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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.


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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........


Details | Narrative | |

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!


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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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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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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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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Six White Markers

It was a beautiful October day, and the rolling hills of the Laurel Highlands were splashed with glorious autumn colors.  I was pursuing ruffed grouse in the State Game Lands near Glencoe, PA.

The weather was pleasant, not requiring a heavy, cumbersome coat.  A flannel shirt topped by a hunting vest felt just right.  The vest was heavy with three-inch twenty gauge shells stuffed in the elastic slots.  My reliable Red Wing boots, blue jeans and a camouflage Jones-style cap completed the outfit.

Balanced delicately in my hands was my Ithaca double barrel with twenty-six inch  improved cylinder and modified barrels.  The absolute perfect gun for a perfect day.
One grouse bounced reassuringly in my game pocket, and there was plenty of time to bag the remaining bird to fill my daily limit.

I crested one of the ridges which descended into a partially wooded hollow before rising again to another ridge beyond.  I stood resting, and embracing the scene before me.  Scattered trees, locust, oak, maple, hickory and sassafras dotted the hillside.  There were also areas of tall summer grass, now turned a golden brown.  
In the bottom of the hollow I noticed the partial foundation of a house, crumbling from the stress of many years.  Just beyond I could make out the stone outline of a barn long gone.  A few old and gnarled apple trees with small fruit clinging to the nearly leafless branches stood near the foundations.  The rotting corners of a picket fence spoke of gardens long ago.

The scene was pleasant to the eyes and invited me to linger a while and enjoy the simple beauty.  After all, hunting is not just about bagging game.
Removing my hunting vest, I used it to cradle my shotgun.  I unscrewed the cap of my Thermos and enjoyed the pungent smell of hot, black coffee.  Unwrapping a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, I enjoyed a meal that could not have been duplicated by the finest restaurant in the country.

Savoring a second cup of coffee and absorbing the pristine setting, I noticed a row of markers on top of the ridge, almost hidden by briars and leaves.  Six white slabs, setting at odd angles, their letters nearly worn away by years of rain, wind and snow.

I brushed aside the leaves and studied the writing.  Each slab bore a name and two dates, a beginning and an ending.  A man and a woman in their early thirties, and four children not yet teenagers.  The ending dates for all six were within a span of two weeks in the year 1928.

Was this the family from the foundations below in the hollow?  And what had taken them all so quickly and so close together?  Flu?  Possibly.  Pneumonia from the harsh Somerset County winters?  Times were tough in 1928.

As I stood looking at the little row of reminders, I wondered about their dreams and sorrows.  As I stood in the silence of that midday, I could imagine the laughter of the children playing on the hillside.  Had the father harvested grouse as I was doing to feed his family?  How the mother must have laughed and enjoyed her young family in that beautiful hollow.

I am not ashamed to admit that I removed my cap and shed a few tears as I considered dreams unfulfilled and six lives cut down in the prime of life.
Later that afternoon, I bagged that second grouse, but it was not as rewarding as the lesson I learned that day beside the row of white markers.
That day of hunting was exciting, the beauty of nature was breath-taking, the scent of autumn was uplifting, but it was simply wonderful to be alive.  I returned home, not just a day wiser, but better in every way - and oh so thankful for every blessing I had been given.

That day was nearly forty years ago and the memories are not about filling my quota of grouse, but about six white markers and life itself.  
Then again, perhaps it was only yesterday that I was touched by that secluded hollow and six people I will never know, but who gave me one of the most wonderful gifts I have ever received.


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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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SUNNY DAY IN MICHIGAN

SUNNY DAY IN MICHIGAN

I can almost hear him whisper
His coattails brush the leafy shine
Fancy    
Sculpting jolly faces -
    a cluster smile good fortune    waving

Oh!    Such an urge to completely inhabit the out-of-doors
Gulliver feet planted
Frame head-thrusting as far as blue will allow

Sunny days in Michigan
The charm of neighborhood –
Familiar pile drenched    mollified in early fall

I can almost detect the frown    the shrug
He’s humming (under his breath) a fated dirge
Revealing autumn in disguise


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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.


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When Goodbyes Were Silently Sleeping

His small red car, a dent on the left rear side,
   is parked in our driveway, all loaded,  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
   filling the back seat of his little sedan.

On the passenger seat in front, 
    is a battered old shoe box tied with string.
Those are private letters from girlfriend, Cindy. 

(Oh yes!...The  same box, that his sister found one day,
   when she tucked it under her arm and ran from him laughing. 
His long legs chased her through the house, screaming, ...
   "You're going to die for that!!!!")   

