Frost
Upon waking, I pad softly over to my window,
And look out, at the wintry world, down below.
Many of the things which are within my sight,
Are covered with a thin coating of pure white.
I hear car engines running, and ice being scrapped away,
As neighbours nearby, prepare for another working day.
Through the gap, between the houses, stood nearby,
I see a bright patch of beautiful, peach coloured sky.
With icing sugar, the world appears to have been sprinkled.
In the morning sunlight, millions of minute crystals twinkle.
With dazzling diamonds, pavements seem to have been encrusted;
But, my, once sure, footing upon them, can no longer be trusted.
As I walk along the pavement, my feet slide and slip;
It is much more difficult now, to get a really good grip.
My pace, this morning, is much slower than my norm;
I tread much more warily, on this crisp, cold, frosty morn.
Only the very hardiest of plants, will survive and linger,
As, across the land, wicked Jack Frost, points his finger.
Fine, feathery patterns, now decorate the window panes;
But, as beautiful as they are, sadly, they will not remain.
Where the sunlight shines, the frost crystals disappear first,
But, where the shadows fall, crystals take longer to disperse.
Slowly, but surely, the frost melts, as the day wears steadily on,
And, by midday, the last of the glistening crystals, will be gone.
poem by Angela Wybrow
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Related quotes
Frosted Glass
Frost flowers on my windowpane.
Jack Frost has visited again.
I always know when he's been here.
Because pretty patterns appear
As if by magic overnight.
A tracery of sparkling white.
A sight that sure to satisfy.
The most discerning artist's eye.
It's beautiful though transient.
Frost paintings can't be permanent.
It will last for an hour or two.
Before it melts as it's sure to.
Frost flowers bloom beneath the moon.
‘til morning comes alas too soon.
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Night frost
Night frost
~
I watch through the window
The night frost roll out
Encasing the world slowly
Plants wither away
Gardens turn white
Parked cars sink beneath
The white tapestry of winter
A beautiful savagery
Emerges before my eyes
The night frost is unforgiving
Yet captivates me
I watch through a window
In sleepless fascination
The beauty of a world
In transformation
poem by Matthew Holloway
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IMMENSELY DEAR (Revised)
A personal favourite is Symbolism, I prefer
symbolic special objects to the real, love the
purity of crystals with their ethereal power;
yet to convince me thoroughly snowflakes
need only ersatz imitation crystals
Charmed by symbolism of religious books
but dry catechisms are abhorrent – love the
significance of diamonds but do not want the
real thing – only symbols to magnify light,
the diamond itself is much too cold
Preferring as a child to play with boxes
and twigs clad in tinsel representing houses
and magic wands – anything suggesting
what it might be, then becoming whatever
I dream – drawn inexorably,
I love glitter – it says sunlight is creating
pearls and crystals of delicate things like
cobwebs and streams, I love the diamonds
seen on sprigs of grass early in spring but
do not try to entice me with real pearls
Diamonds or precious crystals are real and
cannot morph into other objects, although
I love seeing them behind glass in expensive
shops; but for my satisfaction I want only
symbols of these beloved objects,
I adore small fairies made from artificial
materials, not golden statues of saints and
angels – want to imagine what a thing might
represent – such symbolism is immensely
dear to me…
poem by Margaret Alice Second
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Snow
'Who affirms that crystals are alive?'
I affirm it, let who will deny:
Crystals are engendered, wax and thrive,
Wane and wither; I have seen them die.
Trust me, masters, crystals have their day,
Eager to attain the perfect norm,
Lit with purpose, potent to display
Facet, angle, colour, beauty, form.
Water-crystals need for flower and root
Sixty clear degrees, no less, no more;
Snow, so fickle, still in this acute
Angle thinks, and learns no other lore:
Such its life, and such its pleasure is,
Such its art and traffic, such its gain,
Evermore in new conjunctions this
Admirable angle to maintain.
Crystalcraft in every flower and flake
Snow exhibits, of the welkin free:
Crystalline are crystals for the sake,
All and singular, of crystalry.
Yet does every crystal of the snow
Individualize, a seedling sown
Broadcast, but instinct with power to grow
Beautiful in beauty of its own.
Every flake with all its prongs and dints
Burns ecstatic as a new-lit star:
Men are not more diverse, finger prints
More dissimilar than snow-flakes are.
Worlds of men and snow endure, increase,
Woven of power and passion to defy
Time and travail: only races cease,
Individual men and crystals die.
