THEME POETRY
WINTER 2024 = FROST & FIRELIGHT
FROST & FIRELIGHT
Maria Thérèse Williams
United Kingdom
https://www.facebook.com/RoamingReflections
https://www.instagram.com/roaming_reflections
https://www.youtube.com/MariaGrooves
I bask in the hug of my woolen blanket
And absorb the glow from the firelight
The crispness of the frost awakens my thoughts
And the warmth from the flames help them thaw
The trees, unclothed, seem to gather around
They feel no shame to be bare in front of me
They seem to breathe in the warmth of the flames
Whilst reserving judgement on my thoughts
The flames dance as if hypnotherapy
And the frost near their feet melts away
Sparks from the fire join the stars in the sky
And I bask in the beauty of the day.
__________
SNOWSCAPE
Adrienne Stevenson
Ottawa, Canada
https://www.facebook.com/adriennestevensonwriter/
mercury hovers around freezing point
days grow shorter as the sun recedes
in undecided winter light
mist can’t make up its mind
to be snow or rain, frost or dew
chill wind whips, mist coalesces
snowflakes the size of locusts
blaze out of the streetlight
cloud around cars and trucks
like swarms of angry bees
alight softly like fireflies, sparkle
as they touch the frozen road
long, longer dark blue shadows stretch
across golden fields of snow
closer, dimples and pocks
make tiny moguls for elfin skiers
delicate ice devils dance wildly
on greying road surface—hell is cold indeed
human cocoons huddled in firelight
await a signal to release emergent souls
—it won't arrive for many months
__________
THE COMING OF WINTER
Christian Ward
London, United Kingdom
When the sky turns
the colour of glowing coals,
the leaves are cover models
showing off shades of pomegranate,
beetroot, pumpkin and terracotta,
and everything is planning
on emerging as a spring postcard,
this is not the time to be a blank page.
Embrace the silence of frost,
the language of snow. Make every
wintery landscape your play.
Be the flame in the hearth. Let all
embrace the warmth as the light dims
and the days shrink and shrink and shrink.
__________
WINTER DEER
Judy DeCroce
New York, United States
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0BCSCZGZD?ref_=cm_sw_r_cp_ud_dp_NK26XGC7WEC6KB0C99E0
https://www.linkedin.com/in/judydecroce/
by the softer snow
stepping gently then more surely
moving shadows darken
pulsing in the wind
see how they walk bending
avoiding what may be hidden
and from the window we catch a stare
a pause
their eyes through the greyness
still, we don’t envy each other
it means very little
interrupting the wild
__________
FROST
Neal Whitman
California, United States
tucked under a quilt
by firelight we take turns
reciting R. Frost
__________
GONE MISSING
Carl “Papa” Palmer
Washington, United States
https://www.facebook.com/carlpapa.palmer.1
As the new day awaits its morning sun,
the blank page for my poem also waits.
In stillness I listen for an inner voice,
only to hear a deep silence in my soul.
Ends end from where beginnings begin,
but before I can end it I have to begin it.
All I need is that one elusive key word
to massage this pain of self-made hell,
this page containing only a promise of
what may be worthy to be called poetry.
As the sun sets, my page and I sit,
still waiting for what’s gone missing.
__________
THE NIGHT I MET CHUCK MOULTON
Stephen Barile
Fresno, California, United States
“A grizzly bear with bad teeth who rode a motorcycle.”
~Jon Veinberg
Well after dark, the sky was brighter
Against the shadows in the woods.
We stood around staring into the fire,
Drinking beer from aluminum cans
Dave kept cool in the creek nearby.
We took turns walking down there,
Retrieving a couple of cold ones.
Dave wanted to see if Chuck, the poet,
His friend from the Tower District
Was camping up here, near the road.
We walked in a mysterious night.
The mountain stars lit our path
In the Ponderosa and Cedar forest
Fixed and motionless in the dark.
We passed the first of flat ground,
A stand of trees, a water spigot,
And a Forest Service outhouse.
We walked downhill on the dirt road
Near the fringe of a meadow of sedges.
The second flat, and burnt-earth area
Where migrating Indigenous people
Had campfires over the centuries
Traversing the Sierra to trade.
Near the horse corral, and third flat,
In the dark background of trees,
A Promethean bonfire lit the blackness.
A holy fire, purifying and wrathful.
A pile of wood to feed the craving.
The silhouette of a European motorcycle,
Somebody was leaning against it.
As we got closer, Dave yelled out.
Chuck jumped up and acknowledged us.
His loud, low, and menacing gruff voice.
Great big, with a long bushy moustache,
Coke-bottle glasses mirrored the flames
While he drank whiskey from a metal cup.
His motorcycle reflected the flames
From the chrome exhaust-pipe.
Three of us stood before his campfire,
When he was the first to speak:
“Hell is full of fire,” he said,
As if he had firsthand familiarity.
