"midwinter" poems
Never mind the time of spring,
From which love comes a common thing,
Love comes rare as life may
Midwinter or a gloomy day
To life, love, happiness can only bring!
To live and love, what a beautiful thing!
Midst the solitude in which we born and die
—Love greets our lonely life, passing by
Jun 19, 2017
Jun 19, 2017 at 9:34 PM UTC
In a midwinter night’s dream
i found myself lost again,
or was it even this year ?
It may even go back farther
than yesterdays out of reach,
older than an ancient pyramid stone
Before the rebirth of past life deposits,
unborn orphaned motherless sediment,
flotsam of the ages adrift,
unknown for more than a thousand years
... waiting for so long to see beyond the bounds
High atop a slippery edge-cliff
i clung ―
Searching for a deeper understanding
of who i am;
Roosting like a starving bird of prey
with a broken wing
born alone ... holding on
With a fear in his eyes
that only i could comprehend
Staring way down deep in the pith,
into an internal pitch black abyss,
just begging to see beyond ―
Mindful it's so hard looking
into the eye of a storm
Intimately parsing the recurrent source
of reigning pain
Where the perpetual fog of isolation dwells;
an inversion, preventing dispersion
of the nimbus cold and dark
In the darkness, there bides a suffocating
emptiness,
A swelling silence what loudly knells,
leeching through a perennial ache
An abating voice within hollers unheard,
invisible as a bitter cold wind howling
relentlessly through the hollow pang;
Echoing the subsiding say
(squeezed out) ... of an orphaned soul
deep beneath the light
Awakening to realize ― once i was alive
and
i could feel me holding on to you
//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
Dec 30, 2017
Dec 30, 2017 at 7:11 PM UTC
She was ice cold in midwinter
Cause cold was all she knew.
Yet, even the most solid ice melt
With a little affection
With most compression
And a heart full of patient.
She still delays
Because someday
Her guard will yield
At someone capable enough
To make her ice melt.
Apr 18, 2015
Apr 18, 2015 at 12:58 PM UTC
You might as well ask me
Not to take another breath -
To climb to the top of Arthurs seat
And not stand with my arms outstretched –
To stand in the middle of an icy street –
In the depths of midwinter
And not gaze with wonder
At the cloud of unspoken poetry
Pouring from my lips
Utterly failing to warm my hands –
And ask me –
Why do I continue –
Look in awe upon something –
So natural, that gives me
So little pleasure in return
And yet enriches my life -
So indescribably?
Aug 23, 2018
Aug 23, 2018 at 4:51 AM UTC
five pm, mid-winter
i thank Sky for taking sweet time.
Sky sets her thumb on the light-switch of the land.
she stands still, she waits.
for the hour, she meditates
on her day.
Sky hopes her skin
becomes verdigris the next day, not grey, but
verdigris to clothe **** trees. Or perhaps she will
hurt soon— Sky scars in
rainbows. Her change of thought: the small folks who have traveled
through her this day. She wonders where
they all
go.
Open your eyes,
do you hear Sky’s mute call?
in her meditation, hour of magic, all
wakes.
on the earth, photographers peer from their windows,
then rush through their doors to catch Sky’s dancing gleams,
beams flash through the tip-top’s of the Sugar Maple family,
their shadows splatter onto pot-hole streets.
Sky brushes her grass and her roads with paint of a gold hue,
fresh Rorschach tests while her thoughts try to rest.
i spot a leaf sleeping in the street, deep wine and apricot,
twisted from months away from its Mother
the wind levitates the leaf—lightly—and the sun
creates a squirrel of it, he climbs the tree, and scrambles over
to me. in short squeaks, he explains his political theory,
“why do you let your peep el let a few rich folks control
all others? why don’t you follow me
into the woods?”
he grabs my skirt with his sweet little paws
but i look up and notice the darkness,
i look down and see only a leaf again.
Sky’s savasana has ended,
candles ignite in the houses, Sky and Sun crawl into bed.
i’ll wait now for the selenian Sun, but i can’t rest my eyes. soon
i will escape with my new friend.
bittersweet magic: “the moment” lost in the sock drawer.
five pm, midwinter
the afternoon is reaching an end,
Lady Sky decides when she wants to change for us.
as the sun sets, she meditates.
some call it the “magic hour”
but how can you truly tell magic from reality?
go outside and see.
radiant beams do the tango on the trees
(a leaf in the street becomes a squirrel as my eye blinks)
a squirrel who runs straight up to me.
“get outta the system while you can!”
he squeaks, then nods at me to follow his path, another blink
the sky darkens, the squirrel disappears.
Feb 26, 2012
Feb 26, 2012 at 7:31 PM UTC
Manhattan by line,
by subway track purr,
by foot in a midwinter
fresh, gale force air.
