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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 | |

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 | |

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 | |

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 | |

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 | |

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 | |

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 | |

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 | |

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 | |

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 | |

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 | |

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 | |

Autumn Leaves

Autumn leaves.
The ones that coloured my days golden, I long for them during the winter of my life.
I long for their warmth and how I long for their beauty.
Why have they left me?
I cannot bare the cold.

Numbed by the snow I gaze out into what is left of the seasons.
I cannot see clearly as nostalgia dances around me, twirling among the blinding shadows,
always just out of reach.
I can never hold her again.
She taunts me, but I can never hold her again.

My heart, my poor suffering heart.
There is no fixing this break, there is no going home again and there is no hope for
another Autumn.
I have come to the end of the road and there is nothing left but fields of white.
They beckon me.
I take a step and all at once a feeling of calm, complete calm, washes over me.
The world stands still, waiting for my descent.
I realize, then and there, this is the final chapter.
My last season, ending.
I take one last look at the dancer and dream one last dream of Autumn leaves.
My finale.
I am forever now, in the endless white.


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 | |

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 | |

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


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 | |

~ (~) ~ ... "Barter Nothing; Offering Everything" ... ~ (~) ~

~ (~) About a teaspoon it takes me in the morning-coffee-that-is. (~) ~ ~ (~) Cream more, sugar, a little-less, though truly I still do prefer my cup fresh brewed... its superb when piping hot you know it sure is tasty. (~) ~ ~ (~) Searching through those IM's e-mails trickle-trickle-hiss-bubble-pop-pop love-is-groovy you bet man red lights hot lights an honor yes-I feel they're all an-honest testament that hollowed ground is sacred... . Illuminating one and another their shadows dandling-along-a- part-of-the-simple-collection-of-rain-puddles offering-their-jest, and from the beginning you- know-I-believe they all exist as one light dancing together-until the very end. Because as they vary; pale shades of poetic Grey, they carry for me of feeling but one of two tones jocularity; bitterness... . (~) ~ ~ (~) Intoxicating really the harshness of Winter-fervency-of-Summer sweet rejoinder cultivation of all our prayers... Spring... ! (~) ~ ~ (~) Took a stroll amid the saffron all grown up in the Autumn laying down beside the day lilies wisteria grace gently caressing them enchanting... . (~) ~ ~ (~) Vibrant I find it all to be so very encouraging. (~) ~ ~ (~) Looking now the frost once thick-crisp driveling down beading up upon the many grassy shoots tulips lavender flower the mighty pines-now-reflecting-a-dewy-vapor, refreshing to the touch, taste; hues of virtue mirroring this, glistening-upholding-all-things, in-their- timelessness. (~) ~ ~ (~) Life evolving hope offers this proposal questions often posed answers granted remain open... because I believe peace and freedom this way friend are forever evolving, while love all year 'round, it waits... pondering-this; as it deliberates... . (~) ~ ~ (~) Like glistening crystal pools of alabaster sands scented-up diaper dusty-talcum baby baby powder, funny contentment privy-so-privy I love the way newborns their eyes tend to wander as they coo, all jovial, and-warm... surrounding all they know of God themselves in the wake of the room... . (~) ~ ~ (~) The birth of enlightenment a burst of individuality in every glance; I can't today but maybe you, tell me now God is a farce, remaining kindle to the kind-less... still the kinder... . (~) ~ http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zcGJb-mPMmg


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Hello

Empty cocoons
Are all that remain
While in the field
Picasso-like wings soar

Changing the brown color
Of a fading autumn field
Beat the wings 
Of new born butterflies

Fearlessly
They dance all about me
Touching my nose
Gently alighting 
On my shoulders

It’s as if they are saying
Nice to see you my friend
Glad you came by
To say
Hello


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 | |

The Sea Is Never Filled

I watch
As the raging river’s waters
Pour into the sea
Wondering
Why the sea has never filled