“In Dante’s Inferno, Hell is icy cold,
Saved for the worst sinners.”
We declined several offers to share
The whiskey he called “hooch.”
And he told us firefighting stories,
Of great conflagration in the woods.
Heroic struggles to fight flames
With a chain-saw, shovel and Pulaski.
“Indigenous people used wildland fire,
Naturally caused or otherwise,
To encourage growth in oak trees,
To increase their food supply of acorns.”
Pops and snaps from burning snags
Were projectiles; red-hot smoking embers.
“Fire is the breath of life,” he said.
The smoke seemed to be following me.
“An expression of spiritual energy.
All things derive from and return to fire.
For the purification and destruction
Of evil forces.”
He knew who he was.
Midnight, we headed back for Dave’s camp.
All of Chuck’s hooch was gone,
The wood pile diminished considerably.
Shooting stars were falling in the sky.
Starlight had grown brighter
Like the mother-of-pearl buttons
On the fringe of a Native woman’s gown
As she danced around the campfire,
Reflecting the firelight.
__________
BEAUTIFUL WINTER SCENE
Mark Hudson
United States
On the day after my birthday,
the sky was cold and gray.
Cold enough for winter clothes,
but we haven’t yet had much snow.
I looked outside my window,
and noticed people below.
A scene like Norman Rockwell,
a vision so pleasant for me to tell.
On the ground as I looked down,
was a mother and child on the ground.
The child himself was rather young,
young enough to think it was fun.
The mother was showing him love,
by bending down and putting on gloves.
On tiny little hands, very small,
the mother bent down; she was tall.
She kneeled on the sidewalk,
to put on gloves and I would gawk.
Seeing this precious moment of living,
reminded me of upcoming Thanksgiving.
To me, this scene brought me joy,
this mother caring for this little boy.
Was I once like this kid before?
My mother is not on Earth no more.
I live on my own, perhaps it is best,
I’m too old to create a new nest.
But I’m in love with the human race,
everybody out there has a face.
Is it too late to stop all the hate?
Can love return to all who wait?
Now is the time to create a new fate.
__________
ICARUS’ CHIN
Nadine Hitchiner
Germany
https://www.instagram.com/nadinehitchiner.writer
https://twitter.com/nadinekwriter
https://www.cathexisnorthwestpress.com/product-page/practising-ascending
Morning begins unevenly:
love for love, fire by fire,
on which
my hands glass-blow
their Arctic bulb -
from where
I see Icarus’
chin. My indifference told
to one more cully:
once, my girlhood leaned in
on the train and asked:
“quicksilver, cadmium,
or gas?”—noon begins
much like
bees that bumble,
only when there is rain.
Only, that the rain’s hereditary
to itself and if not,
it is ekphrastic
to the flame.
__________
IN THE EYES OF A FIREPLACE
Duane Anderson
La Vista, Nebraska, United States
Here I am, sitting in your family room,
just waiting my time to be useful again,
waiting for spring and summer to end
and for the colder days to arrive,
that time of the year when you
open the doors to my mouth,
placing firewood on my teeth,
while opening my chimney flu,
for even though I enjoy a good smoke,
I don’t want to disrupt your enjoyment
as you sit inside, but at the same time,
wanting to let the world know that I exist
as my smoke travels up my chimney
and outside for others to enjoy its fragrance.
My flame, a picture for your eyes as it flickers.
My flame, eager to keep you warm.
Keep me lit each evening
as I entertain you,
you and I, two good friends
enjoying our winter intimacy together.
_________
MY PAL GUS
Michael Ball
United States
God’s pumpkins, a plethora of poultry,
and my pet goose hailed from a farm
at Foxes Hollow. I named my goose
Gus, after Cinderella’s mouse friend.
Granddad figured rightly I’d like a goose.
His chums down to Foxes Hollow raised
cows and pigs and many feathered edibles
— hundreds of turkeys and ducks and
thousands of chickens, none of which
shut up and all of which left filth during
each walk and after every squawk.
But Gus was a charming, soft singleton.
Our in-town gardens were not adequate
for pumpkins overwatered for bragging
rights, not pies, gourds round as those
who frequent all-you-can-eat buffets.
The farmers found it fitting a friend’s
grandson should get a pet goose, as
their own sons had. We made a deal.
I’d feed and care for Gus all summer
then bring him to the farm in fall,
when I returned from my distant city.
Come Thanksgiving, I’d visit and play
with my fuzzy-become-feathery friend.
Gus was a Disney cartoon, following me,
the guy who talked to, fed and stroked him.
His endearing mannerism was tilting
his yellow head, honking once while
looking at me through the closest eye.
I last saw Gus, bobbling his too plump
body on splayed webbed feet, as fast
as he could go, chasing Granddad’s Ford.
He didn’t even come close to the bumper.
There was enough sense of betrayal
to go around for both boy and bird.
