"mittened" poems - Hello Poetry

"mittened" poems

In this park there are birds atop ice cakes stiff mittened kids, cold nosed and half froze they slide on paths of glass, toward home. A small stream cuts through this place, black water humming with coots and ducks. Long toothed icicles waiting to impale the earth. Beneath our feet, we crack and shatter tiny frozen ponds, revealing muddied blades of grass, green as in summer. A myriad of birds in the sun, come to puff and quiver, but soon the mountain clouds will come to shroud the day, the sky so cold, a frost in grey and silver.

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Feb 27, 2018

Feb 27, 2018 at 8:54 PM UTC

In this park there are birds atop ice cakes stiff mittened kids, cold nosed and half froze they slide on paths of glass, toward home. A small stream cuts through this place, black water humming with coots and ducks. Long toothed icicles waiting to impale the earth. Beneath our feet, we crack and shatter tiny frozen ponds, revealing muddied blades of grass, green as in summer. A myriad of birds in the sun, come to puff and quiver, but soon the mountain clouds will come to shroud the day, the sky so cold, a frost in grey and silver.

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the sky sinks its blue teeth into the mountains. Rising on pure will (the lurch & lift-off, the sudden swing into wide, white snow), I encourage the cable. Past the wind & crossed tips of my skis & the mauve shadows of pines & the spoor of bears & deer, I speak to my fear, rising, riding, finding myself the only thing between snow & sky, the link that holds it all together. Halfway up the wire, we stop, slide back a little (a whirr of pulleys). Astronauts circle above us today in the television blue of space. But the thin withers of alps are waiting to take us too, & this might be the moon! We move! Friends, this is a toy merely for reaching mountains merely for skiing down. & now we're dangling like charms on the same bracelet or upsidedown tightrope people (a colossal circus!) or absurd winged walkers, angels in animal fur, with mittened hands waving & fear turning & the mountain like a fisherman, reeling us all in. So we land on the windy peak, touch skis to snow, are married to our purple shadows, & ski back down to the unimaginable valley leaving no footprints.

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4k

For an Earth-Landing

the sky sinks its blue teeth into the mountains. Rising on pure will (the lurch & lift-off, the sudden swing into wide, white snow), I encourage the cable. Past the wind & crossed tips of my skis & the mauve shadows of pines & the spoor of bears & deer, I speak to my fear, rising, riding, finding myself the only thing between snow & sky, the link that holds it all together. Halfway up the wire, we stop, slide back a little (a whirr of pulleys). Astronauts circle above us today in the television blue of space. But the thin withers of alps are waiting to take us too, & this might be the moon! We move! Friends, this is a toy merely for reaching mountains merely for skiing down. & now we're dangling like charms on the same bracelet or upsidedown tightrope people (a colossal circus!) or absurd winged walkers, angels in animal fur, with mittened hands waving & fear turning & the mountain like a fisherman, reeling us all in. So we land on the windy peak, touch skis to snow, are married to our purple shadows, & ski back down to the unimaginable valley leaving no footprints.

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They say I can't chase you next Can't seek out the moon over Mexico or relive the tears I shed on the plane home, I can't feel the tirelessness of our forever like the hope that dawned and set inside your eyes I memorized every stitch in the broken couch and I can still see us there You're studying, I'm sleeping, Planting rhubarb and watching our trees grow Lightning shorted out the reception tower out back As I sat on the end of our bed, mind blank, and laughed All the glitter on the stone patio and the shirt left in the rain and the socks hung to dry on a hook you Forgot We kneaded pizza dough and watched Roseanne That I jumped on you in the middle of the storm as you held me, Kissing while UMF raged In one loud, still moment You are stopping me at the towel shack Finding my legs under the restaurant table Shoving my mittened hand in your pocket Asking me to stay Messaging me and I know I'll chase you again I just can't be with you now.

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Nov 6, 2014

Nov 6, 2014 at 12:42 AM UTC

Eternity is a long, long time.

