"wintery" poems
Like a beautiful pink camellia that's how you appear to me
That bloom in chilly August on it's dark green mother tree
So bright and fresh and pretty in the wintery wind and rain
That's how you've always looked to me and that's how you will remain.
The beautiful camellia flower that blooms fresh and young today
In two or three weeks if that long will have gone into decay
For flowers have such a brief span they quickly fade away
But in sixty years of living your beauty with you stay.
I feel privileged and grateful for to have you as a friend
And I will love you and respect you until my life will end
You are warm and kind hearted and well loved and well known
And it's due to you and to you only that into a better person I have grown.
You are wise and quite intelligent and beautiful to behold
And you don't have a gray hair on your head and you never will grow old
And on your sixtieth birthday you still look beautiful to me
Like the young and pretty pink flower on the green camellia tree.
Aug 10, 2010
Aug 10, 2010 at 6:25 PM UTC
There is a sudden charm in the idea of being invisible. I have thought endlessly about being invisible. Maybe, just for a day. I would get up earlier than my usual time. See him sipping tea in his balcony on a wintery morning. Watch him watching this new movie. See him upset, when he doesn't get a parking spot on a lazy day. I would follow him like rivers. And he wouldn't even know that I have already walked past his house 5 times in this past week. I wasn't invisible then. But, I guess I have been invisible to him all along.
Dec 31, 2014
Dec 31, 2014 at 12:03 AM UTC
This morning, out in lightly falling snow, I heard geese
as flights of them flew overhead. Like a shot
I was ten again, Grammy and I at the lake. I’d sit in the bow
of my canoe, pulled awkwardly ashore, neck craned back to watch the sky.
I was always sad to see them go; their calls so many cold goodbyes.
Ice encrusted water slushed against the dock in slow motion waves.
It was time to seek new horizons, where waves
of Floridian waters would embrace the geese.
My grandmother said that every new adventure started with goodbyes
to one thing or another. If I were ever to have a shot
at following my dreams, there’d be farewells as I reached for the sky.
Instinct would lead me onward to my accomplished bow.
One year Momma and Poppa Goose stayed behind, a nest in the bow
of my boat. The wintery sky turned black with departing waves.
They would call out as the flying ones filled the sky.
Wounded wing grounded Poppa. (Canada geese
mate for life.) Momma would not leave her mate, recently shot
during hunting season. She would not yet say her goodbyes.
This, then, was the winter of no cold goodbyes.
Before school, pony tailed hair with ribboned bow,
blowing in the stiff breeze, I’d take a shot
at keeping ice from the edge of the lake, waves
arrowing out as they swam. The geese,
with an itch in their wings, anxious for a return to their sky.
That summer Poppa introduced his flock to the sky,
practiced formational takeoffs leading to goodbyes.
Clouds overhead gathered gray with unfallen snow as the geese
took flight. My two watching for a moment, dipping heads in an elegant bow,
before joining in the aerial ballet of strong winged waves.
Grammy’s strong hand gripped my shoulder, then-- the parting shot.
Grammy joined the geese beyond the horizon. No miracle shot
or endless love could keep her with me. Heaven was in the sky.
I knew she was watching although there’d been no time for final waves.
Her new adventure started without time for goodbyes.
Outside, snow blanketed as I cried myself to sleep. Her final bow
had been silent, but she’d been telling me, as had the geese.
Overhead the geese are shaftless arrows shot
from an instinctual bow piercing the morning sky
with their raucous goodbyes. Time waves.
Oct 23, 2011
Oct 23, 2011 at 6:16 PM UTC
Summer's almost over,
It's threadbare
As your towel;
The summer sands
Are shifting,
The beach is headed south.
The initialed picnic tables
Are stored for other outings;
The concession windows
Flapped now,
The busker's shouting quelled.
Sails are dropped
Like maple leafs,
The moon's rising
Too soon;
The night lights blaze
Over pitch and field,
Where sunshine
Shone in June.
Geese are wedging daily
To escape the wintery gloom;
I'll reacquaint
With the hinter sounds
Of lake winds
And banshee loons.
