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Narrative Autumn Poems | Narrative Poems About Autumn

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Details | Narrative | |

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.


Details | Narrative | |

when autumn comes

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
forget?  never....
while pawing on the hard and bitter earth
of reason, is impossible...

autumn comes
and autumn goes
I will live in hope that baffled minds
will clearly see a winter sun
and give up blaming ... who?



_________________________________


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Time Before Winter

September tries to convince herself,
Making pretend that she is really, truly,
A Summer month, albeit one of dying fire,
Holding at bay the chill of Autumn winds.

October plays temptress with her Duality;
Sun to warm the back of your flannel shirt,
With punkin' frosting nights, crisp and cold.
Air so clear it sears the throat like a glass of cider.

November comes dark, wet and gloomy.
An ancient harridan forced to bridal bed.
Chanting "fools, there's time before winter comes,
Still time enough for love."

December mutters in her sleep........


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My Favorite Devonshire

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

-------------------------------------------------------------------

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!


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Winter Slumber

Winter be but two weeks old and already they lament.
No passion seems as strong as their loudest prayer for spring.
Spring will come when it will and wake the grasses and willow.
Let Natures brief time of slumber last long enough to rest her.

The winter be time for beauty to be found on ice etched panes,
And bayonets of glass, hanging from every eave to be seen.
Winter be found in crystalline air so pure only heroes inhale it.
And footsteps crunch like breaking luttuce upon the snowy ground.

Beyond winter times will speed and rush their way forward.
Spring then Summer and Autumn sprinting to their ultimate ends.
Let winter luff her way on tiny frozen feet while fire warms yours.
Add another log and settle in for a long nap and a dream.


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Tea is Served

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"


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Seasons of Life

As spring brings life to all that sleep
Spirit, body and mind renew
Joy reflects in bursts of blossoms
Heralding new birth to God’s creation
As man and nature journey as one
In a dance of celebration
Hope reborn in all that live

As the summer of life screeches by
Visitors invited, welcome to share
Love, laughter, living and dying
Soon comes bittersweet joy of liberation
Knocking, bearing gift of freedom
As mountains rise along the way

As the autumn of life drifts in
The lights of my eyes will grow dim
Yet the hummingbird still sings
Joy of my vision, my rock
Through light of day or darkest night
Like a child I trust, I sleep

As the winter of life arrives
When my tresses turn white as snow
With the sound of my voice just a whisper
Though shallow breath, my prayers ascend
To the joy of my salvation
Just beyond invisible gates
I will in quiet adoration kneel


Note:  Written 9/17/09
          By Audrey Carey
          Entry for Constance La France's "Why Oh Why" Contest


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Remembering The Children of Beslan

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


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Summer's Farewell

On a fading stage of August
Lady summer reluctantly sheds
Her emerald robes of a dying season
As the blazing Autumn stands
In the wings 
Adorned in her gown
Of russet and gold
Awaiting her debut - 
Her opening night
Of an illustrious September


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You're my Star

hey there,
You have lighted up my world..
Now you're the one I am dreaming of
Dont you know,
I can sit here forever,
Just looking into your eyes?
The things I see there
Always take me by surprise
but I don't see you coming...
I see you standing there;
so close but still barely out of reach;
I want to be closer to you,
so I'm on my way...
I will be missing you
I will be missing the places we used to know..
wish i could carry you with me
I hope I make you a little happy too
I am not saying goodbye
I know I'll see you again
I would be crying in that strange city
and you wouldnt be there..
but I will carry on..


6.22.11 (my goodbye poem before I boarded the plane)


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Autumn

They call me the dying month, the bringer of cold harsh winds from the north.
I sneak up upon unsuspecting late summer well wishers, wrap my cold hands around their cheeks and come forth.

Moving silently across the country side, I graciously give the kiss of death to the once green leaves.
In my path I leave nothing but skeleton shapes twisted and old, they are nothing but shadows of once mighty summer trees.

In death however comes beauty of colour, the brown crispy leaves illuminated by the red autumn sky.
The stage is set and the players cast, the final curtain call is all but nigh.

With a crunch under foot, hat and scarves protecting such delicate pale frozen skin.
The first frost falls upon my deathly hands, I greet winter as my old friend with an honest grin.

