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Ar Bazian Aug 2016
Winter... Winter.. Winter...
O' winter's at the door.
Ye drunk, ol' drunken silly fool,
watch the slippery floor...

Winter...winter; O' good ol' friend....
winter now is here,
winter without an end!
Winter to me is dear!
Winter is my friend!
Ye drunk, ol' drunken silly fool,
Winter is our friend...
Remember where yer logs are be...
for when chaps and wound shall mend!

Winter, Winter, Winter
he'll be come and gone...
Ye drunk, ol' drunken silly fool,
ye sat and wrote a song...

Winter, Winter, good ol' chap
stubborn tending tears;
what where the days of merry clap
winter, then all clears!

A.r. Bazian
*Written in 2010
Purcy Flaherty Mar 2018
Winter snow, Winter snow;
I’ll come shining through,
They say that every cloud has a silver lining,
But it’s snowing down on you.
You’ve forgot your coat and umbrella
and now you’re froze right through!
I’ll come shining through
~ this winter snow.

You can hop from tree to tree;
Use a bag, or a magazine,
Take shelter in a coffee shop
and soak up the caffeine!
The streets are now deserted;
There’s not a soul to be seen,
I’ll come shining through;
this winter snow.

There are clouds up in the sky,
Whistling winds are blowing by,
There are snow flakes big and round,
What a sight, oh me oh migh!
Winter snow, winter snow,
I’ll come shining through,
Yes I’ll come shining through
This winter snow.

Winter snow, winter snow,
I’ll come shining through,
They say that every cloud has a silver lining,
But it’s snowing down on you.
You’ve forgot your coat and umbrella,
And now you’re froze right through!
I’ll come shining through,
this winter snow.

I’ll come shining through ~ this winter snow.
winter snow, winter snow,  winter snow.
Two poems for the price of one!
Sherri Harder Nov 2014
Once upon a time in the land of snow,
where snow-drifts hang like cliffs and icicles do grow.
Along thine winter's path, like a child out to play.
The air so fresh, and sunlight sparkles; what a lovely day.
Along thine winter's path, the trees majestic in blankets of white.
The stars shine through like magic ***** of light.
Along thine winter's path so crisp and serene.
Along thine winter's path, a winter-wonderland scene.
Along thine winter's path, memories so clear.
Along thine winter's path, no shadows and no fear.
To see children sledding down a hill playing so care free.
Along thine winter's path with snow light sparking, I long to see.
Along thine winter's path, with mittens, gloves, and scarves,
lending a helping hand.
Along thine winter's path I write, this winter poem now
hath come to say...The End.
Jack Dec 2014

Simply soft, serenely so
Does fall this winter’s evening snow
Wrapped within its chilly bow
Does fall this winter’s evening snow
Petals gleam of crystal glow
Does fall this winter’s evening snow
Upon this world of white to show
Does fall this winter’s evening snow
For its beauty to bestow
Does fall this winter’s evening snow
Deep upon this earth to grow
Does fall this winter’s evening snow
Serenity of soft halo
Does fall this winter’s evening snow
Cast by winds of frigid blow
Does fall this winter’s evening snow
Resting on the ground below
Does fall this winter’s evening snow
As my heart doth love thee so
*Does fall this winter’s evening snow
Ok, I know it's repetitive...perhaps there is an echo in here. :)
conversation between day and night

DAY you’re so shadowy dangerous scary

NIGHT and you’re so bright cheerful positive it’s sickening

DAY you’re troubled conflicted disturbed concealing colluding everything in darkness

NIGHT like you don’t have your ***** secrets the difference is you’re in denial pretending everything is sweet pretty perfect

DAY i can’t believe we’re sister and brother

NIGHT not by choice

DAY i’ll never understand why you choose to suffer why you would rather be miserable than joyful

NIGHT you are so phony concerned about how things look instead of how they really feel

DAY i want success i dream of happiness i like being a winner and will fight to achieve my goals

NIGHT listen to you “fight to achieve your goals” you’re obnoxious selfish disgusting corrupt ***** all you know how to do is shine your radiant smile you’re a 1-trick-pony glaring at everything with your fiery rays

DAY and you’re so impossible mercurial moody waxing waning moon all your sick lunacy

NIGHT i love when it rains and clouds shut you out

DAY i hate you

conversation between summer and winter

SUMMER you’re gloomy bitter cold distant

WINTER i wish things were different

SUMMER different how

WINTER i know i’m difficult complicated demanding stuff dies around me freezes up goes away

SUMMER you could change

WINTER change huh (pause) what? become more like you with all your floods forest fires bugs crop failure drought scorching heat

SUMMER perhaps more like spring or autumn milder more agreeable

WINTER you don’t understand

SUMMER explain

WINTER i hurt inside hurt so bad i get numb in a fog then i don’t see feel think right do stupid stuff to upsetting to remember lose myself forget myself

SUMMER that sounds dangerous

WINTER it used to be worse

SUMMER sounds scary

WINTER i’ve been alone for many years it’s had an effect on me

SUMMER you’re more amendable now

WINTER i wish to die

SUMMER that’s not good

WINTER I have my regrets forgive me

SUMMER you’re sad

WINTER teach me help me show me love

SUMMER remember who you are take pride in yourself you’re winter hot chocolate crackling fireplace ice skating hockey snow skiing football scarves mittens beanies boots you’re fun

WINTER you really think so thank you

conversation between democrat and republican

DEMOCRAT you people got us into this mess

REPUBLICAN you people got us into this mess

DEMOCRAT what’s your hand doing in your pocket

REPUBLICAN what’s your hand doing in your pocket

DEMOCRAT who are you to point a finger

REPUBLICAN who are you to point a finger

conversation between life and death

LIFE it’s a gorgeous dawn full of potential

DEATH time is inconsequential

LIFE you’re heartless

DEATH i do what i have to

LIFE you’re a *******

DEATH some think i’m a relief

LIFE you’re a cruel son-of –a-*****

DEATH let me ask you something do you believe in reincarnation destiny fate

LIFE ******* i hate you yes i believe in possibilities i don’t know what i believe i believe in hope

DEATH i apologize

LIFE this existence is difficult from learning how to talk walk to making smart decisions enduring the loss of loved ones suffering one’s own losses but going through all these changes is a valiant challenge attempting to achieve my goals is better than nothing at all

DEATH you honestly believe your mortal existence isn’t a futile pursuit and terrible waste of resources

LIFE yes (pause) nature is miraculous the creatures skies oceans mountains anthropology science love possibilities

DEATH you’re rather funny in a preposterous way not that it matters yet you’re entertaining

LIFE i don’t know i get these feelings like i was chosen like i am living in something much greater than myself words cannot explain

DEATH i wouldn’t know i’m a service i conclude (pause) that’s all (pause) you’re speaking about stuff beyond me

LIFE you mean you know nothing about god or the soul or spirituality nothing about dreams visions longings

DEATH i have no answers just terminal endings
shayla ennis Feb 2014
winter snow,
it is beautiful,
it is soft,

winter snow,
it is harsh,
it is unpredictable,

winter snow,
when it comes you never know,
bearing you in cold,

winter snow,
we see it as a blessing of a new year,
we see it as a curse to our daily planes,

winter snow,
we know spring is coming,
summer next,
followed by fall,
with another winter snow around the Ben,

winter snow,
we play in it,
we drive in it,
we walk in it,

winter snow,
there is happiness,
there is sadness,

winter snow,
with tears turn to ice,
ice to water,

winter snow,
grass underneath,
flowers sleeping,
animals in hibernation,

winter snow,
when will spring come again,
when will the sun shine,
where is the sparkling beauty

by scarlet rose
I wrote this today to to the surprising snow storm we got.
Nik Bland Nov 2012
(Verse 1)
Write a letter
Pray the tides will change
Don't forget her
In lands so cold, so strange

Sing horizon
Show me where she left off
She is smiling
Waiting for me to come on home


(Verse 2)
Keep me alive
Past the winter and summer days
Help me survive
So I'll meet a tender embrace

Never let go
Pray for the safest of returns
Within I know
I will find my way back home

Summer day (Summer days)
Summer nights (Summer nights)
Some are simple way of holding you

Winter moons (Winter moons)
Winter lights (Winter lights)
Wandering on earth, but on my way back home


(Verse 3)
Looking onward
Keeping him locked in my mind
Pressing forward
Never leaving him behind

No more sorrow
Make Decembers feel like June
Maybe not tomorrow
But I know he'll be home soon


(Verse 4)
I am waiting
See the ocean toss and turn
Past the shading
Of my skin, my soul does burn

Never wonder
I give love to you alone
Never cast asunder
Is my love, he's coming home

Summer day (Summer days)
Summer nights (Summer nights)
Some are simple way of holding you

Winter moons (Winter moons)
Winter lights (Winter lights)
Wandering on earth, but on my way

Summer day (Summer days)
Summer nights (Summer nights)
Some are simple way of holding you

Winter moons (Winter moons)
Winter lights (Winter lights)
Wandering on earth, but on my(your) way back home
Wandering on earth, but on the way back home
Dearest love, just know my love is safe at home

I don't plan on making it a normal thing, but I wrote this and had to share it. It's meant to be a duet with the male sing the first two verses and the first chorus with the female echoing, then the female singing the last two verses and the next chorus with the male echoing.
Oh No One Nov 2018
I sit here in the cold and think of you
I think of winter
I think of that winter
Now this winter is slowly approaching
The closer it gets
The closer I am to you
Like Odysseus in his travels
I have been peregrinating
But now here in the cold I remain
I am not done with my journey
I have not yet returned to my Ithaca
I have not yet returned to my Penelope
I have only just come to an Ithaca
There is no Penelope here
Here it is cold like your hands on my chest that winter
Now this winter is slowly approaching
The closer it gets
The closer I am to you
Like Odysseus in his travels I have met many a muse
But none could compare to you  
Their warm hands tried to warm my cold heart
But they tried in vain
Your cold hands on my chest that winter
Were the only hands that have triumphed
In that monumental task
Now this winter is slowly approaching
The closer it gets
The closer I am to you
Like Odysseus in his travels
I was lost for so long
I’m just trying to find a way home
I was once scared I may never return
And may never be back with you
The only way I could be
Was to think of us that winter
Now this winter is slowly approaching
The closer it gets
The closer I am to you
Like Odysseus in his travels
I have finally set a course for home
When this winter finally arrives
I’ll be back in my Ithaca
I’ll be back with my Penelope
With my muse finally at last
But this winter is slowly approaching
The closer it gets
The closer I am to you
I sit here in the cold and think of you
I just hope I can last
For my eternal muse
Nigel Morgan Dec 2013
A Tale for the Mid-Winter Season after the Mural by Carl Larrson

On the shortest day I wake before our maids from the surrounding farms have converged on Sundborn. Greta lives with us so she will be asleep in that deep slumber only girls of her age seem to own. Her tiny room has barely more than a bed and a chest for her clothes. There is my first painting of her on the wall, little more a sketch, but she was entranced, at seeing herself so. To the household she is a maid who looks after me and my studio,  though she is a literate, intelligent girl, city-bred from Gamla Stan but from a poor home, a widowed mother, her late father a drunkard.  These were my roots, my beginning, exactly. But her eyes already see a world beyond Sundborn. She covets postcards from my distant friends: in Paris, London, Jean in South America, and will arrange them on my writing desk, sometimes take them to her room at night to dream in the candlelight. I think this summer I shall paint her, at my desk, reading my cards, or perhaps writing her own. The window will be open and a morning breeze will make the flowers on the desk tremble.

Karin sleeps too, a desperate sleep born of too much work and thought and interruption. These days before Christmas put a strain on her usually calm disposition. The responsibilities of our home, our life, the constant visitors, they weigh upon her, and dispel her private time. Time in her studio seems impossible. I often catch her poised to disappear from a family coming-together. She is here, and then gone, as if by magic. With the older children home from their distant schools, and Suzanne arrived from England just yesterday morning, they all cannot do without lengthy conferences. They know better than disturb me. Why do you think there is a window set into my studio door? So, if I am at my easel there should be no knock to disturb. There is another reason, but that is between Karin and I.

