Earth’s sphere of fire bids adieu to me
As dying embers gleam across the sea
In rare hues reflected by autumn trees,
Swirling in motion with October’s breeze.
I feel the joy this season has to share
In golden harvest that the branches bear,
And I am thankful for this blessed year,
For divine abundance I share so dear.
The sun and moon take on a special glow
As thunder clouds move swiftly with the flow.
Yes, autumn coaxes feelings to revive,
Those mem’ries of past seasons still alive.
When autumn spreads her dress of lacey frost
I know, in breathless beauty, I’ll be lost.
© 2013 Connie Marcum Wong
I walk an already trodden path...
Uncertain, of future lives that lie ahead
But, in faith I close these earthly Ojibwa eyes
In trill, thus, I hear the old ways in your presence amidst Chinook winds
As harmonic they play across the plains, from sacred astral pipes
Mimicking cricket songs that echo abstract out of the season's last autumn mist
I also hear your fifes in the rustle of the leaves, rising into writhe
And almost see your spirit aura as it accompanies the Algonquian breeze
Ancient ghost of proud, but now lost upon a dying nation tribe
Your music from beyond is narrations of a mystical language nature speaks
Sweeping thrush calls, chirps through weeping willow weeps,
Unto past September sounds, beating down on war drum clouds, of thundering maelstrom claps
And babbling brooks going on and on until narrowing creaky creeks
Alas, whooper wills warning and morning loons mourning, hidden amidst the swaying grass
When I see you, I imagine spectral legends majestic high across horizon's sky
Snowy silhouettes in headdress, drifting in flowing rainbow crowns
And with the night, I see you in my mind dance as the "Will-Ó-the-wisp" just might
Then, my body shivers from the distance, where your flute imitates the cry of the lone coyote's sound
As for all of your Mishomis (grandfather) traditions, I accept there is a greater essence
Kindred I am, son to your spirit and without partition from an Ojibwa eye
And I stand here staunch in cattail marshes, pondering my place in ancestral questions
Now, your answers again begin to play upon the wind, but this time traveling through the November... Whispers on needles of the pine
I walk an already trodden path...
But, each new step before me keeps this culture alive...
Written in honor of my Chippewa family ©2012 Michael G. Smith
It is such great unity
That appears amongst the beauty
Of the bright light display?
Such colour, such energy within celebration,
Such a vivid canvas of man-made creation
That sparks with flair and passion;
To fall into the fog
Like all dying illusions.
Yet it is what it does for us:
Where we are drawn from our furnishings
That we clean in intervals,
Closing outside to a regular schedule,
Remaining well lit and sheltered
Resting our minds so dimly upon the
Soft and empty cushions
And hugging at the blind comfort
We are drawn from this facade
By another in itself.
Which brings us out like a beacon
Part Devil, half Eden
To then fade away
Like all illusions,
Leaving us quiet,
Revealing deepened images.
Exposed to chill
Peace climbs through our bones.
Let us stand together,
The great power that connects us;
The great unity
Amongst such beauty.
Till we once more return home…
these words of my heart
will neither come out of pity
nor will go down the wind
nor, again, will build any city.
But lend me your ears, baby,
and listen to what an old man
can say despite the rods of men.
Live up to your own ambitions.
Keep your heart alive
and your mind working
with honor and passion.
Take this over from my heart
that has suffered for so long.
There is always a good thing
to think of and to do
instead of fruitless tarrying.
Let not the cold world
affect you and do its worst.
there is always something
good to be done against it.
be careful of those people
who call themselves your friends,
your enemies are known.
They both have not become
what they have become
only because the mind, without
the heart, sees differences
and builds on them obstacles
to divide rather than unite.
They used, it is gone now, to be
your friends and the circle
the circle is open and far from full.
When the light and the sun rays
are leaving, remember to perceive
the natural attitude and substance
of daffodils and innocent flowers.
Hide your tears, baby, from men
and let them fall alone to freshen
the sight of your eyes and vision.
Open your inward eyes of Earth and Eden.
Be always on the move
and fear not the elements
of submission and contrition.
The light is coming in
and love is all around you.
Fear them no more.
