"hoarfrost" poems
A Robin said: The Spring will never come,
And I shall never care to build again.
A Rosebush said: These frosts are wearisome,
My sap will never stir for sun or rain.
The half Moon said: These nights are fogged and slow,
I neither care to wax nor care to wane.
The Ocean said: I thirst from long ago,
Because earth's rivers cannot fill the main.--
When Springtime came, red Robin built a nest,
And trilled a lover's song in sheer delight.
Grey hoarfrost vanished, and the Rose with might
Clothed her in leaves and buds of crimson core.
The dim Moon brightened. Ocean sunned his crest,
Dimpled his blue, yet thirsted evermore.
25.6k
*The cold wind greeted
the hoarfrost that
evening as white
butterflies started to
fall from the dark sky.
Soon the pearly blanket
was spread across
the whole land.
It sparkled on the milky
moonlight, giving the old
willow tree a wooly gown.
Covering all the roofs,
the fields of corn and wheat,
the tall grass on the meadow.
But then she appeared,
sending fairies to dance on the
frozen lake thus melting the ice.
And with every step that she took,
snowdrops began to bloom.*
Aug 10, 2016
Aug 10, 2016 at 12:13 PM UTC
i woke up this morning
with a snowflake on the tip of my nose
and i thought i became a sleepwalker.
its the first time that im haunting
the dreamworld
with my eyes wide open
and i believe.
i was sleeping actually. and it was
fog
and hoarfrost
and everything smelled of oranges.
mom says it smells like Christmas
but i dont sense any pine-tree.
so no.
the snowflake melted and i still did not wake up and i almost had a panick attack because i was not sleeping, i was not awake either and i was home, where it is impossible for snowflakes to fall.
tangerines. yes. not oranges.
Apr 29, 2015
Apr 29, 2015 at 3:18 PM UTC
Hoarfrost lipstick
Touches not-dead-enough lips.
She's limp and entangled in branches.
Unfeeling fingers
Snap newly-formed buds
Breath puffing and gasping, he glances.
"Pretty...
...my pretty...my pretty cold doll!
See how the snow on her dances?
Almost...almost finished.
Just need the rest...
That last one got covered in scratches..."
Bone-numbing cuffs,
Can't scream from the gag.
She's trembling and sobbing in snatches.
"Shhhhhhhhhhh...
I just need your arms...
such pretty white limbs!.."
He picks up his shears, and advances.
Feb 22, 2011
Feb 22, 2011 at 7:34 PM UTC
*i saw you
i saw your fiery eyes
it was like looking into a cup
unstoppably filling up to its brim
yours, abundantly filled with vehement grim
so uneasy it was conjecturing your mind
gave me a reason to unwind for a little while
tell my why
all the pretends and quiet sighs, enshrouding whats from behind
what it is there inside
why do you need to hide
thy precious heart with no choice
but to turn itself into an agitated smoldered iron
strengthened heart, furnished like art
you are a burning metal amenably hammered by many foes
far more drowned with the empty souls
where are you, where is the real you
how did your soul turn so blue
let me condole
drilling poles amidst the cold
rendering you a hand and something to hold
I will find yours
along with all the lost
long hoarfrost
waiting to be accost
along with the alley of souls
growling down the holes
in line, next to mine
unleash a shine, your spirit so divine
let your caliginosity be replaced
all be thy grace shall be embraced
this time, fearlessly
without minds controlling slavery
cutting the negativity and
ignoring life's declivity
see yourself walking through the flame
no more lames
without the shame and doubt getting burnt
stepping on with something learnt
now you are changed, well-transformed,
someone born to aspire, died meant to inspire,
honey you are retrofire, firing in the night sky
but not as heaping as an empty pyre
but as fierce as an enraging forest fire*
Jan 28, 2017
Jan 28, 2017 at 9:39 AM UTC
Night,
and there is nothing more fragile
than this fever, an opus
of guitars swelling with song
and water, fluent
as the nocturnes are tuned
to the lower scale and strings vibrate deep within
the marrow as they ascend,
the soul blowing glass,
and filling the lungs
with a long slow taper of light, streaming
as fingers are brought to bear on frets
covered in hoarfrost,
and stray hair is pushed back from countenance,
to reveal the fractions of fire caught upon iris
there come slow indulgences,
and forgotten things,
to twine the body
in banners of winter silk,
scarves about the wrists, roped
in tethers and these feathers
of night-blooming jasmine
hang in long strands of pearl,
from my temple, teal threads of opal
and heather braids twine
the tone, the time
is not all poems
upon a blank page or songs
to coo the concert of souls
muted in chambers acoustically
formed of minutes, stolen in a glance,
at glimpse of skin or the tender touch
of cheek as eyes brim
soul-filled to overflow,
nocturnal blends the silent pause
between movements upon a page
where there is room for words,
though never found ,but in gesture
and margin's note that lays soft upon the tongue,
behind lips suited for sighs
these lost manuscripts begin
a long hand of notes held whole
Let the music play again,
its plea, eternal,
my love, please
do not forget how to preserve me,
for this is night,
and it is fragile....
