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Prose Poetry Autumn Poems | Prose Poetry Poems About Autumn

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Details | Prose Poetry | |

Seasons and Imaginations


Wind so cold.
Blowing.
Fondles my face.
Tickling.
The tears from heaven.
Pouring. 
Tapping. 
Dancing.
Unrelenting.
I wonder if i wish
    to stop them
From numbness,
    to waking,
          then sensing.

The little voice in me says,
Wait, don't go.
Stay a little longer. I plead.
Sing for me today, rain.
With the gliding rhythm on my piano,
                                                  I'll play.
Chilly Wind, caress my bare skin 
     with the pure coldness that you bring.
Unusual,
     like it's my first time in the snow.
Somehow, 
     the fire tree never fades in the picture.
The yellow sunkissed leaves, too.
What is it about Summer and Fall
    that I can't forget?
Memories. Sweet imaginations.

The chilly rain. The misty wind.
You are here. 
Freeze me with the sharp coldness you give.
Calm me. Maybe, comfort me.
And, if you leave
Will you visit me when summertime comes?
Before it gets too late
   And again I fold.



Details | Prose Poetry | |

Her Name was Autumn

 
Thoughts of " Autumn " and her " off Spring" 
Seasons change as do people...
Her name is Autumn...
She quietly puts her mark the on Season ….
Yet no one sees her there..
She has a certain presence, still …
and her perfume fills the air..
Yet no one speaks to her…
Her colors are not light, but bright…
reds, yellows and orange, quite a sight…
But even though , she’s more than that…
No one approaches, some don’t seem to care..
So she quietly leaves ...before all the trees are bare...


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Autumn Mist

Mellow autumn….how refreshing!
Draw nigh that my soul may find delight 
In the vibrant hues of red and gold
The long walks in cool brisk air 
Watching the wild geese fly south  
In quiet solitude, latent dreams resurrect 
They haunt my fragrant reverie
As I walk a familiar path, down these steps of stone,
That lead me to “my place” by the sea!
Where the cries of hungry seagulls resound
As they squabble over a miniscule meal, 
Wild surf crash into boulders-twin, standing in its midst 
Nonchalantly, I toss my loafers aside, 
“Where are you today, Sir Knight?”, I inquire aloud
“I can not find you in this mist!”  
“One moment you are here inside my thoughts
The instant  I turn, then you are gone!”  
Like ocean spray, refreshing, you then vanish!
So, here I stroll upon this desolate shore, alone

The fireplace lit, soft, pink candles abound
What ambiance these feelings inspire
"Where are you this dreamy day?"
Hear how fiercely the ocean roars!  
Wild and relentless, bashing boulders in its path!
Winds softly whispering, brush my cheek, and instinctively, I smile
”Was that a kiss from you?  I whisper.  But there comes no reply. 
Only the silence in the whispering wind
“Gentle, autumn winds, do you know of my fate? 
“Have you no secrets to share with me?”
“Do tell, is it you in the mist and wind?”
“Or are you  just a wandering phantom 
Lost, upon this beautiful, shore?”
“Or, perhaps a magician from afar, casting random spells?”
“What grateful audience you have found in these,
The mighty sea and its countless creatures!  
Listen!  Hear their thunderous applause for you!”
“Is it you I see, in my autumn dream?
“Is it you within the mist?”



Details | Prose Poetry | |

Dreams like Light-Waves

Dreams like light-waves,
in my memory.
Birds of loneliness,
night-songs,
flowering days,
gone.
Tides,
waves of silence
forced 
into daydreams.
The horizon,
verges – dissolving
like far desires.
In the hours of silence,
falls remembrance 
like autumn leaves
in an uncertain future.
Dreams remain
like light-waves
in my thoughts.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Shush

The armada sailed before my 
eyes, crispy autumn leaves in
the evening breeze. Into  the 
mist of the cooling pool, away
on a voyage of serenity
The watching reeds and sedge
wave farewell, the damsel and
the dragonflies in harmony sang 
their goodbyes.
And the evening crept silently
dragging its cloak and diamond 
skies, over hedge and stile, offers
sleep to this once sun kissed land.
But the moon has her friends, 
who walk and fly her calm. Live 
the safety of the night and the 
daylights hunters eye.
The pitter patter of tiny feet, the
bats transparent wing against the
moon and reynards silent stalk.
Sit quiet listen and the night
comes to life, the owls glide,
the grass snakes slide, branches
gossip in the breeze, hedgehogs
grubbing as the foxglove rings
the hour.
The petals fold and sleep, the
willow with soft dew weep, and 
in the peace the spider plucks 
his web and serenades the
silver clouds as the land lies
deep in the heart of serenity.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Autumn