The dying battery in
Times Square's wristwatch,
halts hands in mid air,
each hailing the second taxi
that comes to them
every next minute;
definitely in the next ten.
Buried benches in thigh high
snow look lost, with
only their branching tops
on display for the tourist's show,
tramping through
this January snow.
Double-back, back
past the Chipotle store,
where diners stand and eat,
stand and greet,
stand with napkins to appear neat,
stand near the radiator to warm their feet,
stand-in-the-corner-and-text-your-wife-saying-you'll-be-home-late-because-this-meaty-wrap-is-pleasurable-to-eat.
He was with another woman, kissing her cheek.
Manhattan is a horizon of horizontal lines,
drawn by pencil lead, led up a page
to create this fascinating portrait
that a point-and-click-camera
cannot comprehend,
let alone negotiate.
We can go unnoticed there, like
most others in this gale force air,
but billboard boys-
the ones that braid ****** building hair,
window panes
and balcony balustrade-
are the famous ones
of Broadway, with nothing more
than their commercial stare.
Jan 22, 2013
Jan 22, 2013 at 10:33 AM UTC
having searched for the word,
head reels across the room.
the path was mud, the willow cut
back to stump.
the memory remains.
snowdrop’s green
appears.
this is not bethlehem.
sbm.
Dec 21, 2014
Dec 21, 2014 at 2:03 AM UTC
the snow has melted
in a midwinter thaw
exposing all the lies
you left so carelessly
in the garden
i see them scattered about
before the breeze
as i look out the kitchen window
i catch them in the yard
trying to pretend that
no one can see them
where they rest.
something has led us
to this day
chasing your lies
out on the lawn
cleaning up after you
(again)
but if we left them
until the spring
what kind of bitter
**** might grow
to choke the garden
with their nettles
Dec 14, 2011
Dec 14, 2011 at 6:35 PM UTC
The night is soft and billowy,
Beckoning me deeper into her velvet embrace.
The dark air caresses me,
Like a smooth, silken hand stroking my face.
The breeze carries with it the scent of autumn;
decaying leaves, campfire smoke, pumpkin spice and pine needles.
A heady cocktail that rouses something in me that no other season can.
This, is my favourite time of year.
The bare trees, colourful leaves and crisp breeze soothe my mind.
The long nights of candlelight and incense soothe my soul.
Draped in moonlight and watched over by the stars,
I drink the wine of ancient Roman nights,
of sacred pagan rites,
of owls' sleepless flights,
of lustful lovers' bites,
That dark and warm midwinter wine.
And it is here
As I lie naked beneath the gentle gaze of the moon,
Vulnerable and exposed,
Innocent and joyful,
With child-like wonder at the beauty that surrounds and encompasses me,
Sipping the crimson nectar of the gods,
That I feel whole.
Oct 2, 2017
Oct 2, 2017 at 3:16 PM UTC
having searched for the word,
head reels across the room.
the path was mud, the willow cut
back to stump.
the memory remains.
snowdrop’s green
appears.
this is not bethlehem.
sbm.
Dec 21, 2015
Dec 21, 2015 at 2:16 AM UTC
beholding
the tipping
Big Dipper,
with its
dangling
handle,
traverse a
midwinter
northern sky
rising
in concert
with a
steadfast
sword
wielding
Orion,
mooring
the southern
firmament,
I stand
atop a
splotch
of black
macadam,
straddling the
equidistant
expanse of
all
ascending
celestial
spheres
Music Selection
Charlie Parker
Estrellita
Oakland
1/23/15
jbm
Jan 23, 2015
Jan 23, 2015 at 10:27 AM UTC
Yes I remember
that night
in midwinter,
the one
that we burned
on the hill,
and the moon
and the stars
and the
somersault sparks
and wanting
it all
to stay still,
and yes I remember
the warmth
of the embers
and daring
the future
with hope
at the
very same time
your fingers
touched mine
as softly as if
they were smoke.
Dec 5, 2014
Dec 5, 2014 at 2:22 PM UTC
In the bleak mid-winter
Frosty wind made moan,
Earth stood hard as iron
Water like a stone.
Snow had fallen,
Snow on snow,
In the bleak mid-winter
Long ago.
Our God, Heaven cannot hold Him
Nor earth sustain,
Heaven and earth shall flee away
When He comes to reign.
In the bleak mid-winter
A stable-place sufficed,
The Lord God Almighty
Jesus Christ.
Enough for Him, whom cherubim
Worship night and day,
A breastful of milk
And a mangerful of hay.
Enough for Him, whom angels
Fall down before,
The ox and *** and camel,
Which adore.
Angels and archangels
May have gathered there,
Cherubim and seraphim
Thronged the air.
But only His mother
In her maiden bliss
Worshipped the Beloved
With a kiss.
What can I give Him
Poor as I am?