I was little-boy sad as he chased me,
but still eager to see full-grown Gus
come the next school vacation. Then,
with the last fields of dried corn stalks
standing, soon to be cut into silage, frost
and November arrived. Reunion too.
When Granddad called to plan a visit,
the farmer was surprised but chipper.
That old man noted cheerfully that
Gus (he recalled and used his name)
had provided the family a fine feast —
big enough for all but not yet tough.
__________
LET THERE BE LIGHT
Luisa Kay Reyes
In the very beginning The Good Lord said
Amidst the formless void, “Let there be light.”
And the light from the darkness was shed
Pleasing Almighty God with its sight.
Although His Good Word is a light to our path
The darkness for several held some sway
Who blithely ignored the tragic aftermath
Of keeping kind virtue always at bay.
Thus it appeared that the light was forever gone
With the warmth and the glow of a candle
Being the only hint of a Heavenly echelon
Faith could keep from the stealthy vandal.
But then a single star on Christmas night
Revealed to all that The Light of the World
As it shone brightly with all of its might
Had come to show The Truth was unfurled.
For The Light of Life as a baby was born
As Christ came to help us live in the light
With His Great Light the earth to adorn
Pledging, “Let there be light”, to hold upright.
__________
SEASON
Erin Ratigan
Texas, United States
https://www.instagram.com/erin_rat_again
A cramped house
filled with heat,
the guttural
growling exuberance
of children,
and at the window
the snow murmurs
“Come to greet me.”
__________
BURNING DESIRE
Cathy Hollister
Tennessee, United States
https://www.cathyhollister.com/
when dawn fires the sky
blazing rays, pure and straight
shoot beyond water’s edge
to fill the ocean surface with
rippling ruby waves
then light seeks its own.
in the cold morn,
it narrows its gaze,
finds its purpose as
it burns away the
frosty illusion of wealth,
claimed by privilege.
waves of trendy fashion and expensive shoes
trip on the shoals and chase
the endless, useless
cycles of “I want” that produce only
ragged shards of excess,
littering the lonely beach
sparkling baubles steer a futile course to
carry the burdens of opulence.
ensnared by glittering promises that
decay as all things must,
the foolish revel in possessions,
unaware of the inevitable tides,
currents in time that
join forces with the purifying dawn
revealing the artistry in the weathered driftwood,
the power in the rugged cliffs,
the beauty in drifting dunes,
the perfection in a
single grain of sand
__________
THE BEATING FROST
Savannah Martinez
https://www.instagram.com/crierpsycho/
Crackling pines-
Bending from the white kiss of Winter
Show us how to survive, this chilling freeze
Mothers and daughters, Fathers and sons
Hold on tight to their scarves,
Dreaming of the hot cyder yet to come
The vibrant hustle and bustle of the city
A mere landscape on oil canvas
Streaked with a blur of color, dappled in white
Somehow finds a way to continue, like the beating heart of a dragon
In this wilding set back of nature
Yet what people don't know,
Amidst the window shopping and merrymaking of yore
Is that
I was the frost,
And you the firelight
That ever glow in my heart
As I grew, from a sapling into a budding tree
I noticed that while others would shed their layers, coming of the seasons
I was left with a still, crystal pain
The freezing of my own heart
I accepted, as most do, who learn how to adapt,
That life was not made for all; if anything, it was I nature was against
With every mistake I made, another blossom would whither, and every person I helped
Another chip of my ice palace
Would crumble away
The only explanation I found, was that I must be the cause-
The very cause of Winter herself;
But as time carried on, a spark so brilliant flew from the nest
Leaving behind the fire so safe
-And seeking out its own story
A story of Fates to behold;
Years ahead now, and I've come to see
That Winter is not just a curse
But the gentle stand still, until nature comes back to life
And although cold winds will always try to snare us, breaking down our hope
Till one by one we freeze
A chill so deep, forcing us to forget the glory of the sun
I will stand through it, unafraid
Knowing that with just a simple gesture of your hand
Upon my own, I shall feel the warmth once again
A love so magnificent-
And know I'm not alone
Something so delicate, like these dreams we share;
My heart beats, with each carol in the air
And as the yuletide creeps upon us near,
I'll cherish every moment with you
In this frosty wonderland, my love
My dear
__________
LAKESIDE BIRD FEEDER, FIRST DAY
D.R. James
Saugatuck, MI, United States
It should’ve taken only that scouting,
squawking jay to get the word out.
Framed in a pane, on a perch,
he was posed, a post card, puffed
against the frosty cold. His stylish
scarf feathers flicked an impatient face,
and his scruffy topknot signaled
who knew who in the neighborhood:
“Easy Supreme and SunflowerMélange
swinging free off this deck!” See, he’d need
some wirier guys to stir it up, to urge
the tiny silo to flowing so he could
swoop in, scoop out the run-off: “Anyone game enough to give it a go?” But, no.
And now, not a single soul for supper.
__________
WHO CAN?