All about me 
The rains keep falling
Filling the earth
As far as the eye can see

It is a cold rain
A winter rain
A rain that holds
No love or dreams

Off in the distance
I can hear the melodies
Of autumn birds
They are like me
Asking with their sweet songs
For the rain to go away

Standing by the windows
In the homes on the street
I can see the faces
Of children
Waiting for the sun
To free them
From their wandering imaginations

They wait impatiently
Tapping on their windowpanes
Faces pressed against the glass
Watching the drops of water
Run into each other
All the way to the bottom
Before being washed away

They wait impatiently
To go outside and play
But the rain doesn’t hear them
It just keeps drizzling
On the houses
On the windows
On the world
And on the river
That pours into the sea
Which has never
As far as I know
Been filled


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Hazel Eyes

Hazel Eyes
WLM
Wildncrazy555
September 15, 2011

Such beautiful eyes
So full of mysterious disguise
They have the sheen 
Of a light light green
And yellow as the autumn sky
As you gaze you wonder why
As I wait to meet
Surely my heart will greet
Of the feelings we share
Surely, Do we DARE
As we run through life amongst and with it
Through our devoted commitment
Follow the long forgotten past
In our hearts we know it will last
Our love is so fine
In our eyes you see it as we dine
To feel the warmth of her skin
The feelings I know she will let me in
From this day forward I know she is mine
Our love will last till the ends of all time
The feelings in my heart are a must
Truly, truly they are JUST!

Dedicated to a lady I know
Jacki Wahner McDowell
With Beautiful Hazel
EYES


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Dance of the Dead

Like autumn leaves blowing in the winds of time
Whispering tales of heartless crime
Your spirit resonates all around
I cannot escape the chilling sound
That last golden beam of sunlight fades away
Resuming once again this midnight play
Ghosts of the past smolder in the moonlight
Silver flame such a beautiful sight
Look but don’t touch is what they say
From fingertips they prance away
Endless dance in a lonely night
Lasting until the world begins to dew
Separating fantasy from what is true
Left to wander aimlessly through another day
Will the guilt ever fade away?


Details | Prose Poetry | |

An Autumn Walk in Autumn Years

One fine, blustering, autumn day an old gentleman walks from his home,
If anyone wondered where he was going he was on his way to a forest,
The old gentleman walked at a leisurely pace stopping now and again,
Just to see what the farmers men were up to and who was the plowman.

As he paused he took pleasure at the sight of fat cattle and poultry,
Duck, geese and turkeys busying themselves beside the big barn doors,
And he could hear the flail or the swipple, knocking out the cut corn,
He carried on walking, smiling and made his way to the brow of a hill.

He stopped at stiles and rustic bridges casting arches over the water,
Breathing in deeply through his nose, sampling the fresh autumnal air,
After looking all around, happy would nod and murmur, "Ay, all is good,"
Having satisfied himself he looked forward and so he walked on again.

It would not be long before he stopped, catching his wheezing breath, resting,
This time by clusters of rich, jetty blackberries hanging from large hedge,
And clusters of nuts, hanging by the wayside through many copses on his way,
in all these natural beauty the old man seemed to have enjoyment of a child.

A handful of blackberries went into his mouth and nuts in his jacket pockets,
With a quiet inspiring and thoughtful cheerful look he carried on his quest,
Bound for a long walk he was in no hurry enjoying nature and all it's beauty,
An old man stretching his legs enjoying the season of autumn and golden leaves.

He stopped again to talk to a very old laborer, who was busy clearing ditches,
And had you been nearer you would have heard their nostalgic talk of past days,
About the changes in that part of the country agreeing they disliked any change,
They shook hands and the old man waved and carried on with his autumnal day out.

Many years ago he was young and full of life, girls marveled at his thick arms,
In youth he was buoyant and sang songs and made love, went to wakes and party's
But now his wooing days had passed but still there was a twinkle in his old eyes,
His beautiful wife a rosy light hearted damsel had passed on, his son, moved away.

