My Words

Understanding the World through words

Tag: Cold

Emerald Green Moss-Poem

The weather was dreary and cold, the way winter feels midway.
It’s chilly and a bit windy, all I could think is, “I should of just stayed in bed.”
“At least it was warm and toasty, sleepy,” Now I’m outdoors and the leaves have been
dead, swept and picked up by those huge revolving street cleaning trucks. Instead of seeing beauty, all the trees are bare, naked, branchy silhouettes. They have a nightmarish quality, something Tim Burton would appreciate. And the sky is full of grey claustrophobic clouds, moist, not letting the sun peak through. The streets are wet from a mixture of dew and rain, they’re shiny, glistening, slick. I’m needing the comfort of caffeine, something warm and caramelly, soothing. Something that will perk me up, something that will make my headache go away. The cold seeps in through my pants right around my knees and my converse sneakers are feeling the dampness of the street. I’m feeling underdressed, sluggish, cold as I walk towards the coffeeshop. I walk with my head down trying not to expose my bare neck to the elements, that’s when I see the crack in the pavement, it’s deep and long, it runs all the way through the parking lot. In between the crack, there’s a filament of emerald green moss, resplendent, alive.
My thought turns to poetry:
Like moss that grows in between blackened cracks in the road—
you need to see beauty in the ordinary.
Beauty is everywhere, hidden sometimes from plain view,
from the uninitiated, but it’s there…
Beauty, life, love
surrounds us,
shows up in unexpected places and sometimes if we’re lucky, we catch a glimpse of it.
As I walked into the coffeeshop, the sun finally peaked through the clouds that had formed in mind,
It felt reassuring, warm like a shamanistic dance of gratitude, even though my feet were still cold, my heart was aflame–I smiled at the barista and ordered my hot caramel topped libation to go.

We all Have To Suffer For Our Art


Winter Shroud

The cold air engulfed me
like a frosty winter shroud.

The Coldness Of It.

The white of snow
conjures up so many

It’s bleak and beautiful,
pristine yet cold.

It covers up
the surrounding
mountain peaks like a
rabbit’s furry coat.

I imagine
saber wielding
Poles mounted on
their trusted steeds,
boldly crossed
a snow covered

to attack a
German mechanized
Wehrmacht panzer
against the white and
green trees.

opened fire–
astonished, mouth agape,
Twentieth Century Teutons
meeting animal and human flesh
with hot punishing steel—

the white heavenly powder

I imagine the absurdity
of it
played out like a
Shakespearean drama,

The backdrop—

a lonely
snow covered field, as
peaceful as the one
I see today.

Suddenly filled with
as the contrast of
mechanized infantry
charged by an archaic mounted cavalry,
met each other
on that distant

by today’s military standards,
tragic, in the sense that
an end of an era occurred.

Nothing about it
makes sense,
only the winter
backdrop and the
mythical coldness
of it in my head.



I stepped outside
pulled down my
pants and pissed
on the frozen

The steam rose
from the soil,
it was shivery

When I was finished,
I walked over
to a roll of foam.
It lay exposed
to the elements,
covered by a ripped
plastic bag.

With my naked hand
I touched the inner folds.
The pressure of my
gentle touch as
I parted the foam,
made a crackling

The white frost
on the material I
was fingering,
parted and cracked
with the slightest
pressure, right
before my eyes.

I was transfixed
by the color of my
flesh against the
frozen white foam.
Inanimate it lay,
until my warm
fingers probed.

Frost On My Grass


Frosty grass
and shrubs
that a new
has come.

Out comes the
mittens, seems
like I’m always
missing one.

Warm blankets,
fleece, wool
and winter
come down
from the

I don’t need
an excuse
to wear
a cozy hat
when my
are covered
in ice.

Holiday music
makes it
perfectly clear,
that winter
in all it’s
is finally

It’s time to
brake out
the eggnog and
spirits, sit by
a warm fire to
sooth our
many thoughts.

P.S. It’s the end of the
fly season where I’m from,
seems that the pesky bugs
die off during
this time of the

P.S.S. Thank you,
Jack Frost

I’m Not Cold


I’m not cold.
I’ve got a hat
And scarf.
Be it 41 degrees?
It matters
What matters
is my
fashion sense,
that they
in color
and tone:
that are
well worn.