If I were a shepherd
I would bring a lamb,
If I were a wise man
I would do my part.
Yet what I can I give Him?
Give my heart.
Dec 18, 2016
Dec 18, 2016 at 6:03 AM UTC
tradition is more than yesterday’s stories
old photographs and dusty keepsakes
it is the remembering of tomorrow
it is the nervous acting out
of ceremony with candles and words
of an ancient story of wonder and light
it is the gladsome preparation
of the festive foods for the jolbord
and the pride of happy hosts
it is the gentle noise of children playing
the rumbling conversation of friends remembering
the tear in a grandparent’s eye
it is the leap in our hearts at midwinter’s turn
it is the song that ever celebrates life’s wonder
Dec 14, 2014
Dec 14, 2014 at 10:06 PM UTC
In the midwinter of the soul,
all is cold and fruit is
nowhere to be found.
Leaves and blossoms that once
sat spinning light and health
have fallen off and lie there,
broken down below.
The forest floor beneath me,
one time,
was carpeted with remnants
of my last sweet spring
of growth.
Abandoned, all but lost,
and listening,
to a moaning in the wind.
But trees don't die in winter;
nor did I.
Spring crept in slowly, bit by bit,
an undiscovered quickness in the
heart, and hints of breath
so far away, so deep within, that
stirrings heard were no more spent
than darkness closed back in.
But still that gentle pressing in the
heartwood of my soul,
kept on, and stronger day by day
until, with terrifying clarity
the parts of me that died
were seeking fully to control
each waking thought.
In the midwinter of the soul,
the heart is cold, and fruits
that once were juicy lie there
rotting on the ground.
And all seems lost within.
But 'tis not so for me, I know,
for Spring has come again
once more, the sap runs true,
runs through each drooping limb.
Lift up your heads, you forests of
the Lord, bowed down,
surrounded,
cold within.
Let light shine forth within you,
let the woodland fairies swim
through waterfalls of blossoms as they
slip from limb to limb,
delighting in the tearing of the
chaining wounds within.
"Bleed once more," He told me,
"let the terror of your sin,
destroy the cold unfeeling
that has wormed at you - and then
at last,
the living, green delight
will sparkle like the stars of
every clear and silent night."
Bear fruit in keeping with the
cleansing of your soul, for
every tree drinks deeply
of the river's rushing flow;
take confidence, a promised voice to hear:
"Well grown, my tree. My good and
faithful bough."
+
And in the brightness of His
majesty, I will forever
bow.
Apr 2, 2019
Apr 2, 2019 at 6:54 PM UTC
Snow has always had a unique quality to it, in that its arrival expresses a combination of pleasant, yet bleak sensations due to the lightness of its pure appearance and the cold weather which is inevitably a part of the experience; this quality made for an especially interesting happening one winter morning. Having awoken to a fresh coating of the white, fluffy powder at a friend’s house, the first thought to enter our collective minds was donning our coats and gloves, and dashing out to explore the exquisite beauty of the scene. Snowballs zipped over our heads, hills threw us along with vociferous fervor, and a snowman came into being before our eyes. In the midst of all this excitement, we were too preoccupied to notice the snow’s icy fingers as they crept into our down-encased souls. However, only a few short hours after the excitement began, the cold began to achieve its frigid goal and we were forced back indoors, the wonder of a midwinter’s day quickly robbed from our once unsuspecting minds.
Nov 23, 2011
Nov 23, 2011 at 10:21 PM UTC
bare, bare, like a midwinter tree
evermore hollow, forever absent.
an illusion of substance, only a dream.
I thought it was there, but nay,
you have left me, empty.
I cannot believe those lies, those truths.
Persisting through the rain, you
were my umbrella. Lost now, in the fog,
I'm blind beyond my hands.
Clothe me in that presence,
that I may shake off loneliness.
I refuse to witness pain. I wander
away. Wistful, overwhelmed with
hiraeth. I've been here many times
before. A wave of déjà vu
crashes into my awareness, replacing blood
with ice. I'm fighting, pushing
you away. I don't want to go here again.
Can't you open your deaf eyes, your blind
ears? You are shut off from my existence.
It must be goodbye.
A sky full of stars, innumerable like these goodbyes.
Mar 1, 2014
Mar 1, 2014 at 1:10 AM UTC
Do you remember
that midwinter night
the one with ice
in the air
the one that
we burned
until it
turned white
that nobody
else could
stand near
do you remember
the dance of
the slender
flames as they
tortured the cold
when they
were done
you glowed
like the sun's
tongue had been
licking
your soul.