Aug 28, 2014
Aug 28, 2014 at 3:58 PM UTC
She knows she’s in
the sepia photograph
but doesn’t remember why
or who the others are
or why she dressed
as she did back then
or why there was a dog there
at the front
she keeps the photograph
tucked between
the pages
of the black Bible
some clergy gave her
and a dark secret
she was forbidden to tell
and sometimes
that short woman
with the Mongolian features
steals it to gawk at
then she has to go get it back
sometimes violently
which brings the nurses running
with their rough hands
and strait jackets
or that skinny woman
who always stares
takes hold of it
and stares at it
pointing to the various faces
of the males and females
and at the dog
and smiles and wets herself
and then laughs loudly
which causes
the other inmates
to bellow or laugh
or cry or scream
bringing the nurses trotting
with their what’s going on?
or what’s all this then?
she holds the photograph
to her ***** when she can
or tries to remember
who they all are
staring back at her
including herself
and when the quacks
question her
about the photo
as to who is who
or why she has kept it
she doesn’t have a clue
and one said
she ought not to have it
as it disturbed her
but a nice nurse
(and there were some) said
o no doctor she needs that
there will be hell to pay
if she doesn’t have it
tucked between the pages
of the Good Book
she kisses herself some days
talks to one or two
of the others there
but who they were
or to whom she speaks
she doesn’t know
and on cold wintery days
she looks toward the sun
for a message
or a warming glow.
Feb 16, 2013
Feb 16, 2013 at 5:09 AM UTC
i.
impressionist,
where the grey
clouds and the blue
ice of winter
gather their ghosts,
winter, too cold,
too white, the
woodland hollows
dent,
summer love
discarded in
the frost,
the sky oaken,
the moon’s forget-me-knots
silvery dream.
ii.
clouds like wintery steel,
sunken, in a night pool,
the golds of my heart,
the lodestar gathers
moss and rook,
glimmers in a sky
of woven cloth,
her leaves, the trees
of winter,
her leaves, the dark
breath of the storm.
iii.
winter and quiet stars
brooding emperor
sleeping in the twilight
hour,
winter dreams of
strange ice caverns
where ice ghosts
dance with twisting
hair.
iv.
pond of ice,
snow bear,
snow dream,
sleep unwraps
wide avenues of
trees,
sleep, the dark girl,
the falling tide.
v.
twig breaks under foot,
earth’s thrones
settle in the lizardy light
the moon rises in the sky,
soft centuries of sky.
Jan 3, 2017
Jan 3, 2017 at 1:57 PM UTC
I'll ask you not to turn off the lights,
I want them to blind me
with their brilliant filaments
until the bulbs break
like a vase on a tiled floor,
the walls, the door go back
to being charcoal black
as they have been so many times before.
I have started to abhor
the roads that define me,
the words that describe me
and my traits,
the way I must walk in wintery air
to a migraine inducing wilderness
to be squashed into old moulds,
will this be adequate for you now and when?
What is this fall,
does it affect you, your actions,
your jumbled jigsaw piece thoughts?
These bruises are purple,
this brain is strained,
inject me with zest
until my wrist pains
so much it must combust.
Out of the glass is nothing,
a candyfloss cloud, a tree, a lawn,
it bores me,
an artist is needed,
paint a new canvas
swathed in colour
and things from my weekend dreams
lucid and intense.
I am a ******* up ball
of paper, unfold me, still legible?
Fold it again, an airplane
chucked into an angry breeze
or please,
if the lamps are tough enough,
watch my words illuminate,
drool across the table.
Oct 25, 2012
Oct 25, 2012 at 3:59 PM UTC
I saw her on a cold winter night
Her beauty made my heart take to flight
The loveliest woman my eyes had ever seen
She was my beauty – she was my queen.
Her eyes shone like the reflection off of the water
Blinding , hypnotic, putting me in a trance
All of this at first glance.
Her hair flowing in the wind
Like the beauty of an eagles wings in flight
Covering the sun from my sight.
She is a rose blooming in the winter snow
How that was possible – I’ll never know.
She is the rainbow high in the sky
Extending her beauty from one end to another
Like the love of a mother.
She is like the ocean – deep, dark, mysterious
Treacherous and yet calm and can take you
Deep into the depths of her soul, where she will keep
You and take hold.
Her beauty on that cold wintery night
Drained me from all my will and my might.
Beckoning me to join her in the snow
Freezing my heart with nowhere to go.