This was once a summer-only house, but over the years we have made it our whole-year home. There was much attention given to making it snug and warm. My architect replaced all the windows and all the doors and there is this straw insulation between the walls. Now, as I open the curtains around my bed, I can see my breath float out into the cool air. When, later, I descend to my studio, the stove, damped down against the night, when opened and raddled will soon warm the space. I shall draw back the heavy drapes and open the wooden shutters onto the dark land outside. Only then I will stand before my current painting: *Brita and the Sleigh

Current!? I have been working on this painting intermittently for five years, and Brita is no longer the Brita of this picture, though I remember her then as yesterday. It is a picture of a winter journey for a six-year-old, only that journey is just across the yard to the washhouse. Snow, frost, birds gathered in the leafless trees, a sun dog in the sky, Brita pushing her empty sledge, wearing fur boots, Lisbeth’s old coat, and that black knitted hat made by old Anna. It is the nearest I have come to suggesting the outer landscape of this place. I bring it out every year at this time so I can check the light and the shadows against what I see now, not what I remember seeing then. But there will be a more pressing concern for me today, this shortest day.

Since my first thoughts for the final mural in my cycle for the Nationalmuseum I have always put this day aside, whatever I might be doing, wherever I may be. I pull out my first sketches, that book of imaginary tableaux filled in a day and a night in my tiny garden studio in Grez, thinking of home, of snow, the mid-winter, feeling the extraordinary power and shake of Adam of Bremen’s description of 10th C pre-Christian Uppsala, written to describe how barbaric and immoral were the practices and religion of the pagans, to defend the fragile position of the Christian church in Sweden at the time. But as I gaze at these rough beginnings made during those strange winter days in my rooms at the Hotel Chevilon, I feel myself that twenty-five year old discovering my artistic vision, abandoning oils for the flow and smudge of watercolour, and then, of course, Karin. We were part of the Swedish colony at Grez-sur-Loing. Karin lived with the ladies in Pension Laurent, but was every minute beside me until we found our own place, to be alone and be together, in a cupboard of a house by the river, in Marlotte.

Everyone who painted en-plein-air, writers, composers, they all flocked to Grez just south of Fontainebleau, to visit, sometimes to stay. I recall Strindberg writing to Karin after his first visit: It was as if there were no pronounced shadows, no hard lines, the air with its violet complexion is almost always misty; and I painting constantly, and against the style and medium of the time. How the French scoffed at my watercolours, but my work sold immediately in Stockholm. . . and Karin, tall, slim, Karin, my muse, my lover, my model, her boy-like figure lying naked (but for a hat) in the long grass outside my studio. We learned each other there, the technique of bodies in intimate closeness, the way of no words, the sharing of silent thoughts, together on those soft, damp winter days when our thoughts were of home, of Karin’s childhood home at Sundborn. I had no childhood thoughts I wanted to return to, but Karin, yes. That is why we are here now.

In Grez-sur-Loing, on a sullen December day, mist lying on the river, our garden dead to winter, we received a visitor, a Swedish writer and journalist travelling with a very young Italian, Mariano Fortuny, a painter living in Paris, and his mentor the Spaniard Egusquiza. There was a woman too who Karin took away, a Parisienne seamstress I think, Fortuny’s lover. Bayreuth and Wagner, Wagner, Wagner was all they could talk about. Of course Sweden has its own Nordic Mythology I ventured. But where is it? What is it? they cried, and there was laughter and more mulled wine, and then talk again of Wagner.

When the party left I realized there was something deep in my soul that had been woken by talk of the grandeur and scale of Wagner’s cocktail of German and Scandinavian myths and folk tales. For a day and night I sketched relentlessly, ransacking my memory for those old tales, drawing strong men and stalwart, flaxen-haired women in Nordic dress and ornament. But as a new day presented itself I closed my sketch book and let the matter drop until, years later, in a Stockholm bookshop I chanced upon a volume in Latin by Adam of Bremen, his Gesta Hammaburgensis Ecclesiae Pontificum, the most famous source to pagan ritual practice in Sweden. That cold winter afternoon in Grez returned to me and I felt, as I had then, something stir within me, something missing from my comfortable world of images of home and farm, family and the country life.

Back in Sundborn this little volume printed in the 18th C lay on my desk like a question mark without a sentence. My Latin was only sufficient to get a gist, but the gist was enough. Here was the story of the palace of Uppsala, the great centre of the pre-Christian pagan cults that brought us Odin and Freyr. I sought out our village priest Dag Sandahl, a good Lutheran but who regularly tagged Latin in his sermons. Yes, he knew the book, and from his study bookshelf brought down an even earlier copy than my own. And there and then we sat down together and read. After an hour I was impatient to be back in my studio and draw, draw these extraordinary images this text brought to life unbidden in my imagination. But I did not leave until I had persuaded Pastor Sandahl to agree to translate the Uppsala section of the Adam of Bremen’s book, and just before Christmas that year, on the day before the Shortest Day, he delivered his translation to my studio. He would not stay, but said I should read the passages about King Domalde and his sacrifice at the Winter Solstice. And so, on the day of the Winter Solstice, I did.

This people have a widely renowned sanctuary called Uppsala.

By this temple is a very large tree with extending branches. It is always green, both in winter and in summer. No one knows what kind of tree this is. There is also a spring there, where the heathens usually perform their sacrificial rites. They throw a live human being into the spring. If he does not resurface, the wishes of the people will come true.

The Temple is girdled by a chain of gold that hangs above the roof of the building and shines from afar, so that people may see it from a distance when they approach there. The sanctuary itself is situated on a plain, surrounded by mountains, so that the form a theatre.

It is not far from the town of Sigtuna. This sanctuary is completely covered with golden ornaments. There, people worship the carved idols of three gods: Thor, the most powerful of them, has his throne in the middle of the hall, on either side of him, Odin and Freyr have their seats. They have these functions: “Thor,” they say, “rules the air, he rules thunder and lightning, wind and rain, good weather and harvests. The other, Odin, he who rages, he rules the war and give courage to people in their battle against enemies. The third is Freyr, he offers to mortals lust and peace and happiness.” And his image they make with a very large phallus. Odin they present armed, the way we usually present Mars, while Thor with the scepter seems to resemble Jupiter. As gods they also worship some that have earlier been human. They give them immortality for the sake of their great deeds, as we may read in Vita sancti Ansgarii that they did with King Eirik.

For all these gods have particular persons who are to bring forward the sacrificial gifts of the people. If plague and famine threatens, they offer to the image of Thor, if the matter is about war, they offer to Odin, but if a wedding is to be celebrated, they offer to Freyr. And every ninth year in Uppsala a great religious ceremony is held that is common to people from all parts of Sweden.”
Snorri also relates how human sacrifice began in Uppsala, with the sacrifice of a king.

Domalde took the heritage after his father Visbur, and ruled over the land. As in his time there was great famine and distress, the Swedes made great offerings of sacrifice at Upsal. The first autumn they sacrificed oxen, but the succeeding season was not improved thereby. The following autumn they sacrificed men, but the succeeding year was rather worse. The third autumn, when the offer of sacrifices should begin, a great multitude of Swedes came to Upsal; and now the chiefs held consultations with each other, and all agreed that the times of scarcity were on account of their king Domalde, and they resolved to offer him for good seasons, and to assault and **** him, and sprinkle the stall of the gods with his blood. And they did so.

There it was, at the end of Adam of Bremen’s description of Uppsala, this description of King Domalde upon which my mural would be based. It is not difficult to imagine, or rather the event itself can be richly embroidered, as I have over the years made my painting so. Karin and I have the books of William Morris on our shelves and I see little difference between his fixation on the legends of the Arthur and the Grail. We are on the cusp here between the pagan and the Christian.  What was Christ’s Crucifixion but a self sacrifice: as God in man he could have saved himself but chose to die for Redemption’s sake. His blood was not scattered to the fields as was Domalde’s, but his body and blood remains a continuing symbol in our right of Communion.

I unroll the latest watercolour cartoon of my mural. It is almost the length of this studio. Later I will ask Greta to collect the other easels we have in the house and barn and then I shall view it properly. But for now, as it unrolls, my drama of the Winter Solstice comes alive. It begins on from the right with body of warriors, bronze shields and helmets, long shafted spears, all set against the side of Uppsala Temple and more distant frost-hoared trees. Then we see the King himself, standing on a sled hauled by temple slaves. He is naked as he removes the furs in which he has travelled, a circuit of the temple to display himself to his starving people. In the centre, back to the viewer, a priest-like figure in a red cloak, a dagger held for us to see behind his back. Facing him, in druidic white, a high priest holds above his head a gold pagan monstrance. To his left there are white cloaked players of long, straight horns, blue cloaked players of the curled horns, and guiding the shaft of the sled a grizzled shaman dressed in the skins and furs of animals. The final quarter of my one- day-to-be-a-mural unfolds to show the women of temple and palace writhing in gestures of grief and hysteria whilst their queen kneels prostate on the ground, her head to the earth, her ladies ***** behind her. Above them all stands the forever-green tree whose origin no one knows.

Greta has entered the studio in her practiced, silent way carrying coffee and rolls from the kitchen. She has seen Midvinterblot many times, but I sense her gaze of fascination, yet again, at the figure of the naked king. She remembers the model, the sailor who came to stay at Kartbacken three summers ago. He was like the harpooner Queequeg in Moby ****. A tattooed man who was to be seen swimming in Toftan Lake and walking bare-chested in our woods. A tall, well-muscled, almost silent man, whom I patiently courted to be my model for King Dolmade. I have a book of sketches of him striding purposefully through the trees, the tattooed lines on his shoulders and chest like deep cuts into his body. This striding figure I hid from the children for some time, but from Greta that was impossible. She whispered to me once that when she could not have my substantial chest against her she would imagine the sailor’s, imagine touching and following his tattooed lines. This way, she said, helped her have respite from those stirrings she would so often feel for me. My painting, she knew, had stirred her fellow maids Clara and Solveig. Surely you know this, she had said, in her resolute and direct city manner. I have to remember she is the age of my eldest, who too must hold such thoughts and feelings. Karin dislikes my sailor king and wishes I would not hide the face of his distraught queen.

Today the sunrise is at 9.0, just a half hour away, and it will set before 3.0pm. So, after this coffee I will put on my boots and fur coat, be well scarfed and hatted (as my son Pontus would say) and walk out onto my estate. I will walk east across the fields towards Spardasvvägen. The sky is already waiting for the sun, but waits without colour, hardly even a tinge of red one might expect.

I have given Greta her orders to collect every easel she can find so we can take Midvinterblot off the floor and see it in all its vivid colour and form. In February I shall begin again to persuade the Nationalmuseum to accept this work. We have a moratorium just now. I will not accept their reasoning that there is no historical premise for such a subject, that such a scene has no place in a public gallery. A suggestion has been made that the Historiska museet might house it. But I shall not think of this today.

Karin is here, her face at the studio window beckons entry. My Darling, yes, it is midwinter’s day and I am dressing to greet the solstice. I will dress, she says, to see Edgar who will be here in half an hour to discuss my designs for this new furniture. We will be lunching at noon. Know you are welcome. Suzanne is talking constantly of England, England, and of course Oxford, this place of dreaming spires and good looking boys. We touch hands and kiss. I sense the perfume of sleep, of her bed.

Outside I must walk quickly to be quite alone, quite apart from the house, in the fields, alone. It is on its way: this light that will bathe the snowed-over land and will be my promise of the year’s turn towards new life.