Back in the day he was strong and lusty he had no fear or cares his life was good
But now he was much leaner and his muscle's gone it left him like an old dry kex,
Sure those days where much better for him there was no comparison, none at all,
He went on his way and in his mind he was no older he saw all with youthful eyes.


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 | |

Yesterday, Today and Tomorrow

Traffic lights shinning in my eyes,
And here I am standing in the rain
counting every drop that fell in my palm.
The Cold breeze had frozen my body.
Like yesterday when you left me in vain
on where I can’t stand from all the pain.
That was yesterday I could still remember.
Yesterday, I was stood under the burning rain.
Where my heart was freezing under the sun
When all the blue and woe have passed my way
and those autumn leaves are my shelter.
On the broken tree house of memory	
that my heart is getting weak,
And it’s hard for me to breathe.
That was yesterday, I was dazzled in lights of lies.

And today,
The sun grimaces in the early morn
were the world embrace me from the past.
That beauty blooms here inside my heart
Spring’s blossoms come only a second of time	
For today, loves grown deep in the heart of me.
Voices tell me I should carry on,
 To hold the stars up in the sky
and see the world will smile again.
Today, my heart will dance again.

For tomorrow,
Love will bloom like flowers in spring
A sweet smile will curve in my lips.
Tomorrow, I’ll be strong as a wind
dance on a game of love, 
Swaying on a battle of life.



Details | Prose Poetry | |

Drink When Thirsty

Within a vast sea 
under a calm and distant sky
is a secret solace known to few.
This is a place of peace, 
silence, and tranquility.
Here dwells knowledge in the purity of living, 
simply breathing life into a glorious texture of emotional bliss. 

High on the oldest tree are the words Drink when thirsty.
Masked phantoms move past, 
with a ceaseless breeze against their backs. 
They speak in riddles with jigsaw mouths, 
in mirror eyes they watch themselves.
Evening falls again. 
Day has closed her eye to another freckled veil of starlit hue.
A memory, now lightly nudging my shoulder,.. 
I see again their dances,.. around autumn fires,.. 
when the forest floor smelled of dry leaves, 
and the moon spilt shadows though naked trees.
Moistened now I drink life's sorrow, 
I tastes life's joy, 
and death awaits with menacing indifference.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Dear Friend

As the year thunders on the autumn day's begin to get shorter the nights are early,
My old dog stretches out by a blazing log fire only turning over when he's too hot,
Arthritis is slowing him down his hips are so sore he walks very slowly with a limp,
Soon it will be time to take him out on grassy rich heaths for the very last time.
 
Although the weather for autumn is calm it is the damp air that makes the pain worse,
Outside he lays watching spiders form radiated circles on every single bush and twig,
And at the silken threads on every blade of grass and he barks and sniffs so quietly,
His mood is solemn but calm, he is in a daze and forgets his way back to the garden.

We walked along forest meadows running chasing sticks and shadows barking with joy,
He would bound up to some lovely hedges or soft willow plots and rolled in the grass,
Smoke from autumns bonfires has a smell that reminds me of wonderful golden sunsets,
Now it will remind me of loneliness my faithful old friend running in a dog heaven.

By my log fire my dogs eyes are brown and pleading there are tears in the corners,
He doesn't understand that he is old and cannot do the things he always loved to do,
A haunting stare asking me to help him because you're my dad will you make me better,
Next day I take him out for the very last time I walk into the vets and I break down.

My hands deep in my pockets I walk where we always walked and soon it will be winter,
Standing and watching the departure of numbers of birds that have shared our summer,
The Curlews, Sandpipers, Snipes and Bean goose fly across the sky but my joy has gone,
Norway thrush's arrive but where is my dear old friend we watched the seasons together.

