Winter Blues - Poetry
A Warmer Love
by Elizabeth Kiryanova
The fluffy snow waves
And distracts me from my days.
As I walk in the bright snowy night,
I feel as though I am the only one here.
The only one in the whole world.
I transgress through space and time.
I seek to escape the pain of the cold,
but I’m an emotional masochist.
Only by diving further into it,
Do I numb myself from the pain.
In the cold my heart thrives,
It stays frozen.
Every time I defrost it,
I end up having to shovel away the remnants.
I really don’t like shovelling.
There is peace in the icy stillness.
I’m not thawing my cold heart this year.
I love through my soul these days,
It’s far away, where the wind chills and snowstorms and extreme cold warnings can’t reach.
by Bobbie Nutbrown
And here we spin
Trying to move again
Go straight or left with green
Our place in line
Driving side by side
lanes known but can’t be seen
The morning light
Once welcomed sight
Now tempered by your glare
By each reflect
Of nights felled frozen air
And somehow yet
By end of day
My excitement grows for home
Then put check
I soon recollect
Your dusk glares hurt much more
by Cynthia Pohl
by Jana Olson
Shards of ice - roughened fingers of pocked and hardened snow clawing at my ski pant leg
trying to ensnare me - to topple me - to impale my legs with dozens of
small spikes unfelt until flesh thaws hours hence
Frigid air crawling down my windpipe, seeping into my chest
and clenching my lungs in its savage grip
inhale a raspy effort - exhale a painful release
Penguin feet not enough to keep tense body upright, body not penguin enough to cushion my
middle aged bones
as they rush to meet the black ice after one misstep on the path
Wind howling, shrieking, shoving against my
back like a rival in a bar room brawl - pushing me away - skidding me along
the evanescent sidewalk like a dead fish caught in the river’s undertow
Small - sharp - piercing pellets of snow
attacking in tandem with their familiar - the wind
their kin of the light and fluffy snowflake variety banished from the night and
waiting their turn in the quiet lee of the stand of evergreen trees in the tight valley
Creaking hulks of metal - groaning with turns and bumps
headlights struggling to cut through the tempest - the tantrum - the maelstrom
of the wind and snow that attacks at each crossroads and
every gap in buildings and trees
A world pushed - pummelled - imperilled
turned to ice
by a season ferocious and unyielding
What’s not to love
Like the ground.
Like the rosy chapped skin on your cheeks.
Harder to breathe in the burning cold air
And the crushing hordes of merry shoppers.
Harder to move for the layers of warmth in which I bind my body
And those which carefully wrap and cover my biting demeanor.
Harder to see in the waning daylight.
Harder to want to.
by Bonny Marchment
Frosted lakes and frozen puddles hint at what will come. A place
of beauty to captivate us. On a bench dusted so lightly with snow, my head on
your shoulder, all else is forgotten. The falling snowflakes and shivering
leaves rain down around us, gently landing in our hair and in our laps. They
build up on our toes, and dampen our clothes. But amidst this infinite
whiteness, I'm lost in shades of green. Your eyes. And the deep grey of the
scarf that smells of you. You, the one I never saw coming. So now I'm tied to you
in bows. And I'm knotted in the tangles of your love.
As Orchids Bloom: A Poem for Winter
by Alan Richards
As orchids bloom in forest canopies, and hibiscus shrubs are flowering,
Kiwikiu and 'Akokhekohe sing and flash their brilliant wings—
As surfers ride blue green waves towards a latte-coloured beach,
and sun worshippers change into bright shirts and skirts, sip mai-tais,
leis around their necks, and watch the sunset—
As the temperature rises in the planet’s canopy—
Snow driving across my window, skis standing by the door,
I toss travel magazines into the wood stove and trust tomorrow
will again scatter diamonds across fields of snow under a blue blue sky.
When Winter is for Writing
by Jenelle Theis
Winter is for writing, when snow slants against window panes. When
shimmering flakes flutter down like diamonds — dancing and twirling.
When only the brave venture out into the crisp, clean air. When the cold
bites into skin — tasting flesh. When white coats the ground and weighs
down branches of trees. When water freezes in long icicles from
eavestroughs — beautiful, dangerous points threatening to impale. When
chimney smoke rises — floating up in billowing clouds. When warmth
beckons the soul, calling to be indoors with promises of a blanket and a
steaming mug. When the pencil scratching on paper, or the tapping of keys
is the only sound cutting through the silence. When the words flow —
growing and flourishing. When winter is for writing.
by Yvonne Spornitz