This Winter’s Night

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

This Winter’s Night

 

I sit here wondering what to write? My chamber is quiet, not even a mouse about,

I look to see where he may be, his entrance black as coal, no mouse may leave or

enter there, the black cat rests it’s clawed fang in front, so mouse please beware.

 

Leaning back in my creaky seat, I move uncomfortably about, tapping my fingers

wondering as my stand up clock chimes its midnight bong.

The old house is empty but for the cat and mouse and hooting owl outside

sitting cautiously, wise eyed and twisting neck, looking beyond this Universe.

 

My crystal stem I caress and lift it to my lips, the red within is fine,

the tasty grape vintage to my lips as a sip I take and tap my page in front

of me, laying blank awaiting my caress of words that linger somewhere

within my soul, to be snatched from the air.

 

Crackling noises do I hear from my stone hearth, I see the flickering tongue,

the flame dancing like a voodoo woman charmer, reaching, twisting, hissing

and wanting to reach the chimney and into the darkest of nights?

Below my chair I see a lonely scurrying spider webbing its silken wire in

haste, for tonight it awaits its prey, I see beyond a roach approaching and

with haste the spider conspires.

 

I linger in thought, wondering what may I pen this night, I’ve often lost

myself in wasted words, my basket is full of parchment amounting to

nothing more than cries of pity, darkest gloomy tales, hell to back again,

crying for the lost loves I nurtured with my kindness and lost forever never

to find again.

 

I look to my window and there the snow flakes are falling, the night is

white, the wind is gently blowing, a distinct low howling wind seeping

through the cracks to let me know winter is nigh. Soon the carolers

will be heard, the trees lit up with colored lights and there she will be

my Princess beckoning me to come out and play.

 

Oh how I remember her well, we skated the frozen pond and kissed

so tenderly under the full moon, hot chocolate and romantic words

we exchanged, making promises that said forever me and you then

like a dying mist she vanished into the night. My gloom in this room

lingers with so many fond memories as I take my pen in hand to write

once more as night fades into morn and the candle light dims my eyes

to sleep this chilly winter night.

 

Vincent Moore:

Vincent Moore

Vincent Moore

Vincent Moore pens his thoughts about many things and has a style all his own. Sometimes, he parties with words excessively and it becomes necessary to publish quickly lest his work be lost in the dark corners of his room or his mind. Vincent will lead you into mysterious worlds that are strange yet somehow familiar, worlds that will leave you unsettled and breathless for more.

He was born and raised in Montreal Canada among the Irish, Brits, Italians and French. Point St Charles (commonly called The Point) was the Hell’s kitchen of Montreal. He played, cried, laughed and fought on the street corners, survival was an instinct and watching each others back important. Vincent left home at 17 to find his way in the world, failure and success he had plenty of. He studied the Arts and loved to draw and paint. Took acting lessons and envied those on the stage under the bright lights and hoped to some day become an actor, writer, playwright or painter. Vincent welcomes you to his world of mystery, fantasy and solitude. You can find a few of his writings in one of 3 books he's published.In Absinthia- In Melancholia and In Passionata.
Vincent Moore

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Vincent Moore

Vincent Moore pens his thoughts about many things and has a style all his own. Sometimes, he parties with words excessively and it becomes necessary to publish quickly lest his work be lost in the dark corners of his room or his mind. Vincent will lead you into mysterious worlds that are strange yet somehow familiar, worlds that will leave you unsettled and breathless for more. He was born and raised in Montreal Canada among the Irish, Brits, Italians and French. Point St Charles (commonly called The Point) was the Hell’s kitchen of Montreal. He played, cried, laughed and fought on the street corners, survival was an instinct and watching each others back important. Vincent left home at 17 to find his way in the world, failure and success he had plenty of. He studied the Arts and loved to draw and paint. Took acting lessons and envied those on the stage under the bright lights and hoped to some day become an actor, writer, playwright or painter. Vincent welcomes you to his world of mystery, fantasy and solitude. You can find a few of his writings in one of 3 books he's published. In Absinthia- In Melancholia and In Passionata.