Nov 2, 2012
Nov 2, 2012 at 6:54 AM UTC
and the sweat lingers with a
thin film of dust, dirt, mold --
whichever what have you.
what little hydration left of
this soft fleshy vessel seeps
through this veil. creating
rivers of mud that flood the
eyes and blind. though hue
of general existence if silh-
outted. and we follow the sou-
nds hoped spoke on the proper
path. shambling the brush,
ankles caught tight in the
thorns of the undergrowth.
never a first in leaving a
blooded footpath home. and
false words call us upon a
path in Life long returned to
Nature from man. and with blin-
ded eyes and gnarled sense,
trouncing the threshold of door
long closed, fearing only the
chance of having all ended.
the Ocean's desert is nothing
but the sweat of Man's ages'
turned to dust. ended of a
vessel when purpose has seen
fulfillment. to nurture, and
bring forth perpetuation of the
curious disappeared mysteries
resting unburdened, with ponde-
ring left nulled. and recreation,
re-mythologizing aeons not long
past. only a couple thousand
since the last hoarfrost blast.
Jul 8, 2013
Jul 8, 2013 at 9:58 PM UTC
Peculiar Spring
Seeps through my skin
Invades my soul
And garrotes me within
Unhurried strangulation
My spirit weakens
A rush of horror
At the sight of the Warden
He's cloaked in death
Speaks with decaying breath
"It's all foredoomed
I'm threading this path"
Limbs frozen stiff
Hasten, flee … if
Death travels swiftly
Radiating a putrid whiff
A nipping hoarfrost
Spring slays those embossed
Come Summer, come
Before I completely exhaust
This peculiar Spring
Its nature - bristling
Beneath a flaccid quiescence
I'm being garroted within
Oct 20, 2011
Oct 20, 2011 at 4:55 PM UTC
Thaw out frozen thoughts
shoulders hunched against the sleet
stride crunching on the downbeats
familiar haunts are blurring
Hurried northward daydreams don't
trickle south through Douglas Firs
But remember how our paths crossed?
Stargazers both--I balked first
4 blocks down, I'm held accountable
for crusade hypocrisies
I keep tucked in my back pockets
and rolled up in uprolled sleeves
The sun returns, or so I'm told
but it's been evening for awhile.
And, if they're wrong, where are we then?
Left knowing we're left under miles
of mounting snow?
Left knowing we've got to stop--
but not one clue how to cope
Wondering where hours, weeks and years went
counting calendars we've peeled off walls
Counting marks on records
marks on faces
Counting calendars
Tally scars--stubborn reminders
of how we got where we are.
Ground my skyward thoughts
in the grid of frozen streets
I'll sink deep in the hoarfrost
coats the ground, turns steps to beats
I'll keep time, now, walking westward
hands in pockets, eyes on feet.
I'll remember how your breath looked
off of Brooks Street walking east.
Dec 31, 2012
Dec 31, 2012 at 9:07 PM UTC
Hope
A fleeting tasteless thing
Something that used to be so full of flavor
Something that actually had a meaning
Causing my nervous system to spark
Stirring emotions through my body
Causing
God forbid
Emotions
But now it just feels like frost bite
And if I sit here long enough
That frostbite
Will slowly but steadily
Turn into hypothermia
And then I'll feel woozy
And then I'll feel warmer
They'll be calling ME the next tropical storm
I'll take off my clothes
Because I think that's what happens
When you start to freeze from the inside out
Hoarfrost cracking through my blood stream
I never thought it would end this way
But I guess it is a fitting death
For someone who's already frozen on the inside
It only needs to be completed
On the outside
From the beginning to the end
To the inside from the outside
Always fleeting
And never to be caged
Never to be obtained
Or granted
Or even achieved
That
Is what the simple
Four letter word
Hope
Means to me
Jul 16, 2018
Jul 16, 2018 at 3:26 PM UTC
Burnt Silk Leaves No Ash
Or Trace of it's Existence
Like An Empty Finished Romance or When The Music Finishes
After
The
Last
Slow
dance.
