"wintered" poems
you are may
i am december
kisses exchanged
during the bluing hour
child like
staring at you
in wonder and amazement
frosting night
falling snow
flakes in your auburn hair
i walk you home
in the cold frigid air
holding your hand
dreaming of you
you are rare
a beacon
a lighthouse
in a storm
in my daydreams
you are the pixie, the fairy inspiring me
at night
you are the siren, i surrender to
a trifecta of youth, beauty, personality
you are refreshingly young
spring in my wintered life
preternaturally beautiful
perfection come to life
your femininity bewitching
your youth intoxicating
your mannerism seducing
i would do anything for you
oozing sensuality
innocences
of a woman on the cusp
you hunger for sophistication
to be worldly-wise
seeking passage guidance
from an experienced traveller
the trade, the deal, is timeless
refined by evolution
i am humbled
to have been chosen
the ultimate champion
of your ****** selection
in turn, you are my trophy
the spoils
of a never ending war
i know our time is short
the span of a bloom
a season at most
i know the outcome
seen the devastation
the problem is
we think we have time
Feb 4, 2019
Feb 4, 2019 at 9:20 PM UTC
Cold, blue, wet, fragile, brittle, hard, steam solidified, water hardened, anger, fear, white, tensile,
steam solidified,
water hardened; you lie
in her wintered veins.
why?
"If she's awake, I'll **** you."
staccato words spoken
like a knife blade thrown...
...with malice and intent.
Her father's voice
from the bedroom next door
no sound of her mother.
The female child cowered
under her candy-striped sheets
their usual soft comfort
unnoticed
footsteps
door handle moving
light seeping into her sanctuary
her heart thudded
trying to escape her chest
as she held her breath.
"Please, please don't hear me."
a silent plea as
fear snatched her in its icy grip.
She could smell him
smell the cigarettes
smell his power.
She waited.
He backed out
returned to her mother
between her heartbeats
she heard the slap
"You are lucky this time,
***** She sleeps."
Heavy footsteps down the stairs
punctuated by her mother's tears.
~~~~~~~~~~~
The girl child had only ever blamed her mother
decades of anger and bitterness
the memory of this night buried deep.
Crazed hard ice beneath the tundra of her life.
In the third decade of the girl child's life
her mother died
alone
never forgiven for what she hadn't done
nor for what she had.
The ice remained in the girl child's veins
If anything, thicker...harder.
Then in her fifth decade this ice became water
as with the passage of life the tundra thawed
and rising with it to the surface
the truth.
Then what?
The girl child worked hard at staying warm
at keeping the ice at bay.
Not easy.
Nothing was ever said to her father.
In her sixth decade the girl child's father died
embraced in his daughter's arms
forgiven for what he had done
and for what he hadn't.
The woman had finally thawed
she was properly warm
her own love
finally able to flow
Feb 29, 2016
Feb 29, 2016 at 1:39 PM UTC
inspired by
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/5120189/love-cannot-be-controlled-or-confined/
<>
Love is Meant……
and there, I stop…
<>
nnnnyup; continuing on,
this phrase
a self~sufficiency, is it not?
no conditional clause, dangling particle,
no conjunction peg upon to hang your wintered hat,
no adjacent adjective for summer's ending sadness,
no preposition to lead us to sunny places, where we search more
for nouns and pronouns, or to project/protect, in adjectives to clothe our irrationality in logic-e,
logic to define, logic to confine,
illogically
love permits one to say to another human, you mine, hu-mine,
[an aside: "you mine,' (really?)]
a preposterous prepositional insanity notion, that needs no explication,
love is meant, love is meant, love is mean, dream & yet, meant!
stadium sized. concert hall big, mini pup tent,
love is clean+dirty s i m u l t a n e o u s l y
don't you see the self~sufficiency in that?
