It has gotten cold outside. And I’m fighting an old fashioned cold. So today were writing about (a) cold. Even warmth (the anti-cold) brushes the outskirts of our prompt. Warm up to a good cold poem.



There once was a gal named Marie
Who pondered a poem, but gee,
Her wits felt flash-frozen,
Her words weren’t well-chosen …
She figured she’d just take a knee.

© Marie Elena Good, 2021



You can feel the chill in the air,
for it is there that the feeling lingers.
I can sense it in my heavy-mittened fingers
and that is just right for my one night flight.
Way up North, where the air gets cold.

Maybe I’m just getting old and I can’t
warm up like I used to. And it is true
my home base is a place where this flurry
of activity can send me to scurry about,
way up North, where the air gets cold.

Many folks aren’t really quite sold
on the thought of my existence.
There is this resistance to recapture the spirit
long after it appears to have left them.
Way up North, where the air gets cold

I make my bold preparations. The Elves work hard
to be sure every bell sparkles, every whip snaps.
Every present in position. They harness the reindeer
every year as Christmas draws ever so near,
way up North, where the air get cold!

I try my best to make every Christmas a bold beauty.
I am Santa Claus, and that’s my sworn duty!

(C) Walter J. Wojtanik

147 thoughts on “PROMPT #362 – BABY, IT’S COLD OUTSIDE

  1. When Marie writes herself a good limerick,
    it’s something much more than mere pimaric;
    it might be tomfoolery
    suffused with some droolery,
    but her limerick’s more than a gimmerick.

    I’m trying to reply in the same spirit as your original, Marie. Loved it. “Take a knee” indeed!


    The sink is full of stinky dishes now.
    I contemplate the dust and scattered rust
    and search the icebox for a nice, cold beer
    so I can ponder yonder hardened ridge
    of snow that goes beyond the windowsill.
    Tall freezing weeds now fan the snow-bashed grass
    and snowdrifts squeeze the trees. I have no lawn;
    instead, a snowscape stretches from my door;
    a squalidness has filled my squatting space
    and neighbors pray that I may soon be dead,
    but I will not succumb to numbing pleas
    for order; I won’t welcome cold with gold,
    for then my enervated energy
    might generate a clop to fetch a mop.


    I fondly cherish my dapper forest-money-green
    blanket, draped in a sweet cloak of confection.

    Like mesmerizing aspects of nature, so
    therapeutic, enamoring, wrapped in affection.

    There is something comforting residing in the
    belly of warmth, hidden against the elements.

    The villainous elements that heartlessly seek
    to steal your warmth, leave you naked, cold.

    Exposed to cruel bitter winds that cut down to
    the bone. That chills even the deepest of marrow.

    Benjamin Thomas


    If your sneezes keep time with the breezes
    and your cold features mold-crusted wheezes,
    you ought to repair
    to a favorite chair
    and sip toddies until the thing ceases.

  5. Wouldn’t You Know It

    I brought four coats on this trip
    from Colorado, to Arizona
    and Carpinteria, California.
    I used all four: my sweater,
    my husband’s hoodie,
    my leather jacket and
    my wool blazer.
    I could use one now
    because I’m a bit cold this morning,
    but they’re all out in the car.
    I need to get in gear
    and speed up,
    to get warm.
    Thank You for four coats,
    now I need wisdom
    to keep them accessible.

  6. Getting Going

    As I type my poems,
    it’s a bit chilly in the morning air.
    I took the time to slow down,
    pray, journal and give You thanks,
    but now it’s time to start the day
    and be on my way.