Her hands calling me to come to her side
And telling me:” my love is as pure as the white of this snow
Can’t you see it, please don’t go “.
I walk into the snow with my arms outstretched to her
Feeling her love pulling me in like the ocean pulling the sand
Taking me deep into a wonderland.
FINDING TRUE LOVE AT LAST!
© L. RAMS
Sep 5, 2013
Sep 5, 2013 at 12:32 AM UTC
Showers of droplets
Break in sparks
On moonlit glass
Their wintery shine
Mirrored to a gaze
Spears of ice
Melting in the night
Trailing windows
With silver beads
Feb 11, 2010
Feb 11, 2010 at 7:48 PM UTC
I love the winters,
And the snowy hills too.
I love the mountains,
And the chocolaty peaks too.
Let me snap your portrait,
Yes you will pose elegant for me.
And it's your thought on my heart.
Nov 22, 2014
Nov 22, 2014 at 8:31 AM UTC
Melancholic misadventures and misanthropic moments make meeting men more and more meaningless,
Meaning less and less to those who undress to convene in the act of adulterated ***
Flex:
Point!
Sit down,
Smoke a joint,
Go to sleep,
Work,
Eat,
Wash
(sometimes, not too often)
Feign attraction
and smile with your eyes as you die on the inside
Darkness outside
Whilst wintery winds whistle,
the worldly-wise whittle on and on in their wordy way of the other-worldly wonders they have witnessed.
We can but wish that their wily whispers will soon diminish with the melting snow
Or else go,
Turn your back on all that you lack before you step on a crack, break that back and see it refract through the prism of the microcosm of your mind
Colour-blind
Lost
Trying to find
Be found
My heart beats yet I hear no sound
As plasma pumps passionately through my pallid passages and I ponder partially perceptible pursuits that preside in my past
Digging deep down into the depths of my ***** deeds discloses a discerning dichotomous divulgence of doctrine and dogma
Two mothers
Three brothers
One sister
And a whole load of Misters!
Dec 22, 2012
Dec 22, 2012 at 7:59 PM UTC
The tiny flurries
Glide, shimmy down from the sky,
Their snowy bodies intertwining,
Rhythmically conjoining into a wintery waltz,
One two three
Together they step,
Sweeping against the buildings and the trees,
Resting their feet at last
As they gracefully come to a halt
Atop the pavement.
The first snow of the season
Blows its frosty breath against
My nose,
The wind catching my hair,
Whipping it against my scarf.
The cold feels
Jagged against my exposed face
And fingertips,
My lips splitting open from the air's
Bitterness.
I stop the snowflakes' strides short
As they get stuck to my coat,
My hat,
My long black lashes.
Winter is upon me.
Nov 17, 2014
Nov 17, 2014 at 1:25 PM UTC
Spring, spring
Its my favourite thing!
The sun shines and the birds spread their wings.
Spring, spring
to this weather I want to cling
For I hate the frigid, cold wintery sting
Spring, spring
I feel like a kid on a swing
Happier than a woman receiving an engagement ring
Spring, spring
It makes me want to sing
Because of the hope in my life that it does bring
Apr 6, 2014
Apr 6, 2014 at 4:04 PM UTC
There's beauty in the little things.
I lay next to you.
And see the hair on your arm.
I see how it lightens in the summer.
I see how it stands when you get goosebumps.
And how it gets matted down when you sweat.
Sweat.
I see it beading on your face.
I can feel it.
wet on your back.
It comes when you are hot.
And it comes slowly beneath your heavy winter coat.
As you laugh with the snowflakes.
Laugh.
Your laugh is big and bright.
You laugh when something is funny.
You laugh at silly things.
It's your own language,
That comes from your heart.
Heart.
Your heart beats.
As if it were your own song.
It tells me you're living.
It beats fast.
I can feel it when you're pressed against me.
I could fall asleep to its thump every night.
Perfectly in tune with your breath.
Breath.
I can feel your breath on my skin.
It tickles my neck.
And gives me a safe feeling.
Your breath looks like a dragons.
As you step out into the wide wintery world.
And your breath is hot as you laugh in the summertime sun.
And it is beautiful.
Just like you.
Just like us.
And as I notice all these little things
I notice something else.
I notice you are all I want.