The Fern-owls, dotterals, swallows and some of the plovers used bid us a last goodbye,
Today go the fly catchers, white throats, warblers, wheat ears and hardy red sparrows.
Gardens show us autumnal flowers crocuses, autumnal snowflakes fall on meadow saffron,
Everything is going and saying goodbye I turn into the wind, tears roll down my cheeks.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

~ (~) ~ Summers ~ (~) ~

""Pearls Summers, sweet... warm- those-bygone-days- long; strung-out- tucked-each- one right- there-set- just-left- of the- middle- everyday, each; just- like-the other Lord-carry- them-before- me-merely, and-always; their-peace- to remember." "Peace the fluency, surety; purity screw- the-wealth bulky it's- only-collateral damage. Expected He chuckles- He-must I believe- often; the-Holder- of-time... . His patience; vision, faith-placed- solely-mid-this-simple- inclusion; His-grace."" ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~ (~) Sweet-summer days yes willing they all remember. (~) ~ ~ (~) Timeless-moreover following-love-joyous delighting- itself can be-found-dancing-away... upon the-crispness- mid-the-gathering-up beading-up-high-upon-the early-May; morning-dew. (~) ~ ~ (~) Winter shades of pail Grey cast their eyes upon them too. (~) ~ ~ (~) Overt all-cry out as-they sing God-watching-His-Grace- knowing worthy autumn always, echos in-the-rain... ! (~) ~ ~ (~) Yes oh of virtue tiny-hatch-lings of many can be seen, as they bellow; as driven by their hunger; remaining open weeping- high in the willow-Father watches, lying ready... . (~) ~ ~ (~) As in their-mouth puking it-up Mother-eager, in-her-goodness, offers-them-food... ! (~) !


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 | |

Leaving Autumn at its Beginning

Leaves, with crinkled edges, are little paper thin boats.
Trees hulking have specters' arms. 
They clasp the snowball in the sky. 

Pins poke above the wilderness lips' roughly piercing 
tar colors that ink the night. 
Porches watch with ginger squares.

Man-made fires catch the stroller, stride quickening, and then...
blue tinged path to her home. Olive shadows.
Heavy, wise mien framed in wood.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Year The Grizzlies Ran Wild

I remember
It was the year
The grizzlies ran wild
And the snow fell
Before autumn 
Had a chance to fill the land

I remember
The cold nights 
Filled with a northern wind
That pulled all the leaves
From the summer trees
Sweeping all the colors away
Leaving the forests bare
Like a picture
Taken in black and white

I remember
It was the year I awoke
And when I called your name
It returned to me
Echoing throughout the house
Without a trace of warmth
Only to fall
Soundlessly
In the emptiness 
That you had left for me

I remember
That I wished
That I could not remember 
At all


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Scythe's Ring Across the Fields

Sitting watching a June summer king establish his reign over hazy hills and dusty dales,
I could just hear a sharpened scythe's ring across green fields cutting away at the corn,
With the hustle and bustle of the annual hay-harvesters bringing home a brand new season,
Happy sunburned workers work the open fields gazing skywards smiling at the noonday sun.

Hay hangs out to dry in the trees of the narrow footpath's and down haw thorny little lanes,
Everything now prepared and Mr.Summer rolls up his sleeves working to help with harvesting, 
Each person delighting in deep cool grass in the shaded part an abstract of lovely flowers,
Then paddle in a cool stream washing the chaff dust from feet thus ending a hard days work.

The shadows of leaves dance along the streams a silhouette waltzes upon the silvery water,
Lovely azure crowfoot salutes from a bank to a forget-me-not an old friend from last year,
A purple compfrey dips its leaves to sweeten the water joined by a warm and gentle breeze,
The birds sing from the trees and in the hedgerows while the nightingale tweets a sad tune.

On trees chestnuts begin to grow and acorns young and green sitting in their little cups,
The nuts from the hazel and the apples on trees in orchards promise a ripe autumn harvest,
Gooseberries for pies, currants and strawberries ripen growing in the hedges of old lanes,
June has taken his fair turn making spring shoots grow strong, ready for the later fruits.