They say I can't chase you next Can't seek out the moon over Mexico or relive the tears I shed on the plane home, I can't feel the tirelessness of our forever like the hope that dawned and set inside your eyes I memorized every stitch in the broken couch and I can still see us there You're studying, I'm sleeping, Planting rhubarb and watching our trees grow Lightning shorted out the reception tower out back As I sat on the end of our bed, mind blank, and laughed All the glitter on the stone patio and the shirt left in the rain and the socks hung to dry on a hook you Forgot We kneaded pizza dough and watched Roseanne That I jumped on you in the middle of the storm as you held me, Kissing while UMF raged In one loud, still moment You are stopping me at the towel shack Finding my legs under the restaurant table Shoving my mittened hand in your pocket Asking me to stay Messaging me and I know I'll chase you again I just can't be with you now.

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Her little face is like a walnut shell With wrinkling lines; her soft, white hair adorns Her withered brows in quaint, straight curls, like horns; And all about her clings an old, sweet smell. Prim is her gown and quakerlike her shawl. Well might her bonnets have been born on her. Can you conceive a Fairy Godmother The subject of a strong religious call? In snow or shine, from bed to bed she runs, All twinkling smiles and texts and pious tales, Her mittened hands, that ever give or pray, Bearing a sheaf of tracts, a bag of buns: A wee old maid that sweeps the Bridegroom's way, Strong in a cheerful trust that never fails.

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1.9k

William Ernest Henley

Her little face is like a walnut shell With wrinkling lines; her soft, white hair adorns Her withered brows in quaint, straight curls, like horns; And all about her clings an old, sweet smell. Prim is her gown and quakerlike her shawl. Well might her bonnets have been born on her. Can you conceive a Fairy Godmother The subject of a strong religious call? In snow or shine, from bed to bed she runs, All twinkling smiles and texts and pious tales, Her mittened hands, that ever give or pray, Bearing a sheaf of tracts, a bag of buns: A wee old maid that sweeps the Bridegroom's way, Strong in a cheerful trust that never fails.

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Steam escapes the surface Of infant mince pies. Spiralling upwards, it dances Into the winter haze Where headlights, opaquely visible, Shine beams stopped short in the fog. The mist flurries atop the frozen pond, Over brittle leaves, half caught. The deer nuzzles in frosty thickets, Searching the winter veil For stray nut. Mittened song sheets conduct a huddle of duffle coats and frosted boots, rooted in the snow. Sweet carols leave notes hanging in tranquil harmony. ‘neath the tap my hands endure The bitter cold of winter’s water; But happily I return to my window, And cast a gaze once more on winter Britain. The fire leaves a smoky essence, A homely smell. December come.

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Sep 13, 2013

Sep 13, 2013 at 2:20 PM UTC

Winter Britain II

Steam escapes the surface Of infant mince pies. Spiralling upwards, it dances Into the winter haze Where headlights, opaquely visible, Shine beams stopped short in the fog. The mist flurries atop the frozen pond, Over brittle leaves, half caught. The deer nuzzles in frosty thickets, Searching the winter veil For stray nut. Mittened song sheets conduct a huddle of duffle coats and frosted boots, rooted in the snow. Sweet carols leave notes hanging in tranquil harmony. ‘neath the tap my hands endure The bitter cold of winter’s water; But happily I return to my window, And cast a gaze once more on winter Britain. The fire leaves a smoky essence, A homely smell. December come.

