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Best Autumn Poems

Below are the all-time best Autumn poems written by Poets on PoetrySoup. These top poems in list format are the best examples of autumn poems written by PoetrySoup members

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New Autumn Poems

Don't stop! The most popular and best Autumn poems are below this new poems list.

Lush Autumn by Ward, Julia
Autumn Birds In Sky Thunder by Miltz, Daniel
Autumn Leaves by Grasso, Francis J
Autumn of life by sinha, subroto
Autumn Walk by Stover, Christy
Autumn Leaves by Frawley, Mark
Autumn Goodbye by Babbit, DM
Shades of Autumn by Marcum Wong, Connie
IT'S AUTUMN by Lee, Jeffrey
Autumn Colors by Kendrick, Sara

View all new Autumn Poems

The Best Autumn Poems

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Indian Ink

Listen to poem:
“Indian Accent”

Hear the whispers inside

Chanting from long ago
Echoes come and go
Losing time in a soft eternal glow

A beautiful and delicate autumn mountain scene
Dry blue eyes enchanting melodies!
Voices fall from the sky;    -Rising hymns release 
-ancient demons that   CLING to the soul

Darkness dwells under - gentle moonlight
Ancestors of the Spirit World!
Weaving Native smoke into the barren air
Indian spirits haunt the muddy Earth---
Moccasin makers rise from underneath;    While
  guardians of dream catchers - print the Universe
Smooth thread from the outer world; 
Arrowheads,   Ivory gems,   feathers, and illusions
I stumble upon a florid kiss.......   My veins;
Run Cold, like ice through a desert night.

Winds of enchanted drums - cry out for rain
Hollow chimes mesmerize,  my ties,  my eyes
An ancient rage begins to flare --- MADNESS! 
- takes place among the sanity of  who   I am
The spear of the perfumed buffalo scrapes my skin
I remove the veil that covers my eyes
The hands that cover my ears
Drying the scalp that bleeds on my face

KINDRED IN EVERY WAY!

Raven silk braids and feathers on my hair
Dancing in a horrid hallucination of Peyote,
*
Waking up from the “American Dream.”
Holding out my arms, I am free, I can fly.

I AM A BIRD!

By; PD


Copyright © Poet Destroyer A | Year Posted 2013

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Where The Sycamore Grew

The sun-yellow house seems smaller, somehow
seeing it now,  with much older eyes...

The street seems narrower, the trees are taller..
Where once open fields spanned both sides of the road
they are building new homes, and fences have bloomed
The neighboring orchards have all but disappeared

But somehow we knew the house would still be there....
Strangely distant, ...yet, still much is the same

There's an unfamiliar red tricycle, and a skateboard that leans
along the smooth flagstone stones that wind to the door
A path that we laid on a hot summer day...
in front of this house that lies at the bend
at the end of the road, where the sycamore grew...

As sudden as wind, thirty years fades away, lost in the moment of this crisp autumn day
And quickly alive, memories rise, becoming again the springtime of lives..... 

...our first Christmas trees,..and first anniversaries...
 ...a place where I cried long into the night, the child in me grieving when mother had died...
      ..then long, starry nights, lost in the moonlight, 
           counting my blessings, and holding my babies

Yes....it is all captured there, in the small yellow house

It's funny, I know, but I'm glad they have kept the yellow...
And it still wears the trace of sun, and crisp-white shutters...

The little yellow house, with a flagstone pathway that we laid
that sits beyond the bend, where the old sycamore grew...


                                       _________



Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2009

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Past-Life Nightmare

A child of four suffers recurring dreams,
disturbing parents and siblings with screams.
When she awoke, always sore in one knee;
next to a birthmark, it throbbed painfully.

Night after night she feared going to bed.
What caused these nightmares that raged in her head?
Even when grown, the torment persisted,
so a therapist’s aid she enlisted.

“Hypnosis,” said he, “might offer some clues.
Why not try it?  You’ve just bad dreams to lose.”
Once under, he guided her to a room --
here people’s lifetimes in books were entombed.

“Find one that is yours,” her counselor said.
Quickly she did, but before it was read,
she felt an ache, saw just a faint title.
The words, she thought, said “Alister Bridle.”

The hypnotic trance now suddenly broke;  
puzzling questions “Mr. Bridle” evoked.
For many years she thought that was her name;
perhaps a past life had been filled with pain.

