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Autumn On Writing And Words Poems | On Writing And Words Poems About Autumn

These Autumn On Writing And Words poems are examples of On Writing And Words poems about Autumn. These are the best examples of Autumn On Writing And Words poems written by international PoetrySoup poets

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Details | Narrative |

My Favorite Devonshire :D

Past-Life Nightmare
A child of four suffers recurring dreams,
disturbing parents and siblings with screams.
When she awoke, always sore in one knee;
next to a birthmark, it throbbed painfully.

Night after night she feared going to bed.
What caused these nightmares that raged in her head?
Even when grown, the torment persisted,
so a therapist’s aid she enlisted.

“Hypnosis,” said he, “might offer some clues.
Why not try it?  You’ve just bad dreams to lose.”
Once under, he guided her to a room --
here people’s lifetimes in books were entombed.

“Find one that is yours,” her counselor said.
Quickly she did, but before it was read,
she felt an ache, saw just a faint title.
The words, she thought, said “Alister Bridle.”

The hypnotic trance now suddenly broke;  
puzzling questions “Mr. Bridle” evoked.
For many years she thought that was her name;
perhaps a past life had been filled with pain.

Who was this man?  She simply had to know!
Seasons passed, summer suns made way for snow.
In Florida now, 1998,
she thought all the nightmares she had escaped.

But strange dreams always catch us by surprise --
when the lights grow dim, our minds fantasize.
Cloaked in velvet, she left her parents’ farm,
stealing away on a late autumn morn’.

To meet her love, she climbed on the carriage,
knowing her folks would forbid their marriage.
Warm-hued leaves carpeted the hillside road,
and her pulse beat fast; she’d soon join her beau.

She thought only of him; joy cast its smile,
but that’s when he called, “Alice, the bridle!”
The leather band broke and wrapped ‘round her knee.
To the ground she was pulled; her horse ran free.

She met death, but past-life dreams recycle,
and she’d never been “Alister Bridle.”



*Based on real events I experienced.
--Carolyn Devonshire

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I first read this gripping narrative as an entry for my contest & I
felt chills when I read this-& to know that it is based on real events makes this even more amazing for me. I placed this 2nd place in my first ever contest :D.

For me (& I think to so many others) Carolyn has a real gifted pen-- she can write just about anything & truly evoke emotions within you. She writes about realities of her life & she can take you with her. So Carolyn, continue writing your gems & we'll continue enjoying them :)

Also, thank you so much for all the wonderful comments, they're truly heartfelt & that's one of the things I love about you. Hugs & love!


Details | Dramatic Verse (Verse Drama) |

Inspiration

I never knew I'd be in heaven
In the autumn of my years,
Or that I'd be immerged
In the brilliant art of words,
Or float above operatic notes,
Or view ballet through
My elated tears.

I never thought I'd meet
Inspiration face to face,
Or feel it rise within me
With a poet's surrendering grace.
I just know that I'm contented
As profound love keeps flowing
From my impassioned heart.
This is the gift that artists
Of this world yearn to impart.

© Connie Marcum Wong


Details | Rhyme |

slag worn centipedes

ragged thoughts 
marching like stoned centipedes
to the slag heap of the lost
intertwined in eternity's brine
waiting to reunite with meaning-

a lightning strike- mind o fire
insomnia rapes the dream
splay the centipedes across the page
like autumn leaves o'er vampire graves
twitching feet in a gyrus maze


the destiny of brilliant beams 
in the outback of the furthest ... reach...
sadistic magicians
wanding diamonds
back
into
centipedes


Details | Free verse |

Nevermore


O impetuous Muse surround me
with ashes of moody youth
Recall silken moments,
 uncertain, where 
marbled words wrote
an elaborate history.

Nectar thoughts,
 not moments, dappled drab
where ruined feathers in darkness dwelt.
Ornate  years of passion, spilling fire
allusive to all consuming ire.
	
When summer spoke,
when spring day-dreamed
and Autumn kissed me with
gaudy leaves.

Swift and sweet, how memories rise
diamond- strung in a room of silver
Slick and sleek from a stormy world,
 solid tree trunks on a bell- clear morning.
 
Blithe, dramatic, reckless dreams
 flowing with precocious,
 peculiar streams
 Luxurious with sadness,
 time’s cruel wheel
  rolls vast recollections 
 that slowly  yield
 cold, closed canyons of
endless  truths,
touched with the starry
  kiss of  youth.

Suzanne Delaney


for Harry















Details | Couplet |

A CLASSIC SUMMER IN GREECE for fantasy contest

                                A CLASSIC SUMMER IN GREECE

               Viciousness and mystery erupt on arid soil.
               Summer heat and idle time can make the spirits boil.
               Languishing in stuffy rooms with very little sleep--
               Night time flickers of the light-- imagination leaps.
                  
               Heat that beckons times long past invade a fevered head—   
               Athena pleases lovers mid her goddess silken bed,
               Grecian legs march bravely –- prelude Olympian races--
               Soldiers dream they sail away to see exotic places.

               Heat waves shimmer landscape –men will do what they are told--
               Spearborn soldiers helmeted sing down a dusty road.
               Tho in mind they join their lovers whispering by the sea,
               Drink of mountain waters --rest their head on sweetheart’s knee

               Helen, when she sailed away –a wayward selfish wife
               Without a backward glance she risked the cost of human life--
               Was it the heat that made her crazed to do this foolish thing?
               A fit of summer boredom could create this witless fling.

               Autumn winds are blowing now-- Troy’s nights turn cool and fair--
               Does Paris try to ditch her --as naked Helen combs her hair--
               Does Hector tell his brother--get this woman out of here--
               Does Helen beg to stay-- and tell her lover not to fear?

