Winter Fire

I remember the

white snow

swirling in the wind

to the bass drum of

thunder far above,

striking the dark slate clouds

that sparked with silver blue



I remember the regal green pines

staunch and statuesque against

the crepuscular gloom.


I remember the firelight

just so,

making a nimbus of

your hair.


I remember thinking: This holy being holds my heart.

And my love leaped into

the fire,

and grew warm as

the blush of your cheeks

when I kissed you,

and you took my face

in your hands to

kiss me back,

igniting torrid feelings

that shamed the

winter storm,

and made the fire a

pale and sickly


of what we share.

You are

my winter fire,

and we will never be



The Ice-Blue King

I see him on the throne

in this cavernous hall,

alone, utterly alone,

as all around him slowly chips away,

and crumbles,

and dies.


He waits, but not for me.

A longing puts an aura round him

and fills the hollow alcove

with a shimmering

sky-blue burst.


Breath becomes ice crystals,

and flesh becomes blue,

but he is waiting

for something, or someone,

somehow still living

in the crippling, crumbling

cold now draped about him

like a royal robe


There will be no spring thaw

of his ice blue gaze,

no warming of his iron blue heart,

no budding blossom of love.


His wrath will fall,

hard and cold

as his kingdom,

when his people return…


if  they return…


if they ever  return…


before the castle

crumbles, and collapses

on the crown of

the ice-blue king.

The Eyes of Heaven

The Eyes of Heaven watch me walk

across the virgin snow,

impassively marking

my passing


I see the winter wolves in

my periphery, gathering

in curious, carnivorous lust

for blood and meat to slake

their killing urge


The blade of my knife is


against my thigh


The weight of my sword

gives me


in the

high, white drifts


And the

Eyes of Heaven

glimmer with memories

of other travelers

who’ve traversed these

rugged rocks


Some to their hearths,

Some to their gods,

And it is all one

to the

Eyes of Heaven


And I stop,

feeling the chill night wind

in the thick fur

of my hood,

in the scruff of my

wild whiskers,

and look back into the Eyes of Heaven

And long to be




they are 

as blind to me

as they are



And the Eyes of Heaven


to dream



ages past,



virgin snow.





Winter Poem (Day of the Dark Full Moon: 80’s poetry)

his breath hangs

white and smoky

on the

winter wind

carrying his life

before him

lifting his prayers to


speaking his words

to some great, nameless



words ignored

prayers unanswered

life gone


is the



© Alfred W. Smith Jr.

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