But...that was on another fall day....   A day that now seems forever ago....
While today was silently sleeping...

On this sunny, autumn day, his sister is quiet, she is not laughing.
He and his father share a hug and an affectionate pat on the back.
I stand back, watching them, on that dreaded, concrete driveway.
The trees rustle, and someone's lawnmower is humming
A neighbor is driving by, as if it's just another ordinary day.

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

Hugs, extra tight.  One more, and then another.....

                                                   (Hold it in!....Hold it in!....I can do this!....)

"Be sure to call when you get there.  Drive carefully.  Love you."

Love you



------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Submitted for Debbie's "Emote" contest....(sadness/love)



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THE PLAGUES OF OUR DAY

The blind man waited, 
at the intersection, for someone
to help him cross the busy boulevard...
and he was accustomed to live in twilight,
fumbling for a hand on his right;
and he finally found mine!


Judge humanly...not pettily,
you could be in that situation 
and feel abandoned and helpless,
unless somebody extends compassion
and lends that hand in time of need;
only human love can render a good deed!


The orphan girl recognizes a greed so mundane,
her body has grown, so has her world's view;
that person who abandoned her at the orphanage
when icy rain pelted against the foggy windows,
was her own mother that refused to knock on the front door!
She still feels unwanted, unloved and rejected by who,
for some shameful reason, dropped her off and was gone
into the dreary autumn's night to forget her despair!


Judge the pain...not the circumstance
that impels a misguided heart to err;
beneath an appearance of denial,
there's a certain humanity we can't conceive,
and what prompts us to act in unreasonable and strange ways,
is still not quite understood by all;
all we can perceive is the guilt we can't bear,
and the resentful restlessness which shortens this very existence!


The elderly woman, sitting in an old wheel-chair,
waits at the traffic light as the whisking wind
brushes her frizzy and gray hair;
the sunken-cheeked lady is the regular beggar,
whose life has never been mellow,
but full of tragedy and sorrow!
Her frail voice is not insincere, but thankful and kind... 
when I hand her a dollar out of my car's window!


Judge fairly... that could be you standing there,
or someone you love;  fate can be changed if we dare...
we assert truths without clarity and condemn unjustly!
Let's take the mendicant's place, at the same corner, and beg all day;
wouldn't we be humiliated, be scorned or even be ignored
by the glances of passerby that regard us not as their friend?


The run-away teenager with lots of make-up,
looks like a madam out of a brothel,
who tries to hide her identical age by smiling at strangers...
and her trade is that of an inexperienced gal,
unprotected and exposed to many dangers;
and it might cost her life...that's already a living hell!     


Judge not too harshly...when facts aren't known,
and the only assumption rests with our pity;
along the side of the street there are many eyes that weep,
eager to return home, to a home that was so warm and cozy!
And the lucky ones will make until dawn,
others will not open their eyes, but eternally sleep!



THE PLAGUES OF OUR DAY 


The blind man with a steel cane  stooped and waited
for someone to help him across the busy boulevard;
he felt warm sunlight, and wished his sight back without living in darkness,    
then he saw a glimpse of that light when he was touched by my kindness.   
The orphan girl wants to escape, but she is afraid to venture in the outside world
still feeling unwanted, unloved and shivering unable to shield herself from the cold.   
On many rainy nights, she sits by her barred window recalling her frail mom fleeing 
into the Autumn dreary night, and inside she longs for caresses to begin the  healing.
Another teenager, hustles in the dangerous streets of night...she barely 
can walk on high heels, but she endures pain for gain;
her home was blessed with good parents, but she rebelled and ran away... 
she has no choice but sell her body...what will she attain?  
Lend a hand to anyone in time of need,
only human love renders a good deed;
How can we help abandoned babies and run-away
and get rid of all the plagues of our day that infest society?


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Rotation

Sleep well in Winter, my beloved earth 
     While eagerly I await the birth 
             Of Spring. 

Bring forth new life then watch it grow 
From tender shoots and fragile blooms 
To summer's wealth of richest hues. 

Prepare your Autumn bounty 
      To nourish my body 
      And renew my soul 

               Then 

Sleep well in Winter, my beloved earth 
      While eagerly I await the birth 
             Of Spring


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Singing the Songs of Autumn

    Seems like
dark angels
    are going to 
reach us
   We have waited 
for years for this 
   "golden hour"
   Now turn 
the kaleidoscope
  See what you
must 
  See what you
must     
     Seems like 
someone is going 
     to appear
     Don't know his/her 
name
    but the apparition's 
       appearance
is certain 
      the air 
is redolent 
     with the 
scent of late 
             autumn 
  as we 
move in 
the autumn 
atmosphere 
    Then we 
hear a rustling 
of the leaves
     a dark 
angel approaches 
  bringing 
magic!
     and we taste 
the fruits of 
      forever 
  and burst into 
joyous song!