12 thoughts on “This Winter’s Night

  • December 22, 2018 at 9:26 AM
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    Vincent my friend , What an awesome vision that wisdom that came of aging after the perfection of such young and fulfilling a passion . The half awake dreams of desire attached to a woman ! OMG , how we often remember these close encounters , May they come to us in the nights long long after the reality of they’re endings .

    Bless you my friend and merry Christmas !………….Ed

    Reply
    • December 23, 2018 at 8:27 AM
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      Indeed we do my friend, memories fulfill our lingering dreams, often they vanish far too quickly. Thank you for your review and a very blessed Christmas to you and yours.

      Reply
  • December 22, 2018 at 12:09 PM
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    Vincent, your phrasing brings me right into the night where I can hear the silence, see the critters, hear the fire snapping and crackling, feel the need to write words that elude me, and linger in the pleasant darkness of eventide. Wonderful work and I enjoyed it much.

    Merry Christmas to you, Vincent.

    Reply
    • December 23, 2018 at 8:29 AM
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      Your response is poetic to my ears, I also see the visions you see, darkness brings out many shapes and forms, this eve, I saw her standing beside me in that eventide. If not for the silence, I would go mad as there are far too many voices screaming in confusion. And a very Merry Christmas to you and yours dear Phyllis. Peace and good tidings to you sweet poet.

      Reply
  • December 22, 2018 at 3:35 PM
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    Once again Vincent you have excelled where others wither… Love this piece and like you I do the bulk of my writing in the silence of the night. It seems the daylight hours the words have no meaning or at least I cannot coax them to life.

    Reply
    • December 23, 2018 at 8:32 AM
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      Like you my friend Kurt, I too have trouble coaxing words during daylight, I need the surrounding of shadows, candlelight and dimness so my thoughts are more easily expressed, the night brings out the poet in me:-)) Thank you for your kind words and accolade of my work, you to sir are a fine poet and writer. Merry Christmas to you and yours Kurt, may the joy of the season be captured in your work.

      Reply
  • December 23, 2018 at 7:31 AM
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    Love the classic feel to this poem. Written with an eye on perfection. Thank you Vincent. Jamie

    Reply
    • December 23, 2018 at 8:34 AM
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      Thank you Jamie for your fine vision, my eyes are searching ever for perfection, yet it comes with a price of solitude and strife, yet I plunge onward. Merry Christmas to you and yours Jamie, continue to sharpen your pen, you too have an eye for perfection, I read it in your work.

      Reply
  • December 29, 2018 at 3:20 PM
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    Oh man Vincent this is what i missed on my small hiatus, perusing other writing sites, your entry here is the reason i stay here. It is intense, amzazing story telling, such real visions in your words i loved each line. I could actually paint this picture in my mind and see you drinking that glass of wine. Excellent work my friend. Happy New Year.

    Reply
  • December 29, 2018 at 10:44 PM
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    Well thank you for allowing me to be one of the reasons for your staying here among us Paul. I don’t add a lot to the site, I’m not as prolific a poet here, however I do share my work where and when I can. It’s a delight to be among fellow poets such as yourself and others, your work is poetry in motion and often stirs my soul. I do love your work Paul, you are a true poet, words you pen come alive for me and often bring back similar memories of sadness, pain, sorrow and loss. Emotional work often brings our audiences closer to our work, they relate, they feel, they hurt and they shed tears. What a wonderful feeling for us to be the messenger for our Muses, as they relish with pride, knowing that we have reached out and touched another’s heart and soul, often to great depths.

    Reply
  • January 3, 2019 at 7:05 PM
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    You captured the ambiance of a Winter’s night expertly, Vincent. Your use of language takes me back to days of long ago and I could almost see myself as the writer in your tale…though I have never experienced a white Christmas and snow and ice something unknown to my personal experience. Your poetry is always a pleasure to savor.

    Reply
  • January 5, 2019 at 6:10 AM
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    Appreciate your review of my work always John. Visit Canada, here you will experience what a snowy, icey, cold winter really is.

    Reply

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