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Massoupial Oct 2012
The season is a lullaby
of frosted clocks and prickling ire
impatience with the steadfast solemnity
of the wintertide uniform

Locked in crystal formation, the sunshine sleeps
where the mountains beckon
the very peaks
and the hours of the passing days diminish
into austere darkness,
Yet my heart thrills with each crystal shimmer
and beats a pulse that cannot be met
by any life
contained in snow

There is a whisper to my very soul
from the whitening glow
as it shatters the bones of cold

Such Redemption in the icy sound
sets my mind heaven bound
She's like deliquescent caramel,

the cool side of a pillow

        to lay your weary head,

subtleties of springtime &

          warmth in wintertide,

whispering hope upon lush  

        Zephyrus pipe dreams,  

    mellifluous nymph with wings

                 of a butterfly warrior,

softly determined,

    unfailingly true-hearted,

       whilst relentlessly ferocious

  Wise, yet sometimes struts

        blindly in the light,

       as dulcet tones of a cello's

           melodious marmalade

            in sentiment's tender fancy,

she's beauty, charm,

         knowledge, poetry,

               utter strength,

               & humane weaknesses,

she's twisted and ethereal,

           her aura sublimely captivating

     you may covet her body,

            you'll never possess her soul
The snows are fled away, leaves on the shaws
   And grasses in the mead renew their birth,
The river to the river-bed withdraws,
   And altered is the fashion of the earth.

The Nymphs and Graces three put off their fear
   And unapparelled in the woodland play.
The swift hour and the brief prime of the year
   Say to the soul, Thou wast not born for aye.

Thaw follows frost; ******* the heel of spring
   Treads summer sure to die, for ******* hers
Comes autumn with his apples scattering;
   Then back to wintertide, when nothing stirs.

But oh, whate'er the sky-led seasons mar,
   Moon upon moon rebuilds it with her beams;
Come we where Tullus and where Ancus are
   And good Aeneas, we are dust and dreams.

Torquatus, if the gods in heaven shall add
   The morrow to the day, what tongue has told?
Feast then thy heart, for what thy heart has had
   The fingers of no heir will ever hold.

When thou descendest once the shades among,
   The stern assize and equal judgment o'er,
Not thy long lineage nor thy golden tongue,
   No, nor thy righteousness, shall friend thee more.

Night holds Hippolytus the pure of stain,
   Diana steads him nothing, he must stay;
And Theseus leaves Pirithous in the chain
   The love of comrades cannot take away.
You're cold, and so am I.

The bundles of black tree stalks tower.
Their short ice-coated limbs puff like smoke,
Such naturally produced chimney stacks.
But this wonder inspires madness.

This magical world with you and I
Can only be measured in the real.
Why cloud ourselves with synthetic doubt,
When we could cherish what we can see?

The morning sun, squandering for heat
Has yet to overcome the winter.
The right recipe would ruin sight
Of something so much greater than warmth.

Nurturing open landscapes with you,
Our esoteric dreamscapes break free.

Your smile is what warms my cold heart.
harlon rivers Mar 2018
Crimson maple buds magically pucker
under brightening skies
Lenten rose reluctantly unfolds
absolving the shadowed snow,
stemming the wintertide

Spring's impending bloom
mystically stirs the delicate human heart  
soothing from outside its sheltering shell

A converging pleasantness
of a sunshine sown awakening
cleanses each morning breath drawn
to sate an urgent restrained longing

The wilderness carpet comes alive
with a burgeoning salient sweetness
drawing out a glimmer of gladness
from stale suffocating darkness’
wallowing in the winter ennui

Another kind of poignant balm sinks
from the tall mountain willow tree
touching the sprouting blue sky

Furry fragrant catkins blossom sweetly
like the remnants of a love once known
softly brushing against a fading memory
of unerasable stains begrudgingly beget

Like fawning flowers falling fallow
in a passing season’s pollination breeze
Manipulating frayed heartstrings,
unhealed as the deer peeled scars
and rubbed bark of a mountain willow,
scarred  from another season past