  7. Feeling It
    It’s my toes,
    not my nose,
    to suffer first as numbers fall
    in temperature in Winter, Fall,
    and even on a brisk Spring day
    my toes feel cold coming their way.
    My trembling toes:
    first tiny goes,
    then long-man, middle, then the fourth,
    then big man suffers last, of course,
    ‘cause he’s the fattest one of all
    (but still he feels the chilling squall).
    © Damon Dean, 2021

  8. Waking Song, Late November
    Waking. Song of Late November

    crimson dreams
    bleed into early morning
    an early rise on the hill
    a blanket thrown
    a draft through thin panes
    old conversations linger
    the early sun permeates skies
    and I live many lives
    one road fixed
    one torn
    but I’ve come home
    for now
    leaves of yellow
    litter the lawn
    the world I know
    lives and dies
    a story of passage
    in the veins
    of each leaf
    I must mulch or rake
    a song from my youth
    it echoes in my mind
    a stanza of an unfinished poem
    left to finish some day
    a love letter on the table
    inked in red
    I no longer know
    where to send

  9. Possibility, Not too Distant

    Bare trunks slide beneath
    thumb and fist cold seeping
    through gloves although
    sap still glistens in the cut
    not quite congealed

    Geese write runes
    reflected in last light
    on the pond’s surface
    sky sealing in their wake
    holding in first flakes

    Wind brings ice to mind
    bits of memory crowding
    in knowing these grasses
    will soon bend beneath
    a million crystals rich

    A mine field scattered
    idly by some unseen hand
    how snow birds will dance
    on its surface printing patterns
    with their tiny jointed feet

    Lacey weavings beneath
    swinging feeders coated in ice
    windows swathed in scallops
    of frozen from the night
    and our bones’ very marrow

    Knowing not too distant possibility
    of very blood’s slowing
    extremities turning to ice
    overnight in the homeless camp
    when the barrel goes dark

    and we reach into our pockets
    then for another fiver and
    whisper thanks to the gods
    for the furnace groaning
    and the crackle of the logs.

    Marie, get well soon!! Glad it’s down to a cold. LOVE the lim(b)erick… too many trees on my brain!
    Walt–a sculpture Santa already on the mantle from my husband’s childhood… St. Nick still taking care of his sack. Love your poem and your co-persona. thank you for being/doing…. the world needs a lot of real Santas right now.

  10. The Erie Pals Bluze

    The Erie Pals: the gal
    and the independent Clause
    in their varying ways,
    The cold wind wails, un buffered
    and has
    for days upon days upon days
    upon days nights, too.
    My advice to you
    sip hot water/lemon juice/honey ad lib
    and when you’re not sipping
    hold the warm
    cup against your breastbone.
    Imagine your imaginary Uncle Valter
    dropped by, in full hazmat suit,
    with a valise
    full of cash money. And betteryet magicked you
    to a citrus-scented rest home
    where the tissues kiss your nose gently
    and a tender heat is the norm.
    And frequently laugh
    even if it makes you cough.

  11. While We Aren’t Looking

    Riding silently, on a breeze,
    pushes the remaining warmth away. It
    sneaks in
    on us, turning moonlit nights bitter –
    and we
    still sing summer love songs and
    long for
    color on barren branches that once bore the reds of


  12. One Might Dream, Maybe Take the Heat Out of Life

    Hard to imagine, really,
    those twin sisters in Oslo,
    working in separate labs
    and coming up with cures
    for the common cold,
    both on the same day,
    the same sisters who earlier
    found the AIDS vaccine
    and the silver bullet cure
    for all those types of cancer.
    Incredibly, their cousins
    in Somalia and Syria
    were the ones who discovered
    the peace pill,
    the same cousins who
    snuck it into the world’s
    water supplies in 2012.
    Awesomely, their mother,
    the Nobel laureate for
    All Good Things
    is the one who drew up the plans
    for food distribution, worldwide.
    Hard to imagine, really,
    a world before that time,
    where people were starving,
    even though there was
    an abundance of food.
    Their father is only a carpenter,
    but, oh what a carpenter.
    He’s the guy who designed
    those inexpensive, off-the-grid houses,
    taking the homeless off the streets .
    What a family, the Mann’s.
    Hard to imagine, really.