Like the leaves from the trees my time is short, but the cycle continues without me and I die knowing my part has been played.
I close my eyes as you do in bed, into winters night will an autumn evening fade.

My time has ended and I bow out gracefully, for the work I've done I feel no shame.
As all things that share a purpose and live with meaning, it's time for us all to return whence we came.

03/01/2015


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The Baseball Mitt

My father's Roger Maris mitt
Was kept in perfect health.
It showed no wrinkles no blemishes
Nor flakes of skin.

Its limber fingers were sheathed in leather, 
Its pocket was well stretched
As it yawned with each breath.
Bathed in linseed oil, 
It was a dark jersey cow
As it slept like an oyster
With a pearl cradled in its palm.

My father's attention was precious as gold; 
His time was well spent with little to spare.
He was my coach, he was my father
Playing catch on our field of honor.
Years passed by with a blink of an eye; 
His fraying attention became unraveled
By his job, by money, his family's health
And his aging body.
His golden mitt seldom saw light; 
Snaring a baseball was wishing
Upon a starless night.

With patience and compassion
My father guided my life, 
By catching a baseball my self-confidence grew.
But, his life was snatched by death
His game forever ended.
He was part of my foundation
Which will never fade from sight
As long as I remember, a baseball
Caught on an autumn night.

Standing in my backyard, I see my father's mitt
Cradling me; 
Like a baseball I recline
In his loving arms forever.


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Autumn


In a quiet town
Of small shops
Ice cream
And American flags
I feel the wind
Shifting from
Summer breeze
To Autumn chill.
Holding a drink
I marvel at the colors
The sunlight brings
To my eyes
A mystery
I can never explain.
Like a greedy child
I drink it all
Feeling its warm caress
Drift aimlessly downward
In my time
I've had mountains full of ideas
And good memories
That I keep
Close to my heart
I now realize
Life did not change
I did
And what I need now
Are good friends,
Honest talks
And simpler times.





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Where The Sycamore Grew

“to hold, as ‘twere, the mirror up to nature”  William Shakespeare, Hamlet, 1601


                                          +++++



The house seemed smaller, seen with older eyes...
The street seemed narrower, the trees taller..
Where once were open fields across the road
New construction had bloomed
The small fruit orchard had disappeared

But somehow we knew it would still be there....
Strangely different, ...yet the same
There was an unfamiliar young child's tricycle
On the flagstone path that we laid...
In front of this little house that lies
Beyond the curve, where the old sycamore grew...

Suddenly, thirty years faded into that autumn day
And quickly had become a springtime of our lives..... 
...of first Christmas trees,..of first anniversaries...
            ...a place where I cried night after night when mother died...
                       ...and spent long, starry nights holding newborn babes....
Yes....it is all still there, in the little yellow house

Funny, but I'm glad they kept the yellow...
It has the same white shutters...
The little yellow house, with a flagstone pathway that we laid
That sits beyond the curve, where the old sycamore grew...

                                                ++++++


4/20/11  Submitted for Constance La'France's Contest "The Tree"
By Carrie Richards


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.College Bound (repost)

Kirstie Fonte's Blog...stirred up a memory... A repost of a mother watching her son grow up
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
COLLEGE BOUND
.    .    .    .     .   .


His small red car, a dent on the left rear side
     is parked in our driveway,.....loaded to the max....a full tank of gas
His duffel is crammed with rock-band t-shirts, faded torn jeans
    new underwear and socks, (that I insisted we buy),
        and that ratty old jacket with the hole in the elbow.
Guitar, books, sports equipment, and cardboard boxes
    fill the back seat of his little sedan.

On the passenger seat in front,
    is a battered old shoe box tied with string.
    Inside, (I've been told by his sister)...are private letters from girlfriend, Cindy
It is the same box (hence the battered state it is in)...that his sister found one day,...
    tucked it under her arm, and ran from him laughing...
    His long legs chased her through the kitchen and out the back door, screaming
    "You're going to die for that!!"....