Who was this man?  She simply had to know!
Seasons passed, summer suns made way for snow.
In Florida now, 1998,
she thought all the nightmares she had escaped.

But strange dreams always catch us by surprise --
when the lights grow dim, our minds fantasize.
Cloaked in velvet, she left her parents’ farm,
stealing away on a late autumn morn’.

To meet her love, she climbed on the carriage,
knowing her folks would forbid their marriage.
Warm-hued leaves carpeted the hillside road,
and her pulse beat fast; she’d soon join her beau.

She thought only of him; joy cast its smile,
but that’s when he called, “Alice, the bridle!”
The leather band broke and wrapped ‘round her knee.
To the ground she was pulled; her horse ran free.

She met death, but past-life dreams recycle,
and she’d never been “Alister Bridle.”



*Based on real events I experienced.


Copyright © Carolyn Devonshire | Year Posted 2009

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FALL IN LOVE

F eeling enraptured, Autumn dances in the wind, then undresses.
A s bright robes fall to the ground, her passion paints the twilight skies.
L ike a nymph, she beckons, tossing her fiery auburn tresses.
L ongingly she sighs - September’s bliss lingering in her eyes.

I ndian summer days come; then they go.
N ights though chill, embrace her in indigo.

L ater, in November, her sweetness wanes.
O ctober cannot stay forever loving her.
V acantly she gazes through freezing rains.
E ndearments whispered - cease - when Fall loses ardor.


Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2014

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In Strangler's Wood - tanka version

In forest dark where trees bend low
beneath a slice of half moon’s glow,
          silent shadows waver there,
          chilled by gusts of autumn air.

Quavering, as if afraid,
they fall on stumps from trees decayed.
     among those stumps the shadows creep
     and shroud a form that seems asleep.

Lightning flashes . . . Thunder peals.
A sight forlorn the light reveals
          a man, quite dead, in woolen coat,
          with scarf of death left on his throat.

The shadows saw, and now they quake,
lone witnesses in murder’s wake.
     They cannot speak, but if they could,
     they’d tell all travelers of the wood:

"We’re not the foe.  It’s one of you
that makes us tremble as we do.
          Although we loom and cause you fear,
          something worse is lurking here."

Then Thunder echoes in accord
as from the sky, cold rain is poured.
     And silent shadows start to shrink
     into a night of blackened ink.


At a dead man’s throat lies the rain drenched woolen scarf that stifled his screams. Cold Wind howls through decayed trees - witnesses in the shadows. For Debbie Guzzi's Metamorph Poetry Contest a rhyming poem changed to a tanka


Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2013

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NATURES WONDERFUL GARDEN

NATURE’S WONDERFUL GARDEN

Nature’s wonderful garden in display
display of autumn colours in array
array of beauty to share in delight
delight of birds in a picturesque sight.
Sight of swans as they fly above the ground
ground that is covered by leafs as if gowned
gowned by a blanket of colourful hue
hue of earth moistened by a misty dew.
Dew that reflects sunlights shimmering light
light that wakes up into a morning bright
Bright is the dawn as a new day ascends
ascends to where the earth and heaven blends.
Nature and seasons in a divine bliss
bliss of life and beauty to reminisce.

T.J Grén

March 2016
My first attempt at writing a chained sonnet.


Copyright © Teppo Gren | Year Posted 2016

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Hot cider dreams



Fall glides in on the wings of migrating monarchs, stained glass visions seeking respite from a tedious journey signaling a change in our surroundings Blushing, the complexion of November slips from swimsuit informalities to fawn layered outfits of earth tone lace Singing of cool breeze melodies on chrysanthemum dance steps Sweetly autumn reaches, filling every part of my heart collecting at my feet like fallen leaves Swirling about me on winds of fleece lined affection tickling fancies and coaxing smiles Maple syrup hues cling to pumpkin seed desires, painting pathways in tinted curves, outlined in kaleidoscope siftings, champagne ribbons winding to stroll with the one you adore Fireside encounters warm of passion’s enduring flame a’ glow on shade drawn windows and pine needle temptations floating of chilled evening whispers Wrapped in my arms, hot cider dreams gather amidst comforting aromas, weaving scented shadows neath wool blanket motions and as the season changes, so do I… I fall more in love with you


Copyright © Chris Green | Year Posted 2016

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Winds of Autumn

I called to the winds of autumn
As they wrapped up the dying year;
"Oh stay for a moment and tell me
Of answers I need to hear".