The cuckoo departs and glow worms emerge on a summer's night and glows a tiny little glow,
Along heath and over the meadows across landscaped fields dotted with pretty wild flowers, 
The June summer heat gives strength to nature making grass lime green next to red poppies,
As the summer harvest quietens the work nearly done people rest and reflect on golden mead's.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Autumn Steals the Sun

Autumn steals the summer months so now in loneliness I shut my doors and grieve,
Rain cleans the dust from a warm summer and as some flowers droop they say goodbye,
With the rain refreshing all, the smell and the perfumed dying plants turn into just sticks,
The air has rested for weeks now awakes and shake trees and my heavy wooden doors.

The shadows grow longer, but the day grows shorter, with a coolness of moisture,
Veils of clouds rush so much faster the showers are short bursts with sharp hail,
Along the sky are trailed clouds, with their gossamer drapery amid intense azure,
The sun rises once more so brilliant for these days, the calmest most impressive beauty.

Time passes, I close and lock my windows and pull back on the great oak shutters,
Then come the rains, long and deluging amid late summer frosts, that damages corn,
And when steady gushing rains, flood the meadows and fill the mead's, all is lost,
Late autumn steals the bright suns, in loneliness I shut out all light and grieve.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

betrothal

say 
where should i keep all those foot-prints 
having no lineage 

from whose paraffin-in-the-palms 
has taken birth 
so much monsoon rain-falls 

why the seagulls of this earth 
have not learnt 
in a better way 
the meaning of open windows 

wearing the same costume 
they can fly only
from the north-east thames  
to the non-aryan autumn 

in the woods of yellow moon-light 
the feathers fall down 
from the body of the villagers

they levitate as letter 
like the leaves of coconut 
before the windows of a hospital 

it may happens then 
in the fire of the cigarette 
in-between the fingers 
there is no more in waiting    
any absent-mindedness   

rather 
after composing their letters properly 
the mermaids in the deep-fridge 
are waiting for their next print 

by putting the fire of the dry straws
in the air the indifferent neighbour 
saves the intellect of the red-sandalwood 

thus if it is possible to catch there 
the betrothal 
in the oily pollens of the spring 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Autumn in the Fields

As the year begins to draw darker at night the great long and sultry heats are past,
Rain has fallen and refreshed the air and repaired the parched earth of the summer,
Shadows of the year begin to fall there is a dark gloom it is pleasant and soothing,
The glare of past days hang in the air and in mornings a dew it is once more autumn.

There is a veil of clouds that are drawn away by the hands of the high soaring winds,
Clouds in their airy lengths and gossamer drapery amid an intense azure of immensity,
The sun comes up once more to brilliant days the calmest and most impressive beauty,
A watery sun with watery heat it shines down on autumn fields and bathes all in gold.

On every side there is real happiness as the stores of the year have all been gathered,
Trees begin to change their color indicative of ripeness in the orchards and gardens,
Hedges filled with an abundance of crops, blackberries remind us of Babes in the Wood,
Hedgerows brightened with scarlet berries, woody nightshade and all is truly beautiful.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Year The Grizzlies Ran Wild

I remember
It was the year
The grizzlies ran wild
And the snow fell
Before autumn 
Had a chance to fill the land

I remember
The cold nights 
Filled with a northern wind
That pulled all the leaves
From the summer trees
Sweeping all the colors away
Leaving the forests bare
Like a picture
Taken in black and white

I remember
It was the year I awoke
And when I called your name
It returned to me
Echoing throughout the house
Without a trace of warmth
Only to fall
Soundlessly
In the emptiness 
That you had left for me

I remember
That I wished
That I could not remember 
At all


Details | Prose Poetry | |

It Was The Year

It was the year
The grizzlies ran wild
And the snow fell
Before autumn 
Had a chance to fill the land

It was the year
The old northeast wind
Came early
Rolling up the mountain
Towards the gray sky
While far off
Between the foothills
And the flowing river
Dark clouds readied themselves 
For the falling 
Of a long winter’s snow

It was the changing year 
The year of the dark yellow moon
When the cold winds came
And the oceans turned green
Before running out from shore

It was the dawdling year 
A year when sadness fell from our eyes
Like an eruption of hammering storms 
The type we kept in the gardens
Just around the block
By the Stop and Shop