Like Used Imagination or Dead Man's Memory it Leaves No Legacy For The soft Cocoon or Caterpillar
To Call It's own.
As The Hoarfrost Melts Upon The Lawn
Or The Dew Disappears With the dawn
Eventually
When death Appears to Claim Your Soul,
Whose There to Say You Ever Lived At all?
Jan 26, 2013
Jan 26, 2013 at 7:13 PM UTC
The cold is my commander, it taunts me, while it steals my sheaths of warmer cleaving skin sections exposed by its notions and collected conscious. The sounds are complicated, the moons azurean hue resembles the coldness of my cigarette's embers blue, and then the commander shucks my final breath away. It isn't something that I barely feel, but rather something that lightly see. It's hoarfrost births its fickle shell of hardrime on the last of those interstices I once called my fingers. And from this choke, this frozen voice is detained by the vox ice amplifier that steals each noise. Besides, in an interruption I hear our whorish neighbors score of shouting scripted shouts, and screaming scripted screams. Each day she becomes less and less like any real human being. It's hard to believe that behind these walls that shield me from the albicant and atrocious heraldry winter casts me through, these sounds are concentric like limited Earth words written in the prompts that some ill and wanton succubus would. If only to lure herself from the pains she gained while lying to those amidst her closest ties. I am further distressed, though fully dressed narrowly watching bits of frozen water interlace themselves beneath freezing in the corners of my mind. When until the shaking and commandeering of my mortal sounds, disperse amidst the ferocity that Spring white snow absconds. The tremulent vocal chords are hailed by a hard-rimed **** who ensuingly rips the cantering spirit from each last place it stood. Only those who know this wind could speak about the way it genuflects and obsesses on these rules. This freezing genuflection hails to every servant of its rein, I can barely exhale the inspiration that rises from the head, until any skin exposed to air is reclaimed by my commander for good. Then each neighbor's head may lilt upon the piste, and pray for something more balmy than negative eleven degrees.
Jan 6, 2017
Jan 6, 2017 at 2:25 AM UTC
Future Springs
With hoarfrost the sustaining element to speak of love as you mix it with the telling breeze I know the
Measure of your heart its volumes weigh upon my senses to resist a sudden kiss would be to Miss Bliss
The glow surely bestows mountain heights and the texture of uncommon air we are paired together
That all magic of existence we can equally share like the plants that grow close to the water fall that
Cascades without end luxuriant sunlight shine the green tops fuse and make greenest gold the color
Flows through the eye a sigh is heard it copies the surrounding reality and wedges in to the crevice of
The rock one is weak but by taking its place in the rock face it becomes invincible days without end it
Surveys the great deep valley below does it wonder how it would be to cross vistas so grand would the
Delight match what is already being bestowed though beauty would be found you can be assured but
The dryer clime would stress one who always is cooled by the eternal spray and who would want to
Lose moisture and air and sun that perfects life and promotes success in unequal terms you have placid
Dreams that form deep below and truly stream forth water’s glory in sweetest detail they were passing before your
Presence so you do go not only into the valley but at so greater lengths that are unimaginable the
Waters mix with the birds either the water fowl are gliding to a landing or the egret alights its nest
Just above the waters so blue and cool you were the one who blessed and sent it on its way the winding
Day ever refreshed by what comes its way the heights always shares now let us do likewise Happy New
Year
Jan 1, 2012
Jan 1, 2012 at 12:37 AM UTC
I've dreamed about ourselves
In the golden Dunes:
Bathed in sunshine,
warm under our feet.
But I'm here,
In the Tundra:
Freezed by the hoarfrost,
and it feels desertic.
Cold,
before the rise of the lights.
May 18, 2016
May 18, 2016 at 8:49 PM UTC
I wonder if you remember Eloisa
the wind gamboling in your sand-colored hair
drifting scents of orange tree flower
and you holding on your chest a crystal swan
with a lithe neck
but he’s gone and you
alike the blessed peace makers
dreamed of forgetting the wedding bells
and the silver trout jumping
or the rain plashes in limpid water
to forget how the vine branch cut before the leaves show out
cries drops of cloudy sap
to cry full of joy because the moon melted the clouds
and you have a blank look and there’s so much silence
that you cannot hear your eyelashes
trembling on your pillow
like a faraway call
Eloisa
the name of forgiveness is not forgetfulness
a north star fell over the frozen lilies in your *****
hoarfrost flowers slowly fall off from the empty cell’s window
a vestal once more
the one who forgets is therefore forgotten…
Mar 22, 2014
Mar 22, 2014 at 4:25 PM UTC
Come away O human child
to the waters and the wild
with a faerie hand in hand
for the world's more full of weeping
*than you can understand.
