Writing Autumn Poems

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Details | Free verse |

There is a wind ,  which sketched,
Without my knowledge,  the message;

Autumn had lying words,
On my page.

It was by way of red leaves,
The bird of passage,
Twirling in space,

I followed it of my glance
And its woven loops,
On the canvas of the sky.

I just transcribed,
What the wings,

Supported on the wind,
Said to me.

-
(translated from french )
--

C'est un vent qui traçait,
A mon insu,         le message  ;

L'automne avait couché les mots,
Sur ma page.

C'étaient en guise de feuilles rousses,
L'oiseau de passage,
Virevoltant dans l'espace,

Je l'ai suivi de mon regard,
Et de ses boucles tissées,
Sur la toile du ciel .

J'ai seulement retranscrit,
Ce que les ailes,

Appuyées sur le vent,
M'avaient dit.

Copyright © rene Chabriere | Year Posted 2014




Details | Free verse |
I sit at the table looking out the kitchen window drinking the autumn warm golden shades of red, brown, and orange leaves descending and walking through my yard. My mind swims with thoughts of seventy autumns, yearning to purge into words that storm within me. This old encrusted frame kidnapped the child I once was, in tears this heart thoughts flow reflecting on the past. Unconsciously holding my breath, my wizened hands shake slightly while I write. Like the ocean at the mercy of the wind sweeping away by the demands of everyday life, I write pages and pages of weeping words. Waves rush in and around, losing myself in a wakeful dream as I hear the distant chants. Love and be loved a rhythm of my soul too still the storm within me. With hope of once more, to be young in the embrace of my love, for now I open the door of my heart and let him continue his journey. 10/5/2017

Copyright © Eve Roper | Year Posted 2017

Details | Verse |
As the wind ripped the leaves from the trees
I thought of you
As I stood there like those trees
Stripped of all their glory
Their only crime
Giving birth to beauty

I watched them fall
All those brilliant leaves
And knew you could never stop
Poetry in motion.

THIS POEM IS NOT FOR ANY CONTEST

Written:  September 14, 2014
Author: Elaine George

Copyright © Elaine George | Year Posted 2014




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

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


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

Copyright © Anthony Slausen | Year Posted 2012

Details | Free verse |

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

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

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

Suzanne Delaney


for Harry














Copyright © Suzanne Delaney | Year Posted 2013

Details | Dramatic monologue |
You should have seen this tree before the winter came
Before the sun broke faith with its suckling leaves
Before the heavy ice of time sagged its limbs
Before its roots were singe in a frigid flame.
Did you know HG Daniel then, did you walk with him
Through spring and hear him sing of his king
Did he teach you "the elements of survival," when Eden
Closed its gate on us did he tell you its lore
And make you long for earth's long lost heaven
Though he struggles "not a man as before"?
I knew this tree when spring was a leaf of tongue
And poets sip the nectar of imagination young
I read him in rhyme and works of tribute
To fair Barbara and other members of the soup
Before the strokes, his loss of wife, and the loop
Of pall upon his hand with which he paint his love.
He is a noble tree, a great one in our forest of rhymes
A brother in arms of faith, a comrade, a friend
I send him prayers today, and wait for yours to come
This tree still from autumn mist a few fruit holds
Of friendship, love, and loyalty to the babbling scrolls.

Copyright © David Smalling | Year Posted 2010

Details | Couplet |
                                A CLASSIC SUMMER IN GREECE

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

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

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

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

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

Victoria Anderson Throop ©
1/11/13

Copyright © Victoria Anderson-Throop | Year Posted 2013

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

Copyright © Timothy Hicks | Year Posted 2013

Details | Iambic Pentameter |
It's difficult to fabricate a verse
whose words convey like water in a stream,
but one should try, for there is nothing worse
than words that cannot flow nor form a theme.

I wish to write with words imbued with spring:
the kind that bloom within the reader's mind
and linger with the scent that season brings;
no better words than these can writers find.

Though, words of autumn also can console,
and so I'd like my words to warmly fall
as different colors toward a common goal;
and, like that season, may such words enthrall.

Upon my page I wish for words like oil:
acutely bold and never poor in point,
the kind that gurgle under ivory soil
and long to meet the eyes that they'll anoint.

Have not you ever yearned for words like song--
the sort of dialect that sings when said,
or maybe words whose voices carry strong
within the reader's mind and ring when read?

I want my words to thrive like fervent fire--
engulfing every eye that wanders near,
to dance with little match and never tire,
for words should last and never cease to sear.

It's also my desire to write like ice,
with words akin to water-- smooth yet sound,
the kind that naturally form and gleam concise
when brought to light where thirsty eyes are found.

But every word at least should taste like wine:
a flavor fermented and rightly earned--
the kind when sipped again, tastes more refined,
the kind that urges readers to return.

Copyright © Michael Perriatt | Year Posted 2010

Details | Rhyme |
I can’t speak for every writer
of prose and poetry,
but from my own experience
this is what pertains to me.
As there are seasons in the natural,
some lovely, some not so inviting;
the same thing occurs when it comes to my pen.
There are seasons of my writing.

I’ve been through some winter like seasons
longing for inspiring urge,
but my pen felt cold and lifeless
almost like a funeral dirge.
These times of seeming deadness
when it appeared there was no inspiration,
although some of them lasted for years,
were really stages of hibernation.

Then at last there came a thawing,
a melting of my frosted pen;
sap that lay so still and dormant,
miraculously flowing again.
Suddenly, my quill, alive with bloom
and flowing like a fountain.
Free verse, limerick and haiku
come skipping over the mountain.
Poetry it starts to bloom
of various hue and shade,
stirring refrains and ballads 
that sweetly serenade.
The forms that now are breaking forth
to me, they might be new,
a villanelle, a tyburn or perhaps a clerihew.