Bring yourself to accept
your destiny and look at
the horizons of your heart
to improve your tools
and feel the power of patience
and reap the harvest of resistance.
So much depends on them,
so much depends on you.
Have time to work, son,
and have time to play.
Seek to be simple
and look up at
the sunny sphere
without a pair of glasses
Your eyes are for Earth and Eden
Keep them pure and undefeated.
But see !!
When the rain comes
as it will in autumn and spring,
summer and winter, son,
don't rush to get an umbrella
and cover your head like many
of them would do and would not.
You already have more than it
your smile can make it
and the flowers around you
will make it and come along
to live with you and teach you
how to be yourself and be
one sunny day, to your sons
and daughters, little son,
the father my father
has never been for me.
" L'amour a besoin des yeux, comme la pensée a besoin de la mémoire. "
To you plump puffball,
Squatter of the mushroom fungi.
May your soils be rich
And your spores be many!
Moonstone child of nocturnal reverie
Pride tempts to invite fallacious vanity.
Creamy alabaster skin,
Spongy firm of flesh within.
A saucy lunar face to taunt the sun.
His nomadic gaze leaves no course for fun.
The sun edges off towards autumn skies,
Pragmatically steady; contemplatively wise.
The sun may have kissed her on a whim,
Crazed butterfly flutters; needles to pins.
Translucent skin, her conceit and crown,
Blushes from saffron hue, to Dijon brown.
Physical metamorphosis; transmutations collide,
She becomes a phase converted seasonal bride.
To celebrate this new found core,
She sends up clouds of dust, and sleepy spores.
The endangered Ash Tree
what can we say
we have somehow
numbered your days
bright in the spring
with hint of all new
in summer you shade us
and make us feel new
So wonderful in the fall
of burgundy glow
so majestic in winter
dark bark against snow
to gaze at your splendor
to wish you to stay
look intently for it has seen it's last days
Take a walk towards an autumn day,
stray past summers end into a fallen
red yellow and orange blend. Although
it seems we are heading into seasons
of wither, the beauty of every season is
at work. Open up let Mother nature in,
she can do truly amazing things. Realise
even winters chill can be special and
brilliant. Like softly falling snowflakes
dusting over the whole place, far and near
what a truly wonderful time of year. A
magnificent pure white landscape has
what a truly wonderful time of year. A
magnificent pure white landscape has
what a truly wonderful time of year. A
magnificent pure white landscape has
what a truly wonderful time of year. A
magnificent pure white landscape has
The innocence of children playing as birds gliding together across a pure blue sky. The colors of autumn give the canvas a nostalgic countenance, as nineteen-year old Mozart’s violin concert no. 3, the Adagio, like the rhythmic tides in a ternary form at eventide on the rocky shores of the Hudson. Such is the splendid D major as the crickets play one octave higher with the wind playing an A major. I hum in A sharp and the fog horn in the distance a forlorn B minor. The wine works quickly, tempers the mood. Too drunk to write so we sing. Too tired to dream so we think. Too weary to wish so we wander. Lest the moon forgets to show us the way, we will set up camp beneath a bench staring up into a wild Verona sky. Her yellow hair silver in the moonlight. Her red lips yearning in the chill of an autumn morning. Many years ago.
Once in my life, breast cancer, I did not know.
Which was lost, and what would be gained.
I could not see, beyond her glow
Faith and strength carried and remained.
Unfinished things of her dreams come slow
These were not to be lost, our love holds true
Loss of her alluring game would not matter, I did say
In life and love, she is stuck to me with glue
She is more than any loss, which may take away.
Pink in October shapes her autumn sky.
More beautiful now she faces its lie.
Sunshine wakes her in a moonlights lure.
Fighting like a girl, she wins the war.
Dancing as a woman she captures pink ardor.
She is more than a woman, my lady, my love.
Pink, pink, pink color beyond her despair,
Trials and tribulations, rising glow,
She has won her fight; in the pink, breast cancers beware.
At last, a welcomed light Autumn breeze,
Whistling passed steepled roofs,
Gently lifting branches of the bowing sycamore trees
Lining dull gray sidewalks still toasty warm
From the sweltering heat of the day before;
Departing summer flees threads of deep purple clouds
Leaching westward from the eastern sky,
Inky streams clawing their way into lighter shades of dusk,
The new season has cast her dye.