Some protective shell ― never grows back
when benign heartwood is brought to light


harlon rivers ... Spring 2018
Louise Mar 2017
He softly touched her cheek
the same way cold touched
the first few mornings
of Februaryㅡfrigid but somehow fleeting.
Full of adoration
yet full of uncertainties.
And like the whispers of warmth
on some mornings,
he's almost always anticipating to leave.
With those cold hands of his,
he softly touched her cheek
and like the fury between
the cold and warm,
he kissed her
while whispering goodbye
at the same time.
Elizabeth Jun 2015
there were golden lines slicing through the blinds when we came back from it. sometimes puddles form around the window while the rain falls steadily to join the old, as grey as the diamond blanket we dream under, as cold as the a/c unit that bites my toes every morning. i wrote a few small words on the crease of your back between the valley of your shoulder blades, nothing new, words of adoration, admiration, admonition, disbelief at where we are.
sometimes at night i see outlines of trees being tossed by the wind and i welcome the metaphors that creep into my brain of how similar we are, the trees and me. you're like the winter and i'm the summertime and snowflakes tied to sun-rays have never looked more outlandish and real.
remember when the thunder fought with the sound of your heartbeat and everything faded into a realm unreachable and we discovered who we were. the grey splattered wallpaper of this bedroom starts to feel like smog when you aren't around, what else can my eyes fix themselves to. i hang on to every i can't believe it, i'm in love with you, this is crazy like each letter is oxygen and i'm running out of clean air.
sometimes at night i trace your face with my eyes and wish you would say them again. sometimes i fall into holes around the sidewalk and i forget. i've never craved the wintertime more in my life. you always find me when i'm lost in those holes, crawl inside with your snowflakes and words, stay with me until i learn to walk again.
Neon Robinson Nov 2018
I love to close my eyes
& find a stillness –
in the turning world.

My imagination wanders,
to you.
My memories make
Pleasure.

~ Ephemeral bliss  ~
Peaking in the swells gentle set.
Mid-solitudes of the vast Pacific.

Young honey lip lovers

Warmth in wintertide;
a wild iteration of summer.

Mio Amore
My sunshine in the shadow.
Addressed to P
Seán Mac Falls Sep 2013
Sun sleeps in grey coat,
Cold rain tapping on window,
  .  .  .  Old winter waking.
traces of being Nov 2016
Looking out across the many shades of dark on dark
The rolling ashen gray fog opens a window to the dawn
and I feel a loneliness,  arising like the winter sun
             … in the morning

The trees have bared their golden surrender
Breaking silence through the windswept boughs
below,  gathered dewdrops blossom on the last winter rose
             … a chilling epilogue

Beyond the waning hydrangea sundried sepia tones
Latent conflicts of the head and heart stir the hush of memories
imposing heart whispers,  arising like sunlight shadows cast
             … in the morning

There’s no one listening to the wind roar the incoming wintertide
An ascending sadness paints many hues that contrast dark and light
as the Pink Moon,  steals away over lonely mountain headed south
             … in the morning


                                         every picture tells a story ― ☾ wild is the wind
November 2016



"I saw it written and I saw it say
the Pink Moon is on its way
and none of you stand so tall
the Pink Moon gonna get you all"

Pink Moon ― Nick Drake       https://youtu.be/qgVEvjsJn6g

Christian Bixler Jan 2015
A frozen wind is whistling, all through the starry night.
snow within it, it howls along the frozen paths, of the midnight
winters winds, beneath the moon, and thousand lights.
The trees are whispering, dead leaves soon to fall, they voice
their last and final breaths, before the fall of wintertide, and
the stunted length of days. I sit and watch the evening fall,
and the leaves gone one by one, spinning down to frozen earth,
at the beck of the winter winds. I think of how I sit here, the how,
the where, the why. Why am I here, sitting and watching the death
of another year, quiet all about me, none beside me, while my age
rises from its restless slumber, and pronounces loud, my own mortality,
and the shortening length of days. Snow is falling, sound beneath the quiet,
adding depth to the empty silence. The snow falls all around, and blankets all
in pristine white, and a mantle of heavy quiet, beneath the clacking of the hardened
branches, and rustling of leaves, dead and doomed to fall, beneath the moon and
thousand stars, and the weight of early death.
i haven't been on here for awhile, due to a family crisis. All is well, but death came close, and stroked th infants helpless cheek, while the doctors rushed and scattered, trying vainly to keep the hand of death away, and grant my brother life. And yet, death heard my mothers prayers, and saw her desperate tears, and God as well, and so death left, and life was saved, for a little while, a span of mortal years, before death returns in swirling cloak to reclaim
My little brother, God rest his sleeping soul.
harlon rivers Dec 2018
White violets in the window
Scarlett leaves tumble across
the mossy hidden stones
mound beneath a chilly winter's dawn