As I walk the drama of Midvinterblot unfolds in a confusion of noise, the weeping of women, the physical exertions of the temple slaves, the priests’ incantations, the riot of horns, and then suddenly, as I stand in this frozen field, there is silence. The sun rises. It stagge
To see images of the world of Sundborn and Carl Larrson (including Mitvinterblot) see
The winter was our season. While the cold air creep's up upon me, upon you, it send's shiver's down my spine. The kind of shiver's that weaken you, the ones full of loneliness. As the first snow fall come's it just doesnt feel like it should, like it did. A walk in the cold was once filled with warmth, the kind from the inside going out. But now i walk and all i feel is the cold but not just the cold of the air, the cold of how empty everything inside of me now is. The snow fall's a little less this year but i know why, there's no need for logic reasoning.It's awfly uncomfortable to not have you right now. As i walk and acknowledge my surrounding's the wind blows through me, it remind's me of you. I can only hope the ice doesnt slip out from under you, but then again you'd know how it felt when you slipt right from under me:The crash and the rush of losing all control as you knew it. As i walk down this street like we once did hand in hand, i look around and all i see is the bare tree's. There's no need for the tree's to talk, without their leaves theyre self explainitory. When i look up to try and dump the thoughts of you out of my head i see nothing but grey, almost to a point where it doesnt look like there's clouds anymore, look's more like a painting. But what use does an already painted canvas have? When i look ahead and continue to walk i look down, down to the sidewalk where i, at one point, had set eyes on you. When i could've whenever i wanted to. I can only dream about that privledge now. We went together like the winter and a sweater. And like the combination, we couldn't go without one another.  But now i walk on this sidewalk with my jacket, my mittens, and a empty hand and all i can do is just think about how full this hand was. I had the whole world in it. I had you. The winter had us. But now the winter and i are both empty handed. This winter feel's like a different season, a season that doesn't exsist for a reason. The snow flakes fall because they have to, not because they want to. The air blow's with bitter sweet cold because it want's to taunt me. The tree's weep with lonesome and worry because theyre with me on this one. The snow on the ground show's my footstep's, show's that it's only me. no one beside me. And you, you sit at home in your signifigant other's arm's, forgetting the real feeling of winter. Winter, winter was our season. As you stand outside the air that had blown through me creep's it's way to you and as it weep's over you, you feel it, you breathe it in, and you hear it, hear it as it whispers into your ear's the warmth of the memories. That's when you realize that yes, winter, Winter was our season.
©SeanaseaWallen 2010
Casey Ann Nov 2015
I can feel winter coming.
It’s more than the wind that scrapes me every time I’m forced to go outside, it’s more than the ice in the air every time I breath, spiraling away from me like smoke.
It’s the ice that’s settling into the pit of my stomach, the pit of my soul.
I can feel myself freezing.
I don’t remember warmth, I live in the dark. I’ve got nothing and no one to keep me from this hailstorm
It’s the ice in my mind, every morning taking longer and longer to thaw, no matter how many pills I feed it
It’s the ice in my bones, freezing me in place. Movement isn’t impossible, it’s painful, and the cracks are starting to show through

I know what I do in winter.
I cry in winter, in the morning when I realize I’m awake and in the night when I realize I’m alone
I don’t walk in winter, I shuffle and I dig myself deeper into the ground with every footstep
I think too much in winter, I think myself in circles around the room and sometimes 6 feet below the ground, no longer pacing
heart no longer beating or burning

I know who I am in winter
I am a shadow in winter, the absence of light
I am a girl, just a girl, and hardly old enough to die, but apparently old enough to barely live
I am a fool in winter, who looks for warmth and finds a fire, enjoying the burns because she’s missed the sensation of feeling
I am alone in winter, because no one hears this story, and no one knows how far into the ground I fall

I hope to survive in winter, because that’s the most I can ask for
From the mind of someone just beginning to sink into that seasonal depression, and feeling scared the farther down I go
Nigel Morgan May 2015
In a distant land, far beyond the time we know now, there lived an ancient people who knew in their bones of a past outside memory. Things happened over and over; as day became night night became day, spring followed winter, summer followed spring, autumn followed summer and then, and then as autumn came, at least the well-known ordered days passed full of preparation for the transhumance, that great movement of flocks and herds from the summer mountains to the winter pastures. But in the great oak woods of this region the leaves seemed reluctant to fall. Even after the first frosts when the trees glimmered with rime as the sun rose. Even when winter’s cousin, the great wind from the west, ravaged the conical roofs of the shepherds’ huts. The leaves did not fall.

For Lucila, searching for leaves as she climbed each day higher and higher through the parched undergrowth under the most ancient oaks, there were only acorns, slews of acorns at her feet. There were no leaves, or rather no leaves that might be gathered as newly fallen. Only the faint husks of leaves of the previous autumn, leaves of provenance already gathered before she left the mountains last year for the winter plains, leaves she had placed into her deep sleeves, into her voluminous apron, into the large pockets of her vlaterz, the ornate felt jacket of the married woman.

Since her childhood she had picked and pocketed these oaken leaves, felt their thin, veined, patterned forms, felt, followed, caressed them between her finger tips. It was as though her pockets were full of the hands of children, seven-fingered hands, stroking her fingers with their pointed tips when her fingers were pocketed.

She would find private places to lay out her gathered leaves. She wanted none to know or touch or speak of these her children of the oak forest. She had waited all summer, as she had done since a child, watching them bud and grow on the branch, and then, with the frosts and winds of autumn, fall, fall, fall to the ground, but best of all fall into her small hands, every leaf there to be caught, fallen into the bowl of her cupped hands. And for every leaf caught, a wish.

Her autumn days became full of wishes. She would lie awake on her straw mattress after Mikas had risen for the night milking, that time when the rustling bells of the goats had no accompaniment from the birds. She would assemble her lists of wishes, wishes ready for leaves not yet fallen into the bowl of her cupped hands. May the toes of my baby be perfectly formed? May his hair fall straight without a single curl? May I know only the pain I can bear when he comes? May the mother of Mikas love this child?

As the fine autumn days moved towards the feast day of St Anolysius, the traditional day of departure of the winter transhumance, there was, this season, an unspoken tension present in the still, dry air. Already preparations were being made for the long journey to the winter plains. There was soon to be a wedding now three days away, of the Phatos boy to the Tamosel girl. The boy was from an adjoining summer pasture and had travelled during the summer months with an itinerant uncle, a pedlar of sorts and beggar of repute. So he had seen something of the world beyond those of the herds and flocks can expect to see. He was rightly-made and fit to marry, although, of course, the girl was to be well-kept secret until the day itself.

Lucila remembered those wedding days, her wedding days, those anxious days of waiting when encased in her finery, in her seemingly impenetrable and voluminous wedding clothes she had remained all but hidden from view. While around her the revelling came and went, the drunkenness, the feasting, the riotous eruptions of noise and movement, the sudden visitations of relatives she did not know, the fierce instructions of women who spoke to her now as a woman no longer a young girl or a dear child, women she knew as silent, shy and respectful who were now loud and lewd, who told her things she could hardly believe, what a man might do, what a man might be, what a woman had to suffer - all these things happening at the same time. And then her soon-to-be husband’s drunk-beyond-reason friends had carried off the basket with her trousseau and dressed themselves riotously in her finest embroidered blouses, her intricate layered skirts, her petticoats, even the nightdress deemed the one to be worn when eventually, after three days revelry, she would be visited by a man, now more goat than man, sodden with drink, insensible to what little she understood as human passion beyond the coupling of goats. Of course Semisar had prepared the bright blood for the bridesbed sheet, the necessary evidence, and as Mikas lay sprawled unconscious at the foot of the marriage bed she had allowed herself to be dishevelled, to feign the aftermath of the act he was supposed to have committed upon her. That would, she knew, come later . . .

It was then, in those terrible days and after, she took comfort from her silent, private stitching into leaves, the darning of acorns, the spinning of skeins of goats’ wool she would walnut-dye and weave around stones and pieces of glass. She would bring together leaves bound into tiny books, volumes containing for her a language of leaves, the signs and symbols of nature she had named, that only she knew. She could not read the words of the priest’s book but was fluent in the script of veins and ribs and patterning that every leaf owned. When autumn came she could hardly move a step for picking up a fallen leaf, reading its story, learning of its history. But this autumn now, at the time of leaf fall, the fall of the leaf did not happen and those leaves of last year at her feet were ready to disintegrate at her touch. She was filled with dread. She knew she could not leave the mountains without a collection of leaves to stitch and weave through the shorter days and long, long winter nights. She had imagined sharing with her infant child this language she had learnt, had stitched into her daily life.

It was Semisar of course, who voiced it first. Semisar, the self-appointed weather ears and horizon eyes of the community, who followed her into the woods, who had forced Lucila against a tree holding one broad arm and her body’s weight like a bar from which Lucila could not escape, and with the other arm and hand rifled the broad pockets of Lucila’s apron. Semisar tossed the delicate chicken bone needles to the ground, unravelled the bobbins of walnut-stained yarn, crumpled the delicately folded and stitched, but yet to be finished, constructions of leaves . . . And spewed forth a torrent of terrible words. Already the men knew that the lack of leaf fall was peculiar only to the woods above and around their village. Over the other side of the mountain Telgatho had said this was not so. Was Lucila a Magnelz? Perhaps a Cutvlael? This baby she carried, a girl of course, was already making evil. Semisar placed her hand over and around the ripe hard form of the unborn child, feeling for its shape, its elbows and knees, the spine. And from there, with a vicelike grip on the wrist, Semisar dragged Lucila up and far into the woods to where the mountain with its caves and rocks touched the last trees, and from there to the cave where she seemed to know Lucila’s treasures lay, her treasures from childhood. Semisar would destroy everything, then the leaves would surely fall.

When Lucila did not return to prepare the evening meal Mikas was to learn all. Should he leave her be? He had been told women had these times of strange behaviour before childbirth. The wedding of the Phatos boy was almost upon them and the young men were already behaving like goats before the rut. The festive candles and tinselled wedding crowns had been fetched from the nearest town two days ride distant, the decoration of the tiny mountain basilica and the accommodation for the priest was in hand. The women were busy with the making of sweets and treats to be thrown at the wedding pair by guests and well-wishers. Later, the same women would prepare the dough for the millstones of bread that would be baked in the stone ovens. The men had already chosen the finest lambs to spit-roast for the feast.

She will return, Semisar had said after waiting by the fold where Mikas flocks, now gathered from the heights, awaited their journey south. All will be well, Mikas, never fear. The infant, a girl, may not last its birth, Semisar warned, but seeing the shocked face of Mikas, explained a still-birth might be providential for all. Know this time will pass, she said, and you can still be blessed with many sons. We are forever in the hands of the spirit, she said, leaving without the customary salutation of farewell.
However different the lives of man and woman may by tradition and circumstance become, those who share the ways and rites of marriage are inextricably linked by fate’s own hand and purpose. Mikas has come to know his once-bride, the child become woman in his clumsy embrace, the girl of perhaps fifteen summers fulfilling now his mother’s previous role, who speaks little but watches and listens, is unfailingly attentive to his needs and demands, and who now carries his child ( it can only be a boy), carries this boy high in her womb and with a confidence his family has already remarked upon.

After their wedding he had often returned home to Lucila at the time of the sun’s zenith when it is customary for the village women to seek the shade of their huts and sleep. It was an unwritten rite due to a newly-wed husband to feign the sudden need for a forgotten tool or seek to examine a sick animal in the home fold. After several fruitless visits when he found their hut empty he timed his visit earlier to see her black-scarfed figure disappear into the oak woods.  He followed her secretively, and had observed her seated beneath an ancient warrior of a tree, had watched over her intricate making. Furthermore and later he came to know where she hid the results of this often fevered stitching of things from nature’s store and stash, though an supernatural fear forbade him to enter the cleft between rocks into which she would disappear. He began to know how times and turns of the days affected her actions, but had left her be. She would usually return bright-eyed and with a quiet wonder, of what he did not know, but she carried something back within her that gave her a peculiar peace and beauty. It seemed akin to the well-being Mikas knew from handling a fine ewe from his flock . . .