On this sunny, autumn day, his sister is not laughing...she is standing quietly...pacing...
He reaches over, and tussles her hair a little, and she leans against his chest for a minute, 
then steps away, and looks at me with solemn eyes...
He and his father share a hug and an affectionate pat on the back

I stand there watching them, on that dreaded concrete driveway...
My eyes are glistening with unshed tears, but I'm determined not to cry
I knew this day was coming, we had planned to be cheerful....
My emotions are betraying me now....but I will send him off with a smile.  
I promised him and I will !

A neighbor is driving by, as if it's just another ordinary day, and waves.
We all wave back, and it breaks the somber spell for a moment.

I hand him the care box I made....laundry soap, toothpaste
    candy, energy bars, his favorite home made oatmeal cookies.

Hugs, extra tight.    One more....no tears....Oh, God, Help me no tears!!
"Be sure to call when you get there."   Drive carefully....Love you"


Love you


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SHADOWS OF BLIND NIGHT






In a flash of minutes, steel wheels turn to crumbs;
a mirage of broken stars flood my mind…
suffocation clogs  an overcast isolation;
bam! boom!... am I trapped, pinned, flown
out into outer space? In moccasin shoes,
feet roll along a far-off lane…quietly, shadows
of gnomes try to pin my neck; the car half-buried
in a pile of mud sinking, sinking.. and creatures 
laugh as if to rake my body into two…is there a 
way out from this turn turtle of maze? A whip lash
drives me between zones of sanity and insanity:
I could not recall the quick slide on a curve.
Twilight silent, claustrophobic. Until wheezing
sounds from the radio awakes tingles of
red lights not from my head, but from
a sea of hands dragging my weight away
from a deep slope.. and what was  once a familiar
highway is now a vision of smoke-blind trail.

I slip in and out from hazed trance to reality fog,
imagining  a slide-show of ravine’s edge and rows
of bloody daisies: still, the gnomes appear as if 
to climb inside walls of my head.
In a quick gap , dried lips recite a frail prayer  as
a stranger  wheels me to a  white bed… oxygen revives
the lungs almost snuffed from a collision of heady
chain-link speed. Blind night, crazed truck, autumn 
spell combust to  almost shatter my bones. 
The gnomes disappear, at last, as the night stranger
leads me safely back home.




                       ©

by nette onclaud for Gail Doyle’s Stranded

*some parts are personal accounts of a car accident





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The Autumn of Life

With heightened urge to swim and splash
To the nearby river, with its twists and bends
In warm summer evening of Uttar Pradesh
A child sets out with a group of friends

The flowing water and its blissful rinse
The currents and waves and their silky flow
Climbing their shoulders and reaching their chins
The ecstasy causing the faces to glow

Oblivious of risks, bubbling with zeal
Knowing not a storm could mount a siege
The fury and rage could serenity steal
Ignorant that scenery could turn a page

You and I are riding the quick sand of time
The turbulent river of life is in spate
We know not that we could be victims prime
Oblivious of meeting a devastating fate

Is there a spring of autumn of life?
Where is the promised mercy’s floodgate?
Is our destiny anguish and strife?
O Saviour’s Benign Hands! How long to wait?

       			----





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The familiar cadence in autumn

Cold spells get to a slow start this year,
with this month's full moon -
known as the Beaver moon.
It makes me think though;
of my homeland where people walk
and enjoy the precipice of the night.

While in New York autumn holds
symbolic meanings and stories to tell;
with a giant wind that looms over a coastline;
it's another landscape that beckons across the farmland.

Withered leaves drop and fall on the ground,
trees in their creeping sadness
continue to lose the sojourn of their youth.
At their height and moving branches,
make me stay up and watch them through the present time.

As I gleefully walk right up to the shrine of Our Lady,
there's a missing whisper, a song to my ears;
those birds spilling down the garden's main avenue.
Like an army, an orchestra that provides
melody in the midst of sympathy.

As a magical moment of Mother Nature,
I see enormous changes in forms and shapes;
an attempt to thrive for another threshold,
keeps me believe the power beyond
filled with images of life.


