Post No. 889
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Small Reminder
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Just a small reminder
That winter is almost gone
The nip in the breeze
The bite in the wind
Raises tiny bumps on my skin
Prickling, bristling
A shiver runs up my spine
The last of spring days
Before the summer sun
Changing season
By day or by night
Fluctuating ‘tween cold and hot
Erratic weather, while God decides
Whether or not
To allow summer in…
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©Denise G Allen, Friday, 23 October 2015 08:49
Sunset
My beautiful trees
With their glorious leaves
Reach out to the sky ~
Branches bare ~
Like sticks in the air, resting
‘til the first sign of spring
Sends their sap rising
Rushing, gushing upward
Stirring from the depths of their being
While we’re still gibbering
And shivering with cold.
©Denise G Allen, 13 July 2014 03:44
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A sunny day, or so it seemed,
But a stray mischievous wind
Breathed a tendril of ice
Behind my neck, down my back,
Too weak to move the leaves
But enough to make me freeze
And pull my collar higher,
And my scarf tighter as I hied on by.
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©Denise G Allen, Wednesday, 11 June 2014 11:17
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With the dawn came the cold;
The light of day has given way
To dripping nose and frozen toes.
Gone are the gold and russet leaves,
Skeletons are the remains of trees,
Arms and fingers held up high
Reaching beseechingly to the sky
Diamond chains hang from taps
Reflecting light from a watery sun
Whose weakened rays lack strength
To warm our cold, cold earth
As we wait for the world to turn.
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©Denise G Allen, 12 April 2014 06:57
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Winter creeps from west to east,
Soundless slippers on its feet,
Borne on the warm west wind
Where I feel traces of chill,
A foretaste of the dense cold air
About to descend blanket-like
Covering us, huddled together
Before the flickering fire.
Friday’s the day, so they say,
And preparations are underway…
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©Denise G Allen, 03 June 2014 07:12
Winter’s Almost Here
Winter’s Almost Here
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Striptease trees whose leaves
Fall on semi naked ground
Auburn has darkened to shades of brown
While yellows and reds have all but gone
The long days of summer topped and tailed
Tho’ what is left is still warm as toast
Where the wind cannot reach us
Straining to grasp us as we linger
In our shelter under the wilting sun.
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Image and poem: ©Denise G Allen, 04 May 2014 07:08
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I know you are loath to go
And I am sad to say farewell,
Let us enjoy our last few weeks
Of sunshine days and balmy nights,
Mozzies with their itching bites,
Coolest clothing every day,
To move unhindered along our way.
Too soon, I feel a bite of ice
In the early morning air,
So pleasant now but, as time
Moves on, ‘twill change
Its nature from a nip to a gnash
Of its icy teeth to send us shivering,
Longing for the warmth so lately gone,
And we must wait through the long,
Cold months until you come again.
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©Denise G Allen, 19 February 2014 15:20
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A warm blanket on a cold winter’s night
Before being torn just before dawn
By the loud cries of Africa’s birds
Hadedas, wild geese and louries
Taking off to circle the skies
Waiting, anticipating the sunrise
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©Denise G Allen, 19 July 2013 07:48
Sounds available at: http://www.africam.co.za/wildlife/soundsafricambirds#hadedaibis
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I would say, with skies of grey,
This is our coldest winter’s day.
The skies of blue have blown away
And the cold, I fear, is here to stay.
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Sulky clouds hang overhead,
Frowning at those still abed.
The damp wind breathes its frosty breath,
As cold as ice, as cold as death.
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We huddle in our warmest coats,
We wrap our scarves around our throats,
We glove our hands and sock our feet,
We cap our crowns, oh so discrete,
Before we head into the street.
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©Denise G Allen, 05 July 2013 06:19
Snow/Sleet in Jozi
Cold Old Bones
Winter crept, while we slept,
Into our homes and our cold old bones,
And joints with stiffly (f)rigid digits.
As we awoke the freezing air
Held us fast there in its grasp,
Held us tight with all its might,
We fight to breathe, we’d like to leave
For warmer climes, for heated homes
To ease the hurt of these cold old bones.
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Image and poem: ©Denise G Allen, 19 May 2013 20:13
Photo taken with my cellphone a few years ago.
There is creative reading as well as creative writing.
— Ralph Waldo Emerson
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