And she would sometimes allow herself to be handled thus. She let him place his hands over her in that joyful ownership and command of a man whose life is wholly bound up with flocks and herds and the well-being of the female species. He would come from the evening watch with the ever-constant count of his flock still on his lips, and by a mixture of accident and stealth touch her wholly-clothed body, sometimes needing his fingers into the thick wool of her stockings, stroking the chestnut silken hairs that he found above her bare wrists, marvelling at her small hands with their perfect nails. He knew from the ribaldry of men that women were trained from childhood to display to men as little as possible of their intimate selves. But alone and apart all day on a remote hillside, alone save for several hundred sheep, brought to Mikas in his solitary state wild and conjured thoughts of feminine spirits, unencumbered by clothes, brighter and more various than any night-time dream. And he had succumbed to the pleasure of such thoughts times beyond reason, finding himself imagining Lucila as he knew she was unlikely ever to allow herself to be. But even in the single winter and summer of their life together there had been moments of surprise and revelation, and accompanied by these precious thoughts he went in search of her in the darkness of a three-quarter moon, into the stillness of the night-time wood.

Ah Lucilla. We might think that after the scourge of Semisar, the physical outrage of her baby’s forced examination, and finally the destruction of her treasures, this child-wife herself with child would be desolate with grief at what had come about. She had not been forced to follow Semisar into the small cave where wrapped in woven blankets her treasures lay between the thinnest sheets of impure and rejected parchment gleaned surreptitiously after shearing, but holding each and every treasure distinct and detached. There was enough light for Semisar to pause in wonder at the intricate constructions, bright with the aura of extreme fragility owned by many of the smaller makings. And not just the leaves of the oak were here, but of the mastic, the walnut, the flaky-barked strawberry and its smoothed barked cousin. There were leaves and sheaves of bark from lowland trees of the winter sojourn, there were dried fruits mysteriously arranged, constructions of acorns threaded with the dark madder-red yarn, even acorns cracked and damaged from their tree fall had been ‘mended’ with thread.

Semisar was to open some of the tiny books of leaved pages where she witnessed a form of writing she did not recognise (she could not read but had seen the priest’s writing and the print of the holy books). This she wondered at, as surely Lucila had only the education of the home? Such symbols must belong to the spirit world. Another sign that Lucila had infringed order and disturbed custom. It would take but a matter of minutes to turn such makings into little more than a layer of dust on the floor.

With her bare hands Semisar ground together these elaborate confections, these lovingly-made conjunctions of needle’s art with nature’s purpose and accidental beauty. She ground them together until they were dust.

When Semisar returned into the pale afternoon light it seemed Lucila had remained as she had been left: motionless, and without expression. If Semisar had known the phenomenon of shock, Lucila was in that condition. But, in the manner of a woman preparing to grieve for the dead she had removed her black scarf and unwound the long dark chestnut plaits that flowed down her back. But there were no tears. only a dumb silence but for the heavy exhalation of breath. It seemed that she looked beyond Semisar into the world of spirits invoking perhaps their aid, their comfort.

What happened had neither invoked sadness nor grief. It was as if it had been ordained in the elusive pattern of things. It felt like the clearing of the summer hut before the final departure for the long journey to the winter world. The hut, Lucila had been taught, was to be left spotless, every item put in its rightful place ready to be taken up again on the return to the summer life, exactly as if it had been undisturbed by absence . Not a crumb would remain before the rugs and coverings were rolled and removed, summer clothes hard washed and tightly mended, to be folded then wrapped between sprigs of aromatic herbs.

Lucila would go now and collect her precious but scattered needles from beneath the ancient oak. She would begin again - only to make and embroider garments for her daughter. It was as though, despite this ‘loss’, she had retained within her physical self the memory of every stitch driven into nature’s fabric.

Suddenly Lucila remembered that saints’ day which had sanctioned a winter’s walk with her mother, a day when her eyes had been drawn to a world of patterns and objects at her feet: the damaged acorn, the fractured leaf, the broken berried branch, the wisp of wool left impaled upon a stub of thorns. She had been five, maybe six summers old. She had already known the comforting action of the needle’s press again the felted cloth, but then, as if impelled by some force quite outside herself, had ‘borrowed’ one of her mother’s needles and begun her odyssey of darning, mending, stitching, enduring her mother’s censure - a waste of good thread, little one - until her skill became obvious and one of delight, but a private delight her mother hid from all and sundry, and then pressed upon her ‘proper’ work with needle and thread. But the damage had been done, the dye cast. She became nature’s needle slave and quartered those personal but often invisible
xelyn Dec 2013
“Cold snowflakes upon my arm

the winter shine peeking through a crack in the blinds

a breeze of ice engulfing the room through a window left ajar

a land covered in a shiny white blanket.”

Winter has come. Cue the thick padded coats and the parkas of every color of the rainbow! Behold the sleds and skis and the beautiful Siberian huskies who pull them. Await the closing of schools and the temperature drops, keeping people in and making children everywhere euphoric as ever. The time has come for skating upon rivers of ice, and joyous dinners in warm wooly sweaters as families gather around to indulge in the tastiest of food. Fireplaces shall again be lit in all households of old, and stockings hung up early in preparation for Christmas. Happy smiles all around, engaging in snowball fights and the building of snowmen.

Ah but winter is as winter does. As numbers reach the negatives, heaters are turned up to the warmest possible, insulating the beings in a home and using electricity. What about those without a home? Those who are confined to the streets of the city, waiting for the cold to eat their bodies up and leave them in a state of rigidity? They are left to waste. Left to succumb to the bitterness of winter, with no sustenance whatsoever or any form of water to soothe their burning throats. The cold will conceal them in a cover of white death, a prison of snow. And in the early mornings of every winter-filled day, a machine is sent out to collect the bodies of those who have been imprisoned by the winter. The one operating the machine weeps silent tears for these ice prisoners before bringing their poor souls elsewhere.

Winter is two-faced, and she is both beautiful and terrible as the morning and the night.

Tryst Feb 2016
Winter, From Summer

Winter's kiss reveals
barren nests in arbored rests
summer's love conceals

Winter's veil behests
larder meals in burrowed fields
summer's sleep divests

Summer, From Winter

Summer's hand repeals
frigid tests of nature's guests
winter's grasp unseals

Summer's warmth invests
life's ordeals on newborn squeals
winter's chill arrests
s o r i e a n o Feb 2016
Autumn gone in the winter
Keep warm, nothing else will bring her
back, if only we can go back in time
we'll learn to forgive, never forget her life
Autumn gone in the winter
keep close, everything else will wither
when the time comes, closer than expected
we'll find ourselves, our pain ended.

It hurts to grow up, it hurts to stay
Struggle to survive, things don't remain the same
I see the violence, I see the hate, I see the pain
Another shot and others gone, it's just another day
Moving on, losing, it's confusing along the way
years gone by, all those around me change
the pressure is real, those fires untamed
we'll suffer in silence, our illness unnamed.

Autumn gone in the winter
Keep warm, nothing else will bring her
back, if only we can go back in time
we'll learn to forgive, never forget her life
Autumn gone in the winter
keep close, everything else will wither
when the time comes, closer than expected
we'll find ourselves, our pain ended.

kids grow up different around here
some kids grow into eternal fears
some come out alive, some without minds
harden their hearts, all to stay alive.
rewind, rewind, rewind.
if I could change a thing, they wouldn't stay in line.
tough love comes in tough times.
tell me yours, I'll tell you mine.
we'll heal together and find ourselves divine.

Autumn gone in the winter
Keep warm, nothing else will bring her
back, if only we can go back in time
we'll learn to forgive, never forget her life
Autumn gone in the winter
keep close, everything else will wither
when the time comes, closer than expected
we'll find ourselves, our pain ended.

when will things get better? I don't know
not anytime soon with this status quo
I wanna see my community heal and grow
not have them deal with ordeals and go
I don't want gentrification, miscommunication
love and support, it's my motivation
what are the implications of being left in this situation
a small population without consolation, left in suffocation.

Autumn gone in the winter
Keep warm, nothing else will bring her
back, if only we can go back in time
we'll learn to forgive, never forget her life
Autumn gone in the winter
keep close, everything else will wither
when the time comes, closer than expected
we'll find ourselves, our pain ended.
RIP Autumn and all the youth lost to gun violence in my city
J B Moore Dec 2015
Oh the beauty of the seasons,
Each one with it's own specific reasons.
Winter springing as Summer is falling,
Look at the sounds of Memory, calling.

Feel the warmth as a summer breeze blows;
Washing us over, from our head to our toes.
Remember the laughter spent in summer days bright
As children dance with glee into the summer night.
As August comes to an end you should know,
Summer is the season in which life and friendships grow.

Oh the beauty of the seasons,
Each one with it's own specific reasons.
Winter springing as Summer is falling
Look at the sounds of Memory, calling.

Autumn is here now and summer is over
Kids return to school another year older.
This is the season where change happens most
The beauty in the changes, her greatest boast.
We gather around while the world outside is dying
Giving thanks for each other, while others are crying.

Oh the beauty of the seasons,
Each one with it's own specific reasons.
Winter springing as Summer is falling
Look at the sounds of Memory, calling.

Old man Winter arrives with a storm
Beating us down, making us worn.
But then the storm is over and snow covers the ground.
Frozen crystals hang from the trees, beauty all around.
Winter has washed the dead of the land snow white.
A reminder of the power of the perfect work of Christ.

Oh the beauty of the seasons,
Each one with it's own specific reasons;
Winter springing as Summer is falling
Look at the sounds of Memory, calling.

As old man Winter blows away,
Spring brings life with each new day.
A gentle breeze blows in the honey bees
That love the very trees that make you sneeze.
Rain drops splatter with every April shower,
Working with the Sun to give life to every flower. 

Oh the beauty of the seasons,
Each one with it's own specific reasons;
Winter springing as Summer is falling
Look at the sounds of Memory, calling.

Winter covers Autumn's death with beautiful snow white
And Spring brings the rain to give us life.
As life lives through the summer we continue to grow,
And Autumn reminds us of things we don't want to know:
There is a beauty to change and even in death,
So long as you live for Him who gives rest.

Oh the beauty of the seasons,
Each one with it's own specific reasons;
Winter springing as Summer is falling
Look at the sounds of Memory, calling.

ConnectHook Feb 2016
by John Greenleaf Whittier  (1807 – 1892)

“As the Spirits of Darkness be stronger in the dark, so Good Spirits which be Angels of Light are augmented not only by the Divine Light of the Sun, but also by our common Wood fire: and as the celestial Fire drives away dark spirits, so also this our Fire of Wood doth the same.”

        COR. AGRIPPA,
           Occult Philosophy, Book I. chap. v.

Announced by all the trumpets of the sky,
Arrives the snow; and, driving o’er the fields,
Seems nowhere to alight; the whited air
Hides hills and woods, the river and the heaven,
And veils the farm-house at the garden’s end.
The sled and traveller stopped, the courier’s feet
Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit
Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed
In a tumultuous privacy of storm.


The sun that brief December day
Rose cheerless over hills of gray,
And, darkly circled, gave at noon
A sadder light than waning moon.
Slow tracing down the thickening sky
Its mute and ominous prophecy,
A portent seeming less than threat,
It sank from sight before it set.
A chill no coat, however stout,
Of homespun stuff could quite shut out,
A hard, dull bitterness of cold,
That checked, mid-vein, the circling race
Of life-blood in the sharpened face,
The coming of the snow-storm told.
The wind blew east; we heard the roar
Of Ocean on his wintry shore,
And felt the strong pulse throbbing there
Beat with low rhythm our inland air.

Meanwhile we did our nightly chores, —
Brought in the wood from out of doors,
Littered the stalls, and from the mows
Raked down the herd’s-grass for the cows;
Heard the horse whinnying for his corn;
And, sharply clashing horn on horn,
Impatient down the stanchion rows
The cattle shake their walnut bows;
While, peering from his early perch
Upon the scaffold’s pole of birch,
The **** his crested helmet bent
And down his querulous challenge sent.