It was the year the dog died
The year we placed him on a board
And all the children wore black
Carrying him home
Like a soldier returning from war

It was the year you packed my lunch
Sending me off to work
Wearing your “I’ve got a secret” smile
And that new dress you bought on Monday
That flowed about you like a cloud

It was the year 
When I called your name
and it echoed throughout the house
Without a trace of warmth
Only to fall
Soundlessly

It was the year I came home
Only to find you gone
Leaving nothing 
But the sound of the rain
And a note that said

It was almost 
A very good year


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Dreaming of Days to Come

The sweet smell of spring
Danced on the autumn winds
Under the eaves of the wooden cottage 
Past the old rusted screens
Filling the room with fragrance
From the flowers that hid from view 

Out past the garden
And far beyond
Into the dense green forest
That guarded the old house
From the music of fierce songbirds
That sang in the morning sun
She dreams of days to come 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Great Night Out

It was now September there was a smell of autumn in the air autumn fires burned,
On a bleak night lying on a cold wet floor the night chilled all that were out,
The naked earth was cold hard, in the distance leaves went brown and fell down,
As autumn steals upon us and steals the warm dry days the winter waits to pounce.

Sitting on a park bench drinking sherry from a bottle a lonely man feels blighted,
He has a stained duffel bag by his side full of pickings from a good days begging,
Five bottles of sherry lay in his bag it made him feel good it made him feel safe,
Each time he took a swig the sweet thick sickly liquid made him feel warm inside.

Sitting like a king on a throne with his bag of goodies he had it all a happy man,
With one hand on his duffel bag he could feel hard rounded bottles heavy and full,
At this moment he would not change life with anyone having all he needed and more,
He did not even fear the wretched hangover in the morning he could drink it away.

Finishing one bottle he felt good he gave a happy sigh and threw it across the park,
Flushed with complete happiness he pulled out another bottle and gave it a huge kiss,
He twisted the top off and put it to one side and chugged great big draughts of joy,
He sat with legs out straight getting comfortable this was a night away from sadness.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Winter's Lull

The weather changes,
with cool breezes flowing through,
Suddenly everywhere becomes desolate
on cue,

Hints of the holidays hover through the
dismal days,
The excitement builds up,
then gently flitters away,

After the festivities,
it will only be more
bland Autumn days,
with trees standing
as scarecrows do
in the cornfields,
and chimneys burning
to create  Currier and Ives scenes,

While emotions feel betwixt and between,
thinking that warm sunshine solves everything.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

aquarium

those 
who has so long been submerged 
in the water of the womb-cave 
now when the sun rises 
would they put their lips in action 

the pantograph 
the wheat-plants
that has been sowed in autumn 
the shyness of the houses 
going away farther and farther

how much should i become glum 
for those stations
on which i suppose to never put my steps

since taking birth 
the same story of huggis and wrappers 

i’ve told you to say good bye 
to the portman 
full of rust 

and to make an aquarium 
for the flying-fishes 
with the water-moon 

there may also exist 
some social forestry 

mr slumber 
you can’t keep the good-wishes 
arranged properly 

so as soon as the eyes get open 
the palpitations start 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Autumn Winds



		Autumn Winds

		
		Summer laid its fully splendour
		long time on flowers, fields
		and trees,
                                but now a heavy sky lingers on
		nature,
		mysteriously and dark ,
		autumnal with its complete force.
		

		This is the time for heavy clouds,
		a turquoise sky remains in memories.
		And now the autumn winds 
		sweep over golden wheat
		and braid an early autum's wreath.
		

		Decidous trees will paint their leaves,
		and bird songs yet are filled with
		summer sounds.
		But soon will autum's early breath
		carry enchanted spell on tumble wings,
		and drizzling fog is covering the dales.
		And summer dreams will softly fade
		to silent nowhere.
		