It’s back to school time
Fresh from a summer of fun and laughter
Suppressed excitement – meeting the friends
Exchanging and embracing new challenges
While autumn leaves turn golden red and fall
On summer nourished grass and dance
Wind gently making ballet of the shapes
You breathe in and absorb the essence of all this
Half sad that summer’s gone and winter beckons



Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Girl Named Autumn

Seasons change as do people... 

A girl named Autumn….enters quietly into the room…. 
Yet no one sees her there... 
She has a certain presence, still … 
and her perfume fills the air... 
Yet no one speaks to her… 
Her colors are not light, but bright… 
reds, yellows and orange, quite a sight… 
But even though , she's more than that… 
No one approaches, some don't seem to care... 
So she quietly leaves ...before the trees are bare... 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Ode to the Orange Gourd

It’s that time of year again...
When family and friends gather together..
To share and give thanks for all that they treasure..
The young and the old, the tall and the small..
The Vegans and the Carnivores, come one come all...
There are dishes of tradition, like Turkey and stuffing..
Mashed potatoes, gravy, and cranberry muffins..
Green Bean casserole, and corn soufflé...
Are just some of the dishes of the day....
And of course a relish tray to take off the edge...
With that awesome Spinach dip in Pumpernickel bread...
So many desserts at this time of year...
But the favorite of all , synonymous of the Fall..
Is that Jack’O ‘Lantern, orange Gourd.....
 known as Pumpkin Pie...
As the children play a game of touch football...
Something that is 24-7 on this day in  Fall..
As Grandpa sits in the afternoon sun...
Remembering back ..when he was young...
Then the words of “ Let’s eat “ fills the air...
And everyone sits down in their chair..
Who wants the first slice ? Dark meat or White ?
Grandpa asks...then proceeds to take the first bite..
Everyone fills their plate, till it can’t hold no more...
Yet some go back, for more and more....
Finally everyone is full...can’t eat another bite..
Till the smell of fresh coffee brings on a plight...
Aahh  dessert ..and the best part of all....
“ PUMPKIN PIE “ !!!! ....It appears was a "Majority Call"...
This is “ my “ favorite time of the year....
When you mention "MY" name, everyone gives a cheer !!!
So without  further adieu  ...Grandpa picks up the knife...
As I am the “ MAJORITY CALL “ and receive the first slice....





Details | Prose Poetry | |

Twist In Time

 As I stand here in front of my closet , starring in to the space...
I wonder which black dress to choose, and how I am going to face..
All the guests that will be there, at your final resting place...
I look in the mirror and what do I see  ?
But cuts and scratches all over me...
Although I don’t feel any physical pain...
Oh, what’s that I hear?... could it be rain ?
I miss you already...just what went wrong ?..
We were driving along just listening to our favorite song...
I remember the curve on that old mountain road...
And then heard the train crash... and then explode...
Time to go called out my Mother...
It was a cold November morning, and very heavy rain...
And I swear I heard the whistle of a train...
As I looked around I could see...
So many friends and family...
Standing in the crowd was Aunt Sarah and Uncle Fred...
OMG  ! I thought they were dead...
And there’s dear old Michael...
I had heard he crashed his motorcycle...
All of a sudden I saw YOU stand...
With a bright red rose, you held in your hand...
What are you doing I wanted to shout...
But then I realized what you were about...
You dropped the rose upon MY grave...
It was then I realized... You  were the one, that was saved...


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Thoughts from the Mind of a Blogger


It was a chilly morning in paradise...

Autumn was already here...

A time for strange things to happen, as it is that time of year...

She was up most of the night, doing a write....

Regarding some hubs and her series titled "Legend of Fred "

Ahh the questions she had... rolling around in her head..

Were “where were her readers, her followers “ her Hubbers...?

They had all seemed to like what she wrote in the past..

But lately her hubs were falling so fast....

She had written articles on health and life..

perhaps she had targeted too much strife...