Unwarmed by any sunset light
The gray day darkened into night,
A night made hoary with the swarm
And whirl-dance of the blinding storm,
As zigzag, wavering to and fro,
Crossed and recrossed the wingàd snow:
And ere the early bedtime came
The white drift piled the window-frame,
And through the glass the clothes-line posts
Looked in like tall and sheeted ghosts.

So all night long the storm roared on:
The morning broke without a sun;
In tiny spherule traced with lines
Of Nature’s geometric signs,
And, when the second morning shone,
We looked upon a world unknown,
On nothing we could call our own.
Around the glistening wonder bent
The blue walls of the firmament,
No cloud above, no earth below, —
A universe of sky and snow!
The old familiar sights of ours
Took marvellous shapes; strange domes and towers
Rose up where sty or corn-crib stood,
Or garden-wall, or belt of wood;
A smooth white mound the brush-pile showed,
A fenceless drift what once was road;
The bridle-post an old man sat
With loose-flung coat and high cocked hat;
The well-curb had a Chinese roof;
And even the long sweep, high aloof,
In its slant spendor, seemed to tell
Of Pisa’s leaning miracle.

A prompt, decisive man, no breath
Our father wasted: “Boys, a path!”
Well pleased, (for when did farmer boy
Count such a summons less than joy?)
Our buskins on our feet we drew;
With mittened hands, and caps drawn low,
To guard our necks and ears from snow,
We cut the solid whiteness through.
And, where the drift was deepest, made
A tunnel walled and overlaid
With dazzling crystal: we had read
Of rare Aladdin’s wondrous cave,
And to our own his name we gave,
With many a wish the luck were ours
To test his lamp’s supernal powers.
We reached the barn with merry din,
And roused the prisoned brutes within.
The old horse ****** his long head out,
And grave with wonder gazed about;
The **** his ***** greeting said,
And forth his speckled harem led;
The oxen lashed their tails, and hooked,
And mild reproach of hunger looked;
The hornëd patriarch of the sheep,
Like Egypt’s Amun roused from sleep,
Shook his sage head with gesture mute,
And emphasized with stamp of foot.

All day the gusty north-wind bore
The loosening drift its breath before;
Low circling round its southern zone,
The sun through dazzling snow-mist shone.
No church-bell lent its Christian tone
To the savage air, no social smoke
Curled over woods of snow-hung oak.
A solitude made more intense
By dreary-voicëd elements,
The shrieking of the mindless wind,
The moaning tree-boughs swaying blind,
And on the glass the unmeaning beat
Of ghostly finger-tips of sleet.
Beyond the circle of our hearth
No welcome sound of toil or mirth
Unbound the spell, and testified
Of human life and thought outside.
We minded that the sharpest ear
The buried brooklet could not hear,
The music of whose liquid lip
Had been to us companionship,
And, in our lonely life, had grown
To have an almost human tone.

As night drew on, and, from the crest
Of wooded knolls that ridged the west,
The sun, a snow-blown traveller, sank
From sight beneath the smothering bank,
We piled, with care, our nightly stack
Of wood against the chimney-back, —
The oaken log, green, huge, and thick,
And on its top the stout back-stick;
The knotty forestick laid apart,
And filled between with curious art

The ragged brush; then, hovering near,
We watched the first red blaze appear,
Heard the sharp crackle, caught the gleam
On whitewashed wall and sagging beam,
Until the old, rude-furnished room
Burst, flower-like, into rosy bloom;
While radiant with a mimic flame
Outside the sparkling drift became,
And through the bare-boughed lilac-tree
Our own warm hearth seemed blazing free.
The crane and pendent trammels showed,
The Turks’ heads on the andirons glowed;
While childish fancy, prompt to tell
The meaning of the miracle,
Whispered the old rhyme: “Under the tree,
When fire outdoors burns merrily,
There the witches are making tea.”

The moon above the eastern wood
Shone at its full; the hill-range stood
Transfigured in the silver flood,
Its blown snows flashing cold and keen,
Dead white, save where some sharp ravine
Took shadow, or the sombre green
Of hemlocks turned to pitchy black
Against the whiteness at their back.
For such a world and such a night
Most fitting that unwarming light,
Which only seemed where’er it fell
To make the coldness visible.

Shut in from all the world without,
We sat the clean-winged hearth about,
Content to let the north-wind roar
In baffled rage at pane and door,
While the red logs before us beat
The frost-line back with tropic heat;
And ever, when a louder blast
Shook beam and rafter as it passed,
The merrier up its roaring draught
The great throat of the chimney laughed;
The house-dog on his paws outspread
Laid to the fire his drowsy head,
The cat’s dark silhouette on the wall
A couchant tiger’s seemed to fall;
And, for the winter fireside meet,
Between the andirons’ straddling feet,
The mug of cider simmered slow,
The apples sputtered in a row,
And, close at hand, the basket stood
With nuts from brown October’s wood.

What matter how the night behaved?
What matter how the north-wind raved?
Blow high, blow low, not all its snow
Could quench our hearth-fire’s ruddy glow.
O Time and Change! — with hair as gray
As was my sire’s that winter day,
How strange it seems, with so much gone
Of life and love, to still live on!
Ah, brother! only I and thou
Are left of all that circle now, —
The dear home faces whereupon
That fitful firelight paled and shone.
Henceforward, listen as we will,
The voices of that hearth are still;
Look where we may, the wide earth o’er,
Those lighted faces smile no more.

We tread the paths their feet have worn,
We sit beneath their orchard trees,
We hear, like them, the hum of bees
And rustle of the bladed corn;
We turn the pages that they read,
Their written words we linger o’er,
But in the sun they cast no shade,
No voice is heard, no sign is made,
No step is on the conscious floor!
Yet Love will dream, and Faith will trust,
(Since He who knows our need is just,)
That somehow, somewhere, meet we must.
Alas for him who never sees
The stars shine through his cypress-trees!
Who, hopeless, lays his dead away,
Nor looks to see the breaking day
Across the mournful marbles play!
Who hath not learned, in hours of faith,
The truth to flesh and sense unknown,
That Life is ever lord of Death,
And Love can never lose its own!

We sped the time with stories old,
Wrought puzzles out, and riddles told,
Or stammered from our school-book lore
“The Chief of Gambia’s golden shore.”
How often since, when all the land
Was clay in Slavery’s shaping hand,
As if a far-blown trumpet stirred
Dame Mercy Warren’s rousing word:
“Does not the voice of reason cry,
Claim the first right which Nature gave,
From the red scourge of ******* to fly,
Nor deign to live a burdened slave!”
Our father rode again his ride
On Memphremagog’s wooded side;
Sat down again to moose and samp
In trapper’s hut and Indian camp;
Lived o’er the old idyllic ease
Beneath St. François’ hemlock-trees;
Again for him the moonlight shone
On Norman cap and bodiced zone;
Again he heard the violin play
Which led the village dance away.
And mingled in its merry whirl
The grandam and the laughing girl.
Or, nearer home, our steps he led
Where Salisbury’s level marshes spread
Mile-wide as flies the laden bee;
Where merry mowers, hale and strong,
Swept, scythe on scythe, their swaths along
The low green prairies of the sea.
We shared the fishing off Boar’s Head,
And round the rocky Isles of Shoals
The hake-broil on the drift-wood coals;
The chowder on the sand-beach made,
Dipped by the hungry, steaming hot,
With spoons of clam-shell from the ***.
We heard the tales of witchcraft old,
And dream and sign and marvel told
To sleepy listeners as they lay
Stretched idly on the salted hay,
Adrift along the winding shores,
When favoring breezes deigned to blow
The square sail of the gundelow
And idle lay the useless oars.

Our mother, while she turned her wheel
Or run the new-knit stocking-heel,
Told how the Indian hordes came down
At midnight on Concheco town,
And how her own great-uncle bore
His cruel scalp-mark to fourscore.
Recalling, in her fitting phrase,
So rich and picturesque and free
(The common unrhymed poetry
Of simple life and country ways,)
The story of her early days, —
She made us welcome to her home;
Old hearths grew wide to give us room;
We stole with her a frightened look
At the gray wizard’s conjuring-book,
The fame whereof went far and wide
Through all the simple country side;
We heard the hawks at twilight play,
The boat-horn on Piscataqua,
The loon’s weird laughter far away;
We fished her little trout-brook, knew
What flowers in wood and meadow grew,
What sunny hillsides autumn-brown
She climbed to shake the ripe nuts down,
Saw where in sheltered cove and bay,
The ducks’ black squadron anchored lay,
And heard the wild-geese calling loud
Beneath the gray November cloud.
Then, haply, with a look more grave,
And soberer tone, some tale she gave
From painful Sewel’s ancient tome,
Beloved in every Quaker home,
Of faith fire-winged by martyrdom,
Or Chalkley’s Journal, old and quaint, —
Gentlest of skippers, rare sea-saint! —
Who, when the dreary calms prevailed,
And water-**** and bread-cask failed,
And cruel, hungry eyes pursued
His portly presence mad for food,
With dark hints muttered under breath
Of casting lots for life or death,

Offered, if Heaven withheld supplies,
To be himself the sacrifice.
Then, suddenly, as if to save
The good man from his living grave,
A ripple on the water grew,
A school of porpoise flashed in view.
“Take, eat,” he said, “and be content;
These fishes in my stead are sent
By Him who gave the tangled ram
To spare the child of Abraham.”
Our uncle, innocent of books,
Was rich in lore of fields and brooks,
The ancient teachers never dumb
Of Nature’s unhoused lyceum.
In moons and tides and weather wise,
He read the clouds as prophecies,
And foul or fair could well divine,
By many an occult hint and sign,
Holding the cunning-warded keys
To all the woodcraft mysteries;
Himself to Nature’s heart so near
v That all her voices in his ear
Of beast or bird had meanings clear,
Like Apollonius of old,
Who knew the tales the sparrows told,
Or Hermes, who interpreted
What the sage cranes of Nilus said;
A simple, guileless, childlike man,
Content to live where life began;
Strong only on his native grounds,
The little world of sights and sounds
Whose girdle was the parish bounds,
Whereof his fondly partial pride
The common features magnified,
As Surrey hills to mountains grew
In White of Selborne’s loving view, —
He told how teal and loon he shot,
And how the eagle’s eggs he got,
The feats on pond and river done,
The prodigies of rod and gun;
Till, warming with the tales he told,
Forgotten was the outside cold,
The bitter wind unheeded blew,
From ripening corn the pigeons flew,
The partridge drummed i’ the wood, the mink
Went fishing down the river-brink.
In fields with bean or clover gay,
The woodchuck, like a hermit gray,
Peered from the doorway of his cell;
The muskrat plied the mason’s trade,
And tier by tier his mud-walls laid;
And from the shagbark overhead
The grizzled squirrel dropped his shell.

Next, the dear aunt, whose smile of cheer
And voice in dreams I see and hear, —
The sweetest woman ever Fate
Perverse denied a household mate,
Who, lonely, homeless, not the less
Found peace in love’s unselfishness,
And welcome wheresoe’er she went,
A calm and gracious element,
Whose presence seemed the sweet income
And womanly atmosphere of home, —
Called up her girlhood memories,
The huskings and the apple-bees,
The sleigh-rides and the summer sails,
Weaving through all the poor details
And homespun warp of circumstance
A golden woof-thread of romance.
For well she kept her genial mood
And simple faith of maidenhood;
Before her still a cloud-land lay,
The mirage loomed across her way;
The morning dew, that dries so soon
With others, glistened at her noon;
Through years of toil and soil and care,
From glossy tress to thin gray hair,
All unprofaned she held apart
The ****** fancies of the heart.
Be shame to him of woman born
Who hath for such but thought of scorn.
There, too, our elder sister plied
Her evening task the stand beside;
A full, rich nature, free to trust,
Truthful and almost sternly just,
Impulsive, earnest, prompt to act,
And make her generous thought a fact,
Keeping with many a light disguise
The secret of self-sacrifice.