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Where the leaves go

I look out and wonder where the leaves go
Not those that are raked, the ones the wind blows.
Into the forest to die in dark decay
Providing the soil for the new leaves in May.

I watch as they fall from out of the tree.
For one brief moment they float down free.
The wind picks up and I hear a rustling sound,
Suddenly there are no leaves to be found.

Haunting shadows from lifeless trees,
The coming of winter and its cold freeze.
Soon they will sparkle when covered in snow.
Living but sleeping as the howling wind blows.

As autumn is ending I dream of spring,
The return to life and the green leaves it brings.
So much beauty that the birds have to sing,
Where the leaves go is like a renewal thing…


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WHY

WHY?
A Soldier's Anguish

A poem by Brian W Fisher dedicated to all soldiers serving in Afghanistan.




We left. It was the time of lush green.
Deciduous trees sucking moisture to their leaves.
It was the way. It was England's way.

Soon another season would demand.
Those trees forced to trade sap and goodness for
the dryness that always came with autumn colour.

Bronzed, they lost their tentative hold – fluttered to the earth,
the carpet deep and crisp, deadening footsteps that tramped among them.

We left. Engines leaving trails of white.
The deep azure sky streaked as we soared towards the east.

We left. Not alone but in our thousands.
A common purpose – duty – it was our duty.
Were we not convinced of that?

Now those footsteps were no longer softened.
The parched earth transferred its sun-baked surface upwards
through each step – boots symmetrical patterns imprinted
to guide those who followed.

We left. Those who loved us pining. 
No time for us to ponder – no time to reflect.
It was our time.

One by one our numbers dwindled. 
Each day saw that happen.
Our band of brothers less and less – we saw – we knew – we tried our best.

We left. The pals – the men who cared.
We watched as the arid earth soaked their blood.
We watched when the light faded from their eyes.

Then we took. We took their souls – we strengthened our own.
It was right. It was what they would have wanted.



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WALKING IN SHADOWS

DAY AFTER DAY AND NIGHT AFTER NIGHT I WALK AROUND ASKING MYSELF WHY HAS IT COME TO THIS.

I DO NOT WANT TO BEG OR PLEAD BUT IT SEEMS AS IF YOUR SOUL HAS FADED AWAY.

I LAY IN MY BED WISHING THAT YOU WERE HERE BUT I KNOW THAT WILL NEVER HAPPEN.

I KEEP SEARCHING AND SEARCHING BUT I FIND NOTHING BUT EMPTINESS INSIDE THE HOLE THAT I CALL MY HEART.

THIS FEELING IS TEARING ME APART I WALKED AROUND WITH A BIG EGO ON MY SHOULDERS.

LIKE I HAD NO CARE IN THE WORLD TAKING YOU FOR GRANTED AND NOT ACKNOWLEDGING YOUR PRESENCE.

LONG WINTER NIGHTS AND LONGER SUMMER DAYS IS THE FEELING THAT I HAVE INSIDE.

THE SPRING SIDE IS WHAT I AM CRAVING FOR THE AUTUMN LEAVES IS WHAT I AM SEEKING.

BUT MY SPIRIT IS WOUNDED AND MY SOUL IS BLEEDING WITH ALL THAT IS HEAVING INSIDE OF ME.

SOMETHING IN ME HAS TO BE BURIED AND LET GO OF WITHOUT A TRACE OR A MARK.
IT HAS TO COME TO ME FROM THE HEART.


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One Fall Evening

Rhapsodic melodies from shadows depth
Are the sounds in the darkness before me,
As the owl, loon and crickets sing:
“Come out into the night we implore thee.”

A harvest moon bathes me in a luster
That stirs my melancholy soul,
As I wander about the autumn landscape
On a leisurely evening stroll.

Cool moist air permeates all things
That surrounds me in this rural scene,
And the smell and sound of rustling leaves  
Makes it all so very euphorically serene.

And so realizing the importance of 
Divinely regulated conditions,
I am once again reminded of the reason,
For cycles such as these
Are quite necessary you see:
That is why they are called “Seasons.” 


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Ode to Vincent van Gogh

Vincent…

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
Missing 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,


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It all happens for a reason

Everything that you are happens for a reason.
With each passing thought is a change of season.
 In spring it feels like anything can grow.
The reason becomes just part of the show.