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Extreme Optimism



Aside from the glorious colours of autumn It is my least favourite season of all four It foretells of another Canadian winter just around the corner I have seen 79 of them That's 79 too many! All my life, I've longed to live where A sweater was the most I ever needed to wear to feel comfortable Instead of fur lined jockey shorts and mukluks Fashioned from seal skin My life long dream has not materialized yet Still have 20 or more years to go What do you think my chances are To live in a warm climate before I reach the magic number 100? On a scale of “slim” to “a sure bet” Would you figure it would be somewhere in between Or as I predict... “a sure bet” Now that's what most would call extreme optimism Really, it's only 21 years from now I call it a done deal! © Jack Ellison 2014


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Up Late

-Inspired by my temporary English instructor, Mr. Phinizy <3
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
Evening had diminished to night; how very quickly did She fly It is funny how quickly time passes, as if our brains tweak the clocks of life The night was of moderate warmth, and my house suffered terribly still And with the stifling heat inside, many hot questions filtered through my mind I asked myself, Where did the summer go? Why must our suns die? Why is it sweltering in September? Why has sudden anger blown her aside? I really need some sleep, thought I, looking at my face through the murky glass Tracing dark circles under my eyes, I was reminded of sagging Death longing to ensnare me Yes, Death followed me that night, dwelling upon me, boiling away the autumn breeze As I looked into my sleep-deprived eyes, I knew Death waited for my ultimate slumber, When all commemoration of time, that flew so rapidly before, suddenly just…stops. With many a sigh, I turned on the faucet, soaking my hands in the cool, flowing water I needed some relief from the heat…I needed a refreshing new idea, I needed cleansing Anything to clear my mind of the negativity daring to break me every day of my life For such depressing thoughts spewed forth like a wild river, the rapids racking my brain But these waters were not living; they were dead and hot like blue blazes of hell I turned off the faucet, for there was no Balm on this earth to sooth this soul There was no clock on this earth tweaked enough to return me to earth The warm breezes, the sickly pale cast of many thoughts had driven Her away And though the everlasting sleep of Death sounded soothing, the Balm does not assuage me… It only burns forever, in obstinate constancy; angered to the core, That night stuck in this fractured rhyme of time, I was up late…too late


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Unfinished Business

UNFINISHED BUSINESS
©Alfreda Williamson
July 2, 2004




Outside town boundaries,
bustling, noisy din,
Deeply in the serenity of peace, calm,
the country County,
Around a curve, sharp, blind.

There it leaped out at me.
Suddenly, unexpectedly
Catching me off guard,
Not foresightedly, not scary
Just by way of wonderment
. . . why this unfinished business?
The house without its finishings.

. . .  It rose up in the trees,
reaching the tops, for two stories,
Sweat/precision/deliberation imputed,
Reaching towards the sun.

Or was it toward a full autumn moon,
Or could it be the direction,
from the ancient star compass.
Harnessing a cloud drifting by, for clearing?

It stood among the ivory,
Entangled, entwined but
Not overgrown, not overtaken.

The roof covered in tin,
The setting for magnificent, earthly,
	heavenly sounding of
drenching,/torrential/steady
rain drops.


The windowed eyes of this
Unfinished  dwelling,
Finished, painted, shadowed, framed
. . . in pink.
Its back bone wood no longer
yellow /white/beige with youth.
The grey/brown color of rotting age and elements;
. . . time, neglect, exposure
. . . nature scraping and shearing away,
year after year,
after month, after day,
after time.

The frame finished, nearly so,
Peaking spaces left, or now,
There, some frame filling
Having been ripped/rotted
Away for outsiders to look in.

This business unfinished,
And not overtaken,
In the gulf of time.

Nature working reclamation,
Of the space, crawling,
Groundward, upward,
Yet unfinished in recapturing.

This unfinished house, standing
Alone in the word,
Sharing a space with no one
In its place.
The windowed souls,
	. . . looking, peeking at
	passersby,
	driving,
	cycling,
	running pass,
	in a flurry.

This unfinished business,
Begs questioned consideration,
Sufficient structural invitation
	? who went there
	? what past passed
	? why this unfinished business
	? when
Where . . . 
	am I begged to inquire,
	invited to draw close?

But I can’t get there.
Though attention drawn,
And pondering invoked.

I can’t finish it,
This business.