O heart sore-tried! thou hast the best
That Heaven itself could give thee, — rest,
Rest from all bitter thoughts and things!
How many a poor one’s blessing went
With thee beneath the low green tent
Whose curtain never outward swings!

As one who held herself a part
Of all she saw, and let her heart
Against the household ***** lean,
Upon the motley-braided mat
Our youngest and our dearest sat,
Lifting her large, sweet, asking eyes,
Now bathed in the unfading green
And holy peace of Paradise.
Oh, looking from some heavenly hill,
Or from the shade of saintly palms,
Or silver reach of river calms,
Do those large eyes behold me still?
With me one little year ago: —
The chill weight of the winter snow
For months upon her grave has lain;
And now, when summer south-winds blow
And brier and harebell bloom again,
I tread the pleasant paths we trod,
I see the violet-sprinkled sod
Whereon she leaned, too frail and weak
The hillside flowers she loved to seek,
Yet following me where’er I went
With dark eyes full of love’s content.
The birds are glad; the brier-rose fills
The air with sweetness; all the hills
Stretch green to June’s unclouded sky;
But still I wait with ear and eye
For something gone which should be nigh,
A loss in all familiar things,
In flower that blooms, and bird that sings.
And yet, dear heart! remembering thee,
Am I not richer than of old?
Safe in thy immortality,
What change can reach the wealth I hold?
What chance can mar the pearl and gold
Thy love hath left in trust with me?
And while in life’s late afternoon,
Where cool and long the shadows grow,
I walk to meet the night that soon
Shall shape and shadow overflow,
I cannot feel that thou art far,
Since near at need the angels are;
And when the sunset gates unbar,
Shall I not see thee waiting stand,
And, white against the evening star,
The welcome of thy beckoning hand?

Brisk wielder of the birch and rule,
The master of the district school
Held at the fire his favored place,
Its warm glow lit a laughing face
Fresh-hued and fair, where scarce appeared
The uncertain prophecy of beard.
He teased the mitten-blinded cat,
Played cross-pins on my uncle’s hat,
Sang songs, and told us what befalls
In classic Dartmouth’s college halls.
Born the wild Northern hills among,
From whence his yeoman father wrung
By patient toil subsistence scant,
Not competence and yet not want,
He early gained the power to pay
His cheerful, self-reliant way;
Could doff at ease his scholar’s gown
To peddle wares from town to town;
Or through the long vacation’s reach
In lonely lowland districts teach,
Where all the droll experience found
At stranger hearths in boarding round,
The moonlit skater’s keen delight,
The sleigh-drive through the frosty night,
The rustic party, with its rough
Accompaniment of blind-man’s-buff,
And whirling-plate, and forfeits paid,
His winter task a pastime made.
Happy the snow-locked homes wherein
He tuned his merry violin,

Or played the athlete in the barn,
Or held the good dame’s winding-yarn,
Or mirth-provoking versions told
Of classic legends rare and old,
Wherein the scenes of Greece and Rome
Had all the commonplace of home,
And little seemed at best the odds
‘Twixt Yankee pedlers and old gods;
Where Pindus-born Arachthus took
The guise of any grist-mill brook,
And dread Olympus at his will
Became a huckleberry hill.

A careless boy that night he seemed;
But at his desk he had the look
And air of one who wisely schemed,
And hostage from the future took
In trainëd thought and lore of book.
Large-brained, clear-eyed, of such as he
Shall Freedom’s young apostles be,
Who, following in War’s ****** trail,
Shall every lingering wrong assail;
All chains from limb and spirit strike,
Uplift the black and white alike;
Scatter before their swift advance
The darkness and the ignorance,
The pride, the lust, the squalid sloth,
Which nurtured Treason’s monstrous growth,
Made ****** pastime, and the hell
Of prison-torture possible;
The cruel lie of caste refute,
Old forms remould, and substitute
For Slavery’s lash the freeman’s will,
For blind routine, wise-handed skill;
A school-house plant on every hill,
Stretching in radiate nerve-lines thence
The quick wires of intelligence;
Till North and South together brought
Shall own the same electric thought,
In peace a common flag salute,
And, side by side in labor’s free
And unresentful rivalry,
Harvest the fields wherein they fought.

Another guest that winter night
Flashed back from lustrous eyes the light.
Unmarked by time, and yet not young,
The honeyed music of her tongue
And words of meekness scarcely told
A nature passionate and bold,

Strong, self-concentred, spurning guide,
Its milder features dwarfed beside
Her unbent will’s majestic pride.
She sat among us, at the best,
A not unfeared, half-welcome guest,
Rebuking with her cultured phrase
Our homeliness of words and ways.
A certain pard-like, treacherous grace
Swayed the lithe limbs and drooped the lash,
Lent the white teeth their dazzling flash;
And under low brows, black with night,
Rayed out at times a dangerous light;
The sharp heat-lightnings of her face
Presaging ill to him whom Fate
Condemned to share her love or hate.
A woman tropical, intense
In thought and act, in soul and sense,
She blended in a like degree
The ***** and the devotee,
Revealing with each freak or feint
The temper of Petruchio’s Kate,
The raptures of Siena’s saint.
Her tapering hand and rounded wrist
Had facile power to form a fist;
The warm, dark languish of her eyes
Was never safe from wrath’s surprise.
Brows saintly calm and lips devout
Knew every change of scowl and pout;
And the sweet voice had notes more high
And shrill for social battle-cry.

Since then what old cathedral town
Has missed her pilgrim staff and gown,
What convent-gate has held its lock
Against the challenge of her knock!
Through Smyrna’s plague-hushed thoroughfares,
Up sea-set Malta’s rocky stairs,
Gray olive slopes of hills that hem
Thy tombs and shrines, Jerusalem,
Or startling on her desert throne
The crazy Queen of Lebanon
With claims fantastic as her own,
Her tireless feet have held their way;
And still, unrestful, bowed, and gray,
She watches under Eastern skies,
With hope each day renewed and fresh,
The Lord’s quick coming in the flesh,
Whereof she dreams and prophesies!
Where’er her troubled path may be,
The Lord’s sweet pity with her go!
The outward wayward life we see,
The hidden springs we may not know.
Nor is it given us to discern
What threads the fatal sisters spun,
Through what ancestral years has run
The sorrow with the woman born,
What forged her cruel chain of moods,
What set her feet in solitudes,
And held the love within her mute,
What mingled madness in the blood,
A life-long discord and annoy,
Water of tears with oil of joy,
And hid within the folded bud
Perversities of flower and fruit.
It is not ours to separate
The tangled skein of will and fate,
To show what metes and bounds should stand
Upon the soul’s debatable land,
And between choice and Providence
Divide the circle of events;
But He who knows our frame is just,
Merciful and compassionate,
And full of sweet assurances
And hope for all the language is,
That He remembereth we are dust!

At last the great logs, crumbling low,
Sent out a dull and duller glow,
The bull’s-eye watch that hung in view,
Ticking its weary circuit through,
Pointed with mutely warning sign
Its black hand to the hour of nine.
That sign the pleasant circle broke:
My uncle ceased his pipe to smoke,
Knocked from its bowl the refuse gray,
And laid it tenderly away;
Then roused himself to safely cover
The dull red brands with ashes over.
And while, with care, our mother laid
The work aside, her steps she stayed
One moment, seeking to express
Her grateful sense of happiness
For food and shelter, warmth and health,
And love’s contentment more than wealth,
With simple wishes (not the weak,
Vain prayers which no fulfilment seek,
But such as warm the generous heart,
O’er-prompt to do with Heaven its part)
That none might lack, that bitter night,
For bread and clothing, warmth and light.

Within our beds awhile we heard
The wind that round the gables roared,
With now and then a ruder shock,
Which made our very bedsteads rock.
We heard the loosened clapboards tost,
The board-nails snapping in the frost;
And on us, through the unplastered wall,
Felt the light sifted snow-flakes fall.
But sleep stole on, as sleep will do
When hearts are light and life is new;
Faint and more faint the murmurs grew,
Till in the summer-land of dreams
They softened to the sound of streams,
Low stir of leaves, and dip of oars,
And lapsing waves on quiet shores.
Of merry voices high and clear;
And saw the teamsters drawing near
To break the drifted highways out.
Down the long hillside treading slow
We saw the half-buried oxen go,
Shaking the snow from heads uptost,
Their straining nostrils white with frost.
Before our door the straggling train
Drew up, an added team to gain.
The elders threshed their hands a-cold,
Passed, with the cider-mug, their jokes
From lip to lip; the younger folks
Down the loose snow-banks, wrestling, rolled,
Then toiled again the cavalcade
O’er windy hill, through clogged ravine,
And woodland paths that wound between
Low drooping pine-boughs winter-weighed.
From every barn a team afoot,
At every house a new recruit,
Where, drawn by Nature’s subtlest law,
Haply the watchful young men saw
Sweet doorway pictures of the curls
And curious eyes of merry girls,
Lifting their hands in mock defence
Against the snow-ball’s compliments,
And reading in each missive tost
The charm with Eden never lost.
We heard once more the sleigh-bells’ sound;
And, following where the teamsters led,
The wise old Doctor went his round,
Just pausing at our door to say,
In the brief autocratic way
Of one who, prompt at Duty’s call,
Was free to urge her claim on all,
That some poor neighbor sick abed
At night our mother’s aid would need.
For, one in generous thought and deed,
What mattered in the sufferer’s sight
The Quaker matron’s inward light,
The Doctor’s mail of Calvin’s creed?
All hearts confess the saints elect
Who, twain in faith, in love agree,
And melt not in an acid sect
The Christian pearl of charity!

So days went on: a week had passed
Since the great world was heard from last.
The Almanac we studied o’er,
Read and reread our little store
Of books and pamphlets, scarce a score;
One harmless novel, mostly hid
From younger eyes, a book forbid,
And poetry, (or good or bad,
A single book was all we had,)
Where Ellwood’s meek, drab-skirted Muse,
A stranger to the heathen Nine,
Sang, with a somewhat nasal whine,
The wars of David and the Jews.
At last the floundering carrier bore
The village paper to our door.
Lo! broadening outward as we read,
To warmer zones the horizon spread
In panoramic length unrolled
We saw the marvels that it told.
Before us passed the painted Creeks,
A   nd daft McGregor on his raids
In Costa Rica’s everglades.
And up Taygetos winding slow
Rode Ypsilanti’s Mainote Greeks,
A Turk’s head at each saddle-bow!
Welcome to us its week-old news,
Its corner for the rustic Muse,
Its monthly gauge of snow and rain,
Its record, mingling in a breath
The wedding bell and dirge of death:
Jest, anecdote, and love-lorn tale,
The latest culprit sent to jail;
Its hue and cry of stolen and lost,
Its vendue sales and goods at cost,
And traffic calling loud for gain.
We felt the stir of hall and street,
The pulse of life that round us beat;
The chill embargo of the snow
Was melted in the genial glow;
Wide swung again our ice-locked door,
And all the world was ours once more!

Clasp, Angel of the backword look
And folded wings of ashen gray
And voice of echoes far away,
The brazen covers of thy book;
The weird palimpsest old and vast,
Wherein thou hid’st the spectral past;
Where, closely mingling, pale and glow
The characters of joy and woe;
The monographs of outlived years,
Or smile-illumed or dim with tears,
Green hills of life that ***** to death,
And haunts of home, whose vistaed trees
Shade off to mournful cypresses
With the white amaranths underneath.
Even while I look, I can but heed
The restless sands’ incessant fall,
Importunate hours that hours succeed,
Each clamorous with its own sharp need,
And duty keeping pace with all.
Shut down and clasp with heavy lids;
I hear again the voice that bids
The dreamer leave his dream midway
For larger hopes and graver fears:
Life greatens in these later years,
The century’s aloe flowers to-day!

