These Autumn Death poems are examples of Death poems about Autumn. These are the best examples of Autumn Death poems written by international PoetrySoup poets
Hear the whispers inside
Chanting from long ago
Echoes come and go
Losing time in a soft eternal glow
A beautiful and delicate autumn mountain scene
Dry blue eyes enchanting melodies!
Voices falling from the sky
Rising hymns release ancient demons that cling to the soul
The darkness dwells under gentle moonlight
Ancestors of the Spirit World,
Exposing Indian hands that weave native smoke into the air
Their spirits taunting burrows from the muddy Earth
Moccasin makers rise from underneath
Guardians of dream catchers
Smooth thread from the outer edge, bowing heads.
Luminous gems of ivory,
Chasing a florid kiss.
Through the winds of enchanted drums, voices cry out for rain.
The hollow chimes mesmerize
An ancient rage begins to flare
The spears of the perfumed buffalo skin pierced my senses
Removing the veils that cover my eyes
The hands that cover my ears
Washing the scalp that bleeds on my face
They collect tears from memories of the past.
KINDRED IN EVERY WAY!
Raven silk braids, feathers fall from my hair.
Dancing in a horrid hallucination of Peyote,
Waking up from the “American Dream.”
Holding out my arms, I am free, I can fly.
I AM A BIRD!
In forest dark where trees bend low
beneath a slice of half moon’s glow,
silent shadows waver there,
chilled by gusts of autumn air.
Quavering, as if afraid,
they fall on stumps from trees decayed.
among those stumps the shadows creep
and shroud a form that seems asleep.
Lightning flashes . . . Thunder peals.
A sight forlorn the light reveals
a man, quite dead, in woolen coat,
with scarf of death left on his throat.
The shadows saw, and now they quake,
lone witnesses in murder’s wake.
They cannot speak, but if they could,
they’d tell all travelers of the wood:
"We’re not the foe. It’s one of you
that makes us tremble as we do.
Although we loom and cause you fear,
something worse is lurking here."
Then Thunder echoes in accord
as from the sky, cold rain is poured.
And silent shadows start to shrink
into a night of blackened ink.
The day Will Shepard shot my dog
His barn burned to the soil;
The flames licked at the Autumn sky,
The smoke as black as oil.
I dropped the torch onto the earth,
And felt the whole world turn,
I stood and watched Will Shepard’s barn,
I stood and watched it burn.
The day Will Shepard shot my dog
I set his horses free,
They galloped over grass and sand,
They galloped to the sea;
I dropped my whip onto the floor
And thoughts turned to my gun
I stood and watched Will Shepard’s herd,
I stood and watched them run.
The day Will Shepard shot my dog
I put him in the ground,
My bullets found his heart and brain,
He fell without a sound;
And as his lifeblood ebbed away
And light fled from his eyes,
I stood and watched Will Shepard leave,
I stood and watched him die.
And now I sit here in my cell
And through the bars I spy
The carpenter with wood and nails,
Who builds my gallows high;
My vengeance has been satisfied
As far as I can see,
For that old dog Will Shepard shot
Meant all the world to me.
of autumns’ sweet refrain-
That break beneath
a weight too much
I tread in solitude
and mourning there-
Along a path
of maple trees
and scented air-
I recall the life
that we once shared-
the twilight hours
the beauty of it all-
that softly falls-
In loving memory of:
My Father - Harold George
Oct 27, 1927 - August 11, 2003
The flower face of the sun bloomed on you;
the corona of light
easing the passage, caressing you.
Catwalking on the bright side of life;
the false jollity, aching to laugh.
Embraces, your body in a bowl of arms,
brave waves, the last goodbye.
My own desperate clutching, as if
I were a tree sucking at the sky.
The delicate frosting on my birthday cake -
a sugary irony.
How quickly the coronal of anniversary flowers
became a wreath.
Choking on the three hundred miles
to your resting place,
the car eating the road.
Tension-riddled, the family squabbles
snapped at the air.
Alone in the pristine, starched hotel room
propped between pillow and sheet,
stiff as rigor mortis,
my eyes ploughing a newspaper,
thoughts turned introvert and febrile.
A white envelope holding the small silver gift
of your necklace, an oyster cradling its pearl.
Your gold ring playing its warmth
on my finger, thin and white,
the September sun shining in it.
A passion flower clinging to its wire hoop,
sweating out the fragrance of late summer.
