Narrative Autumn Poems

These Narrative Autumn poems are examples of Narrative poems about Autumn. These are the best examples of Narrative Autumn poems written by international PoetrySoup poets

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Details | Narrative |
The sun-yellow house seems smaller somehow,
regarding it now,  with time-worn eyes...

The street seems narrower, and the trees are taller..
Where once open fields spanned both sides of the road
there are new tract houses, and fences have bloomed
The neighboring orchards have all been removed

But somehow we knew the house would remain....
As if seen from a distance, ...yet, still much is the same

There's an unfamiliar red tricycle, and a skate left behind
along flagstone pavers that wind to the door
It's a path that we laid on a hot summer day...
in front of this house that sits at the bend
near the end of the road, where the sycamore grew...

As suddenly as wind, that springs from the dust
thirty years flew away, and fell into in the past
And quickly alive, all the memories rise, 
     like a whirlwind of leaves, in a springtime of lives.....

...Our first Christmas trees,. our first anniversaries...

 The place where I cried long into the night, 
  as the child in me grieved for a mother who died...

 Long, starry nights, I was bathed by the moon
                    rocking my babes to a lullaby tune
_____ is all captured there, in the small yellow house
Our very first house, with the snow-white shutters

Strange, it may be, but I'm glad it's still yellow...
Still wearing the face of the warm summer sun 

The sun- yellow house, with a flagstone path
Where old slate stones bring the sun to the door
It's a path we laid on a warm summer day
in a place that we knew as our very first home
Just a small yellow house, with snow-white shutters...
that sits 'round the bend, where the sycamore grew...


Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2009

Details | Narrative |
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

Details | Narrative |
here, where I walk,
confused silence swirls around my feet,
and the anguished summer leaves
are lingering limp, waiting for autumn..,
waiting to crumble and mingle with earth
drunk with the morning dew

somewhere beneath them
under the thunder and a tremulous sky
earth wears the scab of a fresh wound
in a place that will not be forgotten...
corrupt with mourning
sprouting with questions
immersed with regret
hollowed with anger
and shadowed by trees of despair

birch-bark faces, heads bent low, shadowed eyes
stone-cold voices, are carried in the wind, 
held captive behind disguise
while mute birds watch without a song
the leaves will decay, green goes, and the eye forgets
forget?  never....
while pawing on the hard and bitter earth
of reason, is impossible...

autumn comes
and autumn goes
I will live in hope that baffled minds
will clearly see a winter sun
and give up blaming ... who?

101 In A Row Contest:
Sponsor: PD

Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2012

Details | Narrative |
Winter be but two weeks old and already they lament.
No passion seems as strong as their loudest prayer for spring.
Spring will come when it will and wake the grasses and willow.
Let Natures brief time of slumber last long enough to rest her.

The winter be time for beauty to be found on ice etched panes,
And bayonets of glass, hanging from every eave to be seen.
Winter be found in crystalline air so pure only heroes inhale it.
And footsteps crunch like breaking luttuce upon the snowy ground.

Beyond winter times will speed and rush their way forward.
Spring then Summer and Autumn sprinting to their ultimate ends.
Let winter luff her way on tiny frozen feet while fire warms yours.
Add another log and settle in for a long nap and a dream.

Copyright © William Kershaw | Year Posted 2011

Details | Narrative |

Have written a number of love poems never one with so much meaning As I near the end of my seventy-nineth year My love is more melancholy leaning Been lovestruck for quite a number of years But now with my advancing age Our union is even more precious than ever Our love has turned a new page Tinged with a kind of quiet contentment Like a favourite easy chair Just to feel the presence of your soul mate And the love the two of you share No other feeling can even come close It defies conventional description It's the culmination of a lifetime of love In the purest form, no restrictions Why is it we only discover real love When the leaves on the trees start to fall We spend a lifetime in search of that moment When it was right beside us after all © Jack Ellison 2014

Copyright © Jack Ellison | Year Posted 2014

Details | Narrative |
Gathered in the shade of her quaint little garden, 
 where a trellis was woven with rose climbing vines,
   something enchanting, had been deftly designed, 
     on an ordinary day, on a May afternoon.