All I want forever.
I want your
Thin arm hair
I want your
Sweat
I want your
Laugh
I want your
Heart
And I want your
Breath
I want all of you.
Now and forever.
And we will grow to be even more beautiful than the little things that keep me holding on.
You are my world. You are my sweat and my laugh and my heart and my breath. You are someone who makes me.
Makes me complete.
And you make me more and more complete with every breath, laugh, and heartbeat.
Someday it will stop.
Your heartbeat.
Your breath.
Your laugh.
Your sweat and arm hair.
And I pray
That I will be
Long gone
Before that day.
So I won't have to indulge
In the great pain I will feel
When losing you.
When losing my heart.
My laugh.
My sweat and breath.
When losing My little thing, that means everything.
Jul 14, 2013
Jul 14, 2013 at 11:56 PM UTC
The Autumn missal has arrived,
A fall reminder of the coming cold,
Strange slanting light to shift the maple
Greens to furious red and gold.
High above the myriad travelers chant adieu,
As on their sky-road paths they sing,
A chorus glorious to southern waters blue
Where winter marshes serve a warm retreat.
A liturgy of highest order drives the world
Beyond the ken of time-old cycles round;
Hibernal instinct now in feral life unfurls:
Flogs squirrels outward on their oak-corn bounds,
Plushes wealth of wolves' warm winter fur,
Hardens bone and antler, deepens feathered down,
Adds harvest fat to beast and fish and fowl,
Drives sap below old Frost's attempt to burrow down.
_________________
Unspoken paen unheard by almost all,
A careless shivering passerby may dread
This ritual changing of the Fall,
But never mind, the liturgy is read,
And Nature safely tucks herself into her wintery bed.
Sep 19, 2013
Sep 19, 2013 at 9:53 AM UTC
Let me touch you, hold you,
Kiss you in this wintery night
You are the fire
I a piece of ice,
Union of us would be like rivers meeting the
Immortal sea
Where one consumes and other get consumed;
Under the blanket
When the darkness hides us
We feel the warmth of that warm breath
So close to our face that tells the stories of our days, months
And years together inseparable;
You, Me and this cold darkness
And the presence of two heartbeats in rhythm
Has frozen the fear of life and death
With you, I want to live
Without you I choose death;
Sep 11, 2018
Sep 11, 2018 at 7:15 PM UTC
~
frost and snow,
hail and ice...
expressions of winter's
tantalizing sights;
displays that mesmerize
with sparkling magic,
and inexplicably
its sullen moods,
its stormy, icy grip.
like a garden’s blooms
remind us of our brevity,
the cruelty of this life;
but also whispers softly
of graces found within
life's wintery courtship,
a beauty easily overlooked
or altogether missed,
awaiting springtime thaws
while tightly held within
winter’s frosty mix.
for it is here
that winter whispers
e’er so quietly,
*”i’m less like death
than you imagined,
watch closely as
i draw my knife;
and with razor edge unfurl
the frosty breath i breathe
o’er flower’s sleepy seed,
firm within my grasp
i freeze her fast asleep,
her beauty held within my arms
until the sun, my brother
can reach her with his warmth,
to stir her from
her restful slumber,
and awaken her
to spring to life.”*
~
***postscript. **
you know how it goes, you read a poem that absolutely speaks to you, so much so that it stirs a moment of creative writing out of which flows a series of lines; words for which you know you really cannot claim true authorship. this then is the inspired result of reading my friend Harlon Rivers' “that which often whispers”. i invite you to read it here -
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/1016263/that-which-often-whispers/
"winter whispers"...
intended to speak of
the paradoxical,
the irony of winter,
just one of nature’s many mirrors...
of life.*
Jan 3, 2015
Jan 3, 2015 at 1:04 PM UTC
Maple tree
giant skyward leaning
Dropping leaves
do you dream, long of summer's greening?
