With the arrival of autumn we are all set for change. And that change is no more obvious than the change of foliage from green to various stages of color as these leave decay in preparation for winter’s biting cold. We can feel the cooling begin in earnest and it won’t be long before it takes full hold of the season.

The first in this series, you are asked to write a “cold” poem in whatever that dictates to you. Cold temperatures, cold shoulder, cold opening … write your poems as you see fit and then chill!

And remember, today begins our Poem-A-Day Challenge Warm-up. A two-week jaunt into poetry. Stay tuned tomorrow for the next installment. Same poetic time, same poetic blog!




my air,

my coffee,

my words,

my muse,

© Marie Elena Good, 2018




Day will pass in its allotted time, while hay made as the sun shines, lingers. May the world know night’s toils in this rhyme, saying all that a heart desires.  Fingers curl to grasp the cold and darkened shroud, frost descends to cover lovers avowed. Nature’s time stamp, to be trampled upon. Hurl the pall so all can call out loud, kissed by winter’s shadow so endowed.

moon set horizon
vanishes as mourning comes
night’s death brings on day

© Walter J Wojtanik, 2018



  1. I’ve decided to submit this finished collection for publication, which means each poem is “Protect” with a password. Publishers don’t like to accept previously published work, which includes blogs, etc. The password is submit should you wish to read it. The link is

  2. Pingback: PENCHANTS | pictured words


    promote two behaviors:
    closing overcoats and rising

  4. Marie and Walt, your poems are almost like bookends for me. One uses few words to create a picture; the other uses many words to sing a song The whole has a hand-in-glo9ve effect, for me anyway. Thanks..

  5. Such beauty to wake to, Marie and Walt! Thank you for starting us off so eloquently. Here’s my attempt:

    The Drop

    As a heavy wet fog laid hold of the land,
    its icy fingers dropped low to
    wrap around trees, fields and homes.
    Snuggled warmly beneath flannel,
    we woke unaware of changes,
    raising shades, we saw
    the Master Artist’s work,
    left to dry as the sun climbed
    high over the mountain to highlight
    crimson, gold and burnt orange,
    splashed across field and mount
    with an abandon that only a Master
    would dare, let alone achieve.

    (c) 2018 Linda M. Rhinehart Neas

  6. As for the protected offerings on your blog, I found in the quick edit (on WordPress) giving the option of setting to either privat or setting a password. So yes, I guess you can password protect your content.

  7. Not a lovely start for me. May retry after a big coffee. But here goes

    Cold Comfort

    There are ten dozen reasons to complain.
    The tomato plant that never bloomed. Who
    could have guessed aging would be such a pain?

    One night it’s hot as a baby’s bath, two
    days of blistering winds, and now too cold.
    I need a mountain of pills to function.

    The crud in the shower looks like black mold.
    Vote-for-me ads spew acid and unction
    in almost equal parts. I want to scream.

    What’s going to happen after the seas rise
    and every microbe has a plastic core?
    The end of the world is no Facebook meme:

    It came in an SUV, with large fries.
    It came with It’s Cool Inside on the door.

  8. Autumn’s Work

    It’s cold outside.
    The wind blows past my ears.
    Head down, I quicken my long stride.
    My cheeks sting and I blink away my tears.
    Clouds hide the sun.
    Leaves scrunch beneath my feet.
    The season’s work will soon be done.
    Reds, oranges, golds, are all in full retreat
    And winter’s snow gives chase.
    And winter’s snow gives chase.

  9. The cold that wakes
    In September wanders
    Through life’s classrooms, weeding dead leaves
    Happy memories wax and wane with time
    Writing lessons
    On children’s waiting hearts
    Wavering, departs for a day
    Wrestles with the inevitable end
    Weary, decides to rest
    Welcoming the warmth of heavenly rays

    Darlene Franklin

  10. Marie and Walt: Great starters. You know, of course, that there are so many ways to take this challenge, as has been proven by those that have already posted. Should be a very interesting two weeks.


    He provided
    We rejected
    He guided
    We went our own way
    He loved
    We hated
    He gave all
    We give nothing
    He reached out
    We turned away
    He shed a tear
    We didn’t care
    He never left us
    We turned a cold shoulder
    He never forsook us
    We never accepted Him

    Now we stand alone
    Waiting for something
    To warm our souls

    We are the fallen
    And we cannot get back up
    Without Him

  11. In Preparation of Change

    Fall has given summer the cold shoulder
    Turned its back on swim-suits and flip flops
    And is cuddled up in a sweater of vibrant
    Yellows and mellow oranges

    Fall marches to the beat of a slower drum
    A little solemn – maybe a bit more serious
    It revels in cozy get-togethers
    Leaving behind the rowdy party goers who
    Worshiped the sun

    Fall wraps itself in a knitted blanket –
    Stockpiles books, preparing for change
    It lights a pumpkin spice candle and sighs
    as days become shorter, colder

  12. .
    the night
    air was cold

    sad eyes
    could not see

    the pain
    of your thoughts.