    There once was an elk named Steve
    Who cherished every single New Year’s Eve,
    He’d stand out in the snow
    In 60 below
    Often too frozen to leave

    There once was a skunk named Carlton
    Who no one considered much fun,
    Because every time it was cold
    He became quite bold
    Stinking up the place until he was done

    There once was a bear named Charlotte
    Who made a snowman she considered a pet
    When it started to melt
    She cried because she felt
    Her poodle had become a puddle and yet

    There once was a snow pet as a poodle
    It held together about as well as a noodle
    As the weather warmed
    And the May flies swarmed
    It became water for children to doodle

    There once was a snow hare named Roxie
    Who navigated the frosty earth with her moxie,
    She could sneak under a log
    Cover herself in the fog
    Her stealth moves made her rather foxy

    There once was a coyote named Bill
    Who every winter became very ill,
    He’d rebound by spring
    Eating again, every thing
    Until stuck again in the cold, lying still

    There once was a stubborn duck named Zach
    Who wouldn’t leave his frozen water in the back,
    He so loved his pond
    He refused to respond
    They had to carry him home in their backpack

    There once was a frog named Chad
    Who gave every winter all he had
    He finally found a little red suit
    Complete with each black boot
    Appearing like Santa, he warmed up, feeling glad

    There once was a frog dressed like Santa Claus
    Being warm in the winter was his cause
    He hopped around in his brilliant red
    Including a Santa hat on his head
    Smiling broadly, hearing all the applause

    (Thought I blend the style of Marie with the topic of Walt, today . . . it was a fun ride, right into the cold, I must say! 🙂


    Pull me inside out,
    and see that I am winter.
    Persistent, bitterly cold, westerly winds
    hostile in nature, prevent you
    to enter—my heart, Antarctica.

    A brutal, barren place
    spacious with frozen, hardened ground.
    No visible signs of life for miles, and
    miles around.

    Snow capped mountain ranges
    prettify silent, stoic, glacial scenery.
    Sitting high peaks stand tall at the height,
    as if keeping watch over lands
    in preparation for the might of epic war.

    I am surrounded by beautiful, dazzling
    unknown seas; an ultramarine deep freeze,
    picturesque in calmness, azure-cool in countenance.

    There is a steady rhythmic warmth,
    a sounding trumpet, a pounding of drums
    that breaks the brutal ice of silence
    as far as the eye can see.

    A muscular heart beats defiantly with
    with the blood of hope, viscous with pain, but remains the talebearer of a well wintered soul.

    The vile cold is a familiar foe; the hatred of
    of its putrid, polar breath cutting deep
    upon the skin, whips like the betrayal of an old
    bitter friend—but this one I know.

    Benjamin Thomas


    Common colds,
    like common scolds,
    are irritating things:
    they ruin days and spoil all fun
    and seemingly are never done
    destroying lovers’ flings
    with hearts and hands
    on burning sands;
    they’re nature’s apron strings.

  16. This one is based upon a very real dream I had
    many years ago. To say it was vivid, is putting it mildly.
    I believe it was a prophetic dream that still speaks to
    me today. It played out in real time after my salvation.
    I got saved but my best friend, who was also
    in the dream, led a very different life.


    Ice cold are the lips bearing down on mine.
    The not-so-sweet kiss of death bade my
    obedience to the contrary.

    An audacious attempt to haul in my volition,
    override sensibilities, and siphon the senses
    were ever dire.

    The alluring sex appeal of her fluid appearance
    was the trip wire—an explosion into the nether;
    unsuspecting nebbish fools into smithereens.

    She lulls to sleep the most intricate defenses;
    intending to prey upon the weak, still of heart.
    Seeking to slay the peace, and corrupt all innocence.

    Her smooth translucent skin eerily stretched
    across her bones. Her blood flowed burgundy,
    dark as rich champagne.

