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!
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.
Painting sky before I was born,
Draping my grave in leaf and acorn.
Sponsor: Rick Parise
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?
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
Autumn Colors (Death So Bold)
Resting upon cold , hard ground
leaves depleted Autumn's gold
Solid vapors soon are found
in rested spirits of old
colors so bright, death so bold
English Quintain Rhyme Scheme a. b. a. b. b.
No specified measure
Note: Not required but given as reference only...
Syllables Per Line: 7 7 7 7 7
Total # Syllables: 35
Total # Lines: 5
There's a girl in the graveyard that never seems to leave.
She hangs like dust in the autumn air.
She has beautiful flowers and tangles in her hair.
When it seems she's right there, she's nowhere.
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.
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
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"
it’s always august’s end
that bothers me the most
i feel that brush of cool air
press against me
like a kiss on dead lips
the trees are now painted
a sunset’s reflection
but all i see is red
in summer’s end
the leaves dance gracefully
beneath the winds
one last time
before they fall
the trees will soon stand
blank of life
like you and you and you
and my mind
as i remember
as i watched them
fall from life
amongst summer’s end
Saint Blackheart walks the Autumn streets and smiles with diamond eyes;
She's well-aware of what you think, but listens to your lies.
Confess your deepest fantasies or never look her way --
She's free with random kindness, though she won't have much to say.
Saint Blackheart seeks the shadows for the secrets they impart.
Her life's a patchwork puzzle made with jagged shards of art --
Impressionistic paintings on a canvas dipped in red;
She dances like a demon for the angels in her head.
Saint Blackheart loves the twilight and the elemental rain;
She'll stand and watch you suffer, yet she senses all your pain.
A soft, Franciscan echo making up a primal scream
Can hurtle from her crimson lips and dart from dream to dream.
Saint Blackheart lives in solitude among the ancient trees --
You'll find her there within the mist, but never on her knees.
Her hands will offer nothing which is not her own to give;
And though you wish to die in peace, she may just let you live.
Saint Blackheart will not weep with you or wipe away your tears,
Yet she may catch their crystal hue and treasure it for years.
She'll lay a little flower on a long-forgotten grave --
A tribute to the tortured soul she never tried to save.
It was the first day of the new school year
The children of Beslan had no need to fear
In anticipation they eagerly left home for school
Some walked hand in hand with Mom and Dad
Others skipped along the well known path
Excitement filled the sidewalks and the streets
As fleeting thoughts collided in mid air
Some thought of new friends to be made
Others of old friends with whom to play
A little sister left at home
Of baby brother asleep in his crib
Much too young to run and play
Some favorite lullabies which Grandmama sang
As Grandpapa played his violin
The first day of the new school year
Mothers beamed with such pride
How their little ones had grown
Never would they ever want to let go
Others gave in to their children’s cries
‘Mamma, I do not want to go to school.
May I stay with you today?’
On wings of hate evil had already arrived
With diabolical plans and bombs in hand
To maim and murder the children of Beslan
Who became captives in their little school house
After the dastardly deed was done
Dreams and aspirations lay splattered 'cross the floor
Childhood innocence forever vanished!
On the day of internment the sun in his temple hid
Earth wept pouring rain, her bitter tears
As Mothers’ voices cracked and strained
Cried out loud, their children’s names
While others pleaded in vain for death
Fathers in a state of shock stood stoically in the cold autumn rain
Wearing faces carved in stone
The blood of children cried out to Heaven
Where at the throne of mercy
Sits a God who is just
Though their bodies lay broken in tiny white coffins
On angels' wings their souls did ascend
He will judge all men and their deeds
All, on one appointed day
A tribute to the children of Beslan, No. Ostetia, Russia 9/1-3/ 2004
My heart is the same full of love
My house that shelters it full of pain
But it's autumn in my life, Dove
The hair of gray and wrinkles reign
I set the table full of food
For the family to dine fun times
But it is autumn in my life
When changes prepare for winter
I'm not sure I'll know winter now
For I have not experienced it
But it's autumn in my life somehow
Where beauty glows bright from the depths
Producing leaves of many hues
Love the autumn of my life, Dove
Now all that's left winter's white snow
I think that when winter comes cold
Plants freeze if left out in weather
They will need a warmer place inside
But since it is just autumn now
There's time to prepare room somehow
I still watch the birds from window
They have not all gone away love
But it's autumn in my life now
Soon most will be gone for winter
Winter soon will approach with cold
Seemingly death of the roses
But it's autumn in my life my bold
There are few thoughts of approaching winter
But when winter comes my way
The body rest to rise another spring
Now it's autumn in my life this day
On another day I'll be called by trumpet away
Posted - 08/18/2005 : 16:22:45
In north-west Indiana
on a meager patch of ground,
stone flowers greet the morning,
stillness there, no other sound.
