Posts Tagged ‘winter’

I remember reaching out,
During this winter of winters,
Fingers clawing out to earthly rime,
Hands straining to feel some sliver of nature,

I remember the boreal pain,
An intense bolt of arctic lightning,
Biting and vengeful,
A scourge birthed in cold,

Now my hands lay in black stain,
No longer able to caress anything,
This rot has been inflicted upon my fingers,
For the sin of touching the world,

Now no sensation comes to me.

As this first breath of the year comes to a close,
The reverie of the years change is history,
Pangs of brainwork nip my flanks,
A delayed desire for self-improvement,
A new years resolution a touch too late,

This is a winterborn ache,
The chill of january has abated my verve,
The sleet and rain washed away my impetus,
An unwanted frozen barrier to change,
Leading me to hibernate rather than live,

January doesn’t feel new,
Just more of the same,
More winter to languish in.

We are well off the map right now,
Far beyond the vigil of the compass,
The epitome of inhospitability,
Stalked by blizzards and hungry things,
There is no day and night,
Only biting ivory,
Torrential cold thorns from an empty sky,

Upon the alpine fields of snow,
Hemming us in like trapped seals,
Lay countless bones of victims both human and livestock,
Fodder for maws that know no sating,
And footprints of collosal proportion,
We still hear the quakes,
Though that too could be our throes of fear,

There are horrid things here,
Primeval beings of feral glamour,
Walking titans of dank fur and sinew,
Possessed of hunger no natural thing should,
Unabated by the encroaching white tempest,
Weathering it forlornly in their hunt,
Their hunt for us,

And as the roof of our shelter is ripped skyward,
We know the trolls have found us,
The next moment will be all screams and teeth.

The winter spectre is here again,
And the cruel shivers with it,
When my breath takes eerie forms before me,
And the ice rinks spread over the land,
When the skies become a silvery void,
Crying deluges of diamonds and snowflakes,

I spy out of this frosted over window,
My winter looking-glass,
The external realms appearing as blue and white kaleidoscope,
The sharp rain patters on the glass,
Leaving brisk hieroglyphics upon my view,
Stinging messages from Jack Frost,

I simply cannot read them,
Each vowel is simply a shudder to me,
A siberian dread,
And a hope for warmer weather.

Do you think the year sobs?
As the terminal days come to pass,
As its tears grow frigid upon its clock face,
Dreary icicles upon its cheeks,
A funeral script upon a calendar,
Events of holly and fireplaces,
Does it fear its demise?
Or the unease of inflicting the hell on a new turn of the sun,

Or does it drool in anticipation?
A cackle heard in ticks of time,
The watch hands forming a brass grin,
The hysteria of going out with a bang,
Spectacles of flammable fetish and fireworks,
Keeping its clock face warm with a wintry tango,
A party invite upon the daybook,
Does the year long for death?

The season of the harvest is here,
When the arbors perform strip shows for their friends,
And the land adopts an ochre blanket to hushnup its prudishness,
Pumpkins and Guy Fawkes prepare their pomp,
The air grows ever brisker,
In preparation for Jack Frost,
His winter games for us all to endure,

Over yonder I spy an idle spectator,
Held aloft and open in a field,
A wooden figure of a human,
An offputting caricature of straw and old fashion,
Though bodily impervious to the changing of elements,
He hates the chill and wind but can only scream in silence,
His mouth is sewn shut,

What crime justifies such a penance?
What devilry gave him this crucifixion?
An idol of the harvest,
To withstand storm and banish avian menace,
This farmyard mannequin restrained,
Was it against his will?
Or merely born of a desire to attend the seasons shift?

The times of cold approach,
And the dark with it,
Twin seasons of Fall and Jack Frost,
Times of boreal frost biting at your fingers,
Seasons of shivers,
Presents of pumpkins and bonfires,
But not before the autumnal death of the year,

Firstly come the hues of orange and brown,
Emeralds decaying from the boughs,
Laying a carpet of beguiling entropy,
A funeral for this turn of the sun,
With scents of ginger and freshness,

Then follows the true storm of cold,
Walls of snow from the sky,
Rain haunting the alleys like spectres,
Jack Frost cackles in blizzards,
Leaving little crystalline stars about as presents,

These times bring cold and discomfort,
It’s undeniably true,
But it also brings gatherings around fireplaces,
Blankets and cuddles and cinnamon,
Hope for a new year,

If the cold didn’t bear down,
We wouldn’t know the warm.

Among the great northern forests,
A being of folklore prowls,
All claws and antlers,
An emaciated spirit of famine,
Leathery skin strewn taut over elongated bones,
The very image of a corpse animated,
The pines whisper its name,
Wendigo,

Once a man,
During a cruel winter,
Driven mad by hunger,
Contorted into an abomination,
His mate and cubs became fodder,
But even such a massacre was not enough,
More meat,
Find more meat,

So many have fallen prey to its appetite,
And you may be next,
Sniff the air,
If you smell rot and decay,
You ought to flee posthaste,
The fallen leaves herald its coming,
More meat,
Never enough meat.