poem by John Davidson
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Crystals
snow crystals falling gently
caps, white bodies around a hill
a mantle along the road
slippery
cold, and silky
and glossy with light
painful as such
when held
longer to the tip
of my finger
frost and chill
and thrill,
these are what i do not have
experienced yet
something to talk about
and guess
vicarious, elegant to the
ambition of thoughts
rambling and
fanciful
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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As a young boy
As a young boy
I remember
seeing a plastic
Jesus statue
with a finger
pointing to
his Heart
I remember
waking up
on Cold
frosty mornings
and reading
Notes of
Jack frost
on each window
I remember
in the Early
hours of the
morning
Three Taps
on the window
and waking up
to the Old Hag
staring
I remember
asking my
Mom
many Questions
and her
saying
Only God
knows
poem by Jay Reynolds
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Light Of Pure Life
Went to a shop to look at crystal lamps when my
eyes were caught by crystal lace fabrics perfect
for creating the beautiful gown I always dream
of, formed when I walk in the sea splashing
with my feet till sprays of crystal drops
cover me in silver white layers
I wondered how to make a dress from liquid crystal
to shimmer and shine wherever I went, now having
found the perfect crystal lace my dream is fulfilled –
though my book on Secret Tools for Six-Sensory
Living recommends seeking psychic healing
through the power of crystals
as the only dream worth cherishing; but a crystal
dress seems more attractive to me than people
who try to sell the psychic power of crystals -
only charlatans use these devices - I love
New Age ideas but without evidence of
their success, crystals remain
enchanting symbols representing the beauty,
clarity and light of pure life…
poem by Margaret Alice Second
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Everything Was White
Woke up this morning,
outside I beheld
a wonderful sight.
Jack Frost had been around
and everything was white.
It might have been cold,
but I didn’t care.
You could see your breath
freezing in the morning air.
Out came the scraper
to get the frost of the car,
still it was a wonderful sight
seeing Jack Frost’s handy work
and everything white.
poem by David Harris
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Christmas To Me
The misty fog
Crept slowly in
As the crystal of frost
Climbed on my window pane
I stand outside
In the cold winter breeze
Feeling the chill
Of our first winter freeze
Will I get to see?
My first snow flake
Will I get to make
An angel in the snow
Will I get to make
A snowman with glee
I stand here pondering
What is a white Christmas?
I can't begin to fathom
A snow white land
Is it true?
Is snow like crystals?
That shimmers in the sun
Do they softly grace?
Your gardens
In the midwinter fun
Christmas to me
Is a Barbie at the beach?
Beach games and swimming
Is how we have our Yule Tide Treats?
poem by Kaila George
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Nocturnal artistry for M lady Ann Beard
Nocturnal artistry
The frost adds glitter to the grass.
Which stands erect like silver spears.
Transient beauty which will pass.
The suns rays make them disappear.
Lacy designs on window glass.
More delicate than human art
We’d like to keep them but alas.
WE must accept they will depart.
When morning breaks the sun will rise
Undo the efforts of Jack Frost
which we expect it’s no surprise.
Though we bemoan the beauty lost.
Tonight Jack Frost will paint again
his patterns on each window pane.
Sunday,13 December 2009
http: // blog.myspace.com.poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Tears
Glittering in the moonlight,
like morning dew in the sun.
Like live crystals,
living through the ages.
They've seen many a thing,
much more than you know.
Holding precious memories,
beyond our greatest dreams.
These crystals of which i speak,
know both great pain and joy.
For they live inside every one of us,
just waiting to be released.
Facing The Frost
People, around me, are confidently striding,
While I worry about slipping and sliding.
Where it is clear, my confidence grows,
But where it is icy, my pace, again, slows.
People are walking, looking fairly relaxed;
While I walk, head down, watching my tracks.
I approach an icy patch, and pull a funny face,
As, once again, I find I have to slow my pace.
I see some children on their way to school;
With walking on ice, they seem pretty cool.
From the looks on their faces, it is very clear,
That, unlike me, they do not hold any fear.
Where I am able, I walk along on the grass,
So that icy patches, on the pavement, I pass.
At times, I have no choice, but to face the ice;
With the threat of potential injury, I now dice.
My face is a picture of concern and worry;
With the ice around, I feel unable to hurry.
My journey to work seems to take forever.
Needless to say, I’m not a fan of this weather.
It is a cold and sunny morn, but by midday,
Some patches of ice have begun to melt away.
The top temperature today is only four degrees;
It’s been forecast that tonight it will, again, freeze.
Upon the frozen ground, where shadows fall,
The frost appears not to have melted at all.
The shady side of the street is still ice white,
While the sunny side, is now clear and bright.
Come afternoon, some patches of ice are still there;
Shrouded in shadow; untouched by the sun’s glare
The day grows older and night time draws near;
The time when Jack Frost, once again, will appear.
poem by Angela Wybrow
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I Witness A Raven
When the moonlight fractures the patterned frost,
in fragments chiseled into the glass,
shattering and refracting its battery
of light, in silent solace through my window,
I witness a raven through eyes
thick and glazed with sleep.
The night hermit probes his feast
of carrion, picking at entrails, a solitary
meal devoured beneath the round moon’s
undaunted glare, refracting the criss-cross
claw marks on the crust.
The boughs and branches
are furred with frost, casting their shadows
upon dunes of snow. He lifts his hollow
wings, a rancid clump of meat in his beak,
and springs upon a limb, scattering
the snow that’s sprinkled there;
the moon wears a ring
of diffused blue, foretelling snow in the morning,
replenishing the chill in the wind.
The stars that cut the blue-black sky sing
like crystals, but are dulled to wet parchment.
