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The Highlanders: Part IV

NOW Winter pours his terrors o'er the plain,
And icy barriers close the wild domain,
From the fierce North the sweeping blast descends,
And drifted snow in wild confusion blends;
The Mountain-Cataract, whose thundering sound
Made echoes tremble in their caves around,
Now dashing with diminish'd majesty,
In frozen state suspended seems on high;
While in the midst a small contracted stream
Tinkles like rills that lull the shepherd's dream.
The River crusted o'er, and hid in snow,
Unfaithful tempts the traveller below;
While pools and boiling springs, unsafe beneath,
Betray th' unwary to the snares of death.
How awful now appears Night's silent reign!
Where lofty mountains bound the solemn scene.
While Nature, wrapt in chilly bright disguise,
And sunk in deep repose, unconscious lies;
And through the pure cerulean vault above,
In lucid order constellations move:

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poem by Anne MacVicar Grant
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Icy Moons.

Dark.
Nostalgic
Fireside afternoons.
Time lets us
Replay those tunes.
But
Comes back to haunt us
With icy moons.
Throwing beams
Stowing dreams.
To relive again
Love and pain.
And kisses
That we missed.
Misses
That we kissed.
Behind the dunes.
Now swept away.
Night mocks the day
As memory swoons.

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poem by Kevin East
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Autumn

The calendar
Truly revealed it is was Autumn day
However, the dropp in the temperature
Informed us all
That Winter has gave way
Iam was not ready for Winter
So, I prayed the icy winds
would go away and
Return again
Some other day
For perhaps, the children
Still needed time outside to play?
However, on that Autumn windy day
The force of Winter
Simply had it's icy way

poem by Angel A. Lockwood
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The Veteran

Here must I sit and stare,
Withered and wrinkled;
Knowing the spaces there
With blood are sprinkled.
Why in the smoky sky
Missed I the sad truth?
Why did I not die
Young with the blood of youth?
Why did I not die
Hot in the heat of noon?
Here must I sleep and lie
Under a cool moon.
Here must I die acage,
Pale in the pale light.
Cold in my icy age,
Cold in the icy night.

poem by Leon Gellert
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The Yukoner

He burned a hole in frozen muck,
He pierced the icy mould,
And there in six-foot dirt he struck
A sack or so of gold.

He burned holes in the Decalogue,
And then it cam about,
For Fortune's just a lousy rogue,
His "pocket" petered out.

And lo! 'twas but a year all told,
When there in a shadow grim,
In six feet deep of icy mould
They burned a hole for him.

poem by Robert William Service
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A Chicken Afraid Of The Dark

All night long the dogs would howl,
And in his tiny thumping heart,
Small chicken knew,
That as the icy wind drew closer,
And the nights grew longer,
And the stars seemed to shine less brightely,
That the birds overhead,
And the people all around,
Would be sat around a fire,
Or with their family,
But not small chicken,
He was alone this icy December,
And as the dogs howled,
His tiny stomach yowled,
And the night echoed back.

poem by Nick Hilton
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Please Sun Can We Have More?

“light is come from sun,
please ask sun
to heat up more energy”

no no that's global warming
my polar bears like an icy dip
my penguins love their icy slide
and when the ice melts at the poles

coastlines world wide are swallowed whole
fertile coastal farm land is swamped by salty sea
where will farmers grow crops food for all humanity
land mass shrinking populations expanding is scary reality

from supercell storms to floods droughts is earth cry don’t let me fry

poem by Terence George Craddock
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Blackberry Eating

I love to go out in late September
among the fat, overripe, icy, black blackberries
to eat blackberries for breakfast,
the stalks very prickly, a penalty
they earn for knowing the black art
of blackberry-making; and as I stand among them
lifting the stalks to my mouth, the ripest berries
fall almost unbidden to my tongue,
as words sometimes do, certain peculiar words
like strengths or squinched,
many-lettered, one-syllabled lumps,
which I squeeze, squinch open, and splurge well
in the silent, startled, icy, black language
of blackberry -- eating in late September.

poem by Galway Kinnell
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From My Room

From my room I hear
The wind blow
Strings from icy harp
Filling the dark
Now outside

The morning comes with night
And leaves with night
My heart is in dark
Like flickering light
Pounding on and on
Through to dreams gone

In the dark clouded sky
With beams of low sun flight
Time slowly passes by
With shadows left to right

From my room I hear
Where I now dwell

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poem by Peter S. Quinn
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Shadow in the Dark

I’m a shadow in the dark
The quintessential sound of death
I’m a shadow in the dark
Like the reaper’s icy breath

I’m a statue set in stone
In apathetic sleep
Let the world just pass me by
And I will never weep

I’m a shadow in the dark
The quintessential sound of death
I’m a shadow in the dark
Like the reaper’s icy breath

You don’t have to set me free
You don’t have to light my night
You don’t have to feel my breath
Or step into my line of sight
For I’m a shadow in the dark

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poem by Justin Robert Cooper
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