Maybe they wanted to read about food..

But when you're not a cook, that would be kinda rude..

Oh, will wonders never cease ?

So she decided she'd get some zzzzz's

She lay in her bed, not moving at all...

but breathing quite deeply, as I saw the covers fall...

So I stretched my muscles and walked ever so slow..

So as not to wake her , then I spied her big toe..

Sticking out from the blanket..it was such a temptation..

And with me having such a" foot fixation".. however...

She needed the rest , so she can finish her quest..

I have some thoughts of my own...

that I would like to share in a poem..

And I would be happy to help her.. but..

I don’t think the world is ready for me...

as I am a BLOGGING CAT.. you see

So I will close for now...everyone have a great week...as

I'm off to seek something that has a tweak and a squeak..


Details | Prose Poetry | |

First Mother, First Son - The Unspoken Words

 …What he found told that they each live lives which revolve around an ever deepening sense of a mother’s regret;
 … a weighted loneliness, held only by the truly broken of heart that surrender to their own pain. 

This was a pain obviously based on guilt; with enough for him to realize, - could’ve led her young mind to find comfort in his presented destiny… 

“…but at what price?” he asked out loud!

Edifyingly, the few times she spoke of the adoption, in her voice there always maintained a high level of doubting inflection. 
This was a conscience still ensconced at the summit of its grief; there would never be a fulfillment of her self-sacrificing penance.

That was the way her life ended…

   In stark, contrasting analogy of her coercion, – was that he too, has since found himself on same like hilltop. 
This place was real, in overlook and earth. 
One that evokes true ironies, where metaphors in life’s journey’s reflections do view from both sides …, 
but sometimes, - these stop you cold!
 
    His person just stood there mesmerized, while staring at this lonely snow fence, still dripping after a late summer storm's rain. 
Upon fleeting touch, he back away when felt was the wet of sorrow’s myriad of shed tears; … he would soon feel the stinging salinity of his own!
    It then occurred, and not by volition, an eerie loosing of these forlorn and mystic cries; 
a sounding that had instantly chilled the autumn air. 
These were the conjured bring from tailing empty winds that rush thru and by a fence’s waiting pickets...
 …In this field of view were the unknown mothers of different circumstance;
 each knowing what he had heard only all too well.
  They were his gone but stalwart Praetorian Guard, only long gleaned of any shown emotion… 
And now, through his welling eyes, a vision became this phalanx of weathered but now endeared souls,
 - yet still howling for the cold, cold company charged to their every winter’s keep. 
His tears now began to fall – and follow…


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Herbstblätter/ Autumn Leaves/ Hojas de Otoño

Fallen im Wind
wenn der Herbst sie müde macht am Baume.
Durchsichtig, wie Stücke aus Glas,
ruhen sie am Ufer des Flusses,
haben ihre eigene Sprache.
Und, wie die Nachtigall ihre Lieder dem Wind anvertraut,
so erzählen die Blätter ihre Legenden den Wäldern.

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

Falling with the winds
if  autumn makes them tired in the tree.
Transparent, like pieces of glass,
when they rest on the shore of the river.
They have their own language.
And like the nightingale entrusts  her songs to the wind,
the leaves take their legends to the woods.

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

Caen con el viento, 
cuando el otoño les decansen en el árbol. 
Transparente, como  piezas de vidrio, 
reposen en las orillas del río, 
tienen su propio idioma. 
Y, como el ruiseñor confie sus canciones al viento, 
así cuentan las Hojas sus leyendas a los bosques.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

This Northern Sky is Drenching Us and I Fear I've Forgotten My Name.

My name has been forgotten since last September, it's falling, decorating doorways and
digging splinters into the soles of my feet....


His skin crawls, I want to know where he thinks he's going, I wonder if he thinks he's
taking me...

I wonder if he thinks I'll follow.



There's no icing on the cake and the bed's not made yet, it's mid-morning, 

(it's raining again, Dear)

and blankets are mumbling dreams to wrinkled sheets as the mattress constantly gets my

name wrong.



God, he's soaking wet and my towels are somewhere missing, wrapped around my head, I can
muffle this, his voice doesn't resonate so loudly through

last week

(it never rained then, Dear, never a drop on Wednesday)

it's still September, it's twenty months past knowledge and intelligence is simply thirty
days away, I know he's familiar with doing this again and I'm not crazy

yet

but I'm well aware of the way to get there, I've been following him since

before

the August that dusted across my smile when he finally learned how to kiss me.