Shampa Saha
The night was a shivering one
Put out, were all lanterns!
Only an aged beggar,
With his torn rag,
Walking along the frozen road,
To search for a shelter!
A piece of bread without butter,
Might be his only longing!
That's why he was begging!
The frosty night stretched her vail
To avail all the warmth,
From the earth,
To gift the death like cold!
But the old promised his little grand daughter,
To bring laughter
As a bread to her hunger!
No light, no warmth,
With all his lost strength,
The old soul was walking alone!
No moon was there,
No firelight,
No hope was there,
And no more fight!
Only a piece of food and warmth,
The man and his little one's search,
Was yet to be filled,
Before he be killed
In the frosty night,
With chilled bite!
Please bring him some spring!
Can someone bring them to that brim?
___________
WINTER 2000
for Dusan
Kate Potter
To think this season might come at me sideways
beguiling my heart with an autumn untouched
by ice
to think that winter might actually warm some
part of me, notwithstanding daunting drifts
of blowing white
I’m trying not to make this sound like a love poem
and you are making it hard. You have slipped
between the lines
already, and have started a fire. Suddenly I’m mad about
February, crazy for comforters and flannel sheets
clementines
and steaming tea, hats and gloves and breath we see
I won’t even mind if March goes out
like a lion
as long as I can
lie in
with you.
___________
ONCE UPON THE TIME…
Karuna Mistry
United Kingdom
https://karunacreations.wordpress.com/
https://www.instagram.com/karunamistrypoetry/
Once the clock is in, the cold goes out
Once the cold goes out, the weather turns in
Once the weather turns in, the seasons churn out
Once the seasons churn out, ageing begins
Once ageing begins, life snuffs out
Once life snuffs out, the shovels dig in
Once the shovels dig in, the clock times out
…the cold enters, the weather turns,
and the seasons yearn for a life thereafter
__________
STILL, STILL, STILL
for Mark
Cora McCann Liderbach
West River Road snakes upward
through a soundless panorama
of white—maples, evergreens
silhouetted against a cream and
pewter sky. Thick powder frosts
rooftops—fondant on a wedding
cake. Lights glimmer like candles
atop porch, fence, lamppost. We
crunch uphill, boots sturdy,
hands double-gloved, glasses
fogged—chatting, chuckling,
weighing the week, wordlessly
huffing, sinking into stillness—
my favorite hour of these winter days
with you.
__________
TIME BETWEEN
Gail Grycel
United States
https://www.instagram.com/windleaner
https://www.facebook.com/GailGrycel
It was as if the Fall leaves hadn’t had time
to parade themselves around New England.
The usual flamboyancy faltered and fizzled
under the affliction of some silent foreboding.
They nosedived. Perhaps with fragile glances
across their veins, they cast themselves
through cavalier warm breezes
into November, then December.
But the cold bite came in time for the light’s
return. Time’s edge chilled with frostbite.
Every naked branch lowered
under the cutting freeze
spitting snow, ice, sleet.
Like the leaves,
once the dark pushed past its mark,
in rushed the glow—
hibernating daydreams
softening the crust,
slowly breaking free.
Even snow is too timid to assert itself
into the year end’s shiver,
and the nostalgia of warmer winters past
haunts like a Dicken’s ghoul—
who am I?
gasping for the burning coal’s flicker
through the woodstove’s glass front,
heaving against the bitter frost
of what needs to cycle,
release,
clear.
_________
AT NIGHTFALL, LATE JANUARY
Morgan Neering
France
https://www.instagram.com/mneering
There’s a hush that has fallen
over the city, coating it in white
the frost has gathered
on my windowsill
the earth seems frozen, frosty
frigid and cold.
I haven’t seen the sun in days
and everything I love is dead
or dying
like the trees that line the way home
and there are Christmas lights
left up
overstaying their welcome
And the city’s too cold
tonight
all my friends are home
with the lights off
but this is a good world
I hope
that if there is a God
he has not forgotten us
at nightfall,
this late January.
__________
SANCTUARY
Buffy Aakaash
East Calais, Vermont, United States
https://www.buffyaakaashpoetry.com/
When winter springs through equinox we gather
by the fire, spewing out lyrics and memories,
irreverence for the status quo squabbling over spoils.
I revel in the cold that brings me to this burning.
I awake to fewer roosters and remember last night’s dinner,
a frenzy beside the kitchen with killings in cold blood,
knives flashing, carcasses flying, comforts of grilling flesh,
hovering by my nose and challenging my inclinations.
That night I wrap my cold hand around sleek silky teats,
my other at rest atop her arched back while she ruminates,
rolling thumbs against fingers expressing sweet elixir
swallowed in whirls and whirs against the milking pail.
By day I gather goat muck to feed our leafy greens,
the pastoral vanguard fresh from walking herds around me,
curious inquisitors probing the theft of their inner workings,
while circling above dandy hawks in love with love reply.