               Heat can play the brain and make it dance a backward tune--
               Clarity as sun tricks down—repeats a former June,
               Perhaps there is a lesson learned from heat that sears the soul--
               Summertime romance will write us each a tragic role.

Victoria Anderson Throop ©
1/11/13


Details | Light Poetry |

Butterfly

I once was like a catipiller young,naive,and new
Always living from my heart not knowing what
else to do.Easy to take advantage of, that is 
just the case, people would walk over me
like I was their dirty used up suitcase.
Now I feel a newness coming, like a light
shining from the sky, colors fill my world
and I know I am blooming into a butterfly.
Purple,Pink, Blue and Green I can feel them
flowing through. Colors of the rainbow raising
me into full bloom. Wise and strong I am becoming
My faith leads me where I need to go giving me
insight and wiseness for only me to know.
I have not  done this on my own you see
I have been guided by God and Angels
on this Earth. Wise words the wisdom at
it's best comes from a wise lady who
seems to know me best. Lucky, I am 
to have her in my life, she always shoots
it straight and tells me like it is, knowing
her words touch my heart and gives me tons of faith..
I feel like flying through the sky or climbing 
a tree way up high. I feel like observing the 
world just like a brand new butterfly so as I
Bloom I become Anew something unlike the past
Smart and wise beautiful on the inside and outside 
 a touch of color here a touch of color there
makes me glow and become a beautiful blooming butterfly...


Written By: Christina A McCullouch 
04/09/2013


Details | Free verse |

OF Poets, Parasites And You

I am the word that grasps your soul and twists
An iota of sorrow or joy into your subconscious 
I speak truth and you interpret, absorb or reject
Your silver clad universe is not my cloud filled sky
Your autumn soft earth is not the path that I tread
But your suffering is the pain that aches my heart 
I am the word

You are the faceless one that takes my offspring
And delivers it prematurely stillborn to the world
That lays its corps in some far off barren desert
Dances a dance of pleasure on its alabaster bones
Chants a song of praise as  nectar  becomes carrion 
Then rinse your palate with the gall of the unjust 
You are the faceless one

You are my rock that lifts me above the raging sea
That wraps me in your cloak on chill winter nights
You go barefoot to enable me to walk stony trails
That lead to high places I have not even envisaged
You welcome me to exalted company without gain
Then lay me on a bed of lavender scented words
You are my rock


Details | Free verse |

Torture on the Parchment.

Oh, empty quill
On brittle parchment
Why with such zeal
Do you deride me?
Such power to prevent
A single word 
From being scratched out
Repudiating inspiration
For the moment
Forbidding me
To imbibe of breath

Tell me of that
With which I have sinned
That warrants this pain
This censure…
Necessitates from accusation
This allegation
Which I must answer
Before judgment
Surges forth
Washing over me

If I bloody those pages
Dirty your eyes
Holding my verse 
Contemptible
I shall answer you
Without vanity’s mask
To abstain from
Penning my verse 
Upon your note paper

My compositions
Will be now penned
In the blood of autumn frost
On the windblown foliage
Contented throughout
That no evil can be read
On wind scattered verses
Of me…


Details | Lyric |

Paper World

Everything that's real passes me by
Cause I live on a sheet of paper
I could leave it anytime I want
Convincing myself there's always later

Writing about lives I've never lived
Scares me how I act beyond my age
As I'm fading into the background
Becoming a character on a page

In a fibrous bed
Is where I lay my head
The ink stains my clothes
Watch as I, decompose

I'm too young to think this way
I should live and feel everyday
Always goes back to the pen with me
Real life doesn't phase me and honestly
At times I prefer my paper world
Falling in love with artificial girls
Words can't break your heart, their with you from the start
Ink flows in my veins, to me it's just a game
I'm too young to think this way
Am I far too gone to be saved?

Just one marvelous frame in this world
My beauty is like the autumn leaves
Pretty to see, don't you know I'm dead?
Enshrouded by a blanket of make belief

Instead of trains I played with pencils
Literature in my box of toys
At 6 I held my books in wonder
Desire to intrigue, though I'm just a boy

I tire of real things
Pen holds my puppet strings
I have had enough
Poetry is my love

I'm too young to think this way
I should live and feel everyday
Always goes back to the pen with me
It's where I go to breathe and honestly
At times I prefer my paper world
Falling in love with artificial girls
Words can't break your heart, their with you from the start
Ink flows in my veins, to me it's just a game
I'm too young to think this way
Am I far too gone to be saved?

With enormous zeal
I burn oil by the desk
Drifting, fading, I
Become a child less and less

It's how I escape
This cold and earthly shell
Is it really me
You're talking to, can you tell?

Would you remember me like a good book?
At times I wish you would
See me as a work of art, a wondrous look
I really don't think you could

Instead of a box beneath the ground
I'm a mere mortal striving to astound
Put me on a shelf and put me in your head
Bits and pieces of me to look at when I'm dead

Would you remember me like a good book?
At times I wish you would...



Entered  into the contest
"How Poetry Has become You"
Hosted by Michael J. Falotico


Details | Verse |

Poet Versus Painter

Kaleidoscopic leaf cover shimmers in the September sun casting shadowy and sunlit shifting pools of darkness and light on a multicolored graveyard. Sweet decaying scents permeate the early autumn environs while yellow oxeye sunflowers sway to an autumnal zephyr that whispers enchanting verses softly throughout the trees. ******** Never could a master artist paint like a poet paints with words. What subtle hues could he employ to capture a whispering wind, the sweetness of decaying leaves, inconsistencies of shadows? These intangibles are captured with colors of imagery that are discriminately mixed and depicted where the painter ruefully and completely fails, affixed to inanimateness whereas, the poet pens movement and complexion into his work.


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