I whisper this as Autumn falls, I'm catching leaves on my tongue, pretending snowflakes
will save me, sometimes death is the shade of the seventeen strands of my hair that
captured summer and I wonder 

how that feels

when he runs his fingers through my curls.



I sleep next to him, his scent erases my name but his lips mumble me, his arms hold me
behind the doors that went missing last January, and I think that maybe there might be
snowflakes in the shadows that are created by candlelight as he tries to be different,
when he makes an attempt to breathe me in, I don't exhale, I don't ever

close my eyes, I only taste regret on the tip of my tongue as 

yesterday

rolls off my lips

and follows him straight out of the dreams that will be argued in the morning

when I'm stuck in the doorways that remember winter

as September forgets my name.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Discarded grief

Look at this leaf.

Where did it come from?

Stuck in a mud, like a

discarded grief from a weeping willow.

I like its shape.

Follows my hand. Pair it

in two and you can make a glove

or a puppet doll that says “I love you!”

It’s full of wavy hurdles,

a caterpillar’s slalom track.

Can be frozen, curled or wet,

wears all season’s colors like a traffic light.

Enjoys to float, especially in waters of Hoogvliet

rushes to meet other leaves,

while gives a ride to marsh fleas.

Once it went disguised,

I couldn't recognize it.

Dressed in the lost feathers of

floating white hearts and undived “quack, quack”

pretends to be a Sioux Holy Man.

It may come in different sounds too.

Like a bandmaster, it orchestrates winter winds in dramatic

symphonies.

Or, when a thickening fog occupies city parks

still dark and tainted from night,

you hear a crunchy, cranky sound as it get’s

crushed under lover’s heels or

sporadic brave joggers,

in short sleeves.

Dissipated in the air

it’ll wait for its turn,

to blossom proudly again and stare

how spring Sun in the west burns.

Hey little leaf

you would like to crawl into my pocket

like a sneaky thief?

I’m lonely too,

keep me company

in my autumn view.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Color of Autumn

I lie on the grass, still green and soft as a featherbed underneath, 
lift my eyes upward to the sky and feast on robin's-egg blue and 
bleached cotton candy. Mineature butterflies drink the last drops 
of nectar from faded blossoms. Tiny yellow wings fan the heated 
air while leaves drift to land softly on my skin and spray russet 
bubbles through my lazy view. I close my eyes, absorb autumn's 
bright notes, relax with heart and soul full of gratitude and peace.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Random Thoughts on a Chlly Afternoon Pt. 1

     Thanksgiving’s just a few days away.  Yet, I feel the sudden need to write down these 
random thoughts about Christmas!  The weather today brings to life memories of the 
season!  My favorite holiday season of the year! This chill in the air, the earth-tone autumn 
leaves like kites flying so high, tripping over each other as if in a race, the beautiful giant 
oaks and elms, with their branches shivering in the cold wind…. Already, I’m picturing a 
wonderful, fantasy-like landscape of snow; the whitest fluffy, snow drifts!  Catching glimpses 
of old bushy tail digging out some buried food, from some time ago.  The rising smoke from 
chimneys reaching for gray skies, snow-covered roof tops, the unforgettable smell of 
homemade bread, baking in Mama’s oven! Then, at close of day come, the brightest 
twinkling stars, glistening like diamonds on velvet throw of mid-night blue!  And when the 
moon shines so bright, you would think it was day... so clear you could see Jupiter if you 
look closely!  And I imagine how absolutely beautiful God must be!! The most beautiful spirit 
there is! A view to die for because such beauty man's heart can not behold and remain in 
this flesh!!!  For who else would create all this magnificent beauty around us? From the 
genuine smile which graces the face of an innocent child emanating from the purest of 
hearts, to the single blade of green grass that leans into the wind, daring to stand against 
such mighty force which threatens to break huge branches off trees!