A teapot was held, with her large knuckled hands, 
to a bouquet of her friends, (also neighbors of mine),
by the most gentile’ of women, that I've ever known…

It felt like a scene from a time long ago, when decorum was proper, 
 and manners were too, 
    before composure, and poise,.. were a thousand years old,
          where propriety still mattered, and was as precious as gold.
Lilting voices would chatter like the birds on the wing.
Laughter was singing, across fragrant grass, 
Flower frocked ladies, around a few scattered tables. 
Linens and laces, under ashes and maples.
Silver coifed hairdos, with apple cheeked faces, 

  And me?   There I sat.... quite out of my place... 
   Drinking it in, in the cool, dappled shade. Taking a sip, with a small plate on my lap
Delightful surprises to bewitch the eyes…
Delicate confections, cucumber sandwiches,
made by her hand, for just this occasion.
Branches of jasmine, covered verandas.…
Rose petal blossoms, painted on china.  
The most beautiful tea set, oh, how divine! 
Envious eyes, covetously pined for it!

She wore a floppy garden hat, a dress of mauve, and there she sat.
Her weathered skin, her cheeks of rouge... a smile to love, would have too,...
She had lived a war, and more than one.....iron strong, a generous heart
Knowing eyes, and sparkling wit, 
She would hold your hand in hers and smile,... listen well, of that I'm sure
  and then would sip and chat awhile, of this and that…
                                                         and you would learn to love, somehow

I sipped my tea, and watched it all, and never thought of future things. ~

But now I sit here all alone…the chatter gone, the birds have flown.
Where once her charm, her love of life
the grand old ways, have slipped away

Soon after, in the autumn chill…word soon spread that she was ill 
      I was away, and never knew.….I hope, oh Lord, she was not alone ….

And looking back …I think of that….. and how strange the fact….. how odd it is…..
that something owned by someone grand, a china cup, so delicate, 
                                                                                 so fragile in the hand,
can last beyond the grave...intact,….
                    although a dear, enchanting friend, her life would have to end…..

                                                     ~ ~


Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2011

Details | Narrative |
It was the first day of the new school year
The children of Beslan had no need to fear
In anticipation they eagerly left home for school
Some walked hand in hand with Mom and Dad
Others skipped along the well known path
Excitement filled the sidewalks and the streets
As fleeting thoughts collided in mid air

Some thought of new friends to be made
Others of old friends with whom to play
A little sister left at home 
Of baby brother asleep in his crib
Much too young to run and play
Some favorite lullabies which Grandmama sang 
As Grandpapa played his violin

The first day of the new school year
Mothers beamed with such pride
How their little ones had grown
Never would they ever want to let go
Others gave in to their children’s cries
‘Mamma, I do not want to go to school.
May I stay with you today?’

On wings of hate evil had already arrived 
With diabolical plans and bombs in hand
To maim and murder the children of Beslan
Who became captives in their little school house
After the dastardly deed was done
Dreams and aspirations lay splattered 'cross the floor 
Childhood innocence forever vanished! 

On the day of internment the sun in his temple hid
Earth wept pouring rain, her bitter tears
As Mothers’ voices cracked and strained 
Cried out loud, their children’s names
While others pleaded in vain for death
Fathers in a state of shock stood stoically in the cold autumn rain
Wearing faces carved in stone

The blood of children cried out to Heaven
Where at the throne of mercy 
Sits a God who is just 
Though their bodies lay broken in tiny white coffins
On angels' wings their souls did ascend  
He will judge all men and their deeds 
All, on one appointed day

A tribute to the children of Beslan, No. Ostetia, Russia 9/1-3/ 2004

Copyright © Annalise Brigham...a.k.a. Audrey Haick | Year Posted 2009

Details | Narrative |
As spring brings life to all that sleep
Spirit, body and mind renew
Joy reflects in bursts of blossoms
Heralding new birth to God’s creation
As man and nature journey as one
In a dance of celebration
Hope reborn in all that live

As the summer of life screeches by
Visitors invited, welcome to share
Love, laughter, living and dying
Soon comes bittersweet joy of liberation
Knocking, bearing gift of freedom
As mountains rise along the way

As the autumn of life drifts in
The lights of my eyes will grow dim
Yet the hummingbird still sings
Joy of my vision, my rock
Through light of day or darkest night
Like a child I trust, I sleep

As the winter of life arrives
When my tresses turn white as snow
With the sound of my voice just a whisper
Though shallow breath, my prayers ascend
To the joy of my salvation
Just beyond invisible gates
I will in quiet adoration kneel