Yet, haply, in some lull of life,
Some Truce of God which breaks its strife,
The worldling’s eyes shall gather dew,
Dreaming in throngful city ways
Of winter joys his boyhood knew;
And dear and early friends — the few
Who yet remain — shall pause to view
These Flemish pictures of old days;
Sit with me by the homestead hearth,
And stretch the hands of memory forth
To warm them at the wood-fire’s blaze!
And thanks untraced to lips unknown
Shall greet me like the odors blown
From unseen meadows newly mown,
Wood-fringed, the wayside gaze beyond;
The traveller owns the grateful sense
Of sweetness near, he knows not whence,
And, pausing, takes with forehead bare
The benediction of the air.

Written in  1865
In its day, 'twas a best-seller and earned significant income for Whittier
Sharina Saad Jun 2013
Oh! What a freezing cold winter morning
Everything is white.. everything looks frozen
I find myself in the state of mourning...
Not a single soul, complete silent.. unspoken..

The grave silent winter’s day today
On this chilly winter morning...
The memory of you is within me everyday...
This frosty winter morning.. its you, whom I am longing...

The winter skies are clear and bright...
The chilly breeze touches my skin..
Your handsome grin will be such a delight..
If you shall lay next to me skin to skin....

The Last winter we were together
In front of that fire place.. We cuddled each other
Throwing snow ***** like we were teenager
In this world only you and me lived together....

How i wish on this winter’s day..
That your love for me will never die...
I have faced the sun on the summer’s day
The emptiness on this winter ?i can never lie..
Elena Smith Nov 2015
Time leisurely walk, inadvertently, has crossed the beginning of winter, but I have no feeling of winter is approaching. Sets one thin cold, walking in the sun, both physically and mentally is still hot, as well as negligence autumn Yiyi farewell.

A little pleased, not completely dissipate warm summer, autumn has not left a lot of sadness, so winter mood, perhaps not too cold, too cold, too lonely and helpless.

Total envy northern winter, there is snow swirling, causing elegant poetry; there are ice transparent, innocent and poetic touch.

Imagine the winter, though monotonous, but that white, kind of ice, but it is the best habitat for the soul.

But I remember the winter, in addition to monotonous, in addition to cold, always find a feeling of fall back on. Though the temperature is very low, but that's cool with moisture, almost bone, so that the heart can not afford to fuel passion. Reluctantly approached the nature, want to pick up points or awake heart warm heart, but I saw the leafless trees, stood stiffly, occasionally a gust of wind roaring, rolled a few fallen leaves, desolate.

Whether, entered the winter, the heart will be like a snake, like turtles hibernate?

Looking ahead, lawn edges a little girl blowing bubbles, blowing chasing her. Watching the colorful bubbles in the sun, she danced for joy; chasing bubbles, bubbles looked broken, it is shouting with excitement. In her eyes, bubble blowing is beautiful, floating in the sky is beautiful, but also the United States finally broken. A simple heart, it is easy to pick up the United States, picked up happy.

My Xinchan a bit, perhaps through the vicissitudes of life, my heart will be so demanding.

Is not it? No matter how cold the weather, kids will be happy because the house taken; no matter how desolate the leaves, because they saw the child also leaves dancing and excitement. Whether it is spring or winter, a simple man, and I feel there will not be any different.

It is exposed to too much complexity, so longing white snow and transparent ice; is not enough to warm the heart, so can not find the poetic in the winter.

Perhaps, maintain a good attitude, your heart simply indifferent, you can free up space, saving warmth.

As long as my heart with warm winter will not stagnation. In the snow-free ice-free coastal city, rain and snow can be made from water and ice, any Chipin imagine, so white and transparent dream; you can listen to the roaring sea, watching the waves of publicity, feel the mood of another poem; also Inspired by leaves, listening to "imperfections" sound, enjoy one of the most simple pleasures.

I should also take advantage of the mood to keep up with the rhythm of the sun, quietly absorbing light, combing mood, warm attitude.

Presumably this winter, my heart, not because of the wet weather.
Annamaria Gagno Sep 2012
Lost in the wilderness of winter, fall is coming,
Time to head home, gather things up,
Getting ready,
Winter is near by,
What to do, where do we start,
Time to chop, bundle of trees,
Sweeping and cleaning, the chimney,
Winter fall,
Things to do, prepare for the feast,
Holidays are coming,
Think of the fall, smell of hot soup, pumpkin pie,
Baking in the oven,
Thinking twice, we are lost, within ourselves,
How can we find ourselves, get ourselves,
Out of the wilderness, to home,
There are good time's, there are bad time's,
To remember by,
Smell of cherky  wood, hot cocoa, made by mom,
Oh how much, we remember,
Dad will go out, hunt, for food, surviving the task,
Through the long winter nights,
Bundling up in bed,
Those time's are still there,
But lost in the wilderness, how can,
Mom and Dad, find us,
We forgot, to mark the twig, to find our way home,
Time's to remember, should remember,
How are father, taught us, lost in the woods,
In the wilderness of winter,
Let's make a fire, the smoke, will be notice,
They would know, we are lost,
Knowing our father and friends,
Will gather together,
Come to find us, knowing it's getting dark,
We worry, about the danger,
Knowing what to do,
We do not be afraid, our father, will be here soon,
We must Pray, for the Angels, to look upon us,
In the moment, let's remember our,
Father and mother,
Things they did, the love and devotion,
Parents love us so, they'll find us soon,
Winter is coming, so is the snow,
Bundle up with joy,
We cannot be afraid, to what may happen,
Twinkle little eye's, by both girls,
Knowing tears will follow,
Lost in the wilderness of winter,
Is knowing, we will be found
Hayley Feb 2018
Winter is joy
Winter is holiday cheer
Winter is cold
Winter is dark
Winter is stress
Winter is lovers
frolicking in the snow
forgetting their worries or cares
Winter is
Our world
Long ago
And spring
Gone without a trace they are gone
They are ghosts of the past
The warm comfort among the cold icy blanket of snow
That covers the earth
Winter has come
And there is no escape from it
Spring autumn and summer are the thoughts
That get us through the mundain activity of the
Of our shovels against cement
The prompt for this was from my creative writing class it said to write if the other seasons did not exist and I wrote this garbage
Corina Mar 2012

i didn't have to write those poems
cause you and i already knew what...
yet you and i both lived

as i'm reading your story
as you tear your violin

you broke my heart so many times
that now i'm used to the sound of shredding glass

Cleansing rain
is not yet falling
you still hold me in your grip

yet i know that
you don't know who you are
you don't know how much you hurted

winter, i beg you
build your shadows into wings
change the past into some closure
modify feelings into dreams

winter, i hate you
winter, i love you
winter, i despite you
winter, i understand you
winter, do you have any idea how,

how freakisly hard you froze the lake.

Winter, i will not forget that
if means only if.
denying facts will give me closure
denying you may give me peace.
Morgan Mercury Apr 2014
We were once kids.
We were once wild.
We were once soldiers.
In the dead of winter, you greeted death.
You fell from my grip and into the darkness,
and now a hundred years have rotted away and I have never felt so alone.
I ran from the winter because war was to attached to it.
I close my eyes and I see you there on the front line.
Young and drained, you were just a body rotting away.
Full of life so you hung on with everything you had.
It was such an awful sound.
Only if I had taken your place.
If only you would have run the other way.
Just how unfair is our luck.

Someday I'll teach myself to learn and live alone.
I'll teach myself that death was not the enemy.
But the winter storm rages on and I'm still having trouble breathing.
Don't be alarmed.
I march on.
Like the soldier I once was.
Don't be alarmed.
I've seen many winter storms
and I have miraculously survived them all.

Can't you see that I don't want to move on?
Don't bring tomorrow because I can't take another.
My eyes are too fogged to see the light.
My minds too cluttered to think right.
I've tasted my own tears
and faced all my fears.
So here I am.
Laying on the floor.
So here we are.
Together once more.
Steve Rogers & Bucky Barnes
Captain America: The Winter Soldier
Dark Jewel Jan 2015
Walking along snow,
As footprints of old.
Travel doth a print show.

Howling along the wind,
Winter wolf.

Suddenly speak,
Growl to eat.

Winter wolf hunts,
Along the ravine.

Howling snow,
Blanketing the forest below.
Waves of white,
Dusting the darkest light.

Winter wolf,
Howl unto the moon.
Befriend a pack,
To call your home.

Winter wolf,
whose paws print the snow.
Travel doth those prints show.

Winter wolf,
Travel far and wide.
Moving miles a day,
Sometimes nights.

Winter wolf,
Untamed and gallant tis thee.
Howling unto the moon.
That derives itself the king.

Winter wolf,
Move the land.
Travel far and wide.
Find your mate.

Create a pack,
Howl together.
Within the Frozen wasteland,
Of a snowy tundra..
The cold wind swirls and blows
                                       on the now deserted farmers field
A snow flake falls from the deep dark grey clouds
                                     that now covers the once blue golden sky
On the nose of the white winter hare
                                     as he sits watching
His noise twitches the snow flake to the ground

A blanket of white winter snow now fills the field
A Robin darts from tree to tree
                                    foraging for the last red winter berries
Which colour the ruby red Robins’ breast

A sly white winter fox stirs in the undergrowth
Then disappears into the white winter field

A tear falls from the white winter hare
                                  that melts a hole the white winter snow
As he retreats into his winter sleep
robin Apr 2013
is it winter where you are?
no snow
or blizzards, just
chill fog
and frost.
the winter of a city
that gave up long ago.
winter seems to follow you.
damp grey mornings
skulking at your feet like a beaten dog.
whimpering in mist
and growling in
weak thunderstorms
that can't quite wash away the clouds.
kick december in the ribs
because you know it will always come back
to sleep at your feet.
winter seems to follow you
i could be wrong.
i know all about stormchasers
but you're so much
than that
[pathetic like a beaten dog]
not chasing death
or danger
just defeatism.
chasing defeat and hopelessness
and grass-made-glass
by the frost of the night before.
is it winter where you are?
is december shivering at your door?
in my room it is fall,
and all the rotting leaves
remind me of you.
is it winter where you are?
you've evaded the summer all your life
hot air
and sun
killing the clouds.
the indian summer will catch up with you
and september
will melt you
pathetic puddle of defeatism.
aggregated mist
and fog
like a beaten dog,
sinking into the deepest blues
and grays
but oh
you were always
the patron saint of denial.
rip me apart like the letters you never sent
postmarked 'tomorrow, tomorrow'-
but tomorrow never came.
[it's hard to tell dawn from dusk
when the sky is always
runaway notes from a foreign season.
rip me apart and i won't think of you anymore.
rip me apart
and all your apologies,
and accusations
will be scraps of paper under dry leaves.
i'm tired of following my dreams
when they just lead me off the cliffs.

you follow winter into the sea
and drown a whimpering dog.
Elise E Apr 2014
My feet are bare, my toes are curled
I stand upon the wet winter morning grass

My arms are down, my nose is up
The winter morning wind is on my face

But as I stand there, what is to catch my eye?
It is, indeed, the winter morning sky

How I love it, the way the sky glistens beyond the treetops
The rainbow of orange, pink, then purple

This show of colors, it brings the cardinal and redbreasts out their nests to sing
And yes, we do have them in the winter

This display of wonder
How it makes me feel so warm yet so cool

This display of beauty
How it makes me feel at home yet so far away

This display of greatness
That paints the whole sky from horizon to horizon

This display of colors
How they dance across the sky from cloud to cloud

It's beautiful, isn't it?
How He starts every winter morning with His artwork

His brush strokes are perfect
He makes sure every colored cloud is in its place

He truly is a genius
To think He does this every morning, different every time

To think
It's so beautiful and complex, so elegant

To think
He does it on purpose, just for us

To think
Every winter morning, He sits down, and paints the winter morning sky

If you're ever outside at daybreak in the winter, you know what I'm talking about. If not here's what you're missing.
The Old Man sat out front and watched
As the sky started to change
The clouds were forming quickly
They were looking rather strange

He said "It's time to round  'em up"
"Get ready for a ride"
"We've got to get the horses"
"And get them all inside"

"A day, maybe two at most"
"We'd best get set to hunker down"
"It won't be long before"
"We see more white than brown"