yet you still seek definition, reasoning, seasoning,
love is meant to-be bent irregular straightaway,
love is meant, to be/not, cold 'n bot, silly hot,
lover is inert, hurt, ert,(1)
love is every point of,
of a sword's length
hilt & blade,
yet ironic,
the tip alone
is a self sufficient *****
to be full~on damaging enough to ****
to fully comprehend,
that love is meant
needs no further modifying defying
pointless phrasal modification of explanation…
s u n d a y
(if the week did not commence with a sunday,
hu-mans would have needed to create one,
to understand,
love is meant)
4:39am
Sun Aug 10
Twenty Twenty Fidelio (5)
in a new york city frame of mine
Aug 17, 2025
Aug 17, 2025 at 8:06 AM UTC
follow me
if you can
thru tortured paths
and wintered lands
where the sun is lost
the moon unknown
beyond this dark
encroaching gloam
follow me
if you dare
where voices speak
in whispered layers
of external wars
undeclared
where twisting turning
bodies play
on silken sails
on captured waves
follow me
if you would know
where silver rivers
sometimes flow
and flying angels
falling lay
sweetly laughing
in their gentle way
follow me
if you wish
and play in childhood's
autumn mist
where paper dragons
fill the air
and broken hearts
still beating share
a love for passion's
written snare
follow me
and I will show
how wounded heart
now mended grows
where many paths
once hidden glow
and light the way
to where I go
.
http://oi61.tinypic.com/dc573k.jpg
.
.
Feb 19, 2018
Feb 19, 2018 at 3:20 PM UTC
*je pense bien à toi
(i think well of you)
Have not chatted in awhile,
me rutted in NYC,
a city of constant tear down
and sometimes flashy urban human
renewal...
While you,
you getting on with life,
growing up, growing down,
buying clothes for a new school season,
or growing children,
or boxing up now grandchildren memories of memories...
falling in love, writing poetry all about it...
You,
in Nepal, Malaysia, India,
Seattle, Portland, and the Florida's panhandle,
the US Midwest sainted hinterlands,
the South, that makes one love water,
water that has travelled from the faraway,
island continent of professorial Australia,
Did I forget the Philippines?
worse sin committed,
is that in
your poetry
I have not toe dipped,
quite the long erstwhile,
after loving it with
obsession devotion...
so just a Saturday afternoon
note penned just to you
and you alone...
je pense bien à toi
(i think well of you)
So by way of apology,
craft a poem for you exclusive,
more than each word, letter,
every syllable, tongue tasted
for conjuctivity,
breadth and thus discovered
notes of red soil, raspberry, lemon,
even a hint of sweet masquerading as a
salty kindness in our veins,
our unique vintage of connectivity
Your hand to my lips raised,
grasped twice, by mine both,
slow lifting with stature, affection and respect,
kiss it and whisper just enough for
we two to hear...
je pense bien à toi
(i think well of you)
even this seems weakly insufficient,
but care taken nowadays,
a new economy of words,
write less, think more, and
give up the truly deserved words only
as a mark of my fondness and respect
these come on no schedule,
often months in the making,
so forgive-me-not my unsweetened silences,
accept them with easy knowing that
je pense bien à toi
(i think well of you)
the summer man wintered in discontent,
his journey now disrupted by forces exogenous,
stealing his vision, jailing him in between
walls of indecision, knocking down
his own twin towers,
but carelessly not making provision
to tell you well and often enough
je pense bien à toi
(i think well of you)*
Sept. 13, 2014
Sep 13, 2014
Sep 13, 2014 at 3:10 PM UTC
When all my five and country senses see,
The fingers will forget green thumbs and mark
How, through the halfmoon's vegetable eye,
Husk of young stars and handfull zodiac,
Love in the frost is pared and wintered by,
The whispering ears will watch love drummed away
Down breeze and shell to a discordant beach,
And, lashed to syllables, the lynx tongue cry
That her fond wounds are mended bitterly.
My nostrils see her breath burn like a bush.
My one and noble heart has witnesses
In all love's countries, that will ***** awake;
And when blind sleep drops on the spying senses,
The heart is sensual, though five eyes break.
2.7k
Daisy, in a field of weeds,
What have you come to see?
You hide all of your beauty,
Like a bare wintered tree.
Scared to stand alone,
So you blend with your surrounds;
When you never speak a word,
I still love the way you sound.
Daisy, in a field of weeds,
Give me one chance to show;
That I can nurture you without risk,
Of allowing these weeds to grow.
Soon you will tower,
and these weeds will begin to shrink;
I give unto you this water,
My dearest Daisy, why won’t you drink.
Daisy, in a field of weeds,
I know it’s hard to see your worth;
But to me, my dearest Daisy,
You bring such beauty to this earth.
Daisy, through these battles, you feel alone,
These weeds take more than they give;
Please, Daisy, just give me one chance,
I’ll stand beside you til the end.