Note:  Written 9/17/09
          By Audrey Carey
          Entry for Constance La France's "Why Oh Why" Contest

Copyright © Annalise Brigham...a.k.a. Audrey Haick | Year Posted 2009

Details | Narrative |

With what ease he shifts
With such carefree abandon
Harlequin garb at death’s door
Time?    Elemental
And his whisperings
Oh, God, his whisperings!
Behemoth strides     with iron fists
But, oh, at times so gentle
He calls the dance    fiddles a macabre tune
First    smiles
Then frowns
Manipulating playthings
A sadistic clown
Nor even forty winks
The great beating heart    tapping    throbbing    drumming
Till all lay lifeless
Only then this sleepy sigh
A white shroud  

Copyright © daver austin | Year Posted 2010

Details | Narrative |
“to hold, as ‘twere, the mirror up to nature”  William Shakespeare, Hamlet, 1601


The house seemed smaller, seen with older eyes...
The street seemed narrower, the trees taller..
Where once were open fields across the road
New construction had bloomed
The small fruit orchard had disappeared

But somehow we knew it would still be there....
Strangely different, ...yet the same
There was an unfamiliar small red tricycle
On the flagstone path that we laid...
In front of this little house that lies
Beyond the curve, where the old sycamore grew...

Suddenly, thirty years faded into that autumn day
And quickly had become a springtime of our lives..... 
...of first Christmas trees,..of first anniversaries...
            ...a place where I cried night after night when mother died...
                       ...and spent long, starry nights holding newborn babes.... is all still there, in the little yellow house

Funny, but I'm glad they kept the yellow...
It has the same white shutters...
The little yellow house, with a flagstone pathway that we laid
That sits beyond the curve, where the old sycamore grew...


4/20/11  Submitted for Constance La'France's Contest "The Tree"
By Carrie Richards

Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2011

Details | Narrative |
(Walking Seven Steps)

Catching the last shot of the sunset sky
Even more rustier than before
Delayed my departure.
I asked my friends to go ahead 
And I would catch up with them, but
The perfect shot took longer than I thought.
Packing my bags I hurried downhill knowing
I was lagging far behind the others.
The thickness of the night engulfed me
And I knew I had lost my trail.
Stumbling over a stone I had also
Lost my torch, and started walking blindly
In the darkness of the woods.
The pitch black trees seemed statued
To the ones that breathed life
When I had often trampled 
Through the varied wooded parks.
The autumn leaves were crackling 
Under my light footsteps as
The tiniest crescent moon smiled
Through the bare leaved branches
Welcoming my partnership on our lone journey.
How long I walked, my feet knew not
How long I would walk, my heart knew not
My map was dark and my eyes could read it not.
But my ears were sharp to hear another crackling
Under footsteps many times heavier than mine.
From the dark slope above I saw a shadow enlarged
Hurrying down to my path as if to lead me out.
My breath was calm, my eyes happy, and quietly
My adventurous spirit followed him wherever he lead.
The woods became denser and our pace quicker
With a click of his finger the air became fresher.
So intoxicated was I with the heavenly air that 
It perfumed my soul, my very breath and
Every transient thought that fleeted in, 
Till I stood before a very flowery welcoming cottage.
I extended my hand to my shrouded partner and said:
'It takes seven steps together to make a friend.
We have walked more than seven steps together to......'.
My hooded companion most divinely intervened:
'It takes seven steps together to make a friend
It takes seven hours together 
To make any journey most heavenly'.
Without raising his chin,without accepting my extended hand
He turned his back to retreat into the woods 
As mysteriously as he had entered it.

Copyright © Balveen Cheema | Year Posted 2015

Details | Narrative |
hey there,
You have lighted up my world..
Now you're the one I am dreaming of
Dont you know,
I can sit here forever,
Just looking into your eyes?
The things I see there
Always take me by surprise
but I don't see you coming...
I see you standing there;
so close but still barely out of reach;
I want to be closer to you,
so I'm on my way...
I will be missing you
I will be missing the places we used to know..
wish i could carry you with me
I hope I make you a little happy too
I am not saying goodbye
I know I'll see you again
I would be crying in that strange city
and you wouldnt be there..
but I will carry on..

