"snowfalls" poems
There is magic
In each snowflake
I don't know how or why
But I know
There is magic
In each snowflake
That falls in the night sky
Night snowflakes
Make lights brighter
Night snowflakes
Are more crisp
Night snowflakes
Have more magic
Night snowflakes
Are a wisp...
There is magic
In each snowfall
But, more so
Snow at night
For it's magic
From night snowfalls
That help with
Santa's magic flight
Night snow
Shines like silver
Night snow
reflects more
Night snow
Holds the magic
Night snow
Hear it roar
There is magic in each snowflake
You can't see till you believe
There is magic in each snowflake
Just wait...until Christmas Eve.....
Nov 28, 2013
Nov 28, 2013 at 11:11 PM UTC
dear me,
this is you.
me.
get up.
the ground is your reward
it will hold you when
you are done
hold you with all force
you
are not done
put a silencing finger
to the singing
of all fat ladies
this is not over
real in all finish lines
steal the sound of the
metal ringing hanging in the air and
put back in the bell
one more round we go.
get up.
there are sunsets that need
to be signed off on
snowfalls that need your approval.
starry nights like sad
lovers who's beauty
has gone unnoticed in the glare
of television sets
they are looking for
volunteers to notice them
raise your hand
step forward
you will not be chastised
for staring some beauty some beauty
wants to be seen
get up.
as if the simple act of
standing has brought you closer
to the cosmos as you
have ever previously been.
as if all the stars you've seen
busy looking back
taking notes and keeping track
of which wishes need granting
they heard you ask for
strength
show them you havent wasted it.
..
s.d.
Dec 25, 2014
Dec 25, 2014 at 11:13 PM UTC
*You are as undecided as a snowfall
In deepest winter
Sometimes you are a grey day
or sunny yet freezing
In a cloudless sky.
But I think I love you most
When you are an unexpected snowfall
My soul feels purified
by the cleansing whiteness of you.
A world that is war torn jaded
and in turmoil
takes a moment of respite.
And I am but malleable in your hands.
Forgetting sadness and strife.
drowning in warm tropical blue oceans.
I shall never know your changes.
But I don’t need to understand them
Just don’t ever lose your snowfalls
Because that may break my heart.*
Jan 9, 2016
Jan 9, 2016 at 9:50 PM UTC
They call me the Ice Queen.
My heart embedded in a sheet of arctic glass.
Impenetrable and safe in the confines of it’s frosted walls.
Snowflakes hit my cheeks as if laughing about my frozen state,
“you’re smart never to fall in love” they whisper as they flutter.
The words sting as fresh as frostbite on my toes.
Not being able to love is no summer paradise.
It’s a curse as raw as winter,
As unwanted as an avalanche,
A severe storm.
A fear ruling my body.
Robbing me of all warmth,
As I sit freezing,
Icicles where tears would normally form.
Constantly traveling on snow capped mountains,
I ask myself,
Whether love is the fool or I for not loving?
Once again the wind picks up,
As the childhood memories hail down as reasons
Why I stay in this state of white wasteland fill my mind...
Frigid reminders of a mother who kept re-marrying,
and a father who could never fully commit to a woman despite the chilling loneliness.
No sculpted example of Love carved into my frosty mind.
Remaining as uncertain of what Love even means,
As if my mind were slipping on black ice,
I plunge back into the safety of snowfalls,
Scared of what it means to be anything but numb.
But hope is an odd thing.
Hope to one day feel the glacier surrounding my caged heart to melt.
Hope for the goosebumps to stop tickling my arms.
Hope for the ice to one day thaw as I make my escape from
My never-ending Ice Age.
Sep 10, 2013
Sep 10, 2013 at 7:17 PM UTC
Preacher's Son
You spoke like a preacher,
Marble mouthed messenger
Of the rules of your domain.
You let your tongue slither words,
Voice deep, booming, bass thumping
Coursing through my chest, beating.
This was your weapon of choice -
Each syllable a warning
Of what was yet to come.
Your pulpit a collection of your vice,
Beer bottles, ***** jugs, remnants of snowfalls.