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Autumn Steals the Sun

Autumn steals the summer months so now in loneliness I shut my doors and grieve,
Rain cleans the dust from a warm summer and as some flowers droop they say goodbye,
With the rain refreshing all, the smell and the perfumed dying plants turn into just sticks,
The air has rested for weeks now awakes and shake trees and my heavy wooden doors.

The shadows grow longer, but the day grows shorter, with a coolness of moisture,
Veils of clouds rush so much faster the showers are short bursts with sharp hail,
Along the sky are trailed clouds, with their gossamer drapery amid intense azure,
The sun rises once more so brilliant for these days, the calmest most impressive beauty.

Time passes, I close and lock my windows and pull back on the great oak shutters,
Then come the rains, long and deluging amid late summer frosts, that damages corn,
And when steady gushing rains, flood the meadows and fill the mead's, all is lost,
Late autumn steals the bright suns, in loneliness I shut out all light and grieve.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Lost Tracks

Lost tracks
engraved in milky snow,
endless,
spread into nowhere.
I look for last autumn leaves 
under white sparkling cover,
lost in time.
The silence of the fading day
rests on me
as timeless songs of birds.
I look for lost tracks from the past
but can only hear whispering voices
from misty woods,
thoughtful walks
in brilliant fluffy white.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

An Autumn Walk

One fine, blustering, autumn day an old gentleman walks from his home,
If anyone wondered where he was going he was on his way to a forest,
The old gentleman walked at a leisurely pace stopping now and again,
Just to see what the farmers men were up to and who was the plowman.

As he paused he took pleasure at the sight of fat cattle and poultry,
Duck, geese and turkeys busying themselves beside the big barn doors,
And he could hear the flail or the swipple, knocking out the cut corn,
He carried on walking, smiling and made his way to the brow of a hill.

He stopped at stiles and rustic bridges casting arches over the water,
Breathing in deeply through his nose, sampling the fresh autumnal air,
After looking all around, happy would nod and murmur, "Ay, all is good,"
Having satisfied himself he looked forward and so he walked on again.

It would not be long before he stopped, catching his wheezing breath, resting,
This time by clusters of rich, jetty blackberries hanging from large hedge,
And clusters of nuts, hanging by the wayside through many copses on his way,
in all these natural beauty the old man seemed to have enjoyment of a child.

A handful of blackberries went into his mouth and nuts in his jacket pockets,
With a quiet inspiring and thoughtful cheerful look he carried on his quest,
Bound for a long walk he was in no hurry enjoying nature and all it's beauty,
An old man stretching his legs enjoying the season of autumn and golden leaves.

He stopped again to talk to a very old laborer, who was busy clearing ditches,
And had you been nearer you would have heard their nostalgic talk of past days,
About the changes in that part of the country agreeing they disliked any change,
They shook hands and the old man waved and carried on with his autumnal day out.

Many years ago he was young and full of life, girls marveled at his thick arms,
In youth he was buoyant and sang songs and made love, went to wakes and party's
But now his wooing days had passed but still there was a twinkle in his old eyes,
His beautiful wife a rosy light hearted damsel had passed on, his son, moved away.

Back in the day he was strong and lusty he had no fear or cares his life was good
But now he was much leaner and his muscle's gone it left him like an old dry kex,
Sure those days where much better for him there was no comparison, none at all,
He went on his way and in his mind he was no older he saw all with youthful eyes.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Renaissance

Some people associate October with gloomy fogs and storms,
Calm suns seem much lower than the summer it makes eyes smart,
The autumn winds up his harvesting, and the out side pleasures,
We stand and watch with some sorrow as the last swallows leave.

In gardens, on darker evenings, are red glows of the autumn fires,
A haunting time we are bewitched by the smell of burning leaves,
The fires dwindle, there are glittering stars in the frosty skies,
Under those frosty skies an autumn breeze sighs around the eaves,

It is a time in which to walk during the shorter but brighter hours,
Dressing warmly, enjoy the tranquil splendor of a fresh greenness,
Time to be thankful for the good and the beauty of a summer gone,
Spring will soon return and the renaissance will be a glory to behold.