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I feel the cold bites, mittened children yell they’re sewing sky flowers as they run with yellow or red kites ocean makes that great space with tides that linger over the rocks we fashion nothing like the clouds and feel small As storms build up I walk a coastal trail where ashes of an old beach fire left roasted pinecones littered an Osprey flies up above the shore’s edge and as I read your book, I feel the restless melody in your poems Tides flap and slop against sand the color of worn concrete ocean’s spoiled lives permeate everything, my skin tastes sea salt gargle gulls and passersby all watch the waves moving towards us I’m lingering here for too long and return to my car clicking heels behind me in the parking lot the castanets of other lives with their importance arouse such unpleasant thoughts, I walk back down to the beach hurrying until I no longer hear their rhythm But now the fog rolls in and the ground is covered with wings all the doors are locked when the sky drops down like this thunder knocks in the distance saying ‘“celebrate!” its echoes wake the clouds, rain gives an answer with applause on the threshold of storm I turn away from the ocean and look east a forested mountainside crowded with fading painted houses abandoned a single car on the road with headlights, we have hundreds of days of rain here in other words, most people forget anything but rainy weather the chill from Alaska reaches down only in gusts but snow is distant This Sunday when Netarts bay is full of kayaks and fishing boats Oceanside’s patch of beach is strewn with sea grass, people with their dogs walk amongst shed crab shells, a lone restaurant opens selling coffee and pies none of the people in rain slickers and hoodies move off as the rain falls

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Jan 9, 2018

Jan 9, 2018 at 12:31 AM UTC

Reading Elizabeth Bishop’s Cape Breton in Oceanside, Oregon

I feel the cold bites, mittened children yell they’re sewing sky flowers as they run with yellow or red kites ocean makes that great space with tides that linger over the rocks we fashion nothing like the clouds and feel small As storms build up I walk a coastal trail where ashes of an old beach fire left roasted pinecones littered an Osprey flies up above the shore’s edge and as I read your book, I feel the restless melody in your poems Tides flap and slop against sand the color of worn concrete ocean’s spoiled lives permeate everything, my skin tastes sea salt gargle gulls and passersby all watch the waves moving towards us I’m lingering here for too long and return to my car clicking heels behind me in the parking lot the castanets of other lives with their importance arouse such unpleasant thoughts, I walk back down to the beach hurrying until I no longer hear their rhythm But now the fog rolls in and the ground is covered with wings all the doors are locked when the sky drops down like this thunder knocks in the distance saying ‘“celebrate!” its echoes wake the clouds, rain gives an answer with applause on the threshold of storm I turn away from the ocean and look east a forested mountainside crowded with fading painted houses abandoned a single car on the road with headlights, we have hundreds of days of rain here in other words, most people forget anything but rainy weather the chill from Alaska reaches down only in gusts but snow is distant This Sunday when Netarts bay is full of kayaks and fishing boats Oceanside’s patch of beach is strewn with sea grass, people with their dogs walk amongst shed crab shells, a lone restaurant opens selling coffee and pies none of the people in rain slickers and hoodies move off as the rain falls

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Of skylarks and June roses bygone poets sing. Yet alas! Seldom pen sweet lines to such as thee. O! How I yearn from harshest winds to set you free If such futile vain longings could perchance take wing. Poor darling stray! Green eyes stare pleading into mine. O! My heart aches to stroke ebony silken fur And cuddling you revel in thy low grateful purr. Yet how can I to fate this fondest wish resign? Raven Miriam! Daughter o' plumy waving tail Dancing freely, arms outstretched in moss laden air, For three baby sisters and wee brother doth care; Showering them all in tender love without fail. Four growing babes frolicking with Miriam so dear. One glossiest raven, proud miniature of thee; Grey tabbies—two mittened—comprise those other three. Bringing to lonely bleak days a ray of cheer. One balmy afternoon I searched but found I none. To my frail despairing call, silence echoing While all around me harsh November winds blowing Taunting in cruelest mockery—all now are gone! One morn you came—yes! Only you in dreary rain. With glad heart and bountiful meal I begged thee cleave. Poor onyx stray! Where is thy fam'ly? Why must thou leave? Helpless, I watch you cross the busy road—again. ~Hilda~