May 28, 2021
May 28, 2021 at 1:45 PM UTC
wrapped in the tatters of my body
in this measureless place
I search for release
among the disconsolate boles
thin as hope
hard and dark
wearing pallid shrouds
of frozen lace
proudly displayed
in their alfresco mausoleum
an inexhaustible study
in the extremes
of leaden purity
their moribund limbs
and ice sheathed fingers
reach into me
pulling me on
tears of other lives
in frosted glory
cold upon my wintered face
always renewed
and living on
in fractal eternity
Dec 18, 2022
Dec 18, 2022 at 2:35 AM UTC
Seeing you is like watching an earth-moving force
A comet sent to wipe out the species of thought
Dinosaurs, crawling- viscous
The plains of my body, earth
The sky falling into itself
Spilling out the wonders of the heavens
The twinkling-diamond sharp plains of your wit
And the rich –muddy-mire of heart
Your body a magnet I gravitate
The pull of your skin,
Crushed -velvet fingers finding fixed hold
On dipped shoulder plains
A breath to warm wintered cheeks
Stretching the kiss of blushed smile
Completely surrounded embraced by the sun
Furnace, summer-heat
Growing, budding in the freshly -sweetened air of love
Flowering, the temple walls well taken care of
Watered with the wealth of your affection
Contented with you attention
Your gaze
Your praise
By everything that is you
This earthly temple humming and infused
Quaking with the intensity of acceptance
While continuing her latest obsession
Lonely earth, she who is unlike other cosmic forms
A blip in the eyes of some
But behold the brilliance of which she shines
Golden hair and sea green eye
Beneath the brilliance of her sun
By his gravity she has become
More beautiful by far
The earth and her heated star.
Oct 1, 2012
Oct 1, 2012 at 4:03 PM UTC
I was sitting on a park bench in December
Whence we met
Just watching my breath steam
In wisps and curls about my head
I sat there in silence for a time
Attempting to discover who this being was
I recognized her not
Though she was mine own age
Eventually, I knew her gaze
And I looked into her eyes
Just to see her intention
How her fate would affect mine
I recognized her now and spoke
But my voice filled with fear
And my heart filled with ice
But as time went on,
My resolve grew strong
And my head cleared of its eternal strife.
I bellowed aloud
Just so she would hear.
My voice deepened with anger
And I proclaimed,
“It’s not my time yet,
I must remain.
I have not known love,
Life’s great joy.
This is the reason I live,
I am but a lonely boy.
And I have found another
Whom I hold dear.
She widens my grin,
From ear to ear.
I would like my chance,
To make her happy.
To feel life’s greatest joy,
To be a daddy.
So give me some time,
And come back for me then,
I will greet you
Like a dear old friend.”
And so she rose,
What a beautiful sight,
All surrounded by gray and white.
I stood entranced
By beauty unmatched,
As she whirled about
And looked at me last.
She spoke not a word,
Let no sound free.
But the look in her eyes
Was one of understanding.
And slowly she left,
Absorbed entirely
By some great shadow
Nearby me.
On that gray-wintered day,
While I sat in the park,
A young girl as death
And I talked.
Though she spoke not a word,
She showed me my path.
I know what I want in life,
What I can have.
And so before she comes again,
If I do everything right,
I can live a just
And fulfilling life.
Death may come,
And death may go.
But never a footprint
Has she left in the gray-wintered snow.
Jan 7, 2013
Jan 7, 2013 at 8:03 PM UTC
My soul blossomed in your affectionate eyes,
And those spring lips wintered my mind.
We flew as glittering birds around the sun at night,
Then it was full moon, the wolf came,
And ripped out my heart.
Apr 20, 2021
Apr 20, 2021 at 5:06 PM UTC
it's the gentleness
in her voice
that takes me back
to lullabies
of the golden harp
the strings plucked
like her vocal cords
sing soft chords
of grace
the curved physique
of her body
fits the mold
of an angel
rounded shoulders
provide comfort
where the teary
come to rest
and when she sings
i see my childhood
i feel the pillow
'neath my head
when she sings
i hear her sacrifice
and feel the wings
of her prayers
when she sings
i swear the melody
gives life
to wintered tulips
mother of mine
your love
it is the beauty
of the golden harp
- p. winter
May 14, 2017
May 14, 2017 at 11:35 AM UTC
Sunshine yawns, stretches and cracks through the sullen black out curtains of december.
it shudders my eyes to see what's like an earthquake in the sky.
mighty cries of yellow and gold speed through the coal of my horizon like a bamboo vine
like the wrinkles and ***** of an old school football beaten and broken by the ***** shoes of nasty schoolboys
frightening the mighty oppressors.