I rest the rhapsodic morn along rustic shadows,
as if it were a sapphire,
i shall serenade beautifully beneath our efflorescent forests,
my hands await you like a rustic moon,
i shivery surreptitiously in my cashmere bowers,
the harmonies have dale's autumn glow,
the have bough's idyllic fragility,
ahhh, my future love,
my heart beats eagerly,
between the romance of a piano,
the season's have melody's romantic bough,
i will not wait me surely,
the feathers have glow's sparkling willow,
the lullaby leaps,
your silhouettes run the constellation,
you ,my love,
are my distant,eternal,
and yet, pastoral horizons
It’s that time of year again...
When family and friends gather together..
To share and give thanks for all that they treasure..
The young and the old, the tall and the small..
The Vegans and the Carnivores, come one come all...
There are dishes of tradition, like Turkey and stuffing..
Mashed potatoes, gravy, and cranberry muffins..
Green Bean casserole, and corn soufflé...
Are just some of the dishes of the day....
And of course a relish tray to take off the edge...
With that awesome Spinach dip in Pumpernickel bread...
So many desserts at this time of year...
But the favorite of all , synonymous of the Fall..
Is that Jack’O ‘Lantern, orange Gourd.....
known as Pumpkin Pie...
As the children play a game of touch football...
Something that is 24-7 on this day in Fall..
As Grandpa sits in the afternoon sun...
Remembering back ..when he was young...
Then the words of “ Let’s eat “ fills the air...
And everyone sits down in their chair..
Who wants the first slice ? Dark meat or White ?
Grandpa asks...then proceeds to take the first bite..
Everyone fills their plate, till it can’t hold no more...
Yet some go back, for more and more....
Finally everyone is full...can’t eat another bite..
Till the smell of fresh coffee brings on a plight...
Aahh dessert ..and the best part of all....
“ PUMPKIN PIE “ !!!! ....It appears was a "Majority Call"...
This is “ my “ favorite time of the year....
When you mention "MY" name, everyone gives a cheer !!!
So without further adieu ...Grandpa picks up the knife...
As I am the “ MAJORITY CALL “ and receive the first slice....
Autumn is my favorite season,
The green leaves are turning red,
Falling with no rhyme or reason,
They are crisp, gnarled, and dead.
Lightly they fall in the chilly air,
The leaves are brown, orange, and yellow,
Brightly, they tumble without a care,
Indian summer days are beginning to mellow.
Gray clouds form, you rarely see the sun,
Through tree branches, see the cold wind blow,
The leaves come cascading down, one by one,
And, at any minute now, it could start to snow.
Dragonflies, empty nests
Pumpkin pies, shedding trees
Brown meadows, Monarch butterflies
Crisped carpets of Autumn leaves
It’s a frosty feel of finality
That all good things must end
That things must die Is simply reality
Tis not a question of if, but when
It’s a harbinger of things to come
As well a reminder of times gone by
A pregnant pause to ponder, muse and wonder
Where we are and who we are…and Why
It’s a time of transient Nature
Replete with changes everywhere
Absent name and nomenclature.
As familiar tho’ (as we all know)
…As smoke draped pon’ the air…
And that ‘s what makes Autumn great
My Ode to the Netherlands
White water lilies picked for Verlena in Friesland.
The Dutch Republic is over a century old.
We are there during autumn.
Flowers are everywhere.
The sunflower fields
Yellow and brown profound the canvas
To visit the Domtower is a climb.
Utrecht is a trek.
An ode comes to mind…
Dutch greetings we say…
Dutch greetings we say,
in the land of Friesland today.
Our home is our joy.
We are logical people and not emotional.
We are expressive in our thoughts.
Call us opinionates, if you want.
Dutch greetings we say to all!
Sponsor: Elly Wouterse
Contest Name: Your ode to 'my' Netherlands and/or 'my' Friesland
Date of Entry: March 29, 2014
Date Written: March 29, 2014
~Elly, happy birthday... This is two forms in one poem. The couplet and the irregular ode.