A cold wind bares the dogwood tree
where puffed out plumaged woodpecker
gleans on creations' plump red bounties,
beheld subsistence beget for feral wings

Bright crimson fattened rose hips season,
lingering in the frigid morning dew;
stirring warm memories of fruitlet tea's
steeped from gathered garden magic spells
A spoonful of love and raw honey mellowed
a life once so lovingly endeared

Hot Blueberry dutch-oven scratch biscuits
imbue the wafting fragrant air —
life's cherished moments tarry
in the head and heart;
sipped by ruby lips still tasting
the untamable passion
of a breathless goodnight kiss

White violets blossom in the window
the morning fire's crackle echoes
a pining  memories' gentle whisper
awakened by the incoming wintertide

A dulcet breeze not soon forgotten
— melancholy traces linger
like a passing season's swan song

as your memory — leads me on...


harlon rivers ... December 5th, 2018
Juan Albarran Aug 2015
The jolly song that once did sing our soul
Is now unheard of and is long forgone,
For now that wintertide lasts evermore,
When cometh spring—when shall our song return?
The lonely soul doth live in misery,
For where we dwell there is no memory.
And now that past is past forgotten so,
I speak alone and dust shall I become.
Wonders of creation , observable in the brushstrokes of Athena .
Eventide hues embellish the colors of nightfall , a songbirds taciturn refusal within the advent of darkness , land becoming indiscernible from the Heavens when Boreas and Thor collide ..
Northern winds reveal the paradigm call to battle in wintertide , Hill country is no stranger to warring servants ..
I'm coming home tonight forever , removing the thin guise of a confused world to bask in starlight , the language of immortality now perceptible to weary eyes .
Forever is the coupling of past and present , a long journey across the black diamond sea comes to fruition ..
Copyright January 9 , 2016 by Randolph L Wilson * all Rights Reserved
LJW Nov 2015
Today I am thankful for the silent moments
covering the morning hours,
minutes prolonged inside hushed walls,
absent the pressures of what I must provide.
I am serene.

The oakwood blazes hissing out snowfall's moisture,
kittens frolic, fluffily bouncing, pattering in holiday fluster.
The wintertide's sheepish wool in flight,
drifting upon the up-country's chilled breeze,
let's out a flaked trail towards our summit
crystallizing our land into a brilliant Wonderscape.

No toiling for me this day,
I am at rest, as is my whole house.
Thankfully piddling about
at their most cherished past times.
Allowed to delicately gaze at snowflakes
for hours.
Twas essential to see her in wintertide -
misery in order to appreciate the abundant daffodils -
of spring , the cardinal ever watchful over -
her fledgelings , the gaiety , pomp and circumstance -
of damsel flies , the mockingbird flautist and -
the peckerwood drumming
The morning laughter of Bear creek
The multicolored blades of March that -
stair step the Mill Falls
Morning dove woo their lovers , whitetails -
in repose , in the backdrop of misty , hardwood -
cover
Her poetic omnipotence in touch with my -
innermost being
Ever watchful as the cardinal
Breath exposed
Pious
Forever thankful
Copyright March 8 , 2018 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
Box Elder arms brace for the wrath of the December wintertide monster , naked and forlorn the defenseless struggle onward , Rock bass shine like polished silver in sluggish , crystalline waters
Lakesongs and velvet moss with dancing Birch motion , Crows begin to quote each note verbatim with rehearsed , telltale emotion
Creek rocks command the jetty , foundation and cattle harbors
Morning brooks continuously speak of a hidden , silent struggle* ...
Copyright September 15 , 2016 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
A wintertide timid sun shines green along the stacked pine
In myirad hues agin some lonesome fenceline
Sparkle red clay beside the hardwood borders
Keep a writers flicker of thought in apple pie order ...