You are nothing more than
A false idol,
And I will no longer cling
To your drunk speech
Or grovel at your feet.
Go crack your hammer hands
The ones that nailed my praise-song
Shut to my throat to make me meeker
But these hands were still free,
Free to write silence across your lips
And I hope these thoughts pierce you like darts,
Like spears of defiance.
This is no longer your church,
And I no longer your son
Worshipping the verbal lashings as Godly,
Laudable. No longer seeing bruises as adornments
Of unabashed, deep down spooky love.
Nov 8, 2011
Nov 8, 2011 at 6:42 PM UTC
Ye old rickety shack
weathered by time
holding onto memories
of heavy snowfalls and blistering heat
What was life like before the cracks?
Ye old rickety shack
letting moonlight seep through you
revealing a flicker of life
in the night
Is there something more within you?
Ye old rickety shack
barely standing in the field
tossed aside
by the hands that created you
Did rejection hurt?
Ye old rickety shack
haven't moved in twenty years
a carcass stripped down to it's skeleton
to leave an ugly shell.
Did it hurt to die?
Ye old rickety shack
did it hurt?
Ye old rickety shack
did it?
Ye old rickety shack
May 22, 2014
May 22, 2014 at 12:36 AM UTC
i became the jumpin' jack flash in november '77.
there was slush in new york city and the bums at the piers
still burned trash in metal barrels you could see from over on coney island even.
just like kerouac said.
in the daytime foolish kids picked weeds in central park
and called them flowers. they got laid by stringing charming words together as they gave them
to the thousand daughters of manhattan's old monied men,
the wall street hacks hanging from the teats of the
great & frenzied cash cow of capitalist interest. the milk
came slow that winter.
one week, early december when the slush gave way to furtive snowfalls
i took a bus to patterson, NJ
for a few days, drank a lot of awful coffee writing obscenities in my journal but speaking
them aloud in the restaurants and bars and so
was deemed just like everybody else in patterson, NJ.
drunk & high, helicopter tours, stuffed with bread and half-truths.
and when shortly my irish luck ran out i raced back to the big smoke
in a drop-top mercedes driven by a man whose thick accent i couldn't quite place.
whose only serious question was whether i knew anyone
who had good coke.
in the city it rained for three weeks straight and
david byrne, in some bowery apartment wrote a song called 'flood'
which was never released on any talking head's album
but lingered in his brain as a reminder of the three weeks
he spent cooped up, eating saltines and dancing to the rhythms of the thunder and rain outside.
totally alone with his mind & a bass guitar. tina weymouth, naturally, was furious.
the bass was the last thing she had left in a band she half-started. and david had stolen even that.
but that was tina weymouth, that was new york.
Nov 30, 2012
Nov 30, 2012 at 9:33 PM UTC
The crape myrtle in front of his parents house
together with several strains of palmatum acer
whose twigs had been broken by his childhood-favorite ball
still somehow grew up with him
The swing carried his tender laughter
lifted by the white oak once bearded his tiny footprints
Will they remember him
The toy car he had used as a skateboard
sitting in a dust-covered corner of the attic
accompanied by a broken water gun
carrying his innocent dreams
The afternoon sunlight covering the empty dinning table
as gentle as it was on his face dozens of snowfalls ago
Will they remember him
The basketball used to hop around him
witnessed numerous of his rejoicing moments
now being wiped as new, inflated every once a while
sitting on the bookshelf
aside the medals and badges
internally telling the stories of honor and courage
in a voice we may never hear with our ears
Will they remember him
The swallows making nest under the eaves
of his old apartment
whose injured ancestor years ago had been carefully held in his hands
cured, fed, and set free
The quiet hybrid dog who has met many generations of this swallow family
after being rescued by him from a trash can
Will they remember him
The scarf he had worn for many winters
now tightly hugging the neck of this shepherd boy
The compass he received as twelfth birthday gift
now treasured in an orphan's pocket
guarding every gunfire-lightened, terrified night
Will they remember him
The helmet and bulletproof vest
on which painted camouflage has been worn and fading
tasted his sweat in many places of the world
The dogtag polished by his burly chest
The cloudless sky reflected from his wide-opened eyes
The sands and stones
witnessed thousands of years of human self-redemption
now lying under him
dyed by the dark scarlet bursting out from his motionless body
They will remember him.