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Nov 30, 2012

Nov 30, 2012 at 4:15 PM UTC

Of skylarks and June roses bygone poets sing. Yet alas! Seldom pen sweet lines to such as thee. O! How I yearn from harshest winds to set you free If such futile vain longings could perchance take wing. Poor darling stray! Green eyes stare pleading into mine. O! My heart aches to stroke ebony silken fur And cuddling you revel in thy low grateful purr. Yet how can I to fate this fondest wish resign? Raven Miriam! Daughter o' plumy waving tail Dancing freely, arms outstretched in moss laden air, For three baby sisters and wee brother doth care; Showering them all in tender love without fail. Four growing babes frolicking with Miriam so dear. One glossiest raven, proud miniature of thee; Grey tabbies—two mittened—comprise those other three. Bringing to lonely bleak days a ray of cheer. One balmy afternoon I searched but found I none. To my frail despairing call, silence echoing While all around me harsh November winds blowing Taunting in cruelest mockery—all now are gone! One morn you came—yes! Only you in dreary rain. With glad heart and bountiful meal I begged thee cleave. Poor onyx stray! Where is thy fam'ly? Why must thou leave? Helpless, I watch you cross the busy road—again. ~Hilda~

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mittened hands wrapped around hot choc mugs light-hearted bickering over the tones and shades of leaves yet to fall chilly sun-streaked mornings of fresh earthy air and early hibernation nights of gathered quietude that indulgent autumn for which she longed seemed not to arrive at least not as expected set to follow the bright bustling summer excitement always written to precede the forward-looking days of winter's introspection ordained as it was by the dictums of old those of time and tide instead her blooming has been a wearisome back-and-forth between the extremes of each untimely and unexpected yet unfortunately necessary before she might witness those flowers of hers blossoming under the warmth and light of that newly shining Sun

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Dec 1, 2023

Dec 1, 2023 at 9:55 AM UTC

MeanderingWords

indulgent autumn

mittened hands wrapped around hot choc mugs light-hearted bickering over the tones and shades of leaves yet to fall chilly sun-streaked mornings of fresh earthy air and early hibernation nights of gathered quietude that indulgent autumn for which she longed seemed not to arrive at least not as expected set to follow the bright bustling summer excitement always written to precede the forward-looking days of winter's introspection ordained as it was by the dictums of old those of time and tide instead her blooming has been a wearisome back-and-forth between the extremes of each untimely and unexpected yet unfortunately necessary before she might witness those flowers of hers blossoming under the warmth and light of that newly shining Sun

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Roses are red, Violets are blue, If harmony is what you’re looking for I would compose a symphony for you I’d create it out of the little things, usually carelessly overlooked Writing the notes down as I go as if the pages of a book Breaking form, strutting style I’ll make it plain for you to see We compliment each other well, Regardless of the key The sunlight burns into the trees but with the prevailing shade The sunlight catches you in glances, as you walk away But still I’d conduct a symphony, fingers riding every rift Laying out a masterpiece, your own personal Fifth I’d use my mittened hands, keeping the cadence stern Smiling without saving face, I’m loving to relearn My music floats atop the beat, crescendoing to the sky The trees sway to and fro as nature joins in with a cry Trumpet fanfare, chordal rounds, the most beautiful of sounds If only, if only you could hear what I hear And see these beautiful rounds Venturing off across the medium, a tangent between right and wrong An exhibit of choreography, justifying every wrong You would find me smiling, artfully whirling my baton A conductor at my finest, while trying to impress As a romantic I expect the worst, Without losing hope of finding the best Continuing to break the mold, creation in rawest form Discussion through composition, a shattering of the norms As the piece draws to its close the conductor takes a bow The lights dim with the curtain call as the cheers ring out Then you’ll catch me beaming, an artificer plain to be You’re the reason why I smile, it can’t be hard to see Every time I see your face, all I hear Is your symphony.