I walk among the headstones
taking note of those I knew,
thinking about their loved ones,
how their courage saw them through.
There is no stone to guide me
to the one I came to see,
his ashes had been scattered
on a hill of sapling trees.
Thirty years have come and gone,
he would surely be amazed,
little trees, now fully grown,
all aglow in autumn blaze.
I stand in awed silence
as the sun comes streaming through,
my Father was my best friend
and the greatest man I knew.
CEZANNE STUDY – The House of the Hanged Man
Buried in a hill,
Steep as descent from humanity,
A country house stands.
It’s late autumn,
Deep, sick autumn –
Deep as the plunging cellar door,
And fronting, its branches stripped, begging skyward,
This raped tree
Which no longer hides the window –
The window, like a large, trumpeting mouth.
*No E flat clarinet here,
*No Eulenspiegel, opaque humor.
No – The whole, a ground interment,
Is color of rotting flesh,
This God-awful house!
*Til Eulenspiegel was a German buffoon who delighted in playing
nasty tricks on the nobility. He was hanged.
*The E flat clarinet is high pitched, capable of sounding the pitiful
cries of Til as he mounts the scaffold
Immersed in the sound of the low rustling wind
Memories and places they haunt yet again
Passed by so quickly as each falling leaf
Drifting and flowing on an unyielding stream
A current to carry from birth right on through
Filling our moments with cares which ensue
A mind lost in remnants of lovers and friends
Babies and children and time long since spent
Familiar, intangible, just out of reach
Longing for ghosts that my heart doth beseech
Winter is looming and summer is past
A time for remembrance the years gone so fast
Beauty is captured in my last breath of life
The sparkling colors in the warm golden light
Do mimic the glory and wonder be told
In those bright days of autumn and a life to behold
Detroit, five a.m.—
Soon, my city will rise and
disturb the ravens.
Windmills in autumn/
apple orchards/ falling fruits
Flowers on your grave
wilt like the words I could say
that might bring you back.
paper lanterns burning oil
in the summer mist.
Music can transform
I want to take my
time with your hourglass and then
come back for seconds.
When you go away
the rabbits will not come back
from the magic hat.
Eagles lock talons
together they form and break
like the divine winds.
You are the warden
of my prison of regrets
you have all the keys.
She holds my hand tight
when our love is imperfect
she is not afraid.
He is playing in school
Acting like a fool
Little girl makes his heart go Wow!!
He is kind of shy
She's the apple of his eye
But he can't tell her now.
It is a few years later
And he starts to date her
She fills his dreams somehow
He wants her to stay
To never go away
But he can't tell her now.
It is the secret of his life
He wants her for his wife
He would take that final vow
Though the years go by so fast
He knows his love will last
But he can't tell her now.
Now in the Autumn of his years
He realizes his fears
That life has past them by somehow
He knows his love will stand
As he touches her cold and lifeless hand
But he can't tell her now.
Of all the emotions we go through in life, the saddest is regret.
The solemn wraith that passes,
once a child whose life in stasis
fell, cursed by the cruel kiss of fate,
scuds as the Autumn clouds across
the full moon of the grieving mind.
Disappearing as the Winter snows
when Spring rain drills the grey repose,
young victim of an adult hate,
in memory you still bear the loss;
each sorrowed thought serves to remind.
The solemn wraith that passes,
wept and shadowed like molasses,
fixes at your throat an amulet
and holds there fast the albatross,
the cross-born love of womankind.
I first met Autumn when I was very, very young,
she was just a shy, quiet girl, but so very bright.
These maple trees were our favorite to play among,
as our laughter faded away with the falling sunlight.
I can still see her brown sweater, and reddish-orange hair,
blowing around her smiling face, like a flickering flame.
Her innocent voice still whispers on October's cool air,
near the place, where our lonely swing remains the same.
As the summer days said goodbye, and welcomed September,
the death of my dear, young friend came all too soon.
Autumn was one of those whom you'd always remember,
her soul was as beautiful as the shining, harvest moon.
She was here, then gone, leaving words that were never spoke,
to this day, I have never understood why Autumn had to leave.
Her presence lingers on the wind, like drifting wood-smoke,
as once a year, her playful spirit arises on All Hallow's Eve.
August, 4th, 2014
i met you in the springtime when the flowers were in bloom
and i knew yyou were my angel when you walked into the room
i knew that god had sent you down on the wings of a big white dove
just to be with only me and tto bring angelic love
our hands were ever so entwined and united were our hearts
we knew that we would walk together until death did we part
when sprringtime turned to summer we were happy as could be
and i just could not imagine all the love you had for me
now when summer turned to autumn and we felt the gentle breeze
i was ever so elated because you were still with me
but the time has turned the pages and i am so all alone
today god sent other angels just to guide my angel home
The Santa Ana's are here, and the moon is clear.