Your sunshine days,
the gray rains sway,
wintery cold
Once long ago
a tiny seedling
planted
Sep 28, 2012
Sep 28, 2012 at 11:33 AM UTC
Soft
green blanket
stair step moss
climbing to stars
raindrops rolling
falling from
blackened branches
wintery maple
Dec 23, 2012
Dec 23, 2012 at 3:22 PM UTC
On high and in whole looms a glimmering globe
On a mountain of cloud, on her wintery throne
Diana every man has known
From there she casts her ashen glory
Upon my buildings highest storey
From there and paired with stars in tow
She maps the routes and lights the roads
Beyond black trees all sharp and blown
Through feral fields for miles untold
How she bridges their breadth without effort or labor
How I envy pallid plains set all alight beneath her favor
Jan 17, 2022
Jan 17, 2022 at 9:20 PM UTC
A shadow cast over days past,
like a mast spread for a wind blast
hailing from the wintery north.
Don't think it done until the day's won.
The mistake was made,
the spider web spun over a grenade
that landed on our shores.
They attacked our backyard,
yet we don't act scarred,
we brush it off despite
their continued shelling,
like we can refuse what they're selling.
Telemarketers don't send tapes yelling
that we're all gonna go to hell.
Only enemies that know
we have already fell.
Aug 8, 2015
Aug 8, 2015 at 1:16 PM UTC
He anchors me
When my carefree wings take me too high
Tentacle arms surround him
Past my wintery armor he sneaks by
Ever the sunshine skip
In my stormy seas sway
Cradling my heart softly
Intensifying come what may
Blending completely
Edges blurring into one
Always in tandem
A moon for her sun
Apr 23, 2012
Apr 23, 2012 at 12:42 PM UTC
To be wed ceremonies
Traditionally brisk time
Wintery- divine sacred
rituals
She elevates every success to the
Sublime
Inner power bells of chime
Sometimes resistance
Need more patience
Internal flame Solstice
Too many humans come
with a price looking into
envision unto whatever will-do
Internal flame nowhere to be tamed
Who is to blame no red carpet
Why do they call it fame?
Winter Solstice chilled wine
Shared/unpaired/homebound
On- our- own- time
Christmas time prayer of hope
Feeling land-locked on tight rope
All disguises internal flame bruises
Masquerade party
On a deserted Island all booked
But where are the people shell- shocked
Dreams are dangerous internal fire
Sleepwalked no life desired
Some people have it all well- stocked
In the apartment minds go deadlocked
Looking out of a window if we can only
see the same beautiful sky
So many endangered species
no
wings
to- fly
Looking at the bottom
the big family dish
My only wish
Seeing our loved ones
In a starfish*
Jul 9, 2023
Jul 9, 2023 at 11:07 AM UTC
~
a gateway approaches,
from just 'round the bend;
in this march of months,
that are nearing the end.
here autumn's shedding,
of its shimmering gown;
from sun-kissed warmth,
under broad leafy boughs;
where in shady spaces,
summer's solace is found!
but now comfort is sought,
in gazing within, and
in harvesting thoughts,
'neath sun-starved skin;
where if we are wise,
care will be taken,
to channel our musing,
into gratitude's music.
carefully shaping,
the sum of our notes;
stringing our lines, in
a score full of hope!
preparing the soul,
for the wintery chill;
compelling the spirit, to
see life through goodwill!
a courageous knowing,
finds a way to be still; in
the altitude of gratitude,
an antidote to winter's pill!
for in the zenith of night,
come the sounds of lullaby;
and in the absence of light,
whispers of a coming cheer.
solitary voices blending,
to the rythmn of a beat;
a heavenly choir singing,
a chorus growing strong;
opening the season's door,
illuminating advent's song!
~
in post script
these musings represent muliple seasons of observations, soul considerations in how to articulate what my heart knows to be true. so with every year that ages this soul, i become more convinced that the season of thanksgiving may in fact be the very greatest antidote for selfishness, a precursor for advent, the season of giving and receiving; and that if approached properly, our hearts are best positioned to embrace the truest meanings of the coming season of light!
sending peace and love to those who embrace these walls as sacred space!
Dec 8, 2024
Dec 8, 2024 at 1:54 AM UTC
sea, soft slumbering
its ghosts green nettles
once woven into shirts,
princess with fingers
badly stung
for love you sew
nettle to poison nettle
bearing the pain
for brotherly love
and as the nettle shirts
are thrown over their
backs, they become
human once more
and the bonfire to burn you
becomes soft flowers,
under a wintery sky that was once
a flock of wild swans.
Jan 4, 2017
Jan 4, 2017 at 12:35 PM UTC