All that I am is a collection of what was.
The only explanation seems to be just because.
Because someone simply took the time to care,
These become all the memories in which we share.

I look out my window to the world outside,
I wasn’t sure so I went along for the ride.
When things got rough and it all feel apart,
I was left standing with this broken heart.

I don’t feel sorry as I view what I learned.
I see all before me as the tables are turned.
With ample sorrow the bridges shall burn.
I see all along what it was that I yearned.

I try to find peace but it is locked in resolve.
It’s like having a puzzle that needs to be solved.
I do realize I have much to be thankful for.
Yet I’m apprehensive of what’s behind the next door.

Everything that happens indeed has its season.
Although the price paid feels much like treason.
I remember the summer when the sun hardly sets.
But with winter approaching all I see is regrets.

I dream of springtime when life begins anew.
I leave behind all the things I’ve been though.
I find some comfort in everything  grows.
 I try to sort out the highs from the lows

But then I realize autumn is the season
The leaves shall fall no matter the reason.
Then all that’s left is to see who we are.
It’s all up to you where you set the bar.


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Time

Did you watch the sun arise from its slumber;

Were you there to watch the birds take flight

At the first sign of mornings light.


How do you live, feeling just okay.

Is each day nothing than the air you breathe.

Have you ever seen the autumn leaves swaying in the wind.

Do you ever put your mind at ease.


When was the last time you were still,

Listening only to the silence.


As the sun returns to its slumber

Do you ever count the number of shimmering stars

Glistening in the night sky.


Do you ever wonder why?

Why is it the world tells you one thing,

But you feel it should be the other way around.


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Eternal Seasons

Snowing winter's night
death silent galaxy
sacred starlight...zodial destiny
shone through black sky darkness

Spring morning light crystal warm and gentle
twilight sun...radiant jewel
verdant orchard veils cool
my skin tanned remains soothed 

Morning sun,eve's stars,twilight moon
daylillies bloom
in summer trilight amidst day's blue amber haze and golden highlights
day's summer glow fades and blendsin night darkness as day ends

Night's shade,rythmic black ocean waves
cool and pleasant , cooled my skin sunstained
from daylight pain

Autumn morning through eve
cooled by shading autumn leaves and gentle breeze
their sacred colors 
blend with twilight skies that smothered
sunlight in an ocher amber haze
autumn's last remains
tuft grass bordered smooth vacant plains
twilight shades tamed
as night followed
I nestled sleep in ashwoods hollow
dreaming of Earth Heaven...until tomorrow




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Autumn of life

Episodes of yearly autumn
bring back to mind
some realities pertinent to life -
the changing of colors and
falling of withered leaves;
similar to aging,
a metaphor of dying.

  The wind blows these leaves
  trees seem to be in tears,
  with no birds singing nor chirping
  like a scene in a graveland.

Death in the surface
silence across the land
others hidden in their abodes,
like a refuge against this season.

  As the sun hides its face
  darkness caves in elsewhere
  where many seem to be set
  to get home and be able to take a rest.

Oh, the autumn of life!
starts to unfold the how it feels
the beginning of the accumulated youth, 
energy and dynamism, so to speak,
of the years gone by.


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ALONE UPON THIS HALLOWEEN SCENE(a fictional Tale)

Stepping out into the Autumn night of Halloween
It is the Witches and the Warlocks turn to dance
Their air of mystery and mystic is all around
The zombies or the Undead cannot speak
but,their presence seems to be abound
Ghouls of the Men
Vampires within the Ladie's evil grin
It is out here on this Night
When old wives tale frighten us with delight
My footsteps carry me beyond the hill
A cemetery there which omits a deathly thrill
We(meaning a friendly spirit beside me)know the Cackle
Inside many tomb,ready to come out like a babe from its mother's womb
The moon is full and the Old Man paints his smile
Trick or treaters are out,,having fun for a little while
Tonight all Halo as strange yellow mist creeps from behind a boulder narrow
Dancing amidst the moaning dead,darkened shadows surround this timid Head
I feel like Ichabod Crane,strolling,with terror,upon the Midnight Domain
Ghosties
Goblins
Maybe the old Headless Horseman
Perhaps,the wretched creature of a certain Frankenstein
Many of these apparitions could be just a figment or Reality having a smile
The Corridor of the dark as I wander through a deserted Schoolyard park
An evil happened there,just a few moons not  long ago
Halloween Night..1980 when I was ten
A grade schooler was being hazed upon
He was locked in a decrepit old trunk,tucked,not so sweetly away,in the attic of 
this old place..his peers left him for the night

They came back the next morning before the session began
after lifting a set of keys from the sleeping janitor,they went up to the attic to see
The trunk was open,HOW COULD HE HAVE GOTTEN OUT??
tip-toeing near the open trunk and peering down with trepidation..
only to find,a bloody handwritten note,written with EXTREME AGITATION

It said:YOU LOCKED ME AWAY BEFORE YOU DECIDED TO PLAY
BUT..I WILL COME BACK UPON THIS LAND AND MY VENGENCE WILL HAVE 
HIS FINAL SAY!!

