Sunday Night Poetry (Week 40)

When warmth clears the skies

And the sun no longer hides

We can all look forward to

The changing season’s tides

When leaves will fall

When snow piles tall

You can still hear

The soft bird’s call

Either in fair or in dark stormy weather

You will always know whether

The year’s new comings

Will keep us together

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Sunday Night Poetry (Week 39)

Again, sorry I missed last week. I keep finding it harder and harder to keep up with everything, I have so much to do. D: But I’ll try. Tonight, just sit back with your blankets, sweaters, fluffy slippers, a warm cup of hot chocolate (with marshmallows!), and a cat on your lap, and just read to your heart’s content. 😀

From silent nights

To noisy fights

To colorful lights

That are oh so bright

From city bustling

To forest rustling

People hustling

Little mice snuffling

From a moonlit lake

To a burning stake

The sound they make

Inspirations awake

Everywhere you look

Every cranny and nook

From the treetops to the brook

All found in a good book.

Sunday Night Poetry (Week 38)

(Ahhh noo I’m sorry I missed, like, three weeks of this. I remember just as I’m doing something, and when I get the time, I forget, and afterwards I remember too late. Please accept this random poem as an apology.)

Snow glistens on the hill

Ice crowds the windowsill

Small dens that snow will fill

House those who are waiting ’til

The warmth of springtime rolls around

No more huddling underground

No more cold devoid of sound

Much less suffering to be found

Yet ice still sparkles night and day

In the sun’s bright warm ray

The children run out to play

Winter is here to stay

Sunday Night Poetry (Week 37)

Here’s a little poem I wrote in my spare time. It has exactly 26 lines, and I tried to use it in a letter-game, but it didn’t work out so well….

I know it may not make too much sense, it was completely random. Enjoy your night!

When the raven’s cry

Turns the sky

An inky black

You have a knack

For finding trouble

No, finding double

Or maybe it finds you

Whatever’s true

You can’t deny

That in the sky

The ravens arrive

To revive

The crown of old

A plot will unfold

The lions roar

From one to four

The wolves will howl

Pull back the cowl

Of the guise

And he will rise

To fight the fight

The light of night

While the ravens fly

And the children cry

And the world will slowly

Wither and die

Sunday Night Poetry (Week 36)

Winterscape

The snowflakes fall

Glistening in the moonlight

A lone raven’s call

Echoes through the silent night

Brittle branches

Waving in the breeze

The soft light dances

Over what will soon freeze

A blue chill

An icy glaze

Slips over the hill

Where the fox preys

A thick blanket

Of glistening white

Who would’ve thought it

Would ever come tonight

The ice takes

The thin shape

Of the frozen lakes

In this lonely winterscape

Sunday Night Poetry (Week 35)

When rivers run red,

And the trees become huge,

And your cozy bed,

Is no longer a refuge,

When snowflakes fall

To the ground in July,

And you start to call,

“Please tell me why!”

When spirits walk

Among us once more,

And in silence they talk

Like never before,

When the sky is not blue

And never will be again,

Who will you turn to

When the night comes to end?

For the spirits, they walk,

And the snowflakes, they shock,

And the rivers, they run,

And the sky, there is none.

While some call this

The end of the world,

Something’s amiss:

A plot unfurled.

Creation anew

Has come to light,

From nothing it grew:

A new world taking flight.

Sunday Night Poetry (Week 34)

Challenges

She dances in the snow

Unaware of the events

That will come in the future.

She breaks off a crystallized water cone

Knowing it will soon melt away

Like the memories of her past.

She shakes clumps from the evergreen branches

The green needles reminding her

That nothing lasts forever.

She catches a snowflake

Realizing that, like them,

No situation ever plays the same way.

But there is one thing she cannot foresee,

And that is what she uses

To face the challenges ahead.

Sunday Night Poetry (Week 33)

All Hallow’s Eve

The wind rustles the red-orange leaves

The familiar orange glow alight

Ghosts and goblins and witches alike

Roam the streets on this darkest night

Tales of horror and terror, they brew

The cauldron echoes the screams

One must be cautious on this darkest night

Nothing is quite what it seems

The silver Moon is shining bright

A howl rings through the air

On this darkest night, the spirits arise

Whispering, “Beware! Beware! Beware!”

The magic is present on this darkest night

Magic no one will believe

But once the tide has finally turned

Get ready for All Hallow’s Eve.

Sunday Night Poetry (Week 32)

Yes, I know this does not rhyme, but bear with me, it’s late.

Individuality

A single red rose

In a field of white ones

Scorned for its difference

It seeks refuge

In the tall grass

That hides it from exposure

One fine spring morning

The scarlet head pokes up

Above the sea of snowy-white

As a young girl runs by

Never a victim

To the cruelties of the world

Raised under the glove of protection

She bends over

Plucks the one rose

The scarlet one, the lucky one

Which was once scorned for individuality

In a vase with other stand-outs

Red daisies and tulips and pansies

Finally, among its kind

It knows it is not alone

Sunday Night Poetry (Week 31)

I Am The Storm

Pawing through the debris,

What will I find?

Worrying, you see:

What follows close behind?

A knife there, some blood here;

I question myself, “Why?”

I willed the view to appear;

“Tell me!” I am forced to cry.

The silence screams a thousand lies

And whispers a single truth.

The fear inside shrivels and dies

As I listen to the sayer of sooth.

A flick of the wrist, a slice of the claw

Uncovers the sinister plot.

A clever, quick-witted shadow, I saw;

Innocent? I think not.

Now I shift through what remains,

The wreck that once had flourished,

Peering through the endless rain,

The rain that once had nourished.

The wind whispers in my ear,

“This storm will destroy your form.”

So I shout right back for it to hear:

“I am the storm.”