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Poetry Prompts

Monday Poetry Prompt: Frost

This week let’s write a frost poem. There are several different types of frost to explore and bonus points for an allusion to the great 20th century poet. Post your chill in the comments below.

About Bartholomew Barker

Bartholomew Barker is one of the organizers of Living Poetry, a collection of poets and poetry lovers in the Triangle region of North Carolina. Born and raised in Ohio, studied in Chicago, he worked in Connecticut for nearly twenty years before moving to Hillsborough where he makes money as a computer programmer to fund his poetry habit.

Discussion

12 thoughts on “Monday Poetry Prompt: Frost

  1. Walls

    Old family photos hid
    A secret revealed years later
    When a brother and cousin appeared after 54 years

    We always thought
    My grandmother hid something but
    Never did we imagine this

    A secret child conceived amid grief
    My grandparents retreated behind their walls
    As surely as Frost’s New England farmers retreated behind theirs

    Liked by 3 people

    Posted by Second Act Blogger | January 28, 2022, 2:12 PM
  2. I like how the word-thoughts are unsullied as new fallen snow. I like the idea of frozen echoes that make the mind’s own voice a herald. Winter.

    Liked by 1 person

    Posted by ts19page | January 26, 2022, 1:53 PM
  3. Frost

    Humans from the north
    acclimated to long dark,
    find firelight soothes
    light eyes,

    Women standing behind us
    in time.
    lead us here,
    by this winter fire.

    They were beautiful
    and cherished,
    self-contained
    and ignored.

    As the body bends to lift the child,
    to push its weight
    into kneading bread,
    or stretches to hang clothes to dry,

    We feel this and turn inward,
    a recompense against the cold.
    As if to send love backward,
    laying offerings to gods of home and hearth.

    Even the voice is inherited,
    the way lullabies
    spring from flame.

    Lives, lyrical, by frost curtailed,
    and encompassed,
    whose eyes, glittering in lambent light,
    we seem to see.

    Those who learned what summer means,
    laced in hammocks hung from trees,
    rocking outward into force, into abandon,
    our progenitors.

    Across meadows barefoot, they ran,
    spinning under re-leafed trees,
    heedless of the meter
    of the warm-weather brook,

    Irreverent to winter,
    casting off inklings
    of the slow earth-turn
    toward dark.

    In January,
    the close winter night wind simpers,
    the fire burns low,
    ice freezes in the buckets outside the door.

    T. Page

    Liked by 3 people

    Posted by ts19page | January 26, 2022, 12:59 PM
  4. Hexapsalmos

    The sun hidden behind the ridge
    Smoke rising from somewhere beyond
    into the blue-blue sky of a bitter morning
    the moon holding fast against the now-here day

    Echoes stilled in the calm air
    tinnitus, the false sound
    growling into a crescendo forte
    a mighty 11-note chord
    into Sergei’s pride

    A step breaks the sostenuto
    crunching crashing cross crust
    thoroughly sealed by rime the night before
    a one-inch slab of snow gives way
    under the weighted boot

    Sunlight overflows the mountain
    Hoar frost lit in suspension
    Light and sound
    cold air and warm breath
    elementals, present now

    I am just a witness
    as my word-thoughts drone on
    and will not be still
    until I write them down
    as they have been before
    as they have been unspoken
    as they will always be
    until someone unhears them again
    unwritten, unsullied and ever-new

    Liked by 2 people

    Posted by Chris Clarke | January 25, 2022, 11:05 PM
  5. That’s just plain awesome! 😍

    Like

    Posted by Kathy Jo Bryant | January 24, 2022, 4:00 PM

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