6.22.11 (my goodbye poem before I boarded the plane)

Copyright © Jeinara Odonio | Year Posted 2013

Details | Narrative |

In a quiet town
Of small shops
Ice cream
And American flags
I feel the wind
Shifting from
Summer breeze
To Autumn chill.
Holding a drink
I marvel at the colors
The sunlight brings
To my eyes
A mystery
I can never explain.
Like a greedy child
I drink it all
Feeling its warm caress
Drift aimlessly downward
In my time
I've had mountains full of ideas
And good memories
That I keep
Close to my heart
I now realize
Life did not change
I did
And what I need now
Are good friends,
Honest talks
And simpler times.

Copyright © Edmund Siejka | Year Posted 2009

Details | Narrative |
They call me the dying month, the bringer of cold harsh winds from the north.
I sneak up upon unsuspecting late summer well wishers, wrap my cold hands around their cheeks and come forth.

Moving silently across the country side, I graciously give the kiss of death to the once green leaves.
In my path I leave nothing but skeleton shapes twisted and old, they are nothing but shadows of once mighty summer trees.

In death however comes beauty of colour, the brown crispy leaves illuminated by the red autumn sky.
The stage is set and the players cast, the final curtain call is all but nigh.

With a crunch under foot, hat and scarves protecting such delicate pale frozen skin.
The first frost falls upon my deathly hands, I greet winter as my old friend with an honest grin.

Like the leaves from the trees my time is short, but the cycle continues without me and I die knowing my part has been played.
I close my eyes as you do in bed, into winters night will an autumn evening fade.

My time has ended and I bow out gracefully, for the work I've done I feel no shame.
As all things that share a purpose and live with meaning, it's time for us all to return whence we came.


Copyright © Damien Biggs | Year Posted 2015

Details | Narrative |
My father's Roger Maris mitt
Was kept in perfect health.
It showed no wrinkles no blemishes
Nor flakes of skin.

Its limber fingers were sheathed in leather, 
Its pocket was well stretched
As it yawned with each breath.
Bathed in linseed oil, 
It was a dark jersey cow
As it slept like an oyster
With a pearl cradled in its palm.

My father's attention was precious as gold; 
His time was well spent with little to spare.
He was my coach, he was my father
Playing catch on our field of honor.
Years passed by with a blink of an eye; 
His fraying attention became unraveled
By his job, by money, his family's health
And his aging body.
His golden mitt seldom saw light; 
Snaring a baseball was wishing
Upon a starless night.

With patience and compassion
My father guided my life, 
By catching a baseball my self-confidence grew.
But, his life was snatched by death
His game forever ended.
He was part of my foundation
Which will never fade from sight
As long as I remember, a baseball
Caught on an autumn night.

Standing in my backyard, I see my father's mitt
Cradling me; 
Like a baseball I recline
In his loving arms forever.

Copyright © Jonathan Bellmann | Year Posted 2012

Details | Narrative |
In the spring 
Who break in the flowers 
And spread fragrance 
To provide nectar for mankind 
Humans who pick the flowers at will

In the summer 
Who sit still and staring at all 
Let the tree be cut down by mankind 
I wandered and wandered 
Wandering for host to compass me

In the autumn 
In hollow tree 
Eating my favorite nuts 
But mankind neglect my hiding 
Frozen till unable to extricate myself

In the winter 
In iceberg 
Having my own fun 
The bad action of mankind 
Make the water temperature rise

Melting the iceberg 
Only hope that 
Mankind change their humanity 
Because of the replaced seasons 
Spring summer autumn winter

Copyright © Yap Kian | Year Posted 2017

Details | Narrative |
©Alfreda Williamson
July 2, 2004

Outside town boundaries,
bustling, noisy din,
Deeply in the serenity of peace, calm,
the country County,
Around a curve, sharp, blind.

There it leaped out at me.
Suddenly, unexpectedly
Catching me off guard,
Not foresightedly, not scary
Just by way of wonderment
. . . why this unfinished business?
The house without its finishings.

. . .  It rose up in the trees,
reaching the tops, for two stories,
Sweat/precision/deliberation imputed,
Reaching towards the sun.

Or was it toward a full autumn moon,
Or could it be the direction,
from the ancient star compass.
Harnessing a cloud drifting by, for clearing?

It stood among the ivory,
Entangled, entwined but
Not overgrown, not overtaken.

The roof covered in tin,
The setting for magnificent, earthly,
	heavenly sounding of
rain drops.

