Winters Night

Winters Night…the writer’s plight.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Light fades and my window darkens,
the gloaming hues so distant,
an orange line aglow;
and my room closes in,
the walls creak and moan,
draw nearer, like tall bending structures
towering over me,
as shadows join the bleak night gloom.

But one small light carves a hole out of space,
its edges blurred by encroaching wall,
and I sit tapping on keys, words spilling
to cyber paper, upright and white,
ignited by a sole intention,
perforating the dark,
as time slows to a whimper of ticks,
as if my deft hands dulling its intent.

The chill makes crisp the edges of the room,
as if caught by icy claws, sealing me in,
and the glow of my heater, small,
barely breaks the shadows;
and still I tap away,
words like shattered glass tinkling through air,
as letters swirl and twist over the white
to rest upon my wills reflection, upon the page.

Winter writing, silence, the cat ‘s purr,
the rhythmic silence of time marking,
and there is no relent, words beckon,
and mind is fused to thoughts,
spilling into these fingers, tapping,
aching, placating my other needs,
and still I write the night,
the cold winter night.

Tony DeLorger © 2016

Tony DeLorger
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Tony DeLorger

Full time author, freelance writer, poet and blogger since 1999. Twenty one published works, past winner of 'Poet of the Year' on HubPages, 'Poem of the Year' on The Creative Exiles, writer for Allpoetry.com, Google+, tonydwtf.blogspot.com.au videos on YouTube and book sales on website thoughtsforabeautifulmind.com, Amazon and digitalprintaustralia.com.au/bookstore

8 thoughts on “Winters Night

  • June 28, 2016 at 5:47 AM
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    Where did you find Hemingway’s old typewriter? You like so many others before us, wore the keys out from tapping through day’s and nights, no matter the season, all along most likely alone, in solitude, with only a flask of whiskey, a pet of some kind, melancholia moods and a Muse nearby. You have shed some glimmer of hope to any student of the word. Let them know, that we spill our guts, we conjure up thoughts and place them in some kind of order on the white, hoping that our stories, verses will reward those who read them. Why do we write? because we must, for if not, our minds will explode and a padded cell would be our life companion. So no matter the madness of the night or day, whether good or bad, bitter icy cold or scorching heat, give us a vessel to bring our words alive and we are truly blessed. Thank you Tony for filling us once again with your magnificent gifts.

    Reply
  • June 28, 2016 at 6:33 AM
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    Much appreciated Vincent, so glad you enjoyed the work. Only we writers know. Cheers my friend.

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  • June 28, 2016 at 7:59 AM
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    So very descriptive, Tony. I could feel and see everything all the way down to your cat’s purring. Thank you for another great piece.

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  • June 28, 2016 at 9:22 PM
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    I can feel the chill and hear the cat’s purr. Your very descriptive verse brings it all alive for me. Keep tapping, keep writing, Tony. Spring will surely come as it always does. I love this wintry verse. I will send you some of the sunshine I have here. xx

    Reply
  • June 29, 2016 at 2:24 AM
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    Yes, do that, I could do with some shine. lol Glad you enjoyed it Phyllis.

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  • June 29, 2016 at 6:16 AM
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    Most descriptive poetry and on this hot summer’s day thank you Tony for that wonderful, inspirational winter’s chill.

    Reply
  • June 29, 2016 at 6:58 PM
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    Glad it cooled you down some, Rasma. Take care.

    Reply

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