Cycling into spring chickweed blankets urban onslaughts,
folks like flowers frozen by city streets and concrete sidewalks.
From garden green warmth and medicine, things we planted,
make pilgrimage to all our bellies, the oceans of our bodies.
When equinox lurches toward summer we gather in the woods
axe in hand, spirit calling our every swing to rouse a new king
from the decay of dying time, as the aging monarch draped
in tatters of finery is deposed in the flames of April’s final fire.
I revel in the cold that brings me to this burning.
__________
TINSEL
David Olsen
Kidlington, United Kingdom
https://www.davidolsenpoetry.net/
Mother cast an artist’s critical eye
at each silver fir, viewing from all angles,
assessing symmetry and shape.
At home, she wound strings of lights
round the tree, replaced burnt-out bulbs,
stood back to scan for balance,
precisely placed each strand of tinsel.
For gifts, in those lean years, she sewed
shirts from fabric remnants – bolt ends –
from Capwell’s bargain basement.
While taking down the tree in January,
she smoothed every strand of tinsel,
laid them all in tissue for next year.
__________
SNOWFLAKES
Lynn White
North Wales, United Kingdom
https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100063706441633
https://lynnwhitepoetry.blogspot.com/
Look out there now to see
the shape of them falling
before they melt away,
the angles and shadows,
of their singular perfection,
while their shape remains.
Don’t wait too long.
They make a brief visit only
before they’ll be frozen in time.
And then even the solid will melt away.
And drip into a memory.
__________
NIGHT
Theresa M. Lapensée
Without alcohol, 11:30pm in late December hits different
The noise I used to climb into and thought I was gliding through
Is what it is
How many drinks and how much sex and how many boys and how much shopping or travel or money or cheating until the feelings I don’t want to carry simply up and vanish?
There is a light layer of snow on the ground, and I can see tiny, individual snowflakes falling by the streetlight
Sitting in my car
Spying my glasses clad reflection
It’s quiet and cold
The kind of cold I used to crave when sleeping off the day after the night before
The kind of cold that makes jeans sting against thighs
Walking in somewhere warm for the night
I wonder if I love the summer heat so much because I was born in this month that is so long and cold?
Who wants to hit the world when the cold is rushing in?
Some nights you just want to listen to 90s music, realistically reminisce about high school
say a silent hallelujah that you can now look in the mirror and breathe
no more reaching to change the girl looking back
__________
FROST
Heidi Gilles
United States
https://www.instagram.com/the_heart_pages
with
autumn’s
final act -
the evening air
blends,
into the chill
of the early
morning -
with the birds
still singing,
the leaves
and branches,
prepare
themselves,
for what is
to come -
and, like a shield
of protection,
from the winter
days ahead -
the limbs
glisten,
in the bright
of the
sunrise
frost
__________
DESCENT OF THE ANGELS
John Muro
Three-time nominee for the Pushcart Prize as well as the Best of the Net Award
Guilford, Connecticut, United States
Curious how the early winter light distorted
the stained-glass windows; how green-blue
panes assumed a liquid look
and the pilasters that I mistook
as something more than ornament –
lending the chapel’s support
to heavenly hosts come to look
after us. Their mystical descent
would, on winter days, offer comfort,
often wondering what words they spoke –
faint praise or hushed admonishments –
while holding gilded clarions and an ornate book.
In time, discerned they had come to apportion
justice. Consoling the many, saving few.
_________
EARLY WINTER MOON
Antoni Ooto
New York, United States
When clouds and sky almost forget their place,
shifting shadows cross the snow.
Solstice without anchor surrounds
the glow of a frosty sugar-moon…
whetting the appetite
of a child lying on a sled staring up,
as time opens.
__________
WE WHO WINTER INSIDE
Megan Jagt
Minnesota, United States
You tell me you hate winter because it’s so freezing cold
But I think you’re just scared of being found all alone
While people hide in their cozy, warm abodes
Trading sunlight for fires encased in wood and stones
And this is the time of the hard found introvert
Finding comfort in silence and old worn-out sweatshirts
Curled by the window during winter weather alerts
And staying inside, away from the those who would hurt
And society gathers in these small lit pockets
That we make from our homes, and choose the world to omit
Building a sheltered community of our people, well-knit
While the wind blows at the door, turning voices to critics
But the lone wolf stays safe, curled up in their den
As the winter brings snowstorms and blizzards and then
All of the people go home just to hide
And we introverts are found, already sheltered inside
___________
BURNING COLD
Patrizia Fanucchi
Snow cold ice
a walk
I tried to talk
a wall
of ice
glittering folds of snow
a wonderland!
dull eyes
warmth and joy died. People – at the top of the hill.
the toboggan, the fear, the daring
excitement – thrill flying down
down the hill – a friend, chatter
Then
the girls, the fun
I was not part of. The ice
the isolation
the betrayal of what was special
the pain. The toboggan whizzing past
he and the others, the laughter
the cold
alone
at the top of the hill.