The windowed eyes of this
Unfinished  dwelling,
Finished, painted, shadowed, framed
. . . in pink.
Its back bone wood no longer
yellow /white/beige with youth.
The grey/brown color of rotting age and elements;
. . . time, neglect, exposure
. . . nature scraping and shearing away,
year after year,
after month, after day,
after time.

The frame finished, nearly so,
Peaking spaces left, or now,
There, some frame filling
Having been ripped/rotted
Away for outsiders to look in.

This business unfinished,
And not overtaken,
In the gulf of time.

Nature working reclamation,
Of the space, crawling,
Groundward, upward,
Yet unfinished in recapturing.

This unfinished house, standing
Alone in the word,
Sharing a space with no one
In its place.
The windowed souls,
	. . . looking, peeking at
	running pass,
	in a flurry.

This unfinished business,
Begs questioned consideration,
Sufficient structural invitation
	? who went there
	? what past passed
	? why this unfinished business
	? when
Where . . . 
	am I begged to inquire,
	invited to draw close?

But I can’t get there.
Though attention drawn,
And pondering invoked.

I can’t finish it,
This business.

By Alfreda Williamson
© July 2, 2004

Copyright © Alfreda Williamson | Year Posted 2012

Details | Narrative |
It’s October, we find time to go by the spring-house to get the tulips. It is time to prepare for winter and the inevitable coming of spring.  The bulbs look hopelessly dead and ugly, rather pitiful in fact.  We nurture them tenderly.

fall gardener tucks the bulbs in bed till spring's alarm.
Through many snows and chilling temperatures, we do not consider at all what is taking place under the ground. One warm March day we see tiny noses poking up through the soil around the back porch. By April, we are sitting in the swing admiring the result of loving labor of last fall.
seeing the blooms brings to mind dried-up bulbs
How could such ugliness have turned to such beauty in the cold, hard earth? As May approaches bringing other flowers, our short-lived tulips drop their blossoms and say good-bye. But as we've discovered, the wisest of gardeners do not hasten to bother the beauty in its passing.
dust to dust all blossoms shrivel with time food for the soil wilting leaves nourish the bulb hidden in the ground
The bulb remains unattractive throughout the whole cycle of growth. Along in mid-July when all external signs of life have faded, we remove the unsightly bulbs from their bed, putting them back in the spring-house until fall. Without them, there will be no blossoms next spring. It is the care we show the bulb which bursts into the beauty we bless in time. entry for contest: Carlton D. Kennedy's Love of Nature

Copyright © Reason A. Poteet | Year Posted 2013

Details | Narrative |
Alone, surrounded by seventeen million humans who call New York home
In a rut, depressed, searching in pain and in vain for hope

A crisp fall day, I venture north to play
The Adirondack valley, mountains borne from bursting glacial fountains
I drive alone to see the big balloons, clearing my mind as each mile clicks behind

A festival, forcing myself among people, children virtually tattooed with a brazen sense of hope
Children burst with joy as balloons begin to rise, they seem so wise
I watch a young girl, perhaps only three, she scans the balloon field so carefree
My big city worries left miles behind, self-discovery and inspiration I'm here to find

Forlorn, scanning rainbow colors and lollipop grins among the scenes
A light breeze, crisp fall air, clad in pink sweater and jeans
My Louboutin’s at home, I blend in easily
Letting my mind drift, confronting myself bravely

I'm young but school lingers in my distant past
Do I have what it takes to succeed and to last
I'm not as gifted as the best yet with plausible potential

I try I fail
I cant seem to get the elevation to improve my station
I veer off course, unable to remain focused
I'm human - a warm air balloon - am I too destined for a hopeless meager flight?

Just as a tear streams down my cheek
I elevate my face skyward, catching a breeze to behold a bright rainbow of twenty balloons
Red, yellow, orange and green - cotton candy puffs dangling,  banging against the baby blue sky
A kaleidoscope of color, different shades of hope

The young girl, propped in her father's arms, pointing skyward admiring the candy store colors 
Her blonde curls bob in the breeze
I see one she chooses to ignore, drawn to it from deep within my core
The one balloon, flying below the others, no one cares to see or to be
It goes unnoticed, it won't win
This lonely balloon's flight mimics my own plight
An antagonizing allegory screaming my true story

Alone among the crowded field of onlookers, hands drop to my sides
Jaw slackens, eyes glaze, mind drifts, I become this balloon as if a character in a cherished childhood cartoon
I watch the others pass me by, they soar high, fast, bright
I fall behind, not good enough yet choosing not to despair
Or to myself, be both blatantly and subtly unfair
I avert finding fault, cursing my fate or my failure to elevate