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Jan 29, 2014

Jan 29, 2014 at 8:13 PM UTC

Her Personal Fifth (A Soundless Symphony)

Roses are red, Violets are blue, If harmony is what you’re looking for I would compose a symphony for you I’d create it out of the little things, usually carelessly overlooked Writing the notes down as I go as if the pages of a book Breaking form, strutting style I’ll make it plain for you to see We compliment each other well, Regardless of the key The sunlight burns into the trees but with the prevailing shade The sunlight catches you in glances, as you walk away But still I’d conduct a symphony, fingers riding every rift Laying out a masterpiece, your own personal Fifth I’d use my mittened hands, keeping the cadence stern Smiling without saving face, I’m loving to relearn My music floats atop the beat, crescendoing to the sky The trees sway to and fro as nature joins in with a cry Trumpet fanfare, chordal rounds, the most beautiful of sounds If only, if only you could hear what I hear And see these beautiful rounds Venturing off across the medium, a tangent between right and wrong An exhibit of choreography, justifying every wrong You would find me smiling, artfully whirling my baton A conductor at my finest, while trying to impress As a romantic I expect the worst, Without losing hope of finding the best Continuing to break the mold, creation in rawest form Discussion through composition, a shattering of the norms As the piece draws to its close the conductor takes a bow The lights dim with the curtain call as the cheers ring out Then you’ll catch me beaming, an artificer plain to be You’re the reason why I smile, it can’t be hard to see Every time I see your face, all I hear Is your symphony.

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In the winter We follow pawprints Through the forest, through the thick of things. You; convinced we are onto something. We pass a flask with our Heavy mittened hands and Just between You and me; i Don’t think it was the dogman. i don’t Think We will ever find anything out here.

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Nov 19, 2013

Nov 19, 2013 at 2:31 PM UTC

In the winter We follow pawprints Through the forest, through the thick of things. You; convinced we are onto something. We pass a flask with our Heavy mittened hands and Just between You and me; i Don’t think it was the dogman. i don’t Think We will ever find anything out here.

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ok, things are getting better!! got my ducks all waddling in a row. my tin solidiers standing to attention in a line. my cats all in pyjamas and spats...(gotta tell ya that one was a bit tricky). also put mittens on those curious kittens. don't want them dying, ya know. the mutt, is busy looking for nuts. and i made the elephant comfortable in this small room. he is now, chatting with the paper tiger, over by the fireplace my fish swimming happily in their barrel. and the bees,tending busily to arthritic knees so almost all is well... but sheeesh!!! my geese are running around pell-mell and are likely to give the mittened kittens a fainting spell. all that, honking and flapping about mother goose going to hell. so....... now...... the ducks are wandering tin soldiers, planning a gruerilla wafare attack. the cats now naked **** how did they, get out of those spats. the mutt still looking nothing, will stop that fool dog, those nuts are, looooong gone. elephant is embarrassed, the tiger squashed flat. fish, floating, not swimming. now food for the cat. and the bees and their knees are creating stinging, verbal retorts. ....as for the geese and the mittened kittens.... they have, commandeered the black forest torte and are gulping it greedily down. so... it is certainly not me, no siree, who is in charge of this madhouse mind, in this mindless town of mine. not me, who wears the king's crown. you will find me, the fool...... down by the pool, ....sunbathing... when all this weird **** is going down.. **nothing to see here, move along, nothing to see....**

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Apr 11, 2014

Apr 11, 2014 at 11:41 PM UTC

things are getting better???

ok, things are getting better!! got my ducks all waddling in a row. my tin solidiers standing to attention in a line. my cats all in pyjamas and spats...(gotta tell ya that one was a bit tricky). also put mittens on those curious kittens. don't want them dying, ya know. the mutt, is busy looking for nuts. and i made the elephant comfortable in this small room. he is now, chatting with the paper tiger, over by the fireplace my fish swimming happily in their barrel. and the bees,tending busily to arthritic knees so almost all is well... but sheeesh!!! my geese are running around pell-mell and are likely to give the mittened kittens a fainting spell. all that, honking and flapping about mother goose going to hell. so....... now...... the ducks are wandering tin soldiers, planning a gruerilla wafare attack. the cats now naked **** how did they, get out of those spats. the mutt still looking nothing, will stop that fool dog, those nuts are, looooong gone. elephant is embarrassed, the tiger squashed flat. fish, floating, not swimming. now food for the cat. and the bees and their knees are creating stinging, verbal retorts. ....as for the geese and the mittened kittens.... they have, commandeered the black forest torte and are gulping it greedily down. so... it is certainly not me, no siree, who is in charge of this madhouse mind, in this mindless town of mine. not me, who wears the king's crown. you will find me, the fool...... down by the pool, ....sunbathing... when all this weird **** is going down.. **nothing to see here, move along, nothing to see....**