Who is the rival of prudence
Who is the merchant of crime
Who closes the eyes of beauty
And steals the hours of time?
Who brings the winter to age
From the springs of the fountain of youth
Who is the companion of sorrow
And destroys the justice of truth?
Who's the apprentice of Satan
The Prince of the Power of Air
Whose appetite is transgression
With more than enough to share?
Who weakens the power of the great
Who slaughters the wisdom of wise
Who brings the honest and gracious
To depths that others despise?

The winds of autumn now answered
With a voice like a phantom call
"It's an evil afflicting so many
Who drown in the drink alcohol."
This is the spell of the devil
Who casts his net from hell
An addiction with power to destroy
Gathering all who are caught in its spell
For his net will gather the unwary
To beguile lost souls with his breath;
This is the destruction of lost dreams
That perish in the arms of death







Copyright © elizabeth wesley | Year Posted 2012

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Blow sweet Breeze

With the turning of the green
the fevered hues engulf my soul
rich radiant reds glistening in the sun
as my heart gleams with memories
of the solemn words that fall from
your angelic lips.
The ornate orange and dynamic yellows
come to life
like those sparkling flecks dancing
inside your autumn eyes. Oh my heart
my heart, rest my heart.
Breathless the breeze blows a subtle scent
of sweets from the pink flowing Amaryllis.
Blow sweet breeze blow  off into the night
and on your wings I plant my kiss. A loving kiss
filled with the finest fruits of my harvest like the
finest bottle of red served on the terrace overlooking
the Grande Canal in Venice under a moonlit sky.
Blow sweet breeze blow and onto her veranda swirl
swirl gently into her palatial palace and wrap my love
firmly upon her waiting cheek.


Copyright © Tim Smith | Year Posted 2016

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The Universe of You

THE UNIVERSE OF YOU I have never seen a flower blush when I took it's hue and held it there a prisoner captive to my view. I have always heard the song that's in the autumn breeze playing taps in harmony with the forest leaves. I love the smell of rain that brings the springtime into bud and swells my love of nature into a teeming flood. I celebrate the cycle of the daytime into night and find an equal blessing in the shadow and the light. I've always felt affinity for all created things and surrender to the pleasure that their beauty brings. And though I could spent a lifetime sailing drops of dew I've never seen a universe as beautiful as you. I've often sat myself by gentle mountain streams and overflowed the dams that were holding back my dreams. I've breathed the scented forest on the mountainside and washed away my sorrows in an evening ocean tide. I've laid down in a meadow and debated with the moon and spent some quiet moments on the surface of Neptune. I got married to a zodiac with one of Saturn's rings then spied a super nova and went on a cosmic fling. I've run away to nebulae in galaxy brochures and bathed in scenes of wonders on distant planet shores. Every cosmos in creation could parade before my view but I've never seen a universe as beautiful as you. I've never seen a tree once withdraw it's shade and deny a creature the comfort of its aid. I've never seen any anger in the sun at noon when it burns relentlessly on the desert dune. At sunrise I take an oath to live with all my might and reinforce my gratitude each and every night. I could spend some hours riding on a crystal flake drifting wildly in a gale mindless of my fate. Many times I've been through trials of wind and rain and snow then sentenced to the splendors that the seasons show. And though I've searched throughout creation, I must say this is true I've never seen a universe as beautiful as you.


Copyright © John Wilowski | Year Posted 2012

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THE OLD OAK TREE


         Oh I am but a simple leaf
         withering within the gutter
         one summer of bliss
         now! Just an autumn flutter.

                   For some; destine to fall
                   upon stony ground, a part
                   of life’s infernal gyration.
                   Yet for those that fall
                   within your reach, to live
                   on within your soul!

         While limbs that stretch
         towards the solstice, create
         vivacious veins as channels of hope,
         a pledge of foliation continues
         to endure what spring has
         furnished; autumn expires. 

                   Yes! If we can but learn
                   from nature’s complex simplicity,
                   that life be of a cycle
                   from the seed we are conceived,
                   then let spring be my beginning
                   winter my exultant eve!

         Let our two cultures
         merge as one, the
         decomposed humus
         to become the sustenance;
         our transfusion the
         new beginning.

