"brumal" poems
The cold makes you porcelain.
I pray your porcelain's sustained.
Please stay like this forever.
An infinite image remains
Of Beauty in veins
Shown blue in skin now pallid evermore.
Why can't I join you
In dreams of winter and eternal brumal slumber.
If only I could grant myself,
Frigid serenity and repose.
And come to find you once again
Dancing in November snow
Oct 19, 2012
Oct 19, 2012 at 6:04 PM UTC
sleight of hand season
will not be reasoned with
brumal upheaval
Mar 3, 2023
Mar 3, 2023 at 9:42 PM UTC
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.
Jan 31, 2021
Jan 31, 2021 at 9:51 AM UTC
The winter Months used to not be accounted for,
they were the annual time away from Time;
a time of parties, feasts, and, shall we say, celebration of survival;
celebrating the harvest and, shall we say, fertility;
that you and yours may outlast
the cold, dead Winter.
January was eventually recognized as part of time
and was named for the Roman two-faced God Janus;
a time of duplicity and duality
a time of unpredictability
a time, somewhat analogous to a gateway leading to a new cycle
though, perhaps also, a time for looking the other way, as it were:
I suspect that the expression "When in Rome..."
was derived from those Winter non-months of debauchery
where the people from out-of-town would come into Rome,
where the party was, company was plentiful, and it was warm,
and decide to partake in various aspects of pagan Roman life otherwise inaccessible to them
while distributing few, if any, regards for their new-found brumal unorthodoxy
and hence the expression: "When in Rome, do as the Romans."
That's just my theory on it, though.
Take it or leave it, or perhaps somewhere in between.
Happy Winter!
Time to drink, feast, **** and be merry!
It's only Human, apparently!
Nov 21, 2013
Nov 21, 2013 at 11:19 PM UTC
Creaky withered wood abruptly freed from it's jamb
Flung inward into the cottage by violent gust
Releases a torrent of feathery flakes
That bite the skin and chill the air
Riding in on a robust and wintry gale
Hiemal gladiators stampede inward
Toward the scorching hearth
That is ablaze with a passionate fire
Crackling madly at the brumal intruders
White blistering embers fly wildly
And the tiny snow soldiers marching in bravely
Never stood a chance
May 18, 2011
May 18, 2011 at 4:15 PM UTC
The hope of
an early spring
was disappointed by
the quiet snowfall
last night.
I stand this morning
surrounded by
the peeping and chirping
of happy and hopeful
songbirds.
I hear the breath
of the earth, and I know
you're telling me
everything will be
just fine.
I will not quit.
I will not give up hope
for I know
even in
these cloudy skies,
even in
these lasting nights,
even in
this brumal moment,
you are here
so I will not give up.
Mar 13, 2017
Mar 13, 2017 at 9:52 AM UTC
First gelid dawn
of the dying year.
A crescent moon
shivers above
achromatic frost.
Four crows perch
like fluffy black
lumps of ice
on taut power lines.
Hungry sparrows peck
the severe ground.
The old poet
fears the cold.
Chilled eyes notice
bare ruined trees
and windshields
waiting to be scraped.
The earth has pulled
the covers up
around its neck,
wakes stiff and slow,
but stays in bed.
Cold's bony fingers
probe the old house
like burglars seeking
points of entry.
Still, the chill roads
point toward the
inevitable return
of warmth;
spring sits
silent as a cat waiting
for a door to open,
bidding its time
to counterattack.
Even on the most
algid morning
hope slumbers,
but never dies.
~mce
Nov 21, 2015
Nov 21, 2015 at 8:41 AM UTC
The night kindles
The moon’s brumal breath,
As the stars flicker.
The planets are rigid.
And the flowers seal,
And the ocean ebbs,
And the eyes of a feline
Close for rest.
And the ka-bunk
Of a dying road
Stops.
And the whimsical
Laughter of an aging boy
Ceases.
And a kiss goodnight
Is long lost to dreams.
And a little girl’s fears
Linger then leave.
And it is a time
Of tranquil musing.
A time to believe
Outlandish ideas
That are most amusing.
A time to think,
And think some more,
About the logic
Of bustling decor.
And there is never a need
For your mind to be contrite.
For this is midnight.
Jan 27, 2012
Jan 27, 2012 at 8:39 PM UTC
The only thing I see
Is their beauty.
The cold look was hypnotizing
Those hidden eyes mesmerizing.
Then it took me to insanity
Controlling my body.
After came anxiety
Felt like someone shot me.
I dreamt about the brumal night
When our outs touched ins
The falling walls of sin.
I lay there beside you
A stranger I thought I knew.
To me you were my secret
Now I wish we never met.
Now I wish I never said it
The words of love we always regretted.
Mar 4, 2014
Mar 4, 2014 at 4:43 AM UTC
The frozen meadow
is a hard, white
**** carpet.
Seven wild turkeys
arrayed in a
gobbling skirmish line
pick their way
carefully across it.
I stand silently
on the frozen deck
in my bare feet
and watch.
The algid world
contains us all,
no exceptions.
Strutting fowl,
the flaneur
who watches,
no one escapes
this brumal vista.
The God of heaven
is simultaneously
the God of phenomena.
Skepsis slips away
when your toes
are cold.
- mce
Apr 10, 2015
Apr 10, 2015 at 7:15 PM UTC
Old longings nomadic leap,
Chafing at custom's chain;
Again from its brumal sleep
Wakens the ferine strain.
Dec 26, 2015
Dec 26, 2015 at 4:32 AM UTC
You were a smeary bruise,
your eye hysterical,
cut from white twill
in the brumal March;
I slipped my blues,
to a blonde chorale
in your room, on the hill
gushing with larch.
We practiced slow,
while black cones bled
coffee. Your breath
came in little throws,
your heart in parcels of red,
that led to our little death.
Feb 7, 2021
Feb 7, 2021 at 9:53 AM UTC
brisk winds over
lips
dries cold
spit
one
move-
ment
and they
crack
split
tear
rolling on down
my chin
to rest at its peak
a drop
crimson and
ready
to fall
to the hard snow
white
now with
a spot of red
now with
a spot of pink
as it spreads,
as it fades —
a film of tears
frozen to the
pupil
saccading swiftly
crystalline structures
perched on tips of eyelashes
staring at brumal
skies
picking at cracked and
lifeless
lips
tremors
quakes
shakes
snapping
convulsing
spines
and bones
chatter
shatter
break
numbing cold
but
there is warmth
in the darkness
it is close
but
it never comes
it will never come
Sep 2, 2014
Sep 2, 2014 at 8:01 PM UTC