Ode To Winter

Ode To Winter ode

You are not a season but a presence,
An imagined whisper in someone’s ear.
And with your hollow footsteps of silence,
Perhaps a traveler who is not here.

A Phantom that haunts the city,
That we inhabit while we are asleep.
And upon the post cards of reality,
You leave imprints of your feline creep.

You arrive unnoticed like a reverie.
A slowly descending shadow ark,
That sets its cargo of the cold free,
And drops its anchor into the dark.

I saw you playing your frozen guitar,
Sadly on the corners of the street.
Growing more and more frantic by the hour,
With the breeze howling beside your feet.

I saw you with your broken heart of Ice,
Playing till the sad music filled the town.
Till you and your wintery sighs,
Merged, into the rains that came down.

You were like a hungry pup no one owns,
Whispering, wandering from place to place.
But all remained in the warmth of their homes,
Rushing, refusing to meet your gaze.

They said that you were an insane miser,
Living alone with his glacial jewels.
Who stumbled but refused to light a fire,
And stocked treasures in underground wells.

They said you rode through your arctic kingdom,
Calling it your own and planting flags.
Roaming and beating on your hunting drum,
Falling asleep on desolate crags.

They forget that you drew from your own veins,
And every day broke from your white bread,
And gave from your own depleting remains,
That the thirsty oceans may stay fed.

Perhaps you are just a solitary hermit,
Meditating on the stalagmites.
So derelict that no one would visit,
But shadows of distant polar nights.

Standing like a misunderstood spirit,
Alone on those endless landscapes of Ice,
With his blue, crystalline lanterns unlit,
And the gaze of his extinguished eyes.

This poem is part of the Poetry Book “Twenty Poems of Light and Longing: Rabbit HOLE calling

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Jay Krishnan

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Always wide eyed with wonder, prone to reveries and restless with an inexplicable yearning to create ever since he was a little boy, Jay wrote his first poem when he was six. He discovered the ore of his creative endeavors in the writings of his sister from which everything else originated, in attics filled with vanilla smelling old books, in savoring the classics and in intricate poems of Wordsworth and William Blake inlaid with rhyme…. His poems have snuck under editorial radars and appeared in global anthologies, magazines, newspapers and online journals. He also runs an idea shop called the Centre of Gravity, draws cartoons, directs animated short films and conceptualizes communication campaigns. All of which originate from the same artery of poetic longing that destiny charmed into his soul.
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J.rid
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what a wonderful poem and way to depict winter, in all its forms. I did enjoy reading.

wpDiscuz

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