[Image is from The Fairest]
It's starting to look a lot like winter in many parts of the country. Hell, it might not even reach 70 degrees here in Tucson today. So, in the spirit of the season, here are a few winter poems from lesser-known poets to get you in the mood (or to remind me that there are places that actually have weather).
Shortcut Through the StormYou can read more winter poems at About.com's Winter Poem Anthology, from whence these poems came.
by Robert Savino
There were too few roads.
There were too many motorists.
My choice was longer in distance,
but far less travelled.
I took a shortcut through the storm,
crawling over the black-iced asphalt,
too close behind Boyd’s black flower car,
in the dreary pitch of Ocean Parkway.
Storm clouds shifting and changing,
pass over, so low, engulf my presence.
I exit in an angel’s breath,
a winged spirit of the Great South Bay,
greeted by Moses at the foot of the bridge,
moments from home and the neon lights
of strip mall shops, that brighten the bus
stop at the corner of Oak Neck Road.
Minutes pass slowly within these hours.
Sounds of snow plows wake me from sleep.* * * * *
Reaching for White
by Lisa Shields
The sun rose on fields
snow blown and misted
ghostly swirls and dervishes.
No fog this——
for fog simply lies.
No——this was living
as it arched and twisted,
fingering out to the road
and reaching for me
like the shade of a beloved friend.
There was white inside,
trying to seep out of pores,
I felt it strain
trying to mesh and meld
with this sentient wraith
I am the morning mist
dancing in the crystal air.* * * * *
by Debbie Ouellet
hissing through barren boughs
cold as a witch’s kiss.
Scandalmonger of the fields,
grips ragweed by the forelock
to lay across the line
and beat away the dirt.
Hickory switch, finger wagging
at a giggle of snowflakes
leapfrogging through ochre fields
and playing knock-knock—
upon her parlor door.* * * * *
by Joyce Wakefield
I listen to you explain the difference
between a right brain thought and a left.
I am distracted by the smell
of cold on your face.
I lick it away like a child
with an ice cream cone
sticky fingers and sweet tongue.
Aware that I have been here before
I pause in your words.
I have slept in this flesh,
dreamed these winter bones.
Waking in the darkness between us
I hear frost sweeping the porch,
edging toward the morning.
I reach for your hand.
What, you whisper, voice hoarse with dream.
My lips, swollen with you, cold,
are silent.* * * * *