Pride swallowed
we left together the
snap
flee
tears, talk
Will it ever be the same again?
__________
WINTERS PEAK
Russell E. Willis
Vermont, United States
https://www.rewilliswrites.com/
https://www.instagram.com/russell.willis.1217/
https://www.facebook.com/russell.willis.1217
Parched wind swirls
Moonlight in a million fragments
Carpets frozen glade
Smoke flees chimney
Shepherding impossible fireflies
To the stars
Cedar felt in the mask
Shielded by a mask
Cinnamon and
Hints of mince
Meet in the senses
Numbed extremities
Insulated core
Muted awareness
Of sharp reality
Life and
Risk to life
Shared as
Beauty
Fierce darkness and
Cold light lay siege to
Framed tableaus of warmth
Cradling surviving life
As the shepherd
Cradles a lamb
Plucked from the wilderness
Bitter cold and candlelight
Buttress the frosted panes
Bearing brittle peace
___________
EPIPHANY
For Father Lopez
Keith Melton
United States
Sunlight
In window glass
The aching of my gloom in pieces --
Again I hear the voices.
Ego, I surrender; stillness, I recant
Epiphany
Hallows my skin and exults in the scatter
And the Muse of God is re-painting
The sorrowful rooms
Of my heart with hues of ochre and bronze.
Redemption
A legacy from tattered flesh
My stowaway soul
Transcendental
In this leaven of faith, its gram weight
Nimble
And gathered
Its dappled light a splinter of husking gold.
The whirl of death
Defeated, its firelight brimming, remembering
Distance
With a radiant gleam.
The shape of being, promised, transparent
Delivered
A whisper that guides all mystery, home.
__________
TO
Lakshman Bulusu
New Jersey, Untied States
https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/127227.Bulusu_Lakshman
sun’s abundant freedom of gold threads
moon’s matchless shine of silver
child’s curiosity about seeing his reflection in water's surface
a dancer’s elegant steps in grace
Mother nature's indulgence in making our earth's fertility
generosity of a benevolent heart
the warmth of a firelight in from a frost
threads binding friendship unto persistence
desire of beloved’s embrace
be it frost & firelight or any other, there’s pairing that’s immaculate
__________
SNOW (II)
Bridget Houlihan
Pennsylvania, United States
https://www.instagram.com/bconee0
Out my window the snowflakes dance.
From my tower I watch them fleet,
float,
fly -
on the frosty back of the Western Wind.
Their mistress is fickle and cold, not caring where they blow.
Chaos
wonderful, unchecked, to the ground below.
__________
RICH SCROOGE
In Memory of Alastair Sims
Vern Fein
Illinois, United States
https://www.instagram.com/poetplain
In A Christmas Carol, Dickens described the holidays as “a good time: a kind, forgiving, charitable, pleasant time: the only time I know of in the long calendar of the year, when men and women seem by one consent to open their shut-up hearts freely, and to think of other people below them as if they really were fellow passengers to the grave, and not another race of creatures bound on other journeys.
Did you ever wonder what Scrooge did after he converted?
Invited God right into his heart and turned it around.
And some fancy ghosts scared him into Christmas.
Indeed, he really knew how to do Christmas well.
Raised Bob Cratchit’s salary yearly. Hot coals and punch all winter.
Uncle Scrooge blessed Tiny Tim by paying for his schooling.
Found a high-level apprenticeship for Peter and attended Martha’s wedding.
Drank tea and befriended dear Mrs. Cratchit.
Located the “marvelous, wonderful” boy and apprenticed him as a butcher.
Gold crowns for Mrs. Dilber, Christmas presents for her kids.
Sent Fred’s Sally to seamstress school. Loaned Fred money to build his business.
Visited Old Joe. Helped him remodel and hire the charlady.
Waltzed every Christmas till he couldn’t, then sat on the couch and clapped.
Ate Christmas dinner with “his sister’s boy” every year, fat turkey and all.
Railed against Poor Workhouses and wretched prison conditions.
Poured money into Ignorance and Want all his days.
Placed a tombstone above the Fezziwigs:
They danced life the best of all.
Sought out Alice and made peace with her.
Met her every need and were friends to the end.
Why could Old Scrooge, who always got more bread
for everyone from then on, do all of this for humanity?
Because he had money ‘till he died.
May we privileged do as well.
__________
DEATH BY FIRE, AND STILL THIS SKIN BRUISES
Kait Quinn
United States
https://www.instagram.com/kaitquinnpoetry
Death was a glacial touch, knob of ginger
lodged like a thumb in my cavern throat.
All the tender sweetness—syruped
cherries, grilled peaches, sugared plums
—could not bite the bitter, cool the burn.
Death by fire, and still this skin bruises
like asters blooming through October
blizzard. Ten years, and still my bones
rattle frigid; irises woodsmoke in a steel
gray sky.