Pull the bucket mouths to the surface
See shad tremble , darting and nervous
Caste the shadow of a stately heron
Paint the colors of Spring at the behest of Hill Country's
songbird clarion...
Copyright Janurary 28 , 2021 byRandolph L Wilson *All Rights Reserved
mel Dec 2022
The harsh greys of smog hang over the bleak,
slush filled,
pavements.

While the days,
dully,
slither past my window.

The wintertide is punishing.
Maggie Aug 2017
I wish my unborn child the melody
of an autumn birth cerebrally sung
for autumn is a blood bath
a maroon pool of sylvan lung

an epitaph to summer's saturnalia
the season starts by grieving
the languid lechery and opiates
that caused our rapid rebukes to reasoning

in fear of fading frivolity 
we flare violent vermillion
our final frantic firework falls against the setting sun
revealing the silhouettes of our wooded skeleton

and although the fleeting, flattering emerald leaves
are the food of summer fun
It's our roots and branches that endure
the lonesome wintertide numb

fall is a reminder
my birthday gift to you
that since no animal is evergreen
find what deciduous existence means to you

so please lose yourself in summer my son
don't let those moist nights waste
but when the autumn comes my love
ensure your trunk remains
JB Claywell Nov 2020
We seek a mystical awakening
this time of year.
We seek a star to follow,
so as to find a place in the desert,
a small oasis,
someplace to be born,
reborn,
born again.

Here,
where I am,
where you are,
the Earth is warming,
the weather patterns have changed to such a degree
that December doesn’t feel right anymore.

But,
the evenings are crisp enough
that you can put on a coat
and
walk for a while;
looking at the sky,
finding a star,
following it.

Christmas is a construct
based on Pagan winter rituals,
festivals attributed to the fact
that a wintertide torpor is descending;
that we know that the spring
will lead to a period of return upon the investment
in our ability to survive the harsh season ahead.  

The Christ-child is a symbol of ourselves as we wish to be,
full of hope,
a new life,
a sacrifice,
a suffering here and there
that will likely take place in either small or large ways
in the coming year.

The Three Wise Men
and their gifts
are a symbol
of the passage of time
and
the pleasantries we hope that The New Year holds for us.

What a perfect year for The Spirit of The Christmas Season.

In 2020 have we not been
as helpless as a swaddled babe?
Have we not felt far from home,
despite being locked inside?
In 2020 have we not made sacrifices of
ourselves in an effort to play our small part
in saving the world?

No?
Not really, huh?

It’s a nice thought though.

Being reborn,
being brought back
to a place in our lives
where we know how to demonstrate more kindness,
more tolerance,
more empathy than we did perhaps
in a time that wasn’t so long ago
that we cannot see it’s aftermath,
feeling residual impacts on lives,
our own
and those closest to us.

The fact of the matter is this:

“Merry Christmas”
“Happy Hanukkah”
“Joyous Kwanzaa”  

do not make up for anything.

We have to demonstrate
the spirit of these salutations
on
every other of the 364 days of this,
the next, the next,
and the next
years.

Not to mention
all of the subsequent years after that.

Look,
I’m no saint.
I’ll struggle right along with the rest of you.
Yet, we have to try.

Because,
during this year of unkindness,
of selfishness,
of hatred,
of entitlement,
of judgement…
I still saw the opposite of all these,
which allowed me to see,
even moreso,
one of the finest sights I could have wanted
to see during this decline
of civilization
known
as
2020.

I saw hope.
I saw it in all of your masked faces,
I saw it in the face of the lady who
bought me a bag of gas-station popcorn.

I saw it in the face of the gentleman whos
pizza slice I paid for one afternoon.

“I got you,” I’d said.
“Really?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
“Is that all you're getting?” she asked.
“Yeah”
“Can we add his charges to mine?”
“Sure.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.”

Everyone said:
“Thank you.”

Yes,
Really.

I’ve got you.
Now.
and
in
2021.

No kidding.

Together.

Let’s go.

*

-JBClaywell
©P&ZPublications 2020

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