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you awaken no sounds can be heard no chirping birds nor scurrying squirrels just quiet. you shuffle drowsily to the garage slide your still stiff hands through a coat pull a hat over your tousled head. slip your warm toes into a pair of boots and reach for the door grasping it tightly with your mittened fingers and awestruck gaze outward. you do not step out, not yet nothing has been disturbed. you pick your foot up and prepare yourself for that first step whoosh. a perfect footprint now lies behind you again, and again creating a path a path in the snow.

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Apr 13, 2013

Apr 13, 2013 at 3:20 PM UTC

you awaken no sounds can be heard no chirping birds nor scurrying squirrels just quiet. you shuffle drowsily to the garage slide your still stiff hands through a coat pull a hat over your tousled head. slip your warm toes into a pair of boots and reach for the door grasping it tightly with your mittened fingers and awestruck gaze outward. you do not step out, not yet nothing has been disturbed. you pick your foot up and prepare yourself for that first step whoosh. a perfect footprint now lies behind you again, and again creating a path a path in the snow.

Continue reading...

The scarecrow balances a moon upon a red mittened hand a mouse looks out of his left eye the scarecrow shivers with the change of weather I see he still wears my old coat it suits him better in the inside pocket an old Metro ticket an unfinished poem the words indecipherable now looking like a scarecrow wrote them in my dreams the scarecrow takes the train finishes the poem his ending better than mind I toss the moon from one red mittened hand to the other a mouse looks out my left eye I wonder how the scarecrow's doing? I shiver with delight it's gonna be a long night

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Sep 7, 2015

Sep 7, 2015 at 6:12 PM UTC

A CHANGE IN THE WHETHER...

The scarecrow balances a moon upon a red mittened hand a mouse looks out of his left eye the scarecrow shivers with the change of weather I see he still wears my old coat it suits him better in the inside pocket an old Metro ticket an unfinished poem the words indecipherable now looking like a scarecrow wrote them in my dreams the scarecrow takes the train finishes the poem his ending better than mind I toss the moon from one red mittened hand to the other a mouse looks out my left eye I wonder how the scarecrow's doing? I shiver with delight it's gonna be a long night

Continue reading...

walking alone under the waning moon hot cup of tea held in blue mittened paws vast feet of snow covering muffling this earth nary a form in sight but one nice girl at the beginning of this night walking delight mind circles round to little itches of annoyance tiny troubles of minor proportions pondering nature hers and ours which emotions are off limits seems those that burst & explode in messy ways but dear fellow humans what is so uncomfortable about exploring your shadow side? my love my moon your shadows subtle & calm these walks with you create me fresh anew

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Jan 25, 2016

Jan 25, 2016 at 1:58 AM UTC

past midnight.. tapping into the creative forces

walking alone under the waning moon hot cup of tea held in blue mittened paws vast feet of snow covering muffling this earth nary a form in sight but one nice girl at the beginning of this night walking delight mind circles round to little itches of annoyance tiny troubles of minor proportions pondering nature hers and ours which emotions are off limits seems those that burst & explode in messy ways but dear fellow humans what is so uncomfortable about exploring your shadow side? my love my moon your shadows subtle & calm these walks with you create me fresh anew

Continue reading...

In her purple snowsuit, a child kneels in a foot of fresh powder, carefully shaping a snowball in her purple mittened hands. See the world through her eyes. Each snowflake a white dream. Tucked inside a snow globe, atop a frozen cotton blanket neatly placed on the lawn while you were asleep, embedded with microscopic diamonds that disappear when you single them out with curious eyes. It is important that you get the shape of the snowball right, so take your time and mold it between your palms like a ball of clay. It is important because the snowball can be anything you want it to be, like the embryo of a snowman. Ammo to use in a long anticipated battle or the start of a fortress. A snow cone, if you can sneak maple syrup from inside. Branches hang low with their sacred white burden. The world has become black and white. And then a cardinal dips into view. Dashing above a white sea towards the comfort of an unseen nest, nearby perhaps, or miles distant. For a moment the only color you know is red and nothing was ever so beautiful. The world is endless beauty.