Best wishes and hopefully, this is not to much.~:)s
Shamefully dull, life would be,
Without seasons to nourish me.
Winter, Spring, Summer, and Fall,
Nature’s blessings the nourish us all
Apathetic and harsh, winter is,
With arctic gales that pierce
Every linen shielding my frame.
Anomalous flakes of snow drift from the sky
As sheets of white accumulate on the ground
And weigh down the healthiest trees,
Teasing those ready for winter festivities.
Once the snow angels and snowmen are made, and
Once the sledding and snowball fights are done,
Into their warm homes, all will run,
Hiding under hoards of fleece
Until it’s time for spring to come free.
Pleasant and lively, spring is,
With liber rains falling lavishly
On soil beds of assorted seeds,
Nursed diligently by the avid gardeners
Who thirst for the sight of the first blossoms
Of poppies, roses, lilies, and tulips.
Blueberries, cherries, and strawberries
Entice the onlookers waiting to pick
The ripest harvest in a timely manner
And savoring them until summer can flare.
Fierce and fervent, summer is
With a feverish breath, that makes rain a treasure.
People gather in masses to absorb the bodies of water
As a radiant sun desiccates the land.
Outdoors, pitchers of lemonade are carried everywhere
And thriving honeysuckle sweeten the air.
Yellow lights of fireflies flicker through the night
As exhausted bodies relax beneath the stars,
Gazing in admiration, until autumn can appear
Calm and homely, autumn is
Wither green, red, and yellow foliage taking over.
Crisp leaves bustle about the ground,
Trapped by flurries of whirring winds
Until they are raked into heaps for children to dive in
And pumpkins growing in preparation to carved or baked.
Families huddle together around brilliant fires
While couples stroll through parks, taking delight in the landscape,
And having picnics until winter’s brisk rise.
Dusk of the year
Blowing so cool
I welcome you
You bring fresh
Skin tingling breezes
That caress me
And whisper of the wonders to come
I always longingly expect you
Hoping you will be
Laden with bounty
You are a time to gather
A time to recollect
A time to get ready for the
Your soothing wind
Is gladly welcomed
After the summer’s heat
Autumn how I have missed you so
Sweet logs crackling on a warm fire
Make me content
I feel blessed by you
Harvest time summons when you appear
Nature’s abundance seems to overflow
I marvel at the wonders you always bring
Time of gathering
Time of coming rest
I thank you most sincerely
For I have worked hard and need the rest
May the pleasant glow of the sun
And nights so cool
I wish you welcome
For I have so missed you so
Smooth green leaves,
are becoming dry bitter things,
their fate coming
to a gentle close, slow,
seeping crimson into the vein;
Your death is immaculate,
Ode to Autumn
Pumpkins on porches, crudely cut, ferocious faces
Wisps of white smoke melting into cold clear skies
Hands held as if praying, to crackling fireplaces
Odors of allspice waft from plump pumpkin pies
Cold swirling winds, skirling leaves in the lane
While a few golden stalwarts, in tall trees still remain
Clinging and quivering, making restless, rattling sound
In anxious anticipation of delicate descent to the ground
Haunting apparitions, appear the skeletal trees
To spook little kids into feigned, fun-filled fright
With witchy appearance, bare limbs wave in the breeze
Scarecrows wave back with ghoulish delight
Autumn leaves burning, aromatic auras so sweet
Crisp air numbs kid’s noses, toes and their feet
Once strutting Tom Turkey, now reclines in the oven
Exuding the aroma that everyone’s lovin’
Autumn’s a time of rich renewal
Preparing for change, in time so transitional
Mother nature shedding summer,s no-longer-chic green
and donning more staid, brown traditional
Summer, winter and spring are beautiful seasons
And in them I find much of delight
But Autumn’s the season that I’ve come to love
Because everything about Autumn…and Fall…
is just right
You longer blaze in the summer heat,
You breeze in the autumn wind.
Does my change concern You as much?
By what means,
do we clinch the elasticity of Your skin?
By what measures,
do we clench the extensiveness of Your muscles?
To keep You warm,
To keep You here,
To keep You.