Dec 3, 2014
Dec 3, 2014 at 5:25 PM UTC
when the house creaks from falling icicles
and the snow has been scraped from the driveway far too many times
that is when we sludge upstairs in our layers of greying sweaters
that is when we take out the box of summer vacation photos.
in them the grass is thick and deliciously green
and red squirrels belly up to new branches swaying above our heads
and we touch these beautiful things to our red and chapping noses.
and then I swear
just a bit of cool summer air
floats out
and lends a bit of sun to the midwinter.
Apr 13, 2013
Apr 13, 2013 at 3:43 PM UTC
Midwinter approaches.
You'd barely know it.
Galloway's soft murky skies,
Low clouds born of mudflat and peat,
don't waken the sparkling frost in me
A sudden unexpected pang
for the cut-glass winters of Aberdeen,
skies as clear as no sky at all
and the Dee all poised and crystal
descends upon me in the thick southwest smir
And I long to crunch along the riverbank
with my brother in the frost,
laughter-born clouds
dissipating in the hawthorn branches,
blackbirds startling
in the ice-bound undergrowth -
deep pink sun bursting and bleeding
across the wide blue horizon.
I could return -
follow the waxwings
reclaim my winter home
but I won't -
instead,
I'll cast a glance
of sparkling northern granite
across the fields and mulch,
see if I can clear these skies
and freeze this other Dee
And build myself a fresh white landscape
as crisp
and clear
as memory.
Dec 18, 2014
Dec 18, 2014 at 8:30 AM UTC
death awaits last of the embers
and the hearth is numbed by sleet
barren by midwinter's breath
leaving only the stubs underneath
the smoke that is reaching out to the clouds
in hopes of Sol's fiery wreath
yet He remains hidden
and the smoke begins to fade
the hearth completely freezes over
while the stubs continue to withstand
cruel Winter's escapade
Jan 16, 2019
Jan 16, 2019 at 11:33 AM UTC
within the grit of the gentle white
buried within the ***** of the roots
lay life between its silent slumber
while the outward burns to frost-ly breath
all the buds lay in cozy sleep
some think that Tis time to outshine
while the rabbits lay burdened to sleep
and bud and bloom midwinter too soon
their jealousy their end their doom.
as time makes brittle corpses of the children of sin
when the sun melts through the dense white reality
The well-rested princes and princess do rise
Jun 1, 2020
Jun 1, 2020 at 11:20 AM UTC
I saw you bloom in winter,
bright, luminescent, the silk of fresh petals.
And I never bought any gloves, though I said I would;
hands all but frozen,
canvas shoes damp through
in the mud and wet of a french winter on the coast.
But you looked hardly discouraged,
fresh and new under the rain.
You amaze me still.
And I am never prepared anymore:
I left my pocket knife across the ocean
and my hat in a friend's purse in another city.
I wasn't ready to see you
arrayed in all your enthusiasm;
wasn't ready to pick you,
place you next to my bed
and tell you all my midwinter thoughts each morning.
I walked past, left you in the park,
asked myself why I thought you'd opened for me.
I'll think of you at Christmas, and at New Year's,
and there will be others, poinsettias and orchids.
But you showed yourself to me in the park, in that cold rain.
You
you amaze me still.
Apr 11, 2010
Apr 11, 2010 at 2:56 PM UTC
In between shear white and jet-black
with a strong dollop of indigo blue,
lies the pale uncertainty of grayness
the most God-awful hue.
Grayness frustrates the senses.
Grayness stipulates malaise.
A shroud of indecision
arrests the imagination;
chained in wisps of doubt.
The definition of things
routed in a solitary
palette of insincerity.
Grayness negates options.
Grayness obscures landscapes.
Objects disappear
into walls of foggy smiles,
whispering repetitive monotones
of monotonous monologues
in incomprehensible language.
The mind is muted in a pall of haze.
Endless colorlessness of the days.
Days upon days of arctic blight.
Midwinter's endless drama.
White dust
sprinkled on the brain,
layering coats
of a suffocating
ashen pallor.
Dimming the wit,
Quelling the spirit.
Thoughts of light are captured
then lost
in craggy crevasses
of a dull blackened cranium.
Light can't touch the eye
Plaque builds in a hearts ventricle
Warmth escapes the body
and evaporates through
the magic of convection.
A vision remains;
barely an apparition
of a distant
dissipating ghost.
Belgian Café
Hudson St.
NYC
1/29/99
Music Selection:
Roslavets, Three Etudes
Mar 17, 2013
Mar 17, 2013 at 9:52 AM UTC
They bark at cars, and howl at church bells
Mist rolls down like tears,
While smoke rises in hope.
On a thickly wooded hillside
Within a sandstone scar,
The deer with tiny horns feasts on Rhododendron.
They say there are wolves
Far away in the north
Where midwinter passes fall silent
Beneath a wedding gown of stars.
Send your daughters to the city, my merchant friend!
They will find their manners there.
Oct 29, 2014
Oct 29, 2014 at 5:02 AM UTC