Category: Uproar


Frostbite and other unlearned lessons

you are cold and hard and I know what that means: many winters of children and fenceposts and frostbitten tongues have taught me lessons about the flavours of frost designs and regret but still I know I do not learn and I will kiss you and taste you and find myself stuck until the spring

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midnight in winter

midnight in winter Ice on the window: skin of the world we do not want, the word the lips refuse to spill. The enemy. The fragile, dermal glass is there, impotent shout against the winter. Voice cries out, silent, inside: whisper, mutter, shiver, curse. A distant train from someplace warm howls. It carries memories of

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Breaking The Ice

It needs strength to break the ice when it’s frozen as solidly as silence. Or so I thought. It needs strength to break the ice, to break the mould and reform. Or so I thought. But just suppose, the ice gives up it’s power and allows the colour to break through, bright so the delicate

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Snowshoeing—March For M and K Frozen branches of barren birch cast blue-grey shadows on the Long Trail, blanketed white. Trees encased in ice and snow, shimmer against cobalt. Cheeks red, ruddy. Our noses, eyes, sting and drip; tiny hairs now miniature icicles. Still, our bodies warm as we climb. We peel layers, swiftly stuff them

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Winter Submission Call

Please enjoy our latest theme issue of “Out In The Cold” featuring 7 poems and 2 prose pieces!  We have some terrific pieces this month.

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Old Order

Old order is subject to decay, they say, and when fate summons, old statues fall freely. Heart-held loves, friends, hatreds, foes: all. Yes, all give way to mighty time’s sway. Bright, fearless, grand, green youthful years with each passing year grow thick wisdom layers, while marching on its way, time fills with fears the cup

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Old Acquaintance

Old Acquaintance I hope to see you in the new year if my town isn’t on lockdown and your city lifts its restrictions you know it’s been a mighty long time You can’t really share a pint over zoom, now can you? And you certainly can’t pass it on the left-hand side no matter how

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Winter Writer

Fallen snow inspires a blank page Infectious germs excuse social solitude Shortened days awaken the dormant night owl Enduring darkness allures the secret soul-searcher Scant warmth sets the spirited pen in motion

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Seed Futures

Seed Futures catalogues arrive fill my mailbox in December barely weeks since the garden ceased to produce I have just tucked it up for the winter, in drab browns and greys lidded compost bin, raked brittle leaves scoured pots and trays but inside there is colour if only on the page – bright gold blossoms

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