Winter Poems by Lily Swarn
Winter is still hibernating in my lush tresses
Letting the chill creep beneath the moisturized skin
The bones weary with carrying my skeletal self
Each breath a loan from my burrowed beloved
Many moons drizzled their silvery munificence
On the miasma of my recalcitrant dreams
Many suns bled on flaming horizons
To shake my autumn leaves afresh
Only you existed in your chosen hermitage
Waiting for the frost to freeze my soul
Winter Nights
Mists rising behind the vain moon
Veiling its hypnotic magnetism
Slyly disappearing from feasting eyes
Collyrium hued clouds of cloaking burquas
Keeping under wraps her glimmering aura
Winter rain seeping into crannies of hearts
Icy rivers mutilating Scarlet O Haras
Turbaned fakirs chanting Sufi Wisdom
Gorges and canyons of liquid moonbeams
Thawing moonlight pale and snowy
Craning its neck through fog Dormant dredges of dribbles
Arching their backs to peep
Hark! The call of the Yeti
The Himalayan abomination
Winter Love
A whiff of your magnetic love
Riding on fragrant air waves
Across lifetimes and soul wars
Suffused with selfless passion
A torn sock, a ripped shirt
A patchwork quilt of poignant waits
Your cashmere sweater of caressing balms
Cushioning hurts of winter chills
Warm jaggery from a rustic cauldron
Poised on rickety wooden tables
Cream puffs of wispy love
Whispering on candy floss pinks
Almighty God in you and me
The universe shielding our pious wants
Heaps of citrus piled high
Orange flames of divine bliss
Of Winter
Winter rain
Riding bare back
On wispy snow flurries
Winter sun
Rudely tearing curtains
Of ominous grey clouds
Winter trees
Nude and brown skinned
Like paintings of masters
Winter love
Yearning and passionate
Embers of evening fires
Icings Of Snow
Cake icings with marzipan
Warm hearted snow capes
Donned by evergreen trees
And bare branches alike
Pathways shoveled ruthlessly
To cut through icy mounds
Not a blue feather in sight
No bushy tail twitching
I am waiting for the cardinals
To show their red to robins
Beach chairs now snow beds
Who knows the sagas,
Of flowers made of chills?
Each roof like Santa’s sleigh
Every slope a skiing slide
November has its secret music
Howling around snow flurries
The sun blazes orange flames
Through the relentless white
Icicles drip like evil popsicles
Lily Swarn is an internationally acclaimed poet, novelist, and essayist, author of 10 books. She is the 2023-24 International Beat Poet Laureate India and a Peace and Humanity ambassador. She can be reached at sukhish83@gmail.com