By Alfreda Williamson
© July 2, 2004




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Wyoming Fall

It happens every year around this time. 
The winds starts to pick-up and change from a warm westerly direction, to the chill of the 
Canadian north breezes that ice over windows on the inside. 
It seems, that these old bones can tell, as well as these old eyes, when the trees start whistling a-bit 
to the chilly Wyoming skies. 
But the last great photo of natures camera, before the howling of winter is at our steps. 
Is the Wyoming colors of fall, that nature delivers to us. 
Now it's nearly impossible to describe, what nature has spent eons learning to do right. 
Blazing the colors from green to orange in the aspen groves of a mountain morn. 
The cottonwoods shimmer their hints of tarnished bronze and copper leaves, 
it seems damn near ridiculous, to try and describe these. 
One can't even come close to drawing a picture with words, to the chaotic beauty of a Currant bush, 
wrapped in buffalo berries that seem to defy gravity, hanging there all by themselves. 
Not to mention the golden coat of a milkweed plant, overflowing seeds that glisten rainbow colors in the light. 
It just wouldn't be describable, it couldn't be imagined in words, 
The colors of fall, my eyes have heard. 


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Liberty Street and Church Street

An eerie perception,"lets go,grab my hand, lets go......" as somber as midnight black
amid horrific pain the shrieking iron grinds upon iron in an imploding imbrication upon a 
clear autumn day, a feeling fugacious in hope , a plan surreptitious had arrived in the 
innocent morning sky, minutes to hours hour to days, a truth that would cry out 
evermore. An eerie perception, a voice screaming within...."lets go, grab my hand,
lets go......"
 
Upon his powdered white face, a stream of burgundy flow, his love, woebegone....
she lay deparate below within a black hell penumbra as chaos ran ramped above,
she struggled to move within an airless tomb, her arm stretched out in a desperate 
need, survival would become apparently clear, her fate would find a willing chance, a 
hero had come near, her life, would be blessed.....she would persevere....  

survival......perched at the edge of Liberty and Church street.  


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Robert Frost

Born on March 26th 1874 in San Francisco
Where the streets are filled with dining alfresco 
At age eleven his father passed 
Then relocated to Lawrence Mass.
From the hills and the pastures blowing free
His words ran so deep and scrupulously dreamy
In the 1900’s he began forward to Derry New Hampshire
Where the broken apple limbs made fair bushfire
 Sweet fields swayed and the autumn sighed
Robert was devoted to nature and the great outside 
Blooming vivid colors in the musty breeze
Burnt amber firewood rests in columns and is seized 
Frozen grounds and lanterns aglow
Heaps of clad earth dancing around the spruce in a row
Where impulsive minds were left to wander 
A glorious view of the silvery birch around yonder
There a hunger grew like no other, and emerged 
In the myths of his seclusion inspiration ran with an urge
So there he traveled the courses
On posed dapple-grey horses 
Spent time in his teaching
Always in hopes of reaching
Though suffered many a personal tragedy in succession 
He later settled in Ripton Vermont and continued his profession 
Frost received the Pulitzer Prize for poetry four times in his life 
Having succeeding many children and a wife 
Robert Frost died on January 29, 1963, having had four children
And six grandchildren, and eleven great-grandchildren
He is and will always be regarded a master-poet and writer 
Leaving piles of verse for all to read thus making life brighter 
    
   






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Mexican Mother

-
Remember the day you helped to display a picture of a Mexican Mother
She was swaddled in blankets of orange brown wraps and holding 
her new born babe.She looked out of a shuttered window across a 
laboured vineyard with unconditional love. Her eyes saw an evening 
sky that glowed and ebbed beautiful shades of autumn reds.

The picture sat on the wall above our new crib beside our bed.Our 
new baby's crib. Baby Katy. Black hair just as in the picture I'm sure.
A new patchy red skin of unbelivably vunerablility and loved so 
much by both of us. She would russell away all night. No sleep to be 
had but thoughts of love all day at work.

I see you wife now so many years later as that Mexican Mother. And 
loved you that way. And as for my daughter I see you as then too. 
I can by pass your demands now.Demands unreasonable and biased. 
You will return one day with that loving effect on me. You will understand 
when an adult. My second daughter arrives later just the same way.



  


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Below the eyebrows,windows

Beneath the eyebrows, windows.