  13. Ice Man Cometh

    Ice Man cometh, so cold
    his heartbeats sound
    like icicles breaking. Lips
    like blue ice floes. Frost
    flows from his breath. Streets
    freeze on impact with a touch
    of his soles. Popular in Summer,
    Ice Man’s talents take a hit
    in Winter, except for ice skaters.

  14. The Common Cold

    “A family is a unit composed not only of children but of men, women, an occasional animal, and the common cold.” ― Ogden Nash

    Ogden Nash had a point, when he told,
    “Families are composed of: (see list)
    men and women. They also consist
    of kids and pets, and virus and mold –
    and when you sneeze they grow tenfold.
    Oh Lord, it’s futile to even resist.
    It sucks. Achoo! The common cold.

    So, when you cross that ol’ threshold,
    please understand. You’ll co-exist
    with pathogens. You get the gist.
    Sans Ogden Nash, ‘twas still foretold.
    First hug, then cough. The common cold.


  15. The fall of the year my heart thrills to see
    the leaves glimmer orange on our maple tree
    Vibrant color too quickly shall pass,
    spurred on by the season’s windy cold blasts.
    Leaf will brown, crumble and fall
    from the tree now majestic, beautiful, tall.
    Autumn’s shortened days and colorful delights
    will disappear in winter’s long cold nights.

  16. Need to Breathe

    The front that came–
    the line that sliced the map,
    southwest to northeast,
    sliding sliding sliding over–
    promised cold.

    It came, it went,
    a thin and fickle layer,
    what I had hoped was cold relief
    some air that I could breathe
    without consuming a
    mouthful of mosquitos
    or a gasp of the haze
    of one long bad summer day,
    a humidity of desperate
    waiting, waiting.

    The crisp, the clean
    the ease of colder air
    Instead the thick
    of memory,
    the insistent need to breathe,
    hangs on,
    with no relief in sight.

    © Damon Dean, 2018

    • Damon, you have just described my worst nightmare, and you did it in a way that is actually quite beautiful in spite of it all! Well, at least it would be my worst one if it lasted too long. I am not a hot/humid/mosquito-y kind of gal. Nope. Not at all. I don’t like to feel like I’m breathing soup. Come on up to NW Ohio and breathe in the mid-thirties to upper-fifties, sunny days! I’ll ladle out the hot cider, and Keith will put a fire in the fire pit. 😀

  17. Here’s my 2nd attempt since Connie reminded me (us) about the points of the ‘fall’ challenge.

    Cold White Smoke

    I sweep just cold white smoke today,
    the leaves too wet to burn in orange rage
    while long late sunset shadows splay
    across the yard. They tell the day its age.

    The sky is dark enough now,
    some few early stars appear,
    and as a tear,
    a smoke encouraged tear,
    falls down my face,
    I tell myself that stars don’t fall.

    Now or then up from the leafy heap,
    amid the smouldering fire of hidden fears,
    from silent ashes, glimmers from my heart will leap
    and cast a glow on falling salty streams.
    I stare at pulsing embers, glowing deep.
    I know that you are somewhere in the world
    I hope not hurt, not wanting–oh, not dead–
    I pray God’s grip is tight around you,
    fingers gently, firmly curled.
    When we again meet face to cautious face,
    what words will you, will I, dare say?
    What will pass between us?
    A civil trace of courtesy,
    a proper hug,
    a barely rehearsed play?
    I want to burn it all, today,
    the fallen brown debris of our harsh winter winds.
    When we finally meet,
    once more,
    at some open door,
    there should be no cold white smoke in our way.
    A daughter and her dad should freely breathe
    and freely see
    and freely say
    what words burn in the embers of our heart.

    (c) Damon Dean, 1996, Rev. 2018

  18. Into the cold darkness, another whispered plea
    to the God who loves me, hears, knows, and sees.
    Tears fall from tired eyes as I flee,
    to the One I need
    to set memory
    fully free.
    To the prick of the needle, the poison that calls,
    I beg, plead Him to prevent a big fall.
    Will He silence body’s recall?
    Afraid, alone, so small,
    On God I fall
    with my all.
    My Father’s ear listens, is attuned to my voice.
    I begin to recount truth, to rejoice.
    Christ gives strength, in Him are true joys.
    His Word destroys lie’s noise,
    enables my choice
    to rejoice.

Comments are closed.