Jan 20, 2014
Jan 20, 2014 at 12:30 PM UTC
She smiled, looked up at him, and quickly kissed his cheek.
Then turned and walked away from the turmoil of the week,
Her crystal blue eyes moistened as she neared the airline gate,
And an inner pain engulfed her as she struggled with her fate.
He stood still, surprised, and wondered what she meant to say,
Her kiss was sweet but melted like the springtime snow in May.
Was it beginning? Was it ending? What future lies ahead?
He said 'Goodbye' and turned away. Words better left unsaid.
Both home to their own islands, alone with thoughts and doubt.
Nobody they can talk to - No way to work it out.
What will she say? What will he think? My God, what have we done?
And maybe out of Darkness a single ray of sun.
Her resolve much stronger than his lust, her drive to do what's right,
Prevailed and gave her judgement (though she didn't sleep that night.)
And life goes on, and snowfalls come - Young children play on sleds,
And both can dream what might have been. Dreams better left unsaid.
PwL 2005
Apr 20, 2015
Apr 20, 2015 at 8:39 AM UTC
I want to be your scarf,
So soft and mohair,
To warm you in snowfalls
And even in rainy autumn.
I will embrace your neck
Like a mother cradles her child.
I’ll save the warmth for you.
Put on the scarf, be so kind.
I want to be your scarf.
Oh, don’t wear scarfs? Well now,
If I can’t softly warm you,
I’ll be your skin somehow.
Feb 4, 2025
Feb 4, 2025 at 5:27 PM UTC
As bland as the snow-covered lawn
I stare
wishing I were as resilient
as the scraggly blades of grass
refusing to hide their presence
under the act of God.
And I stare
because I cannot feel who I am today.
The withering bush
gives me no hope
nor
the single starving starling
peck
peck
pecking
at the hardened crust
to find a meal.
And I stare
at the absence of humanity
and uncourageous spirits
who hide indoors
resigned
to take this
cold, harsh beating
without a fight.
And I stare
into a bank of whiteness
becoming blind
with indescription
and anger
wishing we could build snowmen again.
And I stare
until this sheet of ice
becomes the
blanket of false snowfalls
on the living room table
nestled artfully beneath
the Christmas village.
We construct happy winter cities
of Victorian memories that
we never had
with pristine houses
and carolers and sledders
taken out of boxes
all perfect and smiling...
if only...
if only...
if only... I could take him out of his box
and set him here....
And I stare
at the absence of humanity...
praying
I will have the strength
of a blade of grass.
Jan 8, 2014
Jan 8, 2014 at 6:49 PM UTC
Winter spills
Spine it chills.
Winter severe
Meet with horror.
Meet our rosy
She is foggy.
Foggy winter
Made me cosy.
I cant see you
A big snowman
Between you and me.
Outside I shiver
Blanket is warmer.
Snowflakes falling
I am pulsating.
Pleasant snowfalls
Snowman cheers.
Winter rings the bells of Christmas
Lets us greet the wonderful season of the year.
Death of a year
Birth of next year.
Let us taste the winters flavor of New Year.
Say warmth of cheers to our spills of winter!
©ALL RIGHTS RESERVED BY GEETHA JAYAKUMAR 2014
Geetha Jayakumar.
Jan 5, 2015
Jan 5, 2015 at 11:56 AM UTC
Spring will soon appear,
Morning sun lighting snowfalls,
. . . Burning winter tears.
Mar 25, 2013
Mar 25, 2013 at 10:43 PM UTC
Stars around a bright moon
The bite in the air tells me
Winters here..
The old friend I miss on summer days
The forget when I'm lacking sun rays
The pure white of the snow
Sings to me
I remember ...
The swing set
All the kids laughing
But I just swing to my heart beat
Back then forth
Cold wind splashing my face
Thinking thinking
Always thinking
Even as I grew older
I was stuck in my own mind
With simply my thoughts
Always thinking
Always analyzing
And though it is a gift
It is also a curse
Haunting me
Making me see things I rather not see
Making me believe
Does happiness make knowledge ?