Is this vulnerable enough? Are these holes
from which these words bleed exposed
just enough? God, I am bored of writing
this heartache I've let encase me for nearly
two decades. Let it burst
into snowflakes to bury old tracks, brown blood,
any proof your palms ever singed the strawberry
milk backs of my thighs. I am engraved,
like Sylvia's reeds, in ice. I am beneath
that water, tracks of December white, thick
lake eyes I mean to crack, and I will not pull
you under but release you from my pupil, squeeze
saltwater pools from your lungs. I will toss you
to the sun, return your blue buffeted skin to
its firm apricot flush. You will be grateful to be free
of January's grip, to find fertile mirth beneath
spring's thaw. But July will slap your cheek
like a campfire, and you will beg for December's
contusions. You will think of me when the willow
bends emerald, marcescent under winter's descent.
___________
SCATTERED FROST ON WINDOW PANES
Kathy Jo Bryant
United States
Flickering firelight, dances with shadows,
Mugs of soup, send steam in curls,
Scattered frost, decorates the window panes
Snow will pile, in windswept, whirls.
Nippy breezes, make you shiver,
Comforters on beds, are stacked,
You can see your breath, in clouds, form,
Forest creatures, in snow, are tracked.
Winter treasures, all around you,
Take you to a magic, realm,
Like a storybook for children,
'Twill amaze you, and overwhelm!
___________
THE KNOCKING
Laurie Kuntz
https://lauriekuntz.myportfolio.com/home-1
You are inside now,
a blizzard of loneliness
whispers through the keyhole.
Sadness locks in like the sleeping
cat on a windowsill.
You can’t remember where you were
When that door slammed
the heart out of you.
Inside and out,
it is the same cold front,
the door cannot close against—
but there comes a knocking,
there always comes a knocking,
that is why we have doors: inside, out, slam
There comes a knocking—
Open up.
__________
HEAVEN AND HELL
Claudia Wysocky
United States
https://www.instagram.com/clau.diawysocky/
Silence fills the air,
as I sit, alone,
among endless rows of graves.
I wish for heartbeats,
for laughter,
for tears.
I miss the noise.
But I know that I can't have it.
I can hear the footsteps of the living,
but there's no sound for me.
Silence surrounds me,
as I lay in my own void,
a void of life,
eternal and silent.
I will never know happiness again.
But I accept it,
lying here, alone,
among endless rows of graves.
It was fun being dead for a while,
to feel the quiet
and the peace.
I thought hell would have fire and brimstone,
but I guess that's only what they tell us.
I'm moving on now,
accepting my reality.
And I know that one day,
I'll find my meaning,
In the cold abyss.
But for now, all I have is silence,
a silence that never ends.
And I bet there's fire in heaven.
___________
BEYOND MEMORY
Patricia Hemminger
One tends to forget how large
the room seemed. How cold in winter.
How intricate the iced glass panes.
How the flames rose and fell
like dancers in the grate.
One tends to forget how birdsong
broke the dawn. How sunrise
streaked like blood across the sky.
One tends to forget how brittle
branches etched the road,
leading back beyond memory.
How did your hair become so grey,
so long, when they carried you
from the house in your white nightgown?
_________
SEARCHING
Alwyn Gornall
United Kingdom
https://www.facebook.com/alwyn.gornall
https://twitter.com/alwyngornall
The crunch of my step
echoes
as I push through the ice capped snow,
wandering through the winter of our love;
searching for the path where your footsteps show.
Winter’s blanket of hoar frost
sparkling
our love in the morning light.
I touch it, trying to feel the warmth of you;
searching for a sign of you, however slight.
Spring’s heart-beat echoes with love’s promise;
birdsong
sings your voice in the trees.
I see your face in the crowds;
searching for the sound of you, carried on the breeze.
I yearn for summer’s warming flame,
praying
it will thaw your love,
and you will come back to me;
still searching; needing the burning of your love.
__________
WINTER ARRIVED OVERNIGHT
Miranda von Salis
United States
Winter arrived overnight:
a sudden snow on tiptoe.
The winds working their way through the valley;
Whistling at windows
and we woke to the fanfare of your arrival -
to the world amended.
Our tires crunched down plow-forgotten hills,
across streams muted under ice.
The plow, for now, furrows along the main road,
leaving levees as if to help it hold its banks.
We cross that black river,
silent too but for the grit of salt.
The darkness swells,
but along the road are houses with candles in each window,
sentinels at attention, following us with their flickering eyes.
We can see town ahead, the lights of Christmas still bright
as though they were the torches of Hecate herself
guiding through life’s crossroads.
__________
A PENNY FOR YOUR THOUGHTS
Lindsey Lamar
Texas, United States
https://lindseywritesbooks.substack.com/
https://www.instagram.com/lindseylamar/
https://www.lindseywritesbooks.com/better-off-guilty
Caught in the reflection of the shadowed mirror,
My eyes reflect the darker game of chance.