Bridget,
Your pretty face,
was all they found in the peat
with the hoarfrost over your mouth
and your burnt skin curled in ribbons.
This, and your black stockings
he couldn't bear to remove.
Bridget,
Did you see the wildness in his eyes
that night he brought the priest
for last rites?
Did his hands shake
as he mixed the herbs with *****
and threw them in your face,
telling you to come home?
Bridget,
was he jealous of the sixpence in your apron pocket
the pieces of you he could never own
and the independent streak
that ran through your sensuous hair.
The hot iron at your throat
the only jewel he cared to hold there,
the slow smoke rising like a chain
'round your neck.
Bridget,
did you stare at the frightening faerie child,
his changeling wings beating above you
as he called you by his own name.
Did you scold him in the name of his aos si mother
to watch his strange eyes flare
as you choked on the dry bread
he'd jammed down your throat.
You were never his Bridget
you were your own.
Bridget,
You were never the last witch.
We are still hunted
across deserts and into alleys
acid and fists destroy the magic
of our bewitching eyes.
Angry, they reach for the pieces of us they can never own
and burn our hearts on hearths
across continents.
The smoke rising from so many fires,
unnoticed.
Nov 18, 2017
Nov 18, 2017 at 9:44 PM UTC
A drop of water fell on my hand,
drawn from the Ganges and the Nile,
from hoarfrost ascended to heaven off a seal's whiskers,
from jugs broken in the cities of Ys and Tyre.
On my index finger
the Caspian Sea isn't landlocked,
and the Pacific is the Rudawa's meek tributary,
the same stream that floated in a little cloud over Paris
in the year seven hundred and sixty-four
on the seventh of May at three a. m.
There are not enough mouths to utter
all your fleeting names, O water.
I would have to name you in every tongue,
pronouncing all the vowels at once
while also keeping silent — for the sake of the lake
that still goes unnamed
and doesn't exist on this earth, just as the star
reflected in it is not in the sky.
Someone was drowning, someone dying was
calling out for you. Long ago, yesterday.
You have saved houses from fire, you have carried off
houses and trees, forests and towns alike.
You've been in christening fonts and courtesans' baths.
In coffins and kisses.
Gnawing at stone, feeding rainbows.
In the sweat and the dew of pyramids and lilacs.
How light the raindrop's contents are.
How gently the world touches me.
Whenever wherever whatever has happened
is written on waters of Babel
By Wisława Szymborska
May 22, 2022
May 22, 2022 at 4:29 AM UTC
Death and i converse in the midst
of 3:00am's darkness: the witching hour,
when the veil between this world
and the Abyss grows thinnest.
the Endless approach, swift as quicksand
in an hourglass, silent as a shade
on a moonless eve. they whisper
in tongues mortals cannot speak.
Insomnia's embrace is cold as hoarfrost,
a lost soul looking over my shoulder.
Time wonders, "when you lie alone,
do you hope you don't wake up?"
Morpheus leaps
from the pages of the Sandman,
a phantom from my nightmares,
cloaked in flame and shadow.
"rest easy, friend,"
the King of Dreams
says to me.
"there would be no hell without Hope."
Dec 18, 2016
Dec 18, 2016 at 3:30 AM UTC
Rushing.
Crashing.
Ocean fills my ears.
I'm stranded out here bobbin' with these others
after way too many beers.
Our ship started sinking
after parted ways and too much thinking.
We're all way too salty now
and all too soaked to swim to safety.
*I've got
a notion, friend, to lay some blame
drop a few names, retreat again...
You are
a battleship, your big guns blaze
afloat on rage, bristling ardor.
I'll calm you down, so dry me out
or sink me now. We've spent enough
on life.*
Coughing.
Laughing.
Protests fill our ears.
It's frigid out here. Walking off these shudders
past the closing bars and jeers.
Boarded. Started singing
all our anthem cries from here to Longstaff.
"Land, ** we cry sarcastically.
We're still too soaked to swim to safety.