One could never say
Because for something's
I'd rather not see
I'd rather not believe
I'd rather not know
Could darkness leave room to smile?
Or would I just be blinded and lost?
Or is the light the right place to be?
I can't know the answer!
I've spent night day
Day and night
Thinking , analyzing, searching!
For some piece of evidence
But none exist for my eyes too look upon
Heartless with a mind!
Or mindless with a heart?
I could never say
It quarrels with me
I get within
Nov 15, 2012
Nov 15, 2012 at 10:00 PM UTC
She was a New England winter:
Unpredictable,
with bouts of freezing temperatures
whirlwind snowfalls,
aand
fleating moments
of
sunshine.
Jan 17, 2015
Jan 17, 2015 at 7:19 PM UTC
*Spring will soon appear
Morning sun lighting snowfalls
Burning winter tears*
Jun 4, 2015
Jun 4, 2015 at 6:17 PM UTC
Spun from tracks a one way Outlook seldom lends to a bright vision escape.
I've come to grips with the losing side counted hours borrowed change.
Where it all ends at sunset even beautiful is simply a passing moment all too soon forgotten.
A needles sting in long sense forgotten fire, cleansed of existence and newly paved highway lent to a dead-end mindset may the ******** glorify this moment!
For shallow truths seem to vanish in contemporary romance of addiction.
A window seated view to the trains derailment is a one way trip not worth the mention?
Embers of the spark have long since become outcast of the fire.
Tonight I only need to connect in the worst way possible, can you spare a moment only to cast it in regret?
Art is easy life is not the page simply an afterthought of our existence.
Never cast in stone what would never take to mold to begin with.
I never linger on others mistakes for I have far too many flaws of my own.
To head off the rails is not to find solace in the legend, merely a side effect of life lived by the sword.
We glorify the mistakes of others only to forget our own.
The cast judgment and yet another bitter pill.
How very tired of become of the scene.
Maybe we embrace chaos only to chase some semblance of distorted peace.
Maybe there was really no plan at all to begin with.
We are the after effects of the wreckage left to be viewed far better than we truly ever were.
A snowfalls mirage hides only with season, nothing shall stay buried forever.
Captured a image and hold it closely .
Say hello to delusion for me art was never intended to be safe.
Off the rails was it's direction there is no glamour in an untimely fade.
The intentions are always pure just somehow everything gets ****** up in the end.
Remember it as you like.
Feb 2, 2014
Feb 2, 2014 at 11:48 PM UTC
You
make me feel like a child
looking out through the window
witnessing the first fall of
fresh snow
on Christmas Morning.
And when you smile
it melts away all the cold
And I find myself
dancing under the flurries.
Oct 21, 2013
Oct 21, 2013 at 10:18 AM UTC
Inspiration
Comes knocking twice a year
In the form of gentle snowfalls
Or heart-stopping storms
Moments that are captured
With the click of a button
And the whirring of lens
*Is it really that easy
To capture a fleet-footed muse?
Is it really that easy
To capture what's worth ten thousand treasures?*
Come back, my muse,
Knock on my door
For I have my camera ready now.
I'm ready for you.
Jun 26, 2010
Jun 26, 2010 at 7:00 PM UTC
*When the snow comes
I remember the first year
I came to Canada.
It was late fall and
the winter came early.
I think it was trying to
change my mind
and get me to go
back to England.
The fresh white snow flew.
Soon it drifted over the pathways.
Silken windsocks of snow
filled the porch.
We all bought scarves
That wrapped about our faces
******* icy air through
woolen fibres.
I remember the houses turned grey
and the pristine white on the sidewalk
quickly turned to wet slush.
My boots felt heavy
and tight with long thick socks.
Gripping them to my feet.
Cars spluttered and coughed
A peephole of windscreen
with a driver peering into the gloom.
I decided to quit Canada
and go back.
But twenty five years later
I am still here.
