Friday, January 30, 2009

Original Winter Poems

I'm under the weather today. It seems I have a bronchitis again--for the second time this month. I didn't have the energy to write new poems or to review poetry books--so here are some winter-themed poems that I posted previously at Wild Rose Reader:


by Elaine Magliaro


Whooshing down the hillside fast

Trees and people blurring past

Runners carving out the snow

Like an astronaut I go

Blasting into outer space

Rocketing at record pace

Through the stratosphere I fly

I’m commander of the sky

Won’t return to Earth until . . .

I reach

the bottom

of the hill

Pond in Winter

The meadow pond lies silent, still…

Sealed in tight by winter’s chill.

A downy quilt of fallen snow

Hides a cold, dark world below.

I wonder all the winter through

“What do fish and turtles do?”

Bedtime in Winter

Dark comes early.

Night is long.

Mommy sings

A bedtime song.

I am snuggled

Down and deep

Beneath soft covers.

While I sleep,

I have my teddy bear

To hold.

He keeps me warm

When nights are cold.


It’s white snow,

Bright snow,

Soft-as-feathers light snow…

Tiny ballerinas there

Pirouetting through the air

With their sparkly crystal shoes

In their winter dance debuts.

Ferns of ice


On windowpanes, their

Silver fronds growing in the frigid night

Then melting in the morning light.

Snow dropped by

And here am I

Catching flakes

Of falling sky.

Sleet tap-dances on

my roof, clicks its icy heels

on my windowpane

With frosty feet

little mouse prints a message

in the snow: Hello!

I wrote the following poem for Tricia’s Monday Poetry Stretch—What Words?. The “stretch”—or challenge—was to write a poem that contained all of the following eight words: snow, frozen, wind, evening, woods, lake, village, farmhouse.


A long way from the village,

near quiet woods,

snow settles on a frozen lake.

Burrowed in the mud below,

frogs dream the winter away.

Their larders full,

sleepy squirrels curl upagainst the cold.

No wind stirs in the trees

this chill evening.

Everything is still.

In the distance,

a solitary farmhouse stands,

a weathered monument

to the past.

Here, in his lonely lair,

an old man

wraps himself in the silence

and his memories

and hibernates from the world.


At Blue Rose Girls, I have a poem by Nobel Laureate Wislawa Szymborska entitled Children of Our Era.

The Poetry Friday Roundup is at Adventures in Daily Living.

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