The hesitant dawn is inching its hazy throat
toward the horizon, and the raven, a lone witness
to the dying night. The black pearls of his eyes
shine with a cold luster, untouched
by the palls of weather,
toughened by the glint of his harsh feather.
poem by Caroline Misner
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Feelings And Love 21 June 2009
Masaru Emoto ‘The Secret Life of Water’ lives
next to my bed, every night I look at photos of
geometric water crystals formed when words -
You Are Beautiful – Innocence - Thank You
in Tagalog and Japanese - Marital Love -
are pasted on water containers
Staring at the beautiful crystals formed when
music was played to water before crystallised;
Wagner’s Ride of the Valkyries, Schubert’s
Ave Maria, Mendelssohn’s Wedding March,
Edelweiss and Amazing Grace, wishing I
knew what Whispering Hope
Langenhoven’s Lullaby for Liefstetjie and Die
Lorelei, Ich weiss nicht was soll es bedeuten
would have looked like, looking intently at
the hollow, suffocating image formed by
the word Hate – and the crocodile eye
resulting from September 11,2001
Always delighting in the idea that should human
language disappear, the language of water
crystals will enable consciousness to
converse about feelings and love...
poem by Margaret Alice
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Spots Of Embroidery
Snowflakes dancing along in the air,
all tantalisingly twirled with care.
Flurries of white floss whirling in flight,
landing and dusting all objects in sight.
Silently descending, down they glide,
chasing each other, so far, so wide.
A lace curtain hung across the sky.
A soft quilt, the land, to occupy.
Ice crystals in six fold symmetry,
Feathery spots of embroidery.
Every design unique to the eye,
patterns unseen, as they float by.
Oh, what delight to watch their descent,
tumbling about to such extent,
that a blanket is laid over the ground,
where heavy footsteps can make no sound.
Catch one, but it will dissolve away,
our hand too warm for it to stay.
But how we love this wintry treat,
of crisp frozen snow beneath our feet.
poem by Ernestine Northover
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Snowflakes
Snowsflakes
Travel through air
As numerous as the stars
Each one is different from the last
Each one a new pattern
They glide down like white fairies
Laying to rest on the ground
Slowly the individual
Little ice crystals
Amass to form piles of snow
Coverving the ground
In a fine, cold white powder
As sunlight fades
Starlight takes its place with the moon over head
poem by Autumn Winds
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Wake The World
One by one the stars appear
The light of the day is no longer here
One by one the stars disappear
The sky grows brighter every minute of the sunrise
Wake the world with a brand new morning
Say hello to another fine morning
Got my face in the running water
Making my life so much brighter
Moon shines bright, asleep in my bed
Like so many people got a big day ahead of me
Wake the world with a brand new morning
Say hello to another fine morning
Wouldnt miss it for all of its glory
Ill be there when youre calling me
One by one the stars appear
The light of the day is no longer here
song performed by by Beach Boys
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Killing Frost
There is an enchantment in the Killing Frost
It's the most magical night of the year
When the abundant blooms of Summer
Are put to sleep by Frost's frozen tears.
The Killing Frost arrives here silently
Flying in ahead of Winter's incoming wrath
Covering all things that are of the earth
Putting to sleep all flora in her path.
As the late Autumn sun sinks below the horizon
On this Special Night of the year
Plants which were all alive this past morn will be no more
It's time to make way for Winter's Cheer.
Everything Frost kisses will be put to eternal repose
Adorned by Frost's magical breath during the night
All will be dripping in Diamonds in the Morn
With which to dazzle by soft Morning's light.
Winter will be arriving shortly now
And Frost will take her leave
To make way for fluttering snowflakes
Which will come to dance during the long Winter's Eve.
poem by Christine A Kysely (29 December 2010)
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The pendant
You admired one that somebody
had made
and bought a small pair of pliers,
some silver wire,
clasps, hooks, bits,
different kinds of crystals,
semi-precious stones,
even blue tanzanite stones,
sirkovsky crystals, some pearls
and I saw you bore small holes
and bit-by-bit strung it together.
I watched you with your eyes focused
while you worked
with the pleasure of making something
really beautiful
to hang on your slender neck
between magnificent breasts.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Places
Places I love come back to me like music,
Hush me and heal me when I am very tired;
I see the oak woods at Saxton's flaming
In a flare of crimson by the frost newly fired;
And I am thirsty for the spring in the valley
As for a kiss ungiven and long desired.
I know a bright world of snowy hills at Boonton,
A blue and white dazzling light on everything one sees,
The ice-covered branches of the hemlocks sparkle
Bending low and tinkling in the sharp thin breeze,
And iridescent crystals fall and crackle on the snow-crust
With the winter sun drawing cold blue shadows from the trees.
Violet now, in veil on veil of evening
The hills across from Cromwell grow dreamy and far;
A wood-thrush is singing soft as a viol
In the heart of the hollow where the dark pools are;
The primrose has opened her pale yellow flowers
And heaven is lighting star after star.
Places I love come back to me like music --
Mid-ocean, midnight, the waves buzz drowsily;
In the ship's deep churning the eerie phosphorescence
Is like the souls of people who were drowned at sea,
And I can hear a man's voice, speaking, hushed, insistent,
At midnight, in mid-ocean, hour on hour to me.
poem by Sara Teasdale
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