And the snowfalls
do not bother me at all.*
Dec 30, 2015
Dec 30, 2015 at 6:31 PM UTC
FEB 8 2013 -- i swear there is a good 6 feet
fresh powder outside.
mountain of blankets in my bed & i don't know why i even got out of them. one more
bad decision.
half-pot coffee and club songs to try and get into some kind of (productive) zone but
feel like any semblance of true rhythm is practically impossible,
given current situation (i.e. general vida) , won't really get into it.
feeling also great need to desist with all this
introspective poetry
and move into non-diaristic phase. successful phase. difficult when so preoccupied
with issues (doubts, too, i suppose. though these could easily be done away with, if i could get
a steady pattern going once more. regular output.
creativity buried by oppressive, continuous snowfalls. // excuses.
think often on verses written
in Spain.
-- verses written on THE BALCONY or THE OPEN WINDOW COUCH,
(surrounded by a beauty complex in its simplicity. by beer and cigarettes and
people who truly know what it is to be unsure in almost all things,
yet are satisfied and grateful.)
-- verses now sitting on a shelf unread by anyone.
my "best work", to-date.
i wonder sometimes if i am losing my party face ..
simultaneously want to hang out with Crystal Castles or Justice but
drink bourbonne (hah) or OE and listen to Ray Price.
putting on something like the Steve Miller Band or Sam Cooke often helps. lifts.
just need to stop moping round like a sad old dog. in all honesty i have probably been
mildly depressed on & off for about two years. months in Spain excepted.
having said that i can't really think of anything else worth saying at the moment.
anyway, i wrote something today, i guess.
Apr 3, 2013
Apr 3, 2013 at 1:45 PM UTC
60 dead fairies
lay under seas:
near dry prairies,
'neath fallen trees.
one lively fairy
from distant skies
flew - though 'twas scary -
rounds for their lives.
biting each wing,
sprinkling dews,
tearing strings
of fading hues.
though 'twas in vain:
none came alive,
snowfalls and rains
fought for their lives -
cold storms were spent,
ground wells ran dry,
down trees were bent,
fires were high...
60 dead fairies
now swing with winds.
one lively fairy
now has no wings:
she rides with bees,
she moves through seas -
dwellings to find
must she for her kind!
(c)kRu, 21.12.04-18.06.05
Jan 30, 2010
Jan 30, 2010 at 12:33 AM UTC
I love the month of February,
The shortest and coldest month of the season,
For an array of personal reasons.
And yet, it feels like Feb is the longest,
For the events that happen haphazardly,
Amidst treacherous winter storm blasts.
Quasi everything is frozen and solid near the nest
Of the American bald eagles,
Except the Mardi Gras masks under the rumbles.
February is the season of love,
The month of Saint Valentine,
A quintessential paradise cove,
Where lovers take refuge. Pure, Pristine,
Snowy, short, Pure, dark, and lovely; Feb is now
The celebratory month of Black history,
One wonders why and how
We get the shortest one. It's another story
That we should let the nomad seagulls
Decipher. No bathers on the sandy beaches,
Solely, a few birds are perched on the branches,
Far away from the cribs of the bald eagles.
February is a month of a kaleidoscopic contrast,
Where snowfalls happen quite often,
And ******** lovers dream warmth under a heaven
Full of hope, love, beauty, and ice.
Copyright © January 2022, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved.
Hébert Logerie is the author of several collections of poems.
Feb 1, 2025
Feb 1, 2025 at 5:54 PM UTC
Rain falls like pain splattered teardrops,
on what resembles a half broken heart,
worn on a sleeve for far too long,
but is only frosted pavement,
iced over by the harshness of winter,
Soon to be covered by one too many snowfalls,
erasing the memory of what was once rains canvas
to create art of actual feeling,
without hidden complexities,
Making the once crystal clear image,
to become clouded with confusing imagery,
of things even the most intellegent minds,
cannot grasp,
Which is why I find the world these days,
to be nothing less than perplexing,
the simplicity of everything is gone,
it's no longer cool to be original,
everything now has to be in riddles,
A tragic story you'd rather not let unfold,
a character you wouldn't take the time to name,
and a scene made for heartbreak,
and desperation.
Jan 29, 2013
Jan 29, 2013 at 10:25 AM UTC