Hovering over truth's razor edge 
I entrust myself a new life pledge
Stay in the race, soon I'll keep pace, eventually the one they'll chase

My belly burns with fire of desire
Yearning to achieve, not for wealth, not for fame
My ambition is for those I love
The gift I pursue is to be my best but not compared to the rest
My best future self, my vision for the one I want to become

"Look Daddy" cries the little girl, pointing skyward to the drifting balloon
I blink, shudder, return to the moment
I follow the little girls finger pointing skyward and I see it too
What the pilot does differently is a mystery but the lowly balloon rapidly elevates

Joy flashes across the little girls face, experiencing the balloons success
She doesn't care how hard it was or how close the crew came to giving up hope
The little girl smiled, reminiscent of me as a child, a moment mutually transcendent

I make way to my car, returning to the city of seventeen million balloons
Top down, cool air whipping through my hair
Shades on, concealing moist eyes
Vibrations from the road rearrange me emotionally
My trust in hope rising from toes to nose with a sudden warm rush gently settling in my heart
I promise myself never to forget the plight and successful flight of that one
Warm air balloon

Copyright © Anson Decker | Year Posted 2017

Details | Narrative |
Autumn Leaves 
holds so many memories 
of you and me 
when love was so sweet ,

My Love,
Where do I go 
now that I'm alone?
I walk with my head down 
I feel life is no longer the same
Life is so much colder
and I am getting older,

alone is I
in the winter snow 
with no where to go 
I just haven't let you go
autumn leaves 
is apart of you and me
even though you was lade to rest
you will always be the best
part of me among autumn leaves,

I have no one to hold me 
but your memories
I sit at the park Watching autumn leaves
while teardrops fall down 
upon the wet ground
the sound of the wind 
takes me back again 
to a place we once had been
Oh ,my love 
what must I do 
without you? 

Poetic Judy Lilly Emery (c)

Copyright © Judy Emery | Year Posted 2016

Details | Narrative |

Aside from the glorious colours of autumn It is my least favourite season of all four It foretells of another Canadian winter just around the corner I have seen 79 of them That's 79 too many! All my life, I've longed to live where A sweater was the most I ever needed to wear to feel comfortable Instead of fur lined jockey shorts and mukluks Fashioned from seal skin My life long dream has not materialized yet Still have 20 or more years to go What do you think my chances are To live in a warm climate before I reach the magic number 100? On a scale of “slim” to “a sure bet” Would you figure it would be somewhere in between Or as I predict... “a sure bet” Now that's what most would call extreme optimism Really, it's only 21 years from now I call it a done deal! © Jack Ellison 2014

Copyright © Jack Ellison | Year Posted 2014

Details | Narrative |
Autumn rain 
made its way today
all I feel is the pains 
of yesterday,

Its crazy how the memories
can cut so deep 
the rain helps me sleep 
Yet I start to weep ,

Autumn rain
made its way 
all I could do is cry
at your grave another time,

I can never get you off my mind
time keeps moving 
but somehow I got lost in 
autumn rain of pains
of yesterdays blues ,

Poetic Judy Emery (c)

Copyright © Judy Emery | Year Posted 2016

Details | Narrative |
When the Autumn Leaves Fall...

Blossoms bloom red
Your pretty smile falls beneath your head
Brunette flow
Healthy glow
From then on you hid in my sheets
The thing you were running from I never got to meet
I rushed in
Not knowing it was a bear’s den
We got married
I thought I was what you would need
We planted seed after seed
To grow a tree
But time went on
And you were slowly on your way to gone
I figured out pretty fast
That on your heart’s list I was last
Every day you woke
Around the house a dying smell poked
My affections were true
But you not loving me was something I knew
Don’t wear that disguise
I’m immature but a little wise
I know all your lies
We share the same lives!