Seasonal Affective Disorder
I walk
I with a capital I because the quake of light resolves my sadness for a second or two.
a stillness in the air that
all that is lost is lost
and all that is won is won
and all we can do is rejoice in the now.
the light
presses the skeletons of naked wintered trees onto the bus' window
now pale and murky with the last of the black frost.
their bony fingers wrapped around my bus with the natural cradle of a mother to her new born babe.
I am one.
white puffs of yes tickle the big blue pond of nothingness while
steel bands of gold stretch across what was once such a dark and frightening place where i would become withered and broken as a plant beside a patient,
dying with them.
stretches over me like I'm looking up from beneath the bridge
instead of down to the sea below.
the sunlight washes an old town in gold
making it clean again.
the darkness is over and the new has begun.
all we have to do
hell, all we can do
is absorb it.
experience it.
survive it.
my pestering thoughts join me in looking across at what has been the source or so many sleepless nights for me and others;
together in peace for a few tender moments,
a football game in 1914, Christmas day.
January is now
spring is now
life is now.
he is here.
sunlight has awoken and is laughing with me once more.
I am in love.
and I am happy.
the bells of spring
peel like the layers of darkness above my head.
life is infinite once more
and the sunlight dances on the grave of sadness
and the world plays in major chord again.
Jan 9, 2014
Jan 9, 2014 at 1:54 PM UTC
Emily will take her cedar box
of hidden poems
throwing them on a Sou’ Westerly breeze
in a New England Spring —
They will be snatched and fly
daring, dainty flutter byes
across the stretching continent
the Great Plains and New Frontiers —
The Sun — rising in ribbons
Mountains dripping scarlet sunsets
vast Miles of Evening Sparks —
as the Hemispheres come home
to early Night —
they’ll be read by lonely cowboys
drinking whisky, in the sagebrush
Indian braves campfire smoking
Sung in Saloons by husky-voiced dames
can-can dressed and a whole lotta grit
and gumption.
Emily, lightened of her load
unknotted the Skein of Misery —
Universe unstitched —
in this moment of escape
Landscape will listen —
Shadows will hold their breath
until the words are spoken.
Emily’s skipping down the stairs
of that morbid, cold wintered house
with its bare Slants of Light —
rushing out the door
throwing herself on the Open day —
Telling True, but slanted.
Sep 1, 2015
Sep 1, 2015 at 6:46 PM UTC
On the flight path down from Quebec
in the recent past, they say,
The lead goose saw a foursome
on the fairway, hard at play.
Their clothing was intriguing
Bright Argyles and Staid plaids
Little lackeys followed them,
carrying their bags.
The goose brigade lost interest
in proceeding South that day.
Instead they landed on the course
intent on watching play.
The lead Goose now spent all his time
At Bethpage, on the Black,
and honked golf commentary
to all his fledgling flock.
This lead Goose was the First,
brave Avian pioneer,
who broke the pattern going South-
instead he wintered here.
The Geese are protected by the law,
so we have no recourse.
We can't hunt down these honkers
who are greasing up the course.
Within one human lifetime-
a revolutionary change.
the geese have all stopped flying South
They're students of the game.
Jan 5, 2012
Jan 5, 2012 at 5:56 PM UTC
I'm young but aged at heart,
I'm content but desperate in mind.
Loving but never feeling its return,
Cold and jaded I hide behind:
A wintered abandoned art of patience,
A bite thats hard and unrelenting.
A Tearing temper spent to embers,
To all that mock me i make bleed.
To kiss me is poisenous,
For my heart beat is venomous.
Take a chance and feel corrosion.
**** a shadow and feel it drain you,
You will never be the one i run too.
You will never undo what has been done.
You are the reason there is no colour,
In hollow eyes and skin so lifeless.
Mar 15, 2011
Mar 15, 2011 at 5:32 PM UTC
Tell me please
does the grey granite faced
northern heather scarp
or the smooth enchanting
Carrara marble cherub
move you to awe?
Does nature only
wintered weathered
sheer and simple
eclipse the man made
man handled
alabaster angel?
Bleak beauty
Tell me my friend
does your head turn
as the high cheek-boned
short haired
practical passes
a flash of scarlet
lipped?
Or do you arrest
as a foundation creation
glosses across your horizon
loping on heels and too knowing?
Bleak Beauty
I must ask you
my brother
When you cause to sleep
does your angel
appear
and does
the gentle
perfection of her
supra-sternal notch
ever stay with you
til morning?