Defiant and slightly shocking in my bright patchwork skirt;
a vibrant rainbow flying in the black leer of the cortege.
easing the great weight of his grief with a Valium.
The voice of the vicar carrying,
stentorian, across the echoing expanse of church.
In your diaphanous dress you were a bride
displaying your bouquet:
the mourning arum's white head bowed.
Fine linen shrouding the table, pink curls of salmon,
water glasses floating their tiny icebergs.
Plumbing the depths of your wardrobe,
the outfits hanging limp as fish.
The room gasping in late sunlight,
heady with your Florentyna perfume and oxygen cylinders,
the light lying glassy and quiet.
Your loving memorabilia yielding to damp autumn earth.
My eyes opening to your immortality. An immortal truth.
here, where I walk,
confused silence swirls around my feet,
and the anguished summer leaves
are lingering limp, waiting for autumn...,
waiting to crumble and mingle with earth
drunk with the morning dew
somewhere beneath them
under the thunder
earth wears the scab of a fresh wound
in a place that will not be forgotten...
corrupt with mourning
sprouting with questions
immersed with regret
hollowed with anger
and shadowed by trees of despair
birch-bark faces, heads bent low, shadowed eyes
stone-cold voices, carried in the wind, behind disguise
while mute birds watch without a song
the leaves will decay, green goes, and the eye forgets
while pawing on the hard and bitter earth
of reason, is impossible...
and autumn goes
I will live in hope that baffled minds
will clearly see a winter sun
and give up blaming ... who?
What the Quack!
I dont want my poems in Poem Zoo!
Burnished bronze, tarnished teal,
flare warnings yield to winds of steel.
Their urge to jump, to flee and hide
cuts off the warmth for suicide.
They leap and land at such a cost,
far flung debris- refulgence lost.
They shrivel brown, dark fibers done,
decay beneath the wayward sun.
Their shredded shells in supine piles,
small hells ignite by human wiles.
Gray smoking wraiths slip out to sigh,
soar off to smear the flannel sky.
Green progeny will take their turn.
One chance to live is what they earn.
In a lovely corner of her garden,
a trellis was curled with rose climbing vines,
and something enchanting, had been designed,
from an ordinary day on a warm afternoon.
Tea would be served, with her large knuckled hands,
to a bouquet of her friends, and some neighbors of mine,
by the most gentile’ lady, I have ever known…
She made it seem like days of old, when decorum was in fashion,
before composure, and poise,.. had become scorned and cold
where propriety still mattered, as precious as gold.
Lilting voices would chatter like the birds on the wing.
Ringing with laughter, across fragrant grass,
Flower frocked ladies, around a few scattered tables.
Linens and laces, under ashes and maples.
Silver coifed hairdos, with apple cheeked faces,
And me? There I'd sip.... quite out of my place...
watching it all, from the cool dappled shade.
There were delightful surprises to meet the eye…
Delicate confections, cucumber sandwiches,
made by her hand, just for the occasion.
Fragrant branches, covering the veranda.…
Rose petal blossoms, painted on china.
The most beautiful tea set, oh, how divine it was!
Envious eyes, covetously pined for it!
She wore a floppy garden hat, a dress of mauve, and there she sat.
Her weathered skin, her cheeks of rouge... a smile to love,...you would have too,...
She had lived a war, and more than one.....iron strong, a generous heart
Knowing eyes, and sparkling wit,
She would hold your hand in hers and smile,... listen well, of that I'm sure
and then would sip and chat awhile, of this and that…
and you would learn of love somehow
I sipped my tea, and watched it all, and never thought of future things. ~
For now I sit here all alone…the chatter gone, the birds have flown.
Where once her charm, her love of life
the grand old ways, have slipped away…gone are those days, she loved so well.
Soon after, in the autumn chill…when word soon spread that she was ill
I was away, and never knew.….I hope, oh Lord, she was not alone ….
And looking back …I think of that….. and how strange the fact….. how odd it is…..
that something owned by someone grand, a china cup, so delicate,
so fragile in the hand,
can last beyond the grave...intact,….
although a dear, enchanting friend, her life would have to end…..
For Contest Sponsored by Just Archaic Poet: Song choice- "Tea For Two"
And so it was that Autumn would die
with a gust of wind she said goodbye
Of love mortal she sits subdued
sipping remnants of death imbued
With curtains drawn she lay in rest
in silent prose she relived each breath
of life abandoned of weary roads
where Winter's freeze would glisten alone
And so it was that Autumn had gone
in the lonely grips of winter
without a song