Cont'd


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Will I Still Make You Swoon

WILL I STILL MAKE YOU SWOON 


We walked hand in hand,
On a crisp autumn eve.
...Both gazing up
At the pretty colored leaves.
.
Though we had only met
Just a short time ago.
I was struck by an arrow
shot from Cupids bow.
.
I was not looking
For a long time love affair.
Had my turn at failure.
Felt again I would not dare.
.
Seems that the same words
Came rolling off your tongue.
Said you were hurt before
When you were very young.
.
Said you were leery
Of anyone you meet.
Then you lifted up my spirits
When you said "I'm kinda neat"
.
Asked if you would like
To have a warm cup of tea?
When you said yes,
Surprised the heck out of me.
.
You had the green tea,
And I ordered black.
The things one remembers
As your mind wanders back.
.
Well we've been together
Now so many years .
Had so much happiness
Yes, and even shed some tears.
.
But I still can see
That twinkle in your eye.
And I still get excited
When I hear your sigh.
.
So how about a walk?
For it’s a crisp afternoon.
When I whisper that I love you.
Will I still make you swoon?


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Blind Side III - Veja Du

    His person just stood there, mesmerized, while standing near this lonely snow fence that was still dripping after a late summer storm's pour.

 Upon fleeting touch, he backed away when felt was the wet of sorrow’s myriad of shed tears; … he would soon feel the stinging salinity of his own!

    Through no volition and reportedly not so strange occurrence, there began a siren-like loosing of forlorn and mystic cries; 
a sounding that would instantly chill the autumn air and as well anyone in the area. 
These were always the conjured bring from tailing empty winds that rush thru and by this fence’s waiting pickets...
 In her son’s field of view, these were the unknown mothers of different circumstance; 
each standing erect and knowing what he had heard only all too well. 
    They are his stalwart Praetorian Guard, only long gleaned of any shown emotion…

 Upon thought, his tears now began to fall, joining others to become rivulets of time that follow previous paths taken.

And now, through his still welling eyes, the vision became this phalanx of weathered but now endeared souls, 

- who still yet, call out for the cold, cold company charged to their every winter’s keep. 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Caution : NRA Possibility

Walking through the woods early in the day...

Haven’t seen a single soul passing my way...

All set to hunt as, I bought the latest gear....

On this the first hunting day of the year.....

It isn’t too cold but there’s a bit of snow...

So footprints will tell me where to go...

I can track by smell....

And I’ve been told pray tell....

That Man is getting smarter every single year..

Which means a lot... to my friends in here...

But now here’s the twist of this little ditty...

I’ve never lived or been to the city....

But trust me.. cause when I’m done..

And this is all in fun...by the end of Fall....

I’ll have a gorgeous blonde six footer ... a hanging on MY wall....
  
*** Just a thought...NRA = Natural Roaming Animal....
       or Nasty Reindeer Association.......hmmmm


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Trees of a Dreary Autumn

Trees of a Dreary Autumn 
Arabic poem by: Saad Yassin Yousuf*
Translated into English by:
Inaam Al-Hashimi (Gold_N_Silk)
========================
 

At a light
Said to be "dawn" We got to the shoulder of the Sea book;
Our wrecked boats were floating 
As wood stained by bloody waves,
Heads of children slaughtered
By the voracity of a false 
Prophet, Eyes yearning farther than the kingdom of light,
Wooden pencils robbed of their sun color,
Withered flowers,
Pictures of palm trees, standing
Drunk on the cliff, waving to other banks,
Butterflies that lost their color of light, 
Remains of time, 
Cut-off- ears and marks of defeat.
A beach shoulder crying over the nests of its seagulls 
Mumbled:" A cheap spring 
Is what the miracle doves 
Have paid their throats a price for its singing!!! “
I loosened the ties for my steps,
But I stood as if pinned to the ground;
I tossed away the moment, in which I bereaved my sea,
And went on flirting with
The fuzz of my dreariness.
The couriers of death, 
Still in haze black jackets, 
Raised a mast stained with clay mixed in
Oil of desires; 
It’s a spring chocked with the blood of flowers, 
Smoke of the lost horizon, 
Pirates and autumn
Branded with palms 
Stained by the blood of a grassy dream
Beneath a cloud of straw
And ashes......
And
Trees
The sap rising in it stopped to green and give colors 
To the branches of dreariness.
Oh! How reckoning troubled us
With all that comes with it;
The jars in its coffers
Are full of
Forgotten pains, 
Fear of the moment, 
Broken wings, 
Songs shattered in the voice 
Of reed pipes trying to play it, 
And days of spring
That turned into
Trees of a dreary autumn.
 ***
 Translation by: 
Em. Prof. Inaam Al-Hashimi (Gold_N_Silk)
 USA
 March 6, 2013
 * Saad Yassin Yousuf is a poet from Iraq
Link t0 the original poem In Arabic : http://www.alnoor.se/article.asp?id=204317