7-7-7-8
My finger pulls down the screen for another go,
Because it only cost a cent. And what's a cent to me?
The spare piece of my brain slips into the boxes like a soldier,
Maneuvering edited realities that exist so effortlessly inside this
Glass cage that we're in. Padlocked by a combination,
That I already know.
One that would release me from the labyrinth
But I'm too close to finding the trophy.
So, my eyes skip in waiting,
For the numbers that control my fate.
This bit of me
That I've given to the game,
Dances in digital frames
In ways that I never could.
In cyan illumination,
I see an avatar that looks
Like everything I could
Morph into.
Only If I earn it,
Only if I keep playing.
My focus darts to follow my reflection across the scoreboard.
Will this new piece of me
That I gave to the world
Win the game?
Will people watch me?
Will they like me enough to
Applaud with two taps on the glass window
When I win the game?
My thumbs pull again.
7-6-7-7
I place another fraction of myself into the machine.
This is not a problem because,
I know when to stop.
Nobody has ever won.
But I will be the first.
My life disappears in the block of blue light,
through several turns of the clock.
My memory hazed to the math,
I don't know how much I've spent.
Was I hypnotized for just a minute
Or was it a year?
It was only a penny for my thoughts.
But that might be too expensive now,
For I have none left of my own.
__________
SIDEREAL
Il Neuva
Our story starts in novelty
The glove you salvaged in a pile of snow
Days blur into months and years
It stays in your pockets
Warm enough for the veins to waltz in your chest
Cauld enough to make the memory a mirage,
How can you see if you cover your eyes?
November breeze sinks its icy fang
Sweet nocturnes melt in my tongue
I drink the flute for two, it warms my throat,
I sip what you sip, the mellow tunes transcend,
And the night begins again.
Amber starbursts flicker in your eyes
Firecrackers in the woods
Two motorbikes sit abreast,
Beetle’s wings, so lithe and paper-thin,
Buzz overhead, lost in a perpetual spin.
Hand on your shoulder, your breaths fanning mine,
A ship anchored to its berth,
Foot by foot, we make a beeline,
And breathe in the vesper’s mirth.
Momentous,
Mysterious,
How do you name a feeling?
What is a question if the answer is here?
__________
THE FIERY FIGURE SKATER
C.L Barley
United Kingdom
https://chloebarleywrites.wixsite.com/lassiewithapen
https://www.instagram.com/c.l.barley
Deep in a forest, between the crisp trees
There exists a lagoon, frozen and serene,
All iced and glacial, with no hint of green.
Winter arrived, all the critters had gone,
Unknown and hidden to all except one.
The girl is an ice skater, world-renowned,
A simple girl, with a simple desire
To enthrall the world with her inner fire.
All those who witness are caught in a trance–
Famed for her beauty and fiery ice dance.
Heat radiates from the blades of her skates
Causing depressions where the ice has shed
Her pale skin ignites a crimson-red
Her hair, a whirlwind fury, flames disguised
Passionate, and blazing–fire humanized.
Day after day, out there you will find her.
On the ice, soul burning–fiery, aglow,
Her body lies in the waters below.
Restlessly twirling–Around, and Around
Grinning and spinning above where she drowned.
In time the seasons began to turn hot–
The ice melted in that very same spot.
Her body still lay–untouched by rot.
Her unblemished skin–still slender and white
Flaming, auburn hair, glistening with light.
Yet still, she skates–that well-known routine,
With burning passion, a beautiful scene.
But now she dances, no longer alone
When the snow begins to fall on the groves,
People worldwide all gather in droves.
As no one could think of an honor greater,
Than dancing in the resting place of
the fiery figure skater.
__________
VERSE & CHORUS
Kassie J Runyan
New York, New York, United States
in the silence of the frosty night
where flakes descend like whispers
a solitary fire asserts its grace
against the muted landscape
flames flicker in a dance
silent rebellion against the frozen tableau
a paradoxical warmth defying the cold’s grip
a fire in the storm, a cross of elements
burning amidst the stillness, a non-rhyming testament
a melding dance, unburdened by rules
a narrative unfolding in the quiet, unspoken fools
outside a world enshrouded in tranquil white
inside, the fire’s glow projects shadowed stories
an intimate dialogue between heat and cold
a story with elements endurance, unadorned
a fire in the storm, a cross of elements
burning amidst the stillness, a non-rhyming testament
a melding dance, unburdened by rules
a narrative unfolding in the quiet, unspoken fools
let the fire persist, as the flakes float down
a union of frozen warmth, defiance without end
the heart of the winter’s tale, a lesson is earned
the strength of the fire in, in the silence, discerned.
a fire in the storm, a cross of elements
burning amidst the stillness, a non-rhyming testament
a melding dance, unburdened by rules
a narrative unfolding in the quiet, unspoken fools