I hope this is lyric poetry. I'm not good at classifying poetry. In fact, poetry and I are really only acquaintances. Whether or not this is a poem is up in the air now too - I'm not sure if I want to try to set it to music or if I liked it as a poem better, but I'm leaning towards poem. If this is in the wrong place, please, please tell me. (The spelling "spritely" is on purpose.)



Jack Frost



Ice cold and sweet – 

Winter, the way you walk

As frost cackles and snaps 

Under your feet, and icicles – 

Never before have I seen anything

That reflects the sunset, so terrifying.

Grotesque puppets of polar bears

And your favourite, the 

Polar pears

Dance on their marionette strings; 

Life. Like hope, only more productive.



Aurora Borealis – 

My winter, how I wish to hear your voice

The swooping alto today,

Eerie soprano the next;

Winds, strong and silver,

Like beeches (and beaches) of snow.



(Do sing, the way you never did,

Before your receding coast lines,

And stay –

What do I say when I grow to miss your

Sharp wit, and delicate fingers like glass.) 





Jack Frost – 

I love your November laughter.

It is so spritely and bright,

The last fat, golden light

Before surrealism sashays in

And your pit-orchestra wolves

Sing you a ballet for the Moon;

Hard-hearted aristocrat,

Not even he can resist.





He cries – 

Yes, Winter, he cries.

Pearly celestial droplets

In your clear sky, spinning themselves into galaxies

Like the streams you captivate under your hand,

They join you. Dizzy and lonely they join you.



(Please sing for me, as you never did

For your limpid icebergs.

Stay – 

What will I say when I grow to miss 

Your sharp tongue and delicate poetry)





What’s that, my beloved –

A blood bruise, healed and green.

It rests under your eye like Earth, under some god.

The wolves slow their song,

Three – four to four – four to 

Eight – eight, and the frost stops whispering.

It’s run out of secrets to tell,

Just when ears want to hear them.



I miss you –

Terrible Winter, I miss your

Wind chime songs and baritone

Bears. Spring, for all her charms,

Her sweeping landscapes

And bright green eyes,

Is not ethereal ice, nor

The hopeful yarp of seals.

She is not cold and sweet,

As you are, singing to your receding coast lines.