    She bore a familiar face, but none knew her name—
    Greed. An avaricious animal that gruesomely feeds
    upon the multitude of lust and needs of men.

    She assimilates the entirety of their souls, time
    and time again. Licking wet lips, frothing at the
    mouth in the last dregs of her adversaries.

    Held captive, I was led by the hand down a strange
    spiraling staircase. Down, down, down, we fled
    leaving the light above.

    We did not see the destination in the absence
    of light, but another winged beast appeared—
    so suddenly, intercepted me in its flight.

    Rising and ascending in a flurry, confused with
    one quick thought…my comrade, still descending,
    didn’t make it. But, he never fought.

    Benjamin Thomas

  17. Sniffle, Sniffle

    I hope I don’t catch a cold,
    and panic it’s much worse than that.
    As virus mutations grow bold,
    I hope I don’t catch a cold.
    Seems like they have no strong hold
    on what formula will combat.
    I hope I don’t catch a cold,
    and panic it’s much worse than that.


    the spark in her eyes
    oh, how they dance;
    night on the town?
    no, not a chance

    he knows that look:
    she has cold feet
    the special kind
    when lovers meet

    his touch ignites her
    deep in her heart
    and heat is drawn
    from other body parts

    the fire holds them
    in a passionate embrace
    their pleasure radiates
    from her flushed face

    so, sometimes it’s good,
    this much, he knows:
    when she feels the chill
    all the way to her toes

    I keep trying to write a new “cold” poem, but this one kept returning to my mind, written some time ago. So I thought I’d share it here…with perhaps the hope of it clearing out of my head to write something new, later.

  19. The cold grey days…

    My forest has lost its leaves
    Except the brown leaves of the white oak,
    And golden leaves turning brown of the beech…
    They will fade all winter
    And in the spring when paper thin
    They fall apart like paper made of rice.

    Winter is upon the forest,
    And the grey, brown, and black trunks
    March across the terrain
    Silent soldiers in their cold winter stance.
    The evergreens cast dark green
    Here and there, but it is the still sentinels
    Waiting for spring to come
    For then they will dance in the light-yellow greens.

    I love the forest in which I live,
    And at the first of the winter
    I love the different patterns of bark
    That defines the tree they are,
    But as winter lingers,
    I begin to fill the weight
    Of those tall giants
    Standing looking beyond me,
    And in winter
    I feel insignificant
    And lost in the maze
    That is more a labyrinth than a maze
    For the woods will swallow you,
    And you can’t find your way back.

    But as I look at the fading day sky
    A touch of gold beneath the silver of the sky,
    I know that spring will come again,
    And those first green, yellow leaves
    Unfolding will make my heart sing again.

    Mary Elizabeth Todd
    December 1, 2021

  20. I am sorry I have not been on here lately… I have been very ill…I have since my 20s got a winter cough that can last from November until March… I got it back in November and I am slowly getting control over it… I have found if I keep the heat at 68 or below, I don’t cough as much….


    It’s the cold truth of mortality—
    That we are not invincible.
    We are feeble human beings.

    But this one thing, is the principle—
    That life has its fatal flaws.
    No one lives forever.
    And not one, escapes the jaws
    of death.

    We are like leaves blowing effortlessly
    in the wind. Once full of sap,
    saturated with every hue.

    Then, at the appointed time,
    a slow miserable crumbling ensues.
    A slow drying of strength.

    Until we become nothing.
    A slow withering away.

    Benjamin Thomas

  22. My feet are cold…

    I don’t want to put on socks.
    Just want my feet to be warm.
    I pull them up under my flannel gown,
    And they get warm
    But I have to go to the kitchen
    And they get cold again.
    I try to convince my cats
    To cuddle close to my feet,
    But they chose to sleep elsewhere…
    I will head to bed,
    And they will get warm
    Under the covers.
    When I get out of bed-
    They will get cold again…

    Mary Elizabeth Todd
    December 3, 2021

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