                   Let us breathe the
                   fragrance of born again;
                   let each slender limb,
                   stout body bear our
                   tenaciousness, each lyrical
                   leaf our life’s blood.

          Let us mollycoddle each
          precious tear that falls from a
          angry sky; dance gracefully
          upon the wind, embrace
          on moonless nights, bathe
           in summer madness.

                   Let us hear the bluebell call,
                   the daffodil pray, the apple
                   blossom bear witness; the
                   clamour of the field mouse
                   the pitapat of the butterfly
                   the silence of lovers in love.

             Let us be sanctuary to the
             symbolic songstress, scuttling
             squirrel, vulgar urchin;
             a fortress for the warrior
             a haven for the pacifist
             an inspiration for the poet!

 EPILOGUE 

                  The call of springtime
                   we will invoke,
                     logging representative
                      we will gladly choke;
                        nature’s guardian.
                          “This! Obliging old oak.”

Copyright Harry J Horsman 2000


        

         









Copyright © harry horsman | Year Posted 2010

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Windowpanes

An ancient river, centuries-old shops and restaurants steeped in a 2000-year history and 
culture set the scene. The ambiance seemed divinely contrived to facilitate the purposes of 
our meeting and the very fodder from which the greatest poets are sustained.
Not newcomers to the area, Kay P. and I were assigned to the Army Security Agency Field 
Station in Augsburg, Germany in 1974. We were colleagues in the intelligence community 
with no romantic overtures to our relationship, save an appreciation of poetry and profound 
philosophical discussions. Kay wanted to spend the evening with a poet, so we planned the 
evening to be appropriate for the purpose. 
At the time and place, we quickly found ourselves hopelessly immersed in the philosophical 
foundations of my writings throughout the evening. It was the first time since Vietnam that 
I'd felt worthy as a person. I still recall sipping the red wine and feeling the warmth of the 
large hearth inside the Balkan eatery. I still see the swans gliding by on the Lech flowing by 
our café.

When windowpanes begin to weep with autumn's chilly dew, I'm taken back through seasons passed to one delight held true, A rendezvous that time allowed, a gentle evening spent Amid a time of long discord when days were dreary bent. I feel the stretch upon my lips, the smile returns once more. Again, I smell the Balkan fare prepared on Lech's old shore, The mood is cast in high regard, the wine is tart and dry, As Augsburg ripples in the wake when swans go gliding by. The ancient windows frame our view and day begins to wane As rivulets meander down and streak the dampened panes. The ambiance of ages passed beseeched us not to leave And held us in its warm embrace throughout the ebbing eve. My heart was scarred, without regard and hardened by the war But her esteem unveiled its worth, while nothing had before. She saw the child that once was me, I'd long since cast aside, And bade he climb astride his mount, engage his life and ride. Now, she is but a memory, whose kindness soothed my heart, For we embarked upon our lives on paths ordained to part. Her subtle way escaped my eye till time had made it clear That her esteem had set me free, that night I hold so dear. The poetry that filled my soul remains these many years, Impassioned in my warmest thoughts when autumn first appears, When windowpanes begin to weep, a-glisten with the dew, And I return to seasons passed, to one delight held true.


Copyright © Jim Fish | Year Posted 2009

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Will Shepard

The day Will Shepard shot my dog
His barn burned to the soil;
The flames licked at the Autumn sky,
The smoke as black as oil.
I dropped the torch onto the earth,
And felt the whole world turn,
I stood and watched Will Shepard’s barn,
I stood and watched it burn.

The day Will Shepard shot my dog
I set his horses free,
They galloped over grass and sand,
They galloped to the sea;
I dropped my whip onto the floor
And thoughts turned to my gun
I stood and watched Will Shepard’s herd,
I stood and watched them run.

The day Will Shepard shot my dog
I put him in the ground,
My bullets found his heart and brain,
He fell without a sound;
And as his lifeblood ebbed away
And light fled from his eyes,
I stood and watched Will Shepard leave,
I stood and watched him die.

And now I sit here in my cell
And through the bars I spy
The carpenter with wood and nails,
Who builds my gallows high;
My vengeance has been satisfied
As far as I can see,
For that old dog Will Shepard shot
Meant all the world to me.


