bags into the drift
why was my report changed                
       so skillfully between the source
                                            and my intake ?
just a single moment    a blur and a splice snip
what was i not meant to observe ?
was the rug pulled out from under it all
even if for only a spilt second ?
did i witness the goings on behind the scenes ?
the agents of governing wealthy illusion at work ?
adjusting the set ?  correcting an effect ?
wizarding our fantastic lives
the grand fabrication
...or perhaps  simply a feeling
Mariah 7d
If only I could finally
Find a way to please
Persephone
Then maybe
I wouldn't feel the cold of winter-
So personally
For Persephone
If only she could hear me
Id let her know that I could be
Whatever she would ask of me
And maybe I would find myself
Finally free
Archaesus Apr 10
Winter is a season
With barren limbs
Fallen leaves
Blowing winds
And frozen eaves

Winter is a season
Of greyed out skies
And barely touching suns
Cold, burning eyes
And noses on the run

Winter is a season
Where green and beauty fades
Buried ‘neath a white sheet
And it seems that for an age
Winter is all there is.

But winter is a season.
Seasons always change.
Seasons come and go
Seasons are a phase
Winter is a season.

Winter is a season
One of four, in fact
The other three are green
Winter has an icey grasp
But Spring, summer, fall -

Flowers! Bees! Warm, soft breeze!
Butterflies and normal flies,
Fruit and veggies, rain and shine!
Running, laughing, falling, playing
Kissing, hugging, gasping!

Winter is a season.
Right now I do feel cold.
I feel like I want to stay in bed
Until the day that I grow old
And no longer raise my head.

Winter is a season.
This one seems worse than most.
But if I give up now-
If i choose to let this go-
Then I miss the next.

Winter is this season.
I’ll try to stay warm while it lasts
And maybe share a blanket where I can
But I feel, coming fast,
A fresh new spring to share.
Kyle Kulseth Apr 2
The pond by your father's place always froze over
The ice always reaching no matter whether the weather was freezing or not.
The silence on either side of the window panes killed you, you said.
You told me the patterns on the glass reminded you of bleeding.

You used to have donkeys, and they always loved you.
Bringing them pears and soft touches behind ears.

I was a boy, still, but it all made sense.
The way that your mouth moved
when whispering memories to me.
I remember that Spring that we fell through the ice.
Jangled nerve endings felt stabbing. Cold knives.
Wet hair. Lucky to make it out.

The last time you saw me you told me, "You're bleeding..."
I smiled and spat once and said I was fine.
I'd tripped on your driveway whilst walking to see you
and busted my lips on your mailbox.
You wiped one ring finger, stilled my moving mouth.
It was only a little. (Blood, that is.)

You wiped it again on my shirt.
You ***!

I wish we'd drawn pictures in the snow with it.

The Winter has claimed me, I think, since then.
Blizzards well up in the corners of my eyes from time to time.
Snowbanks form on my brows when I furrow.
I furrow a lot now.

The wasps in the tree at the edge of your father's place
Stung up your back and neck that Summer. Remember?
Calamine smile, you had me pull out the stingers.
Your dad's debit card, wiped across your back.
"Declined," I said.
You laughed.
And the pond, in my memory, still looks iced over
Even though that was July.
Right after my birthday.

Last month, saw the sign, said your father had sold
          his place. Our place.
             He misses you too.

I wish you here now.

We're all getting old, but I can't let myself grow.
I'm not any smarter, I'm just clothed in cold
And I forgot how to feel the way we did then.

I'd like another plunge, through thin ice, I think.
Anyway, I hate the Summer time.
The heat's too mean.
You know that about me.
Narin Apr 1
With Winter's leave,
Comes Summer's cleave,
Gone are the days of downy reprieve,
I feel naïve,
For I dared believe,
That Snowbird wouldn't dare to deceive,
When it flew away one April eve.
Written 01/04/25
I've never been a fan of Summer.
Bonnie Mar 29
lace patterned glazing—
frosted silver in spiderweb,
wet and trembling
In the sill sunlight shards
skitter on the panes,
their crackle soft as whispered ice.

Violet beautyberry clusters glisten,
vivid hearts trapped in crystal shells.
Spindly branches ache beneath icy weight,
struggling to hold their winter’s art.

Snow sprinkles itself soundlessly,
a sift of miniscule stars,
flakes pirouetting on their descent—
shhhh . . . .
they murmur in soft exhalations,
sinking themselves in layers,
weaving a shroud of powder crunch.

Lake’s edge frozen,
fractured veins running deep,
a mirror of sky and bone-white birch.
The ice moans—low then clicks
in an echoing spectral chatter
carrying into the hollow woods.

Drip . . . Drip . . .
Melting snow slides from icicles,
each ephemeral jewel
vanishing as it falls.

Cold that bites and soothes,
its beauty sharp enough to scar.
Breathe it in;
the crisp air carving through lungs
in sharp spears of pain.

Nature’s majesty,
frozen in motion,
fiercely silent,
a hymn of stillness eternal.
current contest entry on the subject of Ice and snow
neth jones Mar 28
lunch break  fire escape                  
   seagulls hover  far below              
rattled  by stern winds          
  thoughts battle  their own nature    
no progress  in their flight      
.
tanka style
original notes :my high perch on ninth /fire escape /the backs of gulls below /flight   rattled with wind /no forward progress in flight
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