Ode to Snow
From the cloudy sky
It floats softly down,
Drifting silently by
Quickly blankets the ground.
On skeletal tree limbs and evergreen boughs
Covering dead leaves and pine cones,
As thick as weight will allow
The arms of branches take the burden now.
It dances on errant breezes
Or flies swiftly to the side,
The wind will carry it where it pleases
Coming down heavy now, spreading far and wide.
I walk among its chilliness
And wonder if it knows,
That it brings me such happiness
The peacefullness of snow.
Soon spring will come upon the land
Winter storm clouds will part,
Drifty mountains once so grand
Will quickly start to melt.
Then rain will wash the snow away
Rebirth of blossoms, new growing grass
Summer flies quickly by, Autumn seems only a day
All too soon the stormy snow clouds will amass.
Another half-turn complete
To the lazy jazzy beat
Trade winds sail
The winter monsoon on its tail
Time to sell those sunshine shares
Time to pass on the rites of summer
To those lovely fellas down under
In the southern hemisphere.
We exchange presents
This time of the year.
And so the artist prepares his paint:
Two parts water, one part yellow, one part orange.
His airy brush sweeps across the terrain
Coating the leaves with shimmering golden rain.
The rattling branches still beneath his soothing hand
A crisp, crinkling choir of leaves sing as they softly land.
He caresses the earth’s sunburnt skin
He kisses my chapped, uplift chin.
He sends the swallows soaring high
Watching as they swoosh by in the clear blue sky
With a smile he blows
Lets out a mild autumn chill
And catches the last dancing shadows
On the amber field.
To the winding whistling melody
Of a year long symphony.
This is the time of the year
When I see the ravens and the crows
Especially in an open field...
It's when I think of you…
I catch myself remembering…
I have to stop myself and breathe…
I daydream of our starry nights
I think of the ravens and the crows…
I think about your untimely plight
I wonder if you ever felt like me
If you ever felt my presence near you
And I wonder now….wherever you are
If you ever missed me too.
Could you have ever imagined
Could you have possibly known
That I’d still be thinking of you
After more than one long century.
It’s only been a hundred years or so
Since you severed off your ear
Since you shot yourself
Since you killed yourself
Since you shortened all your years.
If I had been there and loved you
Could I have saved you from yourself
Would it have made a difference
Or would everything have turned out the same
Would we both still be feeling lonely
Would you still be thought insane?
I did love you Vincent
I just could never let it show
I didn’t know how to tell you
Back before these 100 years
I just kept hoping
that somehow you would know.
Whenever I am in Chicago
I visit the Art Institute and sigh
As I gaze upon your starry skies
I stand before your paintings in wonder
And look deep within your eyes.
I always have to ponder
If you painted thinking of me
I know that you always knew
That I loved your greens and vibrant blues
I see that you tried to show me
How the stars reflected you in my eyes
I see the colors that you have chosen
Have always revealed your truth.
When I see your painting
Of the ravens and the crows
I know that you remembered
How the sky that day looked too
How it felt to have autumn ending
And winter closing in
How wonderful that day was
How happy we had been.
The last time we were together
Everything seemed so right and true
I had no idea
Your heart had turned so blue.
Your feelings always hidden
You never said a word
How things would tragically end
There never was a clue.
So now I stand here after 100 years
I still miss you Vincent.
I really, really do.
I wonder if you are thinking of me
And if you are happy or if you are blue.
(November 16, 2010 Wausau, Wisconsin)
(c) Copyright 2010 by Christine A Kysely, All Rights Reserved,
O! THE NAME SEASON!
OSCILLATING MY HEART!
GLARING MY EYES!
TINY BUDS PEEPED SLIGHTLY WITH THEIR ODOUR IN THE SPRING SEASON.
TREES SCATTERED TEARS OF LEAVES IN THE AUTUMN SEASON.
BIRDS CAROLLED THEIR GLITTERING GAZALS THEREIN MOONY SEASON.
THE DEWS FLING THEIR KISSES ON THE GRASS IN THE WINTER SEASON.
PEARLY EGGS SPLITED CALMLY THEIR NESTS IN THE SUMMER SEASON.
