Tag Archives: poems about winter

Invitation by Enoch Thompson

First Snow by Nonnecke

Excuse me, Winter,
Won’t you please come to tea
With the rustling wind
And yellow, red, falling leaves?

And when you leave,
Go giving a present–
A beautiful flower
Or butterfly pendant.

But please be swift.
The tea will be cooling
In the night wind.

With Love,
Sincerely,
Autumn

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For Enoch’s bio and more poetry, go here.

Photo by Nonnecke.

the bully: winter by Linda Crate

Train_stuck_in_snow (photo taken 29 March 1881 by Emer and Tenney, Southern Minnesota, USA--public domain image)

the hand of winter stretched out
his grey gloves and poured snow
out of his pitcher it fell upon the
world in cold numbing waves it
washed away all the colors of fall —

it beat back my favorite lilies into
the hand of white dust like people
are prone to beat one another into
the dust for a sense of self worth. I
don’t understand why winter thinks

he needs to be such a bully he beats
his cold fiercely upon the land blasts
his wailing banshee winds upon the
zephyr and rips remaining leaf missives
from trees with such force they yelp.

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To read more of Linda’s verse on WIZ, go here and here.

a reflection made in snow by Linda Crate

428px-Snow_in_Colarado_in_the_United_States_of_America by Tim McCabe (public domain image)

I watched as the white of snow
starched the earth clean of sins —

like the Savior washed me white
by his blood.  It seemed a stark

contrast of his shedding white for
red and the earth shedding scarlet

for white, but I think He favors the
irony just as much as we do. I stood

in the bone numbing cold of winter,
letting its reflection embrace me tight.

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To read Linda’s bio and more of her poetry on WIZ go here.

winter’s breath by Linda Crate

514px-Northern_Cardinal_Male-27527-2 by Ken Thomas (public domain)

I watched the world around me;

winter swallowed me in snow —

the skies were somber and grey.

Only a cardinal pierced the scene

of melancholy waves that washed

their newness upon the earth with

the promise of renewed hope.  As

the pains of yesterday were taken

from the land in ivory tears, I was

poured into chalices of reflection.

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Linda CrateLinda Crate is a Pennsylvanian native born in Pittsburgh and raised in the rural town of Conneautville. She has a Bachelors in English-Literature from Edinboro University. Her poetry has appeared in several magazines the latest of which include: Skive, The Scarlet Sound, Speech Therapy, Itasca Illinois & Willowtree Dreams, Dead Snakes, Carnage Conservatory, and The Camel Saloon.

Miswinter by Jonathon Penny

"Alnwick Marketplace" by Andy Armstrong via Creative Commons, 21/1/06

I’ve had enough of deserts,
Wish to shed my summer clothes
And wear my long-forgotten woolen, warming winter robes.

Want mittened hands, and beating
Round my body in the cold
To ward off frost, to hover over heat and hearth and coals.

Want stockinged feet, and booted,
Want the crunch and whine of snow,
Want the red-cheeked strain of shoveling a passage to the road.

Want to warm the air with breathing,
Breathe the hale and hearty frost,
Want the windblown grace and loss of winter’s cradle, and its cross.

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For more from Jonathon Penny, go here.

After Michaelmas by Jonathon Penny

Robert Moore, Blackberry Orchard in Snow, 5/12/11

No devil-watered blackberries,
Whose succulence is long past anyway,
Since Winter’s chill blew down the collar of the wood,
Swept clean the dell and dingle, copse and field.

Sweep clean the dell and dingle, halt the yield,
Hibernia’s onset blast! Freeze crop and crud!
They’ll shiver in a gasp of shorter days
And doff their autumn liveries.

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Photo by Robert Moore via Creative Commons. Find more from Jonathon Penny here.

Winter in England by Karen Kelsay

Winter in England Karen Kelsay

It’s here I pause with each December, where
the snow-trimmed walls of timeworn brick align
beneath the windowsill and winter’s bare
limbs bend beneath a delicate and fine

glossing of frost. It’s here I garner all
my thoughts of months gone past, beside the sheers
and yellow paisley chair. A woolen shawl,
a pearl and knit of smiles and raveled tears,

is wrapped around my shoulders. Nothing speaks
but morning’s melting icicles and wind
that steals the breath of graying skies. The creek
is frozen into timelessness and thinned

with dying grasses every shade of brown.
I take my stock of daisies dried and pressed–
my verses, scratched impetuously down–
time balanced here on its mid-point of rest.

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Karen Kelsay Dec 2011 resizedKaren Kelsay has been published in a variety of journals including: The HyperTexts, The Flea, The Raintown Review, The New Formalist and 14 by 14 Magazine. She is the editor of Victorian Violet Press, an online poetry magazine. She is a five-time Pushcart Prize nominee.

Singing the Sacred by Lou Davies James

leafingout

Cayuga Lake’s asleep again,
ice-locked at her edges.
Dressed once more
in shreds of white,
organza, wispy curls
across her skin-
beauty lying deeper
than her dreams.

Denise and I would skate
when we were girls,
flying toward each other
till we met and locking hands
would spin in dizzy circles,
laughter pealing bright
in frigid air;

innocent of life to come
and choices made,
of sorrow bearing arms
against the days
that rush ahead
with thawed intent-
the seasons spinning too.

Will you hold me
in your arms
as winter turns,
as icy stages thin
then melt away?

Singing to the Sacred,
the mocking bird
as Easter comes-
in the flowering pear
whose leaves are just now
loosening on the bough.

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Lou Davies James grew up on the beaches of Eastern Long Island and currently lives in North East Florida with her husband Wes and far too many cats. She is the author of one full length volume of poetry, Adrift in the Holy, and two chapbooks; Drawn as Ever and Internal Insomnia. She has most recently been published in Victorian Violet Press.

Winterscape: Prairie by Jonathon Penny

Photo taken by Nasa's Aqua Satellite March 4, 2010

Fallow soil, windblown, is a rigid latticework
Pressed hard against patchwork fields etched with snow.

A river, drawn amblingly, God’s Hancock doodle,
Flows its cursive way across the whole.

Jealous of its motion, frozen lakes and ponds
Lie low and sullen in their teardrop bowls.

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More from Jonathon here and here.

Guest Post: “When Autumn’s Through,” by Karen Kelsay

I cannot kick a mound of maple leaves
or see a pumpkin peeking from the vine
before the frost and not remember hills
where summer laid her green. A distant line

of poplars gleams like curtains made of coins;
it shakes at passing clouds. And everywhere
the magpie hops, I see another sign
of hawthorns beckoning the winter air

to breathe upon the fields. It once was mine,
that sweet transition only autumn knows.
The one that holds the oak limbs silently,
embracing every chilly breeze that blows.

It leads me into mottled shadows of
a deeper hue, where nothing seems so true
as winter’s birth. Sometimes, I catch a glimpse
of it beneath the vines, when autumn’s through.