*We've got
some way to walk, cover some ground.
pass a few blocks, we're lost & found.
The night
had shrunken down, contracted fast.
dark purple sky is bristling hoarfrost.
We've warmed us up, so pull me out
or sink me now. We've spent enough
on life.*
Jan 5, 2017
Jan 5, 2017 at 2:54 PM UTC
Fog lays like a pale figure in an uncomfortable chair
languishing
and I lay too
with a full heart
under a duvet
yet awake in the dark
as the electric fan ticks away in the corner
and on the street there is no one
not delinquent teenagers
not stupefied drunks
not star-crossed lovers in the cold
just the vapor in the air
too lukewarm to form hoarfrost
too cool to disperse
the streetlights are refracted into orbs of blue light
hanging with a soft buzz
over wet asphalt,
beacons for no one,
no thing.
Jan 8, 2018
Jan 8, 2018 at 12:21 AM UTC
Wintertime's hoarfrost, ice and rime
Have gone; departed hath the Gloom.
Make haste, ye maids, in Lilac Time:
Collect your Blossoms whilst they bloom.
What blooms today soon fades away:
Gather ye Lilacs while ye may,
Sith times, like Flying Saucers, zoom.
Mar 28, 2025
Mar 28, 2025 at 10:54 PM UTC
to burrow underneath the hoarfrost the
howling winds cold burying the last signs
of fall the last robin's call to leave
to follow the life's call ode to sleep
as the wise bear does curling deep in a
cavern his sleep ignoring
the December's and January's
sun oblique
with misery transposes the day
shorter
bareness the trees the land the 'scape
in sleep the wiser among us
flee or doze
until, barely on the fly
might hear a whisper of
wings ,
see on the trees limbs
a slight greening
creep out from our hiding
or refuges
smiling at Spring
Jan 9, 2016
Jan 9, 2016 at 3:24 AM UTC
A frigid February night,
the moon resplendent in its fulgor,
while a prevailing bristled cold wind
dashes across my dry face,
I inhale the cold, brittle air:
nitrogen, oxygen, argon, carbon dioxide,
whistle through my lips,
like a trice ballet, it delivers life into my lungs
hoarfrost, as huellas are left behind,
in remembrance of its path.
At night I feel at ease,
beyond what
an aubade can offer.
Gazing up into the dark abyss,
I am overwhelmed by the
union of neighbors that float above me
in sync with the moon:
Mercury, Venus, Saturn, Mars, Jupiter,
and the assemblage of mythological
Greek god’s only visible before dawn,
watch me, observing my every move.
Winds encircle the night,
disrupting the stillness of
the undressed oak trees,
their branches swaying back and forth
as to wave hello, or is it a goodbye?
Winterberry hollies dance at their feet,
untouched snow glistens,
and mirrors the dazzling assembly of stars.
Within the woodland, mysterious sounds
echo through the silent, cold:
a cackle, a flutter, yipping creepy sound,
nature’s orchestra coming at me
from all directions,
cautiously listening, as I attempt
to decipher the resonances.
I exhale.
Apr 7, 2016
Apr 7, 2016 at 1:01 PM UTC
the first time i said, “i love you”
we were lying in bed
at your apartment.
your skin held the hue
of the afternoon sun,
but a frown
pulled at the corners of your mouth.
a chill that had nothing
to do with the Florida summer
came like a cold-snap
and, in an instant,
covered us in hoarfrost
smothering as a blanket
racked with smallpox.
the scars in the crook of your elbow
had all but healed, but an itch
crept across you—insistent
and incessant. for a while,
i read The Myth of Sisyphus
aloud, moved by Camus,
wrestling with the one
true and serious
philosophical question:
suicide.
i searched desperately
for the right string of words
to convince you
the razor isn’t a solution.
i made “prayers of my hands
on your body” and sang hymns
like honey. i sampled
salted, caramel apple—
you hung precariously
on the tip of my tongue.
wishing i could wrest my eyes
from my skull so you could see
yourself from a new perspective.
Beloved, this may well be
your war to win,
but in every struggle,
we need comrades.
in solidarity, i remain.
i refuse to leave you alone
to fight the shadows
lurking in back-alley
neuroses. in a world
that is utterly absurd
only three words
make sense anymore.
three words. a song
that fills our lungs:
“i love you.” partner,
dance with me
to the beat
of a new drum.
Aug 10, 2017
Aug 10, 2017 at 4:46 PM UTC