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Seasons' March

I greet the morning with anticipation, bubbles 
of excitement inside, straining forward to walk 
outside and stroll among the flowers my hands 
have planted and cared for over the past years, 
the weigela from our youngest daughter, tomato 
plants from her daughter, the dill we placed nearby
to warn off bugs, the orange rose bush from Aunt
Juanita, as happy in my yard as hers, my mother’s 
petunias, flowering almond, and variegated sedum, 
four Alberta spruce, grown several times their size 
as when my brother gave them to me, prior to his
quiet acceptance of death after he lost the battle 
with brain tumor. A hibiscus bush, with its dinner-
plate-size blooms, the longed-for weeping willow, 
living strong where two others before had perished, 
a pink, wild-rose ground cover, spreading more each 
summer,  the crape myrtle my husband hauled in from 
another state, azalea bushes thriving after many false 
starts, spring clematis in deep burgundy, and another 
September one of miniature white stars, framing the 
arch given to me by our only son-in-law on Mother’s 
day, the red rose climber from our eldest son, mums 
everywhere, joining the celebration of season’s end,
as I now contemplate the closeness and inevitability 
of my own.

 

 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Hell is a Fine Line Between Forgiveness and Heaven

      “Although meaning well, the bottom line shows that a “Jersey Rules” Adoption Attorney, 
a Children of the World Executive Director and the sidling State that is New Jersey had all gambled with the path of lives.
 And now hopeful we should be, each and every soul carries a sealed fate according to visions of karma. 
     One wonders about the autumn of life – if in some of their minds…? 
…Seen loosed for the first time are an infant’s fenced-in lonely springs of life cries, which time had been known to eventually turn into joyous laughter when windblown and lost amongst a summer’s children’s own. 
    This endure of karmic atonement I can only compare if viewed as a metaphoric wind born penance remind given to a phalanx of the forgiven, 
now found ironically within a snow fence’s charged duty to help clear the avenue to adoption. 
Yet for the task of some snow fences, 
found bound is the standing turpitude of the not forgiven; it is when these weathered pickets are subjected to that same constant echoing wind that rushes past, 
drawn out from its gusts is the steady drone of haunted howls for the cold, cold company to once again surround and soon forever to be their winter life’s keep!” …An Unknown Father  



Details | Prose Poetry | |

Paying the Piper The Great War

A fist clenched, face muscles flexed on pinched cheeks, huge sinews appeared on his neck,
The veins in his arms were like twisted lengths of blue rope and his eyes bulged in his anger,
His brother lay face down in a rancid pool, a lifeless corpse, another name in a very long book,
Ghosts in a grey dawn, moving then disappearing, then boom as mighty cannons fire into the sky.

Turning the body over, wretched wounds had ripped his face, ripped his youth, ripped away his life,
A gray morning, the same as other mornings, cold grey twilight, but this day will never be forgotten,
The strong brave man, who had seem so much, cried uncontrollably and his hot tears fell bitterly,
He knelt in filth, to cradle his younger brother and rocked backwards and forwards, unbelieving.

Once they played on long sultry hot days and when the rain fell it refreshed scents in the warm air,
They ran through fallow fields, pretty meadows scythed clear of hay, into a fine wild flower garden,
In days where the air slumbered lazily, they climbed thick leafy masses of high, ancient oak trees,
Always watching and warning his happy little brother, never climb too high nor stand on dead wood.

Laying down and looking up into autumn skies, warm, soaring winds shaping passing fluffy clouds,
Rising early as the sun once more shines, on those brilliant days, the calmest most impressive beauty,
Watching from afar in school looking after him, chasing bullies away, enriching his early days,
Beneath these warm shimmering suns, running, over to hedgerows picking sweet ripe black berries.