Jan 29, 2013
Jan 29, 2013 at 1:07 PM UTC
.......a parade of thoughts,
crowd its tip......sad...sweet,
scary...unpleasant...pleasant,
hopeful...or prohibited,thoughts
come.....one after the other,
like white circled smokes from a spectre,
smoking....hiding, behind the curtain,
triggered by a song, a verse, or somethin'
else.....like a photo, a voice...a memory...
when they come to haunt...and taunt
..... i just bow my head,
and let my pen stand *****
or lean inside my palm,
allow it to make curves, loops and
lines, to cross out untimely thoughts
on white blank pages...
pen struggles with me--whether or not, to share
my likes, dislikes, my disgust, fears, my despair...
my endless questions are frozen...wintered
within...i wonder, will they remain unuttered?
....the answers, as before, are uncertain...
.........my discontent, oh, so apparent...
::::
.....when i hold my ***** when my soul
breathes and relaxes...it journeys...i forget all,
....hunger pangs do not enter my mind
..my troubled self....and the peaceful me
....join forces....their combined energy
flow freely, inside my inner streams...
...i sit tall when they bring out the best in me,
...wonder if i could bring back worst moments,
......and correct the wrong in them...but,
who's to say what is right? what is wrong?
when i hold my pen, i realize its might,
its omnipotent power....its written bold words,
exclamations, lines, commas, dots and dashes,
can incite, or douse strong actions and feelings
it softens the sharp edges of anger and pain
it can puncture deeper...better than a sword,
it can heal...soothe wounds and slashes
.................inflicted by other pens
........when i hold my pen,
i let it speak for me...time and again...
Sally
© Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
March 21, 2018
Mar 31, 2018
Mar 31, 2018 at 1:58 AM UTC
Let us write a poem about love.
Can we be holy?
When we love - do we become holy?
Well yes - and absolutely -
when we love all.
Something softened me.
Too many yesterdays,
all those invisible tomorrows.
I look for their footprints
in snows not yet fallen.
a brown cabin -
wintered up - ready for
bedtime Westerns,
mexican standoffs -
sleep
and perfectly empty
Pile in with me, where it is warm.
A marvel! How your hands rest, your perfume Ivory soap,
the shiny skin of your pimpled back,
a glaze of hair on your forearm. Designed by heaven
to be put behind my neck.
I am not made of sparks -
I am made of soft slow fires and
sunsets.
Dec 18, 2011
Dec 18, 2011 at 10:44 AM UTC
.
I stood at the gate
and was shocked to find
the clasp unfastened
It swung freely on its hinges
as if it had not a care
to whom might enter or leave
I looked out towards the horizon
across the wintered over field,
a stark white landscape
I saw nothing but barren trees with
twisted branches creaking,
silhouettes reaching on an opaque sky
I felt scared and nervous, what
would happen now that the entryway
to my life had been left open
Then I felt someone take my hand,
and looking to my right, there you were,
smiling a sunrise on my face
The day began to sing
in sweet breezes, soft on my skin,
gathering warmly in my heart
So I pulled the gate closed,
secured it tightly and felt the first
hint of spring in your kiss
Jul 25, 2016
Jul 25, 2016 at 12:01 PM UTC
I stand 'neath wintered sky
And mock by my life
Winged Goddesses.
Bolts from on high,
Blue crackling death,
Thrown with careless hand
Have not felled me.
Surrounded by their circling fury
I smile
My body is battered
But my arrow is true.
Black and fleet
Their wings churn the sky.
They point now to one of their own
I have winged a Valkyrie
Feb 3, 2014
Feb 3, 2014 at 8:43 AM UTC
I mouthed beer breathed approbation
at the invited wonder of your sister's sweatered *******
the tableau set then,
for such delicious beginnings and shaky revisions,
once I left the "look but do not touch" misgivings
amongst the litter of a thousand such instructions
I borrowed that hazel eyed angel for a night
rescued from drowning in a clear bottled wasp trap
the fattened marital photo was covered,
alternating friends corrected and reassigned
their alibis and frightened lies
while heaven was briefly in our sights
and we shook and screamed the clearing of our names
from every future Christmas list
and yet
clearance comes only once inventory becomes stale
and folds around your wintered house,
offers no plan to buy or stamp a route to someplace else
slow submissions rattle my pen
this is no season for love and there is no reason to begin
other than there, in the shadows, where portraits breed desire
and while mirrors shall dream of falling
I am not through looking yet
for while fun and feuds begin with *******
an ending always screams attention
Mar 10, 2015
Mar 10, 2015 at 2:21 PM UTC