There is a mystic in the air that whispers in my ear.
Is this a peaceful feeling or does it carry fear ?
What is the passion and hot fragrence of orange blossom that is pulling me a different way , as if this power has been sent only by a Witch of the finest of White Magic, only to calm the Blue Soul I have known my whole life.
I feel a passion that is running through my Veins like the power of water itself .
As if the Moon itself were instructed to warm the air that is blowing . It is not a new moon , it is not a old moon , it is a moon that appears only in ones lifetime to gaze at .
By seeing and feeling the very power of this Moon you will dance your way to Heaven with happiness of what is yet to come.
The Stars around this Moon are unique as if they take the presence of every loved one you and I have lost .
The Witches winds with the warm glowing of the moon, as if I had never met you before , are blowing with the frangerence of Orange Blossom or Magnolia , from a distant past of The South.
As if I know we have been together once before , a Moon such as this . In a peaceful , lustful state of Bliss.
There is something coming .. is it something I have always known or wanted ?
What is yet to be known is as intoxicating as the Santa anas that are running through my body.
As if i have been struck by the power of light , as the powerful moon I gaze at in the Night.
It is piercing my soul with it's only Truth,
Why all this Destructions? – Zamreen Zarook
God created this whole universe for the mankind,
He gave everything lavishly, thinking that we might be kind,
Even though people are able, they seems to be blind,
Whereas people failed to mind.
The sky which was created for the man started to scream and cry,
Since good morals and ethics were decry,
The fire started to do the mimicry,
As the water lands cannot bear, it came to man with a battle cry.
Land couldn't hold and it started to gorge,
Fresh air merged with chemicals and started to urge,
Whatever created for the man have started to over charged,
Stop evil and let the merits be enlarged.
When my mother died
My craving eyes rained
And tormented soul cried
Blood sucked and energy drained
The sky fell, the sun eclipsed
It was a horrifying dark day
The fragrant breeze turned into easterly wind
O God! Orphaned at the age of twelve, why say
The spear of loneliness pierced my heart
Causing deep bleeding wound
Pointed at me was misfortune’s dart
All my hopes and aspirations drowned
Seasons came and seasons went
In the desert of heart autumn never changed
Gardens were filled with bloom’s scent
The butterflies with colors artfully arranged
My heart remained a symbol of despair
No one ever shared my grief
My cancerous wound alone to bear
I searched and searched but no relief
(Winner in the Member Contest of Destroyer Poet judged on 6-20-2012)
And the storm calls to me in ways you'll never understand
A gentle call that urges my soul forth
The lighting guiding a path for my feet to walk
Between the stones and ash of all that once was
I stand in the echoing silence of the rain
It drops down upon my skin like the blessing waters of heaven
Soothing me, lifting the weight from my body
I feel at once as if I am home
Standing amid two dimensions
Caught between two skies - here and there
The night wraping around me in warmth
The gentle wind lifting me off my feet
Drops from the clouded moon washing away my body
and I am left just a soul, an essence
The storm calls me forth from beneath my roof
Beckoning me into its depth
I stand among the reeds in the basin
They dance and sway as if welcoming me
And I sway with them back
Caught up in the power that charges the air
That threatens to sweep me away
If the ground will just loosen its hold
The thunder rumbles a low welcoming growl
And I get pleasently lost within it
I am so small compared to its vastness
I close my eyes and succumb to the skies wishes
Rising higher until my feet no longer touch the ground
My fingertips touch the liquid color of the stars
A sigh drifts from my lips
There is no need of thought to stay afloat
There is no demand to breathe in air
No crushing weight upon my chest
As my lungs struggle to survive
There are no struggles here
I make my bed on blackened clouds
And give in to the call
The storm has claimed me as its own
It was such a struggle to stay upon the ground
When the storm would call me home
A summer rose fades
One by one its petals fall
In downward spiral
Scattered by an autumn breeze
It's fragrance a memory
As I lay one sullen autumn morn
on pearl dew turf with the day unborn
staring at the grey grimacing sky
with the mood and moment not quite high
sepulchral static wherever I looked
when my dreary dizzy gaze was hooked
at a lone leaf's death-descent down
to join its wilted kin on ground
then a sudden silent slithering breeze
deprived me of my warmth and ease
and the disturbed withered shroud of Fall
hustled revived in a rustling brawl
hurled and curled in the fading mist
till the whispering winds chose to desist
but Nature lies dead once again
until the wind resumes,retrieves restrain
and I know this flight of life is brief
for I'm none other than a fallen leaf.
On the days the wind does blow
life gets caught up in how things should go
and winds gather up the harvest from the field to tow
to blow up harvest in good flight it may freely flow
but what of those who never know
and never feel the warm winds of autumn blow
and the scythes will never come home
and all hope of good harvest is then