But those days are gone, gone forever, replaced by fear and hate, nobody will ever be the same,
Every day staring at death's grinning sated face, trying not to be caught in its cold red eyes,
And we all know the piper must be paid on these killing fields, but his wages are far too high,
Today on this early grey morning, shadows disappearing, a young man and his brother paid in full.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Beautiful Eyes A thousand Eyes Looking into

Beautiful Eyes ! 
A thousand Eyes,
Looking into ?

As I look out my window, there,
hundreds of Autumn Green Eyes, stare,
they dance on the breath of cold, cruel winds,
bowing beneath the caresses of rain drops -
there, hanging, kissed by the grips of cool air -
on the finger tips of these Autumn days,
reaching out, touching the hands,
of the grim reaper, as he stands
on the threshold, of Winter's dream,
a new tomorrow, that will Spring
to life in another season.

Reason ?

I am reminded of you,
Who, I can never forget.

B.J."A" 2
October 17th 2009


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Words Linger

You speak in a circus of symbols.
Perfection's presentation, alluring with the fact.
Mystery of minds, riddles set to toil in rhythm...
Yes, that's what you are.

You bare diversity, and lustful lore within your smile.
The sincerity of the captured moment adorns you when you laugh,
crinkle up your nose, and proclaim~ you're stoned.

Your quizzical genius is worn upon your brow.
The type that has to season to exist,
yet has been painted on your sculptured face since the age of innocents.
You are my timeless prodigy...
Yes, that's what you are.

You are clothed in sleeves of music above your most sacred instruments, my most sacred 
intruments~ your hands.
Your hands, O' how I could spend eternity kissing them without compromise.
For they create your love-craft, feeding the paper in verse and also creating my pleasures 
so precise.

Ah, your wine scented kisses.
Ever so softly they call to explore my wanton lips.
Tracing, tasting, devouring in feathered licks.
They too create lyric, lyric which sketches your script upon my skin.

The lyric which whispers through the trees and dances on the highest summit of open 
pastures.
The lyric which sways on the reflection of untamed waters.
The lyric which engulfs the illumination of a full phased moon,
and plays in the honey warmth of the sun.
Yes, this is the lyrics written within your kiss...
Yes, that's what you are.

The echo of your voice entwines the patterns of my thoughts,
weaving an eminent design when you are absent.
The air of your accent charms my perception when you recite to me.
O' sing me your symbols each eve before I dream, dreams of you in purest colors.

A spiritual child, you hold my hand to pray to the Master.
A peaceful dove whom will not cower, when against the wrath of darkness.
A singer of songs.
A creator of dreams.
The madman of my amorous tale.
You touch and taste me in poetry.
You obey my senses and bathe in my 'churchild' serenity.

You are my lover, of love.
You follow me to only be lost within my sanctuary of solitude.
You are the promise of our spiritual breeze, to gently exhale on summer's last wishing flower, 
together.

You are the gatekeeper of my heart's door, that opens the secrets of my spirit.
The true possessor of the mastered verse.
You are my autumn eyes, which blooms a rose eternal.
Forever, I shall feel the imprinted reason of your breath upon my flesh,
and when you whisper your vows to me~ words linger...
Yes, that's what you are.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Time of Scurrying Squirrels

Autumn arrived
With a cool morning wind
And the rustling 
Of golden brown leaves
That changed color
As they hysterically danced
Through the town streets
Before heading out
To their winter home

Here and there
Gangs of ferocious squirrels 
Ran up and down the trees
Harvesting whatever fruits and nuts 
That refused to drop
From the shivering trees
Whose bare bark
Could be heard
All about the woods

As I watched
Their once small mouths
Now bulging
With bits and pieces
Of summers’ leftover bounty
Hurrying down 
The old woodland paths
I couldn’t help but smile

This is the time of year
That I enjoy the most
A time of transition
When the earth 
Prepares for a long winters nap
Yes, it most definitely was
(As I thought to myself smiling)
A time of scurrying squirrels


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Japanese Garden

The snowbird trees are putting on their colorful autumn coats
Preparing to follow the sun southward
The provincial evergreens are hunkering down for winter
All are well groomed in this spiritual oasis

A gently convex (concave if you are a koi) wooden bridge crosses a pond
The bridge is framed by the textures of nature
I leave my point of view 
And walk onto it

Looking down I see koi lounging and strolling
Or perhaps they are wavy reflections of the koi-colored leaves above
I hear the murmurs of respectful visitors to this cathedral of nature
Reflecting their souls

Looking back to where I was standing is not inspiring
Murky
Colorless
Rigid
Perpendicular
Utilitarian
Nature pounded into efficient shapes

Soulless
My office

In which is hanging a window onto my deepest and highest thoughts
A large photograph of an autumn scene in a Japanese Garden


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Taste of Autumn Underneath the Words I Forgot to Speak.