Copyright © Tony Bush | Year Posted 2006

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Lilah of the Lilacs

Like violets were her eyes when first I spied the lady with a sweet child’s face who peeked at me from bushes that she stood beside, alluring Lilah, beaming, apple-cheeked! And so it was that more and more I found myself among the lilacs in that place where first we’d met, that I might hear the sound of Lilah’s laugh and glimpse her angel’s face. On fragrant garden paths we knew the thrill of blossoming affection. Poetry was time we spent! But when my love fell ill, the autumn of our bliss was not to be. . . I visit Lilah now where she’s at rest nearby the lilac blooms she liked the best.


Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2012

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Here, Again: The Autumn Equinox

Written for the Avebury Gorsedd, 24th September 2016  
I wish you well...

I’m here, again…
Come riding in, upon the western wave
My hair all wove with golden leaves, my breast
As pale as moonlight on a hidden grave
And all the sins of summer long confessed

I come, again…
In sweeping skirts, with white swan feathers strewn
To brush the summer dust from weary grass
Make ash of aspen, damp the flame of noon
Before the frost freeze water into glass 
 
I bring, to you…
Windfallen apples, berries from the hedge
Long shadows on the barrows, and the chalk
Wild winds to stir the willows and the sedge
And mist, and myth, down every path you walk

I’m here, again…
The promise of the harvest to fulfil
The energy of autumn, streaming through
The swirling springs that spiral round the hill
To drench the land in red and russet hue

I come, again…
Between the longest day and shortest night
To fill the blood and marrow of your bones
With all the orange glory of the light
Before the dark descend upon the stones

I bring, to you…
A cornucopia of ripened fruit
Dark juices of the vine in bottles bright
To nourish soul and body, to transmute
Your thought to dream, your dream to second sight

For I am She…
Am Autumn writ, in every field and tree
Am mistress of the Owl and running Hare
So yield unto my kiss, and blesséd be
And dance with me, oh Druid, if you dare…

@ Gail Foster 23rd September 2016


Copyright © Gail Foster | Year Posted 2016

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Dillard Mill

It rained all night. The day rose dripping grey.
The cool air, welcome after summer’s heat
Smelled finally like fall. The first red flames
Of sumac bushes shone beside the street.

At noon, the mill pond mirrored clouds on blue.
The Huzzah Creek splashed sparkles off the falls.
The solid mill stood watching silently,
Machines asleep inside behind red walls.

The buckeye trees, already bare of leaves,
Had strewn their shiny fruit across the ground.
And I collected, joyful as a child,
The great brown treasure: chestnuts, smooth and round. 

October 12, 2016
For contest: A poem written in iambic pentameter
Sponsored by: Janice Canerdy



Copyright © Agnes Krampe | Year Posted 2016

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Gone Forever

Here I sit amongst the long grasses and the reed,
in a solitary place, where my breath is freed,
on an Indian Summer's evening on the lake bed,
autumn has come, yet the warmth has not fled.

Blazing orange skies, are mirrored to reflect,
I cannot imagine a scene being any more perfect,
as I looked up, an unfallen leaf caught my gaze,
spotlighted in the sun's last golden rays.

I noticed this crimson leaf as it began to wave,
the end of a short life that I could not save,
then swept away suddenly by the wind's rake,
and ripples formed as it landed on the still lake.

The leaf was carried away and my eyes followed,
then drowned by the water's surface and swallowed,
windy fingertips tugged it from the branch to sever,
existing once, like today, and then was gone forever.








Note - This was my original idea for the poem "The leaf",
but it was revised for a contest. I just wanted to post both 
versions of the poem.




Copyright © Kelly Deschler | Year Posted 2014

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At Summer's End

When Autumn veils my season's smile and lingers in the air a while . . . though Indian days be gold spun, my summering will come undone. Night's shadows fall more quickly now; birds sooner too forsake their bough. No tarrying for old friend Sun when summering becomes undone. Oh, warmth of Summer, leave me not. Through Winter's frost I grow distraught. The melancholy has begun; my summering will come undone. As Autumn veils my season's smile, my summering will come undone.


Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2013

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The Autumn Day

My hope - that summer, like a sun-drenched dream, might linger through September - splashed away with days and days of rain and endless grey. But then I woke to see a welcome stream of sunlight fall on me. The autumn day, bestowing skies of blue, begged summer stay - then into evening glided with a gleam! 9/11/14 for the One Autumn Day Poetry Contest of PD


Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2014

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Autumn Reverie

Shifting haze, so slowly trailing
Through wood and field, now veiling
Melancholy skies, holding back the tears
With wild geese flying to meet other years.
Flames of crimson torches come flinging
Leaves on knarled branch swinging; 
Desolate winds rush leaping
Taking flowers to their final sleeping.
In the groaning of the atmosphere
Unfolding sorrows weep with the fading year;
Fields of cluttered stubble are tangled
With rampant weeds, dew drop spangled.
Flocks of birds leave like flying missiles
Over fields of corn and drying thistles;
Then my dream of autumn fades, paling
Through a grandeur all prevailing
When sunset fires light sky and sea
And sink in the breath of serenity.




Copyright © elizabeth wesley | Year Posted 2011

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Seeing Autumn's oak adorn

Painting sky before I was born,
Draping my grave in leaf and acorn.

----------------------------
Contest: Crystalline
Sponsor: Rick Parise
11.22.14


Copyright © rob carmack | Year Posted 2014

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Leaves Talking

Lovely golden red-tinged leaves seem lost in conversation,
Eloquently rustling as they flutter to the ground.
Autumn’s breeze is whispering to them a revelation.
Vanquished they are soon to be.  Vanished – they will have no sound.
Eerily the evening creeps, its shadows enveloping the trees.
Stirring in the wind, the leaves now hiss as November’s grieves.

Trembling are the leaves that on lush boughs once brightly swayed.
Ashen is their world; murmuring with fear, crestfallen they lie,
Longing for the green of summer,
Knowing they soon will fade. . . .
Inglorious is our end!  Can you hear their forlorn cry?
Now the wind is quiet, and the leaves have all grown still.
Gone is Harvest Moon. First snow falls with a silent chill.



Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2016

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Autumn's Breeze

Autumn drapes her lacey hoarfrost
Upon the vanishing vivid leaves of 
Colored trees, upon the fences and fields
Gracing them with her demure beauty.

With her breathy chill animals prepare
For Jack Frost's stealthy fall arrival.
When his first flakes begin to fall...
Oh the beauty of it all makes one sigh.

Glorious winter twirls her pristine skirt
And naked trees welcome her white layers.
When snow has covered all the grounds
And crystals in ice cycles hang from eave's

It is winter who has been crowned Queen.
Without her blizzard bringing the freeze
No ice skating fun for eager little ones,
Or romantic skating on the moonlit lake.

There's sleigh rides in the snow as children
Show adults how much fun it can be
To build a much loved snowman, as they
Recall the glory of it all from younger years.

© Connie Marcum Wong
8-25-16
As Autumn's Breeze Contest sponsor Shadow Hamilton
Snow, crystals, flakes, Jack Frost, blizzard, skating.

Poem of the Week September 4-11 2016


Copyright © Connie Marcum Wong | Year Posted 2016

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Obstacles

If e're we could move that mountain from between thee and me,
where would be lament or reason to grieve?
How remove the hollow from the tree, or shore from the sea?
What left would there be?
 
What if ere the beam lost it's moon.
Or lovely Autumn raiment lost it's tree? What then would it be?
Can one sow the seed without the land?
Would this be what Powers planned?

The grief, the longing, oh, the heartfelt gaze,
The strife the loneliness, but a soulful phase.
A mountain surmountable, a hollow fulfilled,
A sea able to be, a beam again spilled.

A stage again for raiment,... a fertile valley for seed.
Our love could not be boundless without the bonds of these.


Copyright © Robert A. Dufresne | Year Posted 2010

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Falling leaves, beautiful demise

Leaves talking, beautiful demise

If a leaf could talk, it would say, please, take your time
life is acted out in stages, every song has it's rhyme
When a leaf dies, its dynamic impressions in its flight
a stunning display of artistry, dazzling to the sight

Green turns to crimson, flaming tangerine and gold
a leaf's transforming demise is a beauty to behold
As sap runs dry, youthful vitality turns evanescent
the beauty of a leaf's demise is resplendent iridescence

A leaf's downfall, granted, is a casualty of the season
it's journey into oblivion, is transfixing beyond reason
When a leaf, takes its leave, exits gracefully the scene
We're left breathless with the vision, an event to be seen


John Derek Hamilton
September17,2016




Copyright © John Hamilton | Year Posted 2016