Eventually destiny hit in the autumn leaves
With the foxes you became a thief
You threw out my wedding ring
Mascara covered eyes; you were a mess
I didn’t have to guess
You were accompanied by a luggage bag
I watched you leave not knowing you left with all I had
Where do I turn
What lesson is there to be learned!
I am so confused
I’m not walking in my own two shoes

It’s been about a year
My own life I can’t steer
I know I was not in your view
But I’m troubled because I think I stuck onto you like glue
I’m drowning because
These memories are not fading to fuzz
There all a little to real and alive
Dark realization you were all I strived
You were what I sought out
Why I am still teary eyed and missing you remains about

Well I grew that tree and carved our names
To you our love was all fun and games
Then I scratched them out from pain and regret!
My chained emotions had to be let...
Let go
This I think know
But why is letting go still something I am pondering
My heart still does ring
I’m still coming across the past
Your still what I had last
I remember the first time you said hi
I still ask why
Why was I the scapegoat?
Being with you, was it not an authentic lump in my throat?

I stare at the sky so dark
Clarity on mark
I clear my brain
My heart’s stain
My intentions are now in sink
I take a deep breath and blink
Your gone like that
This time I know it’s a fact
I stepped out of the thorn bush and onto the path
I satisfied my own wrath
It took a while for everything to be white
I left you with the fire it took forever to light
I left it all behind
To burn with my battered mind


Copyright © Aidan Gilbert | Year Posted 2016

Details | Narrative |
Remember the day you helped to display a picture of a Mexican Mother
She was swaddled in blankets of orange brown wraps and holding 
her new born babe.She looked out of a shuttered window across a 
laboured vineyard with unconditional love. Her eyes saw an evening 
sky that glowed and ebbed beautiful shades of autumn reds.

The picture sat on the wall above our new crib beside our bed.Our 
new baby's crib. Baby Katy. Black hair just as in the picture I'm sure.
A new patchy red skin of unbelivably vunerablility and loved so 
much by both of us. She would russell away all night. No sleep to be 
had but thoughts of love all day at work.

I see you wife now so many years later as that Mexican Mother. And 
loved you that way. And as for my daughter I see you as then too. 
I can by pass your demands now.Demands unreasonable and biased. 
You will return one day with that loving effect on me. You will understand 
when an adult. My second daughter arrives later just the same way.


Copyright © Ian Foley | Year Posted 2012

Details | Narrative |
Hey,come 3rd quarter of each calender year,  it is that time of the year again, 
This phenomenon is headlined in local dailies each day, again and again...

An enviromental situation, all kinds of experts in general do agree...
A regular man-made consequence from widespread clearing and burning of trees..

All over the country, as in the whole Asian region, the sun is but a blur pall of crimson...
Evidence of the filtering effects of the haze particles in atmospheric conditions..

This pall of haze or jerebu is now a password upon which to start a conversation...
Something akin to the British How's The Weather way of striking up a conversation..

Make a comment about this hazy situation and you can be sure of an observation...
That something urgent needs to be quickly done to elevate this  distressing condition...

Everyman in the street is aware of this thick smoky mist that envelope the environment...
People are advised to use face masks  to reduce the intake of unhealthy irritants...

Even as the sale of face masks are flying off the shelves, what a situation...
People with breathing problems like asthma are to stay indoors, lessen outdoor exertions..

Scheduled flights has to be cancelled unless flying visibility index is acceptable...
Schools are ordered to close when the official haze index breach certain levels...

Cloud seeding efforts are in force to seed rainfall which will  clear considerably the opaque sky..
Just so that such unhealthy and unfavourable conditions will not cloud future skies...

Government efforts are intensified to once again negotiate for cross border cooperation...
Time and again, all these actions are routine responses to mitigate the people's indignation...

For year to year, we the public , suffer all kinds of inconveniences and challenges..
When each calender year enters the 3rd quarter, we suffer again this haze in stages..

Hopes are high, maybe this year things will be different, things will be better...
Down come the promised rain and the situation clears, until the next year...

When once again we all go through the whole rigmorale of negotiations and deliberations...
Safety measures and advice for the masses, cloud seeding efforts and of course, fervent prayers...

Welcome to the haze situation here in Asia...!

Copyright © KENG CHUAN SENG | Year Posted 2015

Details | Narrative |
First comes Spring, with daisies and Easter eggs, 
And little girls running around wearing their Sunday best.
My peony's start blooming, followed by
long walks with my dog, who is sniffing around
fire hydrants for the first time in 3 months.
The sun's eyes are open later, 
While the moon takes his time rising deep in the horizon,
And the stars are just  so much more,

Summer brings newness and fresh green everything,
Everywhere it spreads, wherever it can touch and see.
The burning heat is combined with sweating, 
which then turns into family reunions,
Followed by swimming with my cousins.
And I can hear the sound of tiny footprints on lawns 
Running through the neighbor's favorite sprinkler.
And sweet smell of marshmallows to eat,
	-at dusk.

