Submit Your Poems
Get Your Premium Membership

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

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

If you don't find the poem you want here, try our incredible, super duper, all-knowing, advanced poem search engine.

Details | Dramatic Verse (Verse Drama) | |

Inspiration

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

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

© Connie Marcum Wong


Details | Rhyme | |

slag worn centipedes

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

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


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


Details | Free verse | |

Nevermore


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

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

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

Suzanne Delaney


for Harry















Details | Couplet | |

A CLASSIC SUMMER IN GREECE for fantasy contest

                                A CLASSIC SUMMER IN GREECE

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

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

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

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

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

Victoria Anderson Throop ©
1/11/13


Details | Light Poetry | |

Butterfly

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


Written By: Christina A McCullouch 
04/09/2013


Details | Free verse | |

Torture on the Parchment.

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

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

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

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


Details | Free verse | |

OF Poets, Parasites And You

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

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

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


Details | Lyric | |

Paper World

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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


Details | Verse | |

Poet Versus Painter

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


Details | Free verse | |

Combustible

it's more than an obsession
with words;
i wouldn't go as far as calling it
poetry,
it's something more.

this writer's fingers
bite down on something,
tightly clenched,
feeding off of thoughts
while the wrists
bend and twist
to the rhythm,
bleeding words
like splatters of blood
on walls
or pages.

this writer's mind
twists,then  turns
through memories
of past,
present,
lost at daybreak
and found
on night's doorstep,
only to open the door
towards something more
than bargained for.

this writer's heart
and soul
ignite, then explode,
like july's sky,
a few intense moments
of excitement
that submit
then surrender
to total darkness.

it's the death
of one thought
or more,
depending
on how intense
and colorful
the grand finale became.

it's an autumn mourning
not a morning risen,
this viewing
displayed before opened eyes
as the writer closes their own.

would you call that poetry?


Details | Verse | |

POETIC FORMS B recited

VIGNETTE
ON TWO LEVELS
This tale of a child's dream,
Things are not all they seem-
An allegory in simple code
A parable dressed in modern mode
Of lion,witch and wardrobe.

LANTERNE COLUMN
WHERE AM I
YESTERDAY                                     TODAY                                 TOMORROW
When                                              Each                                     Be
I was                                              time is                                  here,and
just a child-                                     like the first-                         my todays-
living in my                                     seeing as a                            in the future
past                                                child                                     stays

8 LINES DOWN
BY GRACE	
When Autumn readies for harvest
not her full silos nor baskets imprest
not mellow vistas seen nor dressed trees, yellow-red
not Indian Summer's embrace nor late coloured flower beds
not Fall's living collage or wine newly pressed
not for walks in the woods or nature's largesse
but in thanksgiving ,daily blessed
for all the Lord's bountifulness







Listen to these three forms  read aloud 
at: http://youtu.be/tfRFSH2rK0c







Details | Blank verse | |

An Open Mind

Cracked open like a jar of peanut-butter,

             the mind is emptied

With a certain medicative methodism

That would be habitual,

             were it done more frequently.

A few things escape,

Like the shopping list left behind on the coffee table

Or the milk that was to be purchased.

So many other things, which were only just things really,

Seem to linger like the plague.

Old telephone numbers cling to the crevices,

Rotting away with the names of former lovers

And something that once resembled guilt.

A constant ticker tape of obligations and responsibility

Clicks as it spits out the duties of the hour,

Constantly moving along to its unheard song

Between two unlistening ears.

In between are flashes of color,

Of autumn leaves and unseasonably bare legs

That grow goosebumps in short shorts

                 and a cold breeze.

Observations couple with imagination

To form shapes and sounds

And olfactory stimulation

That was never anything more

            than perfume in the wind.

To finalize the transaction,

The doorway to the mind

         collapses upon itself,

Smothering hot embers into nothing more

         than dank smoke and steam.

As the last gasp of airflow is fused shut

By the rush of busy-ness and day to day

A single breath leaks out, that had once simmered

On the lips of a beautiful woman.

"Un besito," she had whispered passionate once,

Two words that meant more than the world.


Details | Rhyme | |

Five

The light of my life is the tide of the tight
Which half of witchcraft is blight to unbright?
Paper of papal intent in the tent
Fare of the fate to the wittingly went

Knives are nice, but butter is better
A flick of the wrist and a twist of the fetter
Burn through the binder and break down the bricks
The deluge of delusion that stickles and sticks

Ruptured erruptions of singing to sin
Enraptured in rapture by fiddling the fin
Won't will your wont until the wight's won
Sorrowful song of the son of the sun

Lice come less when Winter won't wrest
Sum of the Summer rests in the West
Oughn't the Autumn to singe from the binge
Swing with the Spring of the tingling tinge

Donning the dawn of the bleeding night's blight
Moon dies at noon at the frightening fight
Dust of the dusk falls to slickening breath
Bright light of deep night dreams quickening death.


Details | Quatrain | |

Excuse for not writing

There is little excuse that I can give
For not having written as of late,
Except that my pen has been out of order,
Correlating with the date.

To understand, you must consider:
My pen is made of magic steel
That can predict seasonal change
By changing how its surface feels.