I stopped and turned to look at who we were now, I fell in love with the distractions that
hid behind the sun when afternoon appeared in his eyes and I rolled mine back...

underneath my lids..

to allow time to kiss my lashes.


He held me, he stopped tomorrow from bruising my arms, the Autumn touching my tattoo, and
I could have stolen his lips just so I'd never have to let go of his smile.


I knew, behind the reasons I gave, that October was waiting, I was aware of fire and
touched the flames that became the fabric of my tongue, my teeth died when I spoke and I
tasted him...

to bring myself back to life.


I studied sunrise and wished for rainbows, I discovered the selfishness that lay in the
desire to sacrifice myself...

only to remember January...

only to know me...

only to touch the shade of blue that existed in his glance.


On the bottom of my lips I hold December and I tremble the month with the fear that goes
unspoken, I pray that tomorrow Autumn will touch me, I forget the possibilities of me and
throw myself over the edges of him...

the sweet corners of his smile...

and the promise of life...

to douse my tongue and speak the diaries of yesterday, to rewrite him and understand

tomorrow.





Details | Prose Poetry | |

the earthy habitat 8

there are so many pieces of torn paper 
into the stone-chips of the broken road 

they are of summer 
they are of late autumn 

beside is the ice-mill
the glow-sign board 
attached tightly 

the indelible ink 
catches the finger of the lemon-grass 

the fish-market is also alive and glad 

the young minister of state
sends his best wishes 
to the handloom-girls 

in between 
some horn-blowing of the 
camels 

the labour-strike trembles 

the water of dhaleswari-river 
has been filled
with the sound of subsistence  


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Old Styles Old Smiles

One fine blustering autumn day an old man puts on his boots pulls up his trousers off he goes,
If anyone wondered where he was going it was to a forest a good long walk it was a fine day,
The old man walked at a leisurely pace stopping every now and again pulling up his trousers,
Looking over fences just to see what the farmer’s men were up to and who was ploughing today.

In his days, the prime of his life, he and his old horse would plough the fields from early morning,
Working through the day stopping for a bottle of cold tea a loaf of bread and a large lump of cheese,
The horse had a nosebag and while they rested, eating, the clapper of the bird boy could be heard,
He would work on until the sun went down on a blue horizon and shadows disappeared with the day.

As he paused he took pleasure at the sight of fat cattle and poultry roaming around the farmhouse,
Duck and geese and turkeys busying themselves beside the big barn doors pecking out the chaff,
And he could hear the flail, or the swipple, knocking the corn, as the bails piled high in the barn,
Happy that all was well he carried on walking, smiling and made his way up to the brow of a hill.

As a young farmer he leaped over stiles and ran in the corn, the land was his workplace and home,
There was no job he could not do or did not enjoy doing, whatever needed doing it had to be done,
His arms were so thick, strong, the farm girls giggled but could not get their hands all the way round,
He used to blush as each girl tried, he was a bit shy, but it made him feel good to be so very strong.

He also stopped at stiles, or a rustic bridge casting its arch over water, fish swam in the shallows
Breathing in deeply through his nose, sampling the fresh autumnal air, a bonfire in the distance,
After looking all around he wished he had brought some tackle to catch some for his late dinner,
Never mind he thought it’s another day tomorrow I will be up here to fish at the crack of the dawn.

In his young days he was not allowed to fish the river, so in the moonless nights he would poach,
Beautiful brown trout as fresh as a berry from a tree eaten with warm bread a feast fit for a king,
It would not be long before he stopped again getting his breath resting for a few short minutes,
As his lungs filled with the purest of pure air he restarted his country walk and relived his life.

He passed by clusters of rich, jetty blackberries hanging from a hedge and took time to pick a few,
And clusters of nuts hanging by the wayside through the copse on his way along a little old lane,
And in all this natural beauty the old man seemed to have enjoyment of a child one more time,
The world moved around but this time backwards he saw the things he used to see as a young boy