My favorite one of them all, would have to be the Fall,
The sweet scent of fire lingering through the
Twilit cool breeze,
And there are yellow, orange and red leaves falling,
Like confetti from a pinata, 
They have a certain destination in mind,
Mostly it's for my children collecting them with papa,
Or using them for their 3rd grade Science project.
Families all over the world get to do one thing, 
At the same time...
Collect nature's beauty marks,
And jump so excitingly among,
	-the beauty of a season..

Not too long after that, the Winter I saved for last.
Not because I don't appreciate this weathered season,
But because there's nothing better than that first time
You can see your breath when you breathe.
I'll never forget the first time I woke up as a child,
Gazed out our front porch window,
And experiencing awe for the very first time and saw,
Snow dipped pine trees with little green, and a lot of white.
There are icicles dangling reflecting a prism into
All surrounding light, and when they decide it's time to melt,
It's about that time of year when the sun stays up a little later,
And when the moon takes his time rising deep in the horizon.
And when the stars are just so much more..

Copyright © Laura Loo | Year Posted 2015

Details | Narrative |
With heightened urge to swim and splash
To the nearby river, with its twists and bends
In warm summer evening of Uttar Pradesh
A child sets out with a group of friends

The flowing water and its blissful rinse
The currents and waves and their silky flow
Climbing their shoulders and reaching their chins
The ecstasy causing the faces to glow

Oblivious of risks, bubbling with zeal
Knowing not a storm could mount a siege
The fury and rage could serenity steal
Ignorant that scenery could turn a page

You and I are riding the quick sand of time
The turbulent river of life is in spate
We know not that we could be victims prime
Oblivious of meeting a devastating fate

Is there a spring of autumn of life?
Where is the promised mercy’s floodgate?
Is our destiny anguish and strife?
O Saviour’s Benign Hands! How long to wait?


Copyright © Mohammad Yamin | Year Posted 2008

Details | Narrative |
Cold spells get to a slow start this year,
with this month's full moon -
known as the Beaver moon.
It makes me think though;
of my homeland where people walk
and enjoy the precipice of the night.

While in New York autumn holds
symbolic meanings and stories to tell;
with a giant wind that looms over a coastline;
it's another landscape that beckons across the farmland.

Withered leaves drop and fall on the ground,
trees in their creeping sadness
continue to lose the sojourn of their youth.
At their height and moving branches,
make me stay up and watch them through the present time.

As I gleefully walk right up to the shrine of Our Lady,
there's a missing whisper, a song to my ears;
those birds spilling down the garden's main avenue.
Like an army, an orchestra that provides
melody in the midst of sympathy.

As a magical moment of Mother Nature,
I see enormous changes in forms and shapes;
an attempt to thrive for another threshold,
keeps me believe the power beyond
filled with images of life.

Copyright © mark escobar | Year Posted 2012

Details | Narrative |
, The stream of water falls  from the sky and the leaves go out to outer space. The dancing frogs jump across the busy road like Siamese toad.
Moment so f gay is the words go astray. I hear the moon cry from the hot sun and send tears of rain onto our open eyes. The strokes of light shine into my eyes as I wake from a dream.. And hear my mother scream.. where is my self esteem? 
I am in a cloud huffing and puffing from the deep evil cigar and try to find my way home. Please let me go I only have what is old. That's what I was told.. the story unfolds... ,

Copyright © Brenda Hamodey | Year Posted 2016

Details | Narrative |

One Autumn  afternoon, I was forced to stall.
Across the street on a corner lawn very small,
stood a tree most beautiful and noticed by all.
Each fall I enjoyed its breathtaking autumn display.
That is, until four years ago when I moved away.
Its memory arrested and captured me a few days ago.
I was compelled to drive through my old neighborhood                                       to experience once more that autumn tree, one of my favorite shows.
But when I arrived and turned the corner, I was saddened because that  lovely tree so generously covered with orange leaves was no longer there.
Its unsightly root system protruded above ground and disfigured  the small lawn.  It was then I understood why the tree had to go; but still, I regretted that I could no longer stare.  I shall not forget those few years and brief moments we shared. It seemed that tree and I embraced each other with such a neighborly care.    11062016 cj PS

Copyright © curtis johnson | Year Posted 2016