When I was a child- fresh of life;
Seasons flew past my watching,
Mountains of newness grew before me-
-And I conquered Everest...

Ran like the wind,
Now;
Taken like an autumn leaf-
Weathered and ready for composting;

They give us mood, gesticulation;
Always moving, eyes are on us-
Tell me a story of your ways; what did you see?
Just now or many years ago.
Windows-
 
To earth, arriving home
Sitting on its clay- waiting
Watching-
Beneath the eyebrows,

Through windows fixed once,
So I could continue to see my view;
A way of life- real and lived in full.
These I will leave to watch over you,
My spirit and soul are my vision now.


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Grizzly

Three truant scholars spending our sabbaticals
in crisp Colorado, we all re-read Walden,
dared to drink from streams so icy clear
the fish seemed suspended in mid-air.
Our flimsy nylon shelters shielded us
from what weather there was to worry on,
as summer slipped to autumn
and autumn waned winterward.

We walked well-wooded hillsides
of mixed conifers and broadleaf;
in deep drafts we breathed the earthy air,
interpreting the dent and trace of tracks.
Four full years past we trekked those trails
through stands of timber frequented by fox,
by birds, by deer -- and by growling grizzlies.

Now, when my son hugs his honey bear,
red-jacketed, black-button eyed,
I see the hellish maw, the blooded claw,
of the brownish-yellow raging beast
that tore off my arm and maimed two sages,
amid the yellow quaking aspen
where, yet, that gory grizzly ages.


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How A Blue Rose Came To Be

"I have dipped my pen in the sublime, it is my gift to you . . ."

                                                           

Once upon a time, many years ago,
There was a sweet and lovely -  red, red Irish rose,
That was plucked prematurely, from the garden vine;
A budding beauty, taken in her prime.

She was laid to rest, upon the death, of a lovers dream;
Upon a chest of ebony, where lie, his would-be  Queen; 
Lowered deep into the depths, of the church yard cemetery;
Her scarlet petals, wilting in the summer breeze.

Then the earth begin to fall, like autumn leaves;
Upon  her petals, and the chest of ebony,
From above her tomb, where stood the grieving groom
Weeping , weeping,  like a willow tree.

Then the sky begin  to disappear, amid that mournful cry,
As  tears - from above, fell from that lovers eyes,
And came to rest, like dew drops on that  Irish rose, 
As she disappeared beneath the earth, there in his grief below                                      
     
In time, he laid a stone of ivory - upon her grave;
Etched deeply  - with the promise he had made:
To love his Irish Rose - forever and a day.

The years and all their seasons came and went
And a million lonely tears were cried and spent
Upon her grave where everyday he knelt and prayed
And dreamed of her until his dying day.  

The epigram has long since faded on the ivory stone   
That still stands alone today, upon her grave
Where from the million tears of love he gave
A seemingly impossible - blue, blue rose has grown.

                                  ~~~~~


Author:  Elaine George
For the contest: Writing In The Sublime ~
Awarded: First Place


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Come Autumn

"Come Autumn, come Autumn,
Paint the world!
Trees, give me gold,
And riches unfurled!",

The poor man sang,
in a pile of leaves
under the Autumn trees,

The branches digest,
And the gold fell down
Upon the man's happiness,
And all around

And for once,
The man in rags
showered with gold,
was rich.


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Murphy's Law in Autumn (part 1)

There’s a piece of sheetrock in my aunts house.
That’s newer than the rest of the pieces.
It hasn’t experienced the joyful times
The rest of the ceiling has.
I remember the days when life was normal,
Before that orange extension cord came into our lives.
My uncle bought it real cheap at a garage sale.
He said it was a bargain! He loved that extension cord.
Well, that bargain played a savage role that would plaque
The rest of our natural lives in the months that followed.

It was an Autumn morning, 
boy, how I love brisk mornings.
I stay up all night just to catch the morning sun.
I’ve always done this, ever since I can remember heck, I guess I always will.
A call came that early morning,  
I felt on the inside something was wrong.
It wasn’t normal for our phone to ring so early.
My cousin spent that night tallying up his list of unfortunate events.
I was suppose to spend the night, but I didn’t.
The issues of that day, drove him to take my uncles bargain 
and bust the sheetrock from the ceiling.