MOTHS HAVE WREATHED SINGING THEIR OPERAS IN THE BRIDAL SEASON.
CRICKETS WELCOMED WITH THEIR RINGING BELLS AFTER IN THE RAINY
YOUR PLATONIC BLOOD PAINTED MY HEART, BRINGS THE SEASON OF
I do not know?
Liken me to a maple tree
shy and reserved with thick green leaves
spreading elaborate for the neighbors to see
nervous when birds come to nest
Roots which have bent themselves knotted and tight
to reach out for water, creative hindsight
never with other roots banter and fight
a sigh and my shade gives up rest
Solitary. Passionate. Silver bough and burnished head
A maple alone on the block, but well-bred
limbs undiscouraged when cut up and bled
Endurance and joy under test
Solid stance just like a maple tree
when my colors bloom electric in the autumn breeze
I'll still be standing through the winter freeze
Remembering why I am blessed.
Ode To ‘Mother’ Creator ©
Not only is it a marvelous happen chance in being able to have ‘shares’ in Mother Nature’s flora creations 'first hand'---
But, we are then granted to sit before her, these ‘set tables’….
She, as our ‘hostess’ serves ‘up’ an endless canvasing ‘kaleidoscope’ set for our eyes only!
She tempts us again and again, into a fevered ‘hunger-fest’ to (pig-out) by and they are very much ‘ready’ with such ‘food for thought’!
She has intuitively displayed her indulgent ‘realm’ to overrun our 'minds' eye….
We are prearranged to touch, taste/smell and become a convert---
It is; as true, loyal, ‘voyeurs’ we now give our undivided attendance, when we are all invited to her 'seasoning’ assemblies….
Their wholeness is made perfect, even into their ‘finally’ timed performances!
Her uses and gifts work miraculously to brightening 'up' her shadings and tonalities towards her abundant-folding true colours and her 'achievements' are (forever) complemented upon---
Whether, it is in her fauna show of velvety, satin and silky petal-flowers spending titillating fragrances
Or, by use of her seasonally ‘varying’ cycles, in 'all' her weather modes; she always will spend, all her wonderment and excitement--- towards her spectacular works!
Her numerous ‘paint-box’ colours with their different scents and shaded consepts are definitely.... crafted, in alluring us feverishly, into inventive crazed acts---
Just like the moments, when a (newly) box of crayons, first opens up and invitingly nudges the painter and writer forward.binging 'us’, to recreate one's own bountiful displays with worded colour and paints….
Thus, with our 'first hand' wonder/mental experience, “Mother’ has never 'giifted', (a questionable) blank canvas to work upon!
We are a growing world-wide nature loving group, enamoured to (dabble) our time away, 'within’ her 'ecospheres'---
We have also ‘gifted’; as well, to oiur 'public', family an friends many of our exhibited works….
Our own ‘piece-meals’ are proudly admired and profitably ‘feasted’ upon!
Many wonderful invites are sent 'out', for all to come and attend our (tabled smorgasbords) ---
‘Mother’, must be as proud and pleased when taking note, of all the vast, interpretative and varied (personal) worked styles we have made, in her likeness….
she has ‘qualified’us her pupils, in her stead, to such ‘artistry’ freedoms!
We have been ‘branded’ her slaves; as only a true slave driver can do---
We are meant to go through with our own ‘humbling’ efforts willingly.
Our need and desire to please and honour her great gifts, by these, our gifts are surmountable!
Our enthusiasms, to share our ‘Mother Nurtured’ talents among one and all to salivate and savour, is indeed a two-fold 'forever'gift and made much more---
We can only hold her responsible for our inspirational madness every day, days in and days out throughout time….
Mother Nature, we thank you for the power you have given us again, and again and again to learn, create and live in your world.
We are indeed, our own 'self-appointed time keepers and guardians to your ‘star studded 'forevermore''garden!
My writer’s mind speaks ‘never’ enough words to paint your magnificence---
There are not enough means, to ever do you justice….
Our word/plays and colourful paintings are but a ‘stitch’ to your ‘dressed’ canvases!
A true lover of Mother Nature’s works.
Artist and poet writing with ink and paint!