The school was beset by this horrible deed,and it was closed forevermore 
because the children confessed and the Pain would never recede
some say..the spirit of the little lad still haunts the old school
Laughter could be heard if many,who dare,decide to explore it and play it cool

Pardon me,my weary Halloween reader..it is TIME for me to head back before
I become no more,by an ominous Night Creeper(or the Ghost of The Attic Child!!)


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Queen

Even though she knows I love her
I cannot tell her and she knows why
It's not because I'm shy

But, I look in her eyes
and they are oceans
every blink a wave 
that washes to the shore

Her hair Autumn leaves on trees
yellow, red, and auburn rolling down
to the mountians valleys
that rest on her shoulders

Her body, slinder and yet 
in perfect places it curves in
then curves out, then curves back in
as a womans body should

Her walk, mesmerizing

Her essence is as such
like when she leaves her seat
her warmth remains
her soft perfume
leaves one breath of sweet air
Her memory, a face that looks at me
and speeks without words

"She speeks yet she say's nothing.
What of that?"




(One of three Bessemer women who helped me escape heartache.)12-18-96


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lessons learned

Tis Autumn and the tired trees
Drop off dead leaves as sap lays rooting 
The long Spring war with gypsy worms 
Has caused a few to come to terms
The humming birds are still around
But not for long we fear
The color change is way too soon
For such a lazy year
To fatten up and hibernate
In warm and cosy den
And venture out a time or two
To see the snow and then
Patiently enjoy inaction
In contemplative satisfaction
Fireside sipping wrapped up warm
Bearly educated



autumnal feelings (Chilton or cheddah with the whine?)


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Winter Solstice

Zero,minus twelve growing colder
yet orange meadowbrite blossom
though autumn is over

Bare burningwood trees lost their leaves
...ocher,orange copper
their vased pink flowers pruned proper

Snow burned my glowing brown skin
cold calloused stiff as winter begins
warm garments feel thin in bitter cold wind

Wool socks soft as kittens 
sown into mittens
summer's blossoms frostbitten
beneath deadened soil next spring's seeds hidden

Skin worn and blistered
yet warmth's in distance 

Home's...warm as summer's past,this day's first splendor
my skin thawed,blushing red and tender
as an orchard rottens and all pain's fogotten
yearning winter's end and spring first blossoms




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Epilogue

I remember being loved very much
Of loving you too in the day, in the night and  . . . 
And I remember waking in the early morning
Before the sun rose
Before the moon fell
I remember watching the sighing of moonlight across your skin
How it rained just for us, for you in March
And how the skies shaded the sun on that one-day in October so slightly
I remember our children
And Mary
Rhane
I remember our first child and the way you smiled in those first moments

I remember
In the sighing of my life I remember you
Watching over me
Loving me
Always loving me
And . . .

I remember dying

Growing old together with laughter and tears
Of looking back on our life together
Of being eighty-four summers old and new 
Of celebrating your eighty-third autumn and spring
With our children
And our grandchildren with their squealing laughter and “Nana, Nana!”

I remember my last breath
And how my eyes fell upon you to the last

I remember dying

My story . . . 

It was supposed to end there


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Autumn Dream

                                                  Autumn day ages slow
                                        gazing through canvas windows
                                                molten gold amber glow
                                                        burning glare 
                melting summer's stratus...gentle fabric,stretch and tear
                                              cloudless blue canvas sky
                                             over miles of summer's rye

                           Lime blossoms turn copper,orange,amber gold
                               summer's orchids sunpaled and aged old
                 wilting flower tree pedals litter endless verdant meadows
                           
     Passing through autumn meadows nestled sleep in verdant country woods
              In the quiet secret of dreams peace its essence understood

                             Twilight...burning sky...black amber fire clouds
                          glitter stars shone through cosmic night's shroud

                                       Curiosity enhanced night vision
                                        walking barefoot as I listened
to night's calming silence, beneath its wild verdance peace its gift and purpose

                                                Morning silent peace
                                         day's guilded air...cool relief
                              next autumn's seeds nestled beneath
                                                  winter's first snow