"Those clouds on the horizon"
"The way they dip and make that hole"
"That's the Window Into Winter"
"On that, I'd bet my soul"

He walked into the bunkhouse
Grabbed his gear, and looked around
He yelled, "That's The Window Into Winter"
"Snow, will soon be on the ground"

Now, normally, the clouds roll in
There's a storm and then the snow
With The Window Into Winter
It gives us time, it lets us know

"Someone get a list made"
"We need supplies, and need them fast"
"That Window won't stay open"
"It's gonna close, it will not last"

"Heed the Window into Winter"
"It gives us one more chance before"
"Jack Frost and all his helpers"
"Come knocking at our door"

Now, remember when you see it
Between the clouds up in the sky
There's a hole between the mountains
And that says, that Winter's nigh

It's The Window Into Winter
Now get along and get to work
Bring the horses in and hurry
There's things to do, so do not shirk

Once the hole has closed up tightly
And the clouds are all but one
Then The Window Into Winter
Will be no more, the fall is done.
Marian Feb 2013
Snow. . . covering each and every branch of every tree
the ground now slumbers with blankets of snow on top of her
Winter now dances through the bitter cold air
with a crown of snowflakes in her hair
and with a robe of grey to match the dull sky
her fair white hands reach out to touch the dazzling snowflakes
which fly through the air
and land upon her hair
snowdrops hidden under their blanket of snow and ice
and all the world is sleeping
all except Mother Nature, the Snow Queen, and Winter
who stay awake to give some light to those who are still awake
dogwood blossoms haven't even opened their buds to greet the bitter air
and the bleeding hearts have never yet greeted Spring
for it is still Winter
and all the birds have flown south while Winter's birds
have flown north to greet the cold
while other birds stay here year round
without leaving whether it's hot or cold or just right
icey covered creeks are frozen cold from Winter's
cold blast
and everything is a white paradise
Wind is blowing every night
to signal it is cold
while I shiver and fall back to sleep under my own warm comforter
and the Moon's shadows dance into my room through my bedroom window
and Stars twinkle in Night's black gown streaked with midnight-blue
such picturesque beauty that only poets can pen
with their quills and feather pens dipped in black ink
stacks of papers describing millions of different themes. . .
God, Winter, Spring, Summer, Autumn, Flowers, Night, Midnight,
and many other different themes which poets love

Mohd Arshad Sep 2014
Hark! O jolly children!
the naippy weather sings:
He is coming,
stop fanning,
chill is trickling.
See! O jolly children!
the silent sky shows a new scene:
birds go
to and fro,
mist lies,
fog flies.
Hark! O jolly children
night is saying:
summer is going,
heat is dying,
dying, dying.
O children! Again be jolly!
winter comes slowly, slowly,
life will be cold
for you and old,
time to be very bold,
at the door,
winter, winter, snowy winter!
Notes (optional)
Dead Rose One Mar 2015
In The Prison Of Winter, No Rise, No Set**

orbit nearly closed,
the radio announcer gleefully
chirruping, the twittering fool,
"only ** graves to X off till

the weight of the prior
the wait of the more
no matter how little
yet to come
                    too much insufferable

having suffered
multiple life sentences
you snit ****, u don't know better,
ha, they don't even run

there are no sunsets
in the girding grays
of harsher enough and words that fail me,
are the winners in the
winter of the ****,
tests and hunts,
I have successfully

of course I'm wrong you
petulant hobgoblin wringing
nyet from me you'll get no concession,
**** science,
there are no sunsets in the winter
and the sunrises,
short unsweetened,
light-less, less of less,
frigid glaring revealers
of dead trees
and deader

maybe in the Rockies,
perhaps the Alps,
wonderlands photoshopped,
pretty lies on the Internet BS posted

where I live,
wear the wear the weary
neath the sweat stink of layers of
unbundled choking hands,
winter's damage
assessed and assessment is
never overdue, payable in

heating bills I can't pay,
a job that said no more of you,
unpretty please,
a woman who sorcerer-scarced herself
right freaking black magic quick,
trust me I have certified verified,
me and Nixon,
X's on the kitchen calendar,
there is daylight, there is mighty night,
almighty in long and colorless
and nothing in between,
but the smog stained slush of
                                                    smothered life

but definitely
no sunrises and no sunsets
watched all day from the
imprisoning kitchen window
which doubles
as a *******

there are no, not any,
you know what,
cannot even say them,
the pipe dreams of better yet,
pipes that have beaten down
me and my
disassociated senses,
signed sealed and now delivered,
from the formerly known as
The Summer Man
Mohammad Skati Jan 2015
It's not just to rain or to snow anytime ...........                                                        Rains and snows are Winter's .............................                                                      Winter is consisting of special feelings and emotions                                              Around fireplaces ,stoves,and any kind of enjoy those                                               Wintry nights anytime,anywhere,and everywhere ..............                                  That pretty season is unique in everything it contains                                              Even those hard times we face during storms and blizzards ...                                Writing poems about Winter elevates any poet's                                                        Feelings and emotions anytime ....................                                                                To be in that wonderful Winter means                                                                     To be in a special beauty of nature itself ........................                                       Winter dances greatly and wonderfully with its tools                                            To tell us that it loves to hug and to embrace everyone of you ....                   _____________________Wi­nter's profile - عن الشتاء
Sofia Paderes Feb 2015
Summer, Day 1.
Do you know how much I love you?
One day you will.
One day you will.
I haven't even seen you yet,
but I am so in love with you.

When the time comes for us to finally be together, I will drive us somewhere outside this concrete jungle to ask you that. Then I will tell you to look at the stars, and you will try to count them, even if you already know that not enough stars were created to compare it to.

Darling, I dance and I sing and I shake in delight at the thought of being with you. I'm a morning person now, because I know that every waking moment is one day closer to forever.

Summer, Day 2.
I have sworn to save every part of this heart for you. I've loved before, but not like this. Not like this. My stone-heart now made flesh beats as if I'd just been born, as if I'd been made to love and to be loved by you.

Summer, Day 3.
I can't believe you chose me. I can't believe I'm going to get to marry you. We've got quite a long way to go, but I'm already preparing, making sure my dress will be as white as snow, every hair in place, this heart pure and this body untouched until the day I put my hand in yours. I can't wait to see your face when I walk down the aisle. I promise to be the perfect bride, your perfect bride.

Fall, Day 1.
I might not write as much as I did during the summer. Life has been getting busier and busier, but I want you to know that I still love you as much as I did from the first day.

Fall, Day 46.
I've been spending quite a bit of time with someone. He's clever and says the most interesting things. I feel like we will never run out of words to say to one another. We talk everyday, and the funny thing is sometimes I feel my day isn't complete yet if we haven't spoken. Don't worry, my heart is still yours. Just thought I'd let you know.

Fall, Day 52.
I think I love him, but just a little bit. I'm sorry, but I'm going to have to cut an inch off of my heart to give to him. It's just an inch less. Surely you won't mind.

Fall, Day 80.
He's been with someone else this entire time. It's a good thing I gave him only an inch of my heart, but the rest is bruised. Don't worry, darling, I'll have it fixed in time.

Fall, Day 100.
It's still beating, but barely. Maybe I should love a little again. Maybe some warmth will do this heart good.

Winter, Day 15.
I think... I gave a little too much.

Winter, Day 50.
My latest disaster said my heart was something worth waiting for. Apparently his second hands tick faster than the usual. He left, taking more than I expected he would.

Winter, Day 65.
Is a heart supposed to look like this?

Winter, Day 90.
I can no longer hear it beating steadily. Some parts have frozen. I have tried to stitch pieces back together and they hold... if you would call it that. There are scars and cuts that haven't healed, swollen bits from the wounds that were infected because I tried to save the poison only to have it lash out and bite me in the back.

Winter, Day 104.
What have I done?

Winter, Day 135.
Look at it. No wait, don't. There isn't anything left to give you, anything worthy enough to even stand in your shadow. I promised you everything now I give you nothing. You waited for me yet I pursued others, consumed by my lust and my pride, where can I hide that I myself will not see this mess of a heart I've created? Where can I run to that I will not have to see the look on your face when you see what I have left to give you? Do you still want this, this broken vessel, this torn up heart, all the pieces that don't fit, all the stitched up parts? Do you still want me?

Spring, Day 1.
You do.

Spring, Day 3.
You do because you knew what you were getting yourself into long before you met me, you knew I would break your heart yet you still asked for mine, you do because you are love itself. A death defeating, grave shaking, forgiving, full of grace and mercy, life and righteousness kind of love. This is the love that chose me. Now I choose you.

Spring, Day 5.
What have I done to deserve this? As far as the east is from the west, so you have cleared my offense. When others asked for me, they knelt on one knee but you asked nailed to a tree. Now here you are. Despite what I've done you want me to return to you, want me to still have you. And you know what?

Spring, Day 7.
I do. And I give my heart to you in absolute surrender and total abandon. Here, though broken and torn, take it and make it new.
It was yours all along. I was yours all along.
A piece written for Logos' Vessel under Fringe Manila.
Marian Jan 2014

Winter Again

The bitter air stings my face
And I can see my breath;
Only the birds of Winter remain,
The others have flown South.

Flowers remain asleep,
As the Arctic winds rage.
The only green trees
Are those mighty firs.

Snow and ice have
Rained upon the gardens.
Autumn shades are gone,
Winter has taken the lead.

Winter is such a joy,
When snowflakes kiss your cheeks;
And cling to your hair,—
Oh how I love Winter!

The lake is frozen in ice
And trees are bent over in snow.
At night the wolves howl to the moon
Complaining of the cold.

Silence and long dark months,
And waiting for Spring to dawn.
Slowly daylight lengthens,
And the air grows warmer.

Then on one day,
I ventured outside.
I saw Spring had arrived,
And Winter had flown away.

Timothy and Marian


Hiver à nouveau

L'air amer pique mon visage
Et je peux voir mon souffle ;
Seuls les oiseaux de l'hiver restent,
Les autres ont volé vers le sud.

Fleurs restent endormis,
Comme la rage des vents arctiques.
Les arbres verts uniquement
Sont celles des sapins puissants.

Neige et glace peuvent
Fit pleuvoir sur les jardins.
Nuances de l'automne ont disparu,
Hiver a pris les devants.

L'hiver est une telle joie,
Quand les flocons de neige embrassent tes joues ;
Et s'accrochent à vos cheveux, —
Oh comme j'aime hiver !

Le lac est gelé dans la glace
Et les arbres sont repliées dans la neige.
Dans la nuit, les loups hurlent à la lune
Se plaindre du froid.

Silence et mois longue et sombres,
Et en attente de printemps à l'aube.
Lentement la lumière du jour s'allonge,
Et l'air devient plus chaud.

Puis sur un jour,
Je me hasardai à l'extérieur.
J'ai vu le que printemps était arrivé,
Et l'hiver était envolé.

Timothy et Marian


Зима снова

Горького воздуха укусы мое лицо
И я могу видеть мое дыхание;
Осталось только птиц зимой,
Другие летали Юг.

Цветы остаются спит,
Как арктические ветры ярости.
Только зеленые деревья
Это те могучие ели.

Снег и лед
Дождь на сады.
Осенние оттенки ушли,
Зима взяла на себя инициативу.

Зима-это такая радость,
Когда снежинки поцеловать ваши щеки;
И цепляются за ваши волосы, —
Ох как я люблю зимой!

Озеро замерзает в лед
И деревья наклонился в снегу.
Ночью волки воют на Луну
Жаловаться на холод.

Тишина и длинные темные месяцы,
И ждет весны до рассвета.
Медленно летнее удлиняет,
И воздух теплее.

Затем на один день,
Я решился снаружи.
Я увидел, что пришла весна,
И зимой улетел прочь.

*Тимоти и Мэриан
This is a Dad and Daughter collaboration. Hope you enjoy!
If so, then we may well do more. :)
© Timothy 9 January, 2014.
© Marian 9 January, 2014.

— The End —