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Feb 18, 2019

Feb 18, 2019 at 5:55 PM UTC

In her purple snowsuit, a child kneels in a foot of fresh powder, carefully shaping a snowball in her purple mittened hands. See the world through her eyes. Each snowflake a white dream. Tucked inside a snow globe, atop a frozen cotton blanket neatly placed on the lawn while you were asleep, embedded with microscopic diamonds that disappear when you single them out with curious eyes. It is important that you get the shape of the snowball right, so take your time and mold it between your palms like a ball of clay. It is important because the snowball can be anything you want it to be, like the embryo of a snowman. Ammo to use in a long anticipated battle or the start of a fortress. A snow cone, if you can sneak maple syrup from inside. Branches hang low with their sacred white burden. The world has become black and white. And then a cardinal dips into view. Dashing above a white sea towards the comfort of an unseen nest, nearby perhaps, or miles distant. For a moment the only color you know is red and nothing was ever so beautiful. The world is endless beauty.

Continue reading...

Stars shining bright above you. Snowflakes flying all around you. The beautiful stillness, The heavenly harmony of silence. Your mittened hand dangles shielded from the cold, Having once been exposed, Never wanting to face the torture again. Once the snow hits the dirt, It will never be the same again, Forever tainted by the unclean ground. Once you step on the ****** snow, It will never be pure again, Forever changed by the footsteps Of those who have harmed the innocence. But when the snow melts, and was there Ever any snow there to begin with? Was there innocence, joy, laughter? Or was it all swept in on a winter wind, As temporary as the season itself, And borne away just as quickly? Is there anything to hurt, to harm? To taint?

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Mar 27, 2018

Mar 27, 2018 at 8:25 PM UTC

Stars shining bright above you. Snowflakes flying all around you. The beautiful stillness, The heavenly harmony of silence. Your mittened hand dangles shielded from the cold, Having once been exposed, Never wanting to face the torture again. Once the snow hits the dirt, It will never be the same again, Forever tainted by the unclean ground. Once you step on the ****** snow, It will never be pure again, Forever changed by the footsteps Of those who have harmed the innocence. But when the snow melts, and was there Ever any snow there to begin with? Was there innocence, joy, laughter? Or was it all swept in on a winter wind, As temporary as the season itself, And borne away just as quickly? Is there anything to hurt, to harm? To taint?

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Note to self: Be gentle, to yourself and others. The world already beats you with everything it's got and sends a tidal wave to pull you under, you don't need it from yourself, too. You want to believe you can handle anything but you're only human and you're still fragile. Hold your heart in mittened hands; not everyone will. Remember, the pain you feel today could be the pain someone else felt yesterday, or will feel tomorrow, and no one deserves it.

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Apr 16, 2014

Apr 16, 2014 at 9:10 PM UTC

Note to self: Be gentle, to yourself and others. The world already beats you with everything it's got and sends a tidal wave to pull you under, you don't need it from yourself, too. You want to believe you can handle anything but you're only human and you're still fragile. Hold your heart in mittened hands; not everyone will. Remember, the pain you feel today could be the pain someone else felt yesterday, or will feel tomorrow, and no one deserves it.

Continue reading...

take me into your fog-shrouded mountains to the cabin imbued with flames and the galaxies of snow waddle into the open your glass steps crunching on broken ice hold your mittened hand in mine we strip our hearts under the moonlight.

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Jan 1, 2019

Jan 1, 2019 at 12:29 AM UTC

take me into your fog-shrouded mountains to the cabin imbued with flames and the galaxies of snow waddle into the open your glass steps crunching on broken ice hold your mittened hand in mine we strip our hearts under the moonlight.

Continue reading...