In the spring, the pen is sticky,
As if it were covered in honey sweet,
And in the summer the metal is scorching,
Buring whatever surface it meets.

In autumn season, the metal turns red,
Like the leaves that are destined to fall,
Then  in the winter, the pen will freeze to my skin,
And I can't put the thing down at all.


Details | Bio | |

Felled

I walk  in the pathetic pages of a used tired book
Crushed by the heavy leaves that lied to me
The older I become, the angrier I see
orange, red, yellow peeling 
Panting, painting, pelting poems
against a soggy canvas and sagging
lines like tired feet held together with
sad gray shoes

We're the oldest ones here
The doctor is so young
The lawyer is a child
The children are all grown
My grandbaby is going to college

Still when I brushed my hair today
and sashayed by you
a lilt to my tongue and a 
swagger in my lips
I curved a kiss to you and 
blew an ocean of windtossed
leaves

I scooted under them
like a silly child
Smelling the earth
Rooting like a piglet

When did Tubman push her
passengers along
Putting nails in trees to indicate
the turn in the fog
the fork in the road

If she could work into 
the autumn and beyond
Why kant I rite the lanterns 
of my life?

And in autumn
You don't need permission
To fall and land in earthy
grandeur

Staggering, solemn, orange
Reborn like a felled tree


Details | Free verse | |

AUTUMN COLORS

Like autumn leaves the colors of my life have changed

From mountains to hills of green a new but old state i have move to again

Strange is the surroundings now similar are the horizons

What I thought would be easy has become hard

The quest for living not so intermediate; life on this coast seems so hard

Ponder if i will ever be better off but with faith and pray i believe i should be

Seeing old faces and having re connections have made the time here pass easier

Skies are only grey for a time the sun of my happiness shall shine bright again

God calls out this is the path i just need to listen and be patient for this time alone.




Details | Ballade | |

CAGES

                           

                                    ***

A day can crumple like discarded verse,
Poets pat the hands of weakened hours,
Time will not heal and its ways are terse,
We mop its brow, bring it dying flowers.
Due to its disdain, within we cower
for the dearth of minutes and blank pages
that can either impeach or empower
enslaved words kept in wrought iron cages.

The past can debate, draw blood and curse,
Behold sunken motes, cold, lofty towers,
All scribes hide old wounds, unable to nurse
what rots under skin, hardened and sour,
Red carnage disguised by rose and bower.
Minds and hearts jar, the old battle wages
in lines that cleanse, but can never scour
enslaved words kept in wrought iron cages.

All prisons hold, most refuse to disperse,
and walls are thick between act and ardor,  
We bards ache for paths we can not traverse,  
Oh, the pen should surrender to splendor,
Remain unshackled, free from marauders 
and villains that consume us in stages.
Life downs rhymes, a thousand tasks devour
enslaved words kept in wrought iron cages.

Tonight I write, release autumn showers,
but a song for a winter’s night ages
in its cell; oh, the sighs which escape our
enslaved words kept in wrought iron cages.




For Francine's Gordon Lightfoot Contest
Song used: Song for a Winter's Night


Details | Blank verse | |

the Burning of a Masterpiece

On the easel of my horizon 
Monet was painting 
an autumn twilight,
but I watched as smoke 
gray fingers 
smeared his pastel
and my visions wisp-ed away 


a god spoke of burning
the testament of life, 
every single letter 
of every verse, 


now?
they feather to ash 
on the breeze,
I burnt them,


I woke yester-year
with a poet in residence, 
but today, today?
I awoke the scribbler
living on the nothing 
of me 


before each page 
passed over the flames
and consumed in the 
reaching fingers of black,
melting to mould 
each strip of my flesh,


I close my eyes
and feel the ridge
of a word, a letter
I allowed them 
to sear my palms, 


I brush caked salt 
from the corner 
of my mouth,


as I handed each poem 
to a quick death, 
I read the Misery 
of each page 
that flares,


those black fingers
now curl black strips 
of my mantel, 
like scrapping paint 


flaccid but not broken,
I pick at a piece of ash
in hopes of piecing, 
a poet back together


but Monet has left  
and I can only sketch 
in the charcoal 


with a god, 
whispering in my ear, 
that I must burn for nothing 


Details | Iambic Pentameter | |

Selfish employment

Once I was an alien
because of family ties
Once I was a sailor man
Told recruitment lies
Now I am a veteran
with socialized security
A part time postal carrier
With attitude and purity
I subsidize my poverty
By working for myself
In sickness and in health
I am earthbound as an autumn leaf
Blazing colors oh so brief
Twisting madly in the sun
Looking back at what's begun
listing badly misting sadly
hit a reef and come to grief
Closed up again
Just lost a friend


Details | Free verse | |

The Last Autumn Poem

Again,
        apple cider season,
              cool autumn whiskey,
                    burning leaves.

No one needs another autumn poem.

      We grow gaudy phrases
                  like pumpkins,
hollow out foreheads,
throw away seeds.

Always paring, cutting
eyes
      with awkward thumbs,
seeing autumn
      as a pewter stallion
and winter
      wildly undone.