Then spring gives way to summer
with weather oh so warm;
palm trees and sweltering breeze
an easy feeling in my form.
Those hot August nights can quickly pass
with refreshing iced tea in my poet’s glass.

Then on into the next season
for fall, it now is time.
The colors are slowly fading.
Still there’s reason in my rhyme.
Hot apple cider, the pumpkin patches
And gloriously fun hay rides,
the air is stiff and cooler
yet inspiration continues to abide.

Finally, it’s ‘round to winter again,
and in spite of the holiday hustle;
it seems my pen has fallen asleep
and will not move a muscle.
I may feel unproductive
and like I’m really sluffing,
but it’s at this time God reminds me
that without Him I am nothing.
So, I’ll read and wait and pray
until God sees fit, and then,
when the timing is just right
He will send me spring again!

Copyright © Carol Connell | Year Posted 2017

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

Copyright © Albert Ahearn | Year Posted 2012

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


Written By: Christina A McCullouch 
04/09/2013

Copyright © Christina McCullouch | Year Posted 2013

Details | Concrete |
There are four seasons in a year. Spring, Summer, Fall and Winter. In the Spring time, you can enjoy the outdoors and go for a walk. And look at the trees turning beautiful colors, you can also enjoy raking the leaves into a big pile and jump into them. We also know the New Year is coming with Winter. Winter is a cold month with snow, now the children can play outside in the snow. And everyone else can enjoy the snow also.

Copyright © Frances Roberts | Year Posted 2013

Details | Free verse |
Ah, the september weather is here,
the trees turn firery red and orange,
and the leaves gently fall to the surface.

Fall is here,
and the grass turns from green to yellow,
the souls of many change their ways.

From going on beaches in sun
to walking on wet streets,
with jackets on.

September weather is here,
too most it is depressing to see,
such change in the world.

But I love it.
The girlfriends and boyfriends go away,
and that makes me happy.
Then I go apple picking.

I pick red apples,
from low, hanging apple trees.
and I eat one, while walking down the trail.

Fall is here,
the time of death,
the last of sunshine.

I don't argue,
I love fall,
it is so cosy and it gives me hope.

Hope that a day will come again,
when the sun pops its head out
and the warmth returns.

September weather is the best,
when summer is gone, but not quite,
and the cool breeze sweaps through your open windowpane.

I love fall,
it gives me hope,
that with death comes life.

Copyright © Chris Boskovski | Year Posted 2013

Details | Free verse |
Things get bad, then they get good again.
You can write yourself angry.
You can write yourself sick.
But never
ever
should you write yourself sorry.

The world, to me, is many things:
A canvas, a movie, a place to store
everything you are and will ever be,
but never a bell jar.

As long as your hands can shake
and your voice can quiver,
never close the door.

Love the ground under your feet,
and your only sadness 
will be that a blanket of sky 
can't keep off the cold. 

Smile with every breath you take, 
and you'll realize that, 
no matter how much you weep,
you will never fill an ocean.

Look inside your heart:
There's answer there.
You'll find,
deep in an oblivion of night,
there is a light somewhere.

It may not be much light,
but it's brighter than darkness.
Follow it.

If you seek, you will find 
yourself always involved in 
something,
and as long as that door never closes,
whatever something will be enough.

I promise.

Copyright © jes russick | Year Posted 2013

Details | Ballad |
The Fairies dress in their warm coats a cool, Fall chill is in the air around them, to the ground, leaves float they dance around, without a care. Copyright © Cynthia Jones Sept.24/2013 I haven't penned one of these for quite a while. I would love to join them in their little dance. :O)

Copyright © Cynthia Jones | Year Posted 2015

Details | Light Poetry |
 LOVE FOREVER FADES AWAY!!!!   wrote by Mrs.Madhavi.Suyog.Pagare

Waving like the sea,
Your decision was bias.
You ought to give me wedding ring,
But set my dreams on fire.

Can you answer me for the single reason, what made you do this?
Was it the beauty? Was it the caste, or the complexion?

You said I am your love at first sight.
You were the one who took the initiative and intended to keep it up.
You were the one who delightedly filled my heart with zeal of love.
You were the one who elegantly filled the warmth of love in my soul.

Confronted with an unsolvable dilemma’s where there is no right answer, we always know the answer to everything.
But what you did? You just made false promises.
Still you define it as the love, true love?
Or the love that vanished with no reason.
Answer me, answer me, my thee??

Near the bandra reclamation,
Sitting at the amusement park,
You were the one who excitedly expressed your thirsty feelings.
You were the one who stared at me without closing your eyes for a single second.
But you were the one who set my dreams on fire.

You said you will ask your parent’s for lifetime commitment?
But I will ask you one thing, if you feel your parents will understand and decide your love,  then why you fell in love?
If you know that story wont line up with an happy ending, then what made you do this?
It’s just the pain you mounted on my heart. You just broke my heart.

When you blamed, that it’s the caste, it hurted me like hell.
Answer me my love, what made you do this?
I was happy being single.
Then, why you disturbed my life with no reason?
Then, why I got so much acquainted with you for all season?

It’s was so easy, that you picked up different slices of life but why Castism you did my almighty?
In the bruising darkness just left with ashes of memories, lying my face down in ignorance.
You broke my trust for all the life time in my way.
But still you left the happy prints, as a hope of ray.
It’s because of you, Love forever fades away.
But still left with the mementoes of yours, reminded me every day!!









Copyright © Madhavi Sarjare pagare | Year Posted 2013

Details | Verse |

...dedicated to all the writers here at poetrysoup.


A lady at a window writing, 
measuring her words with strict precision. 
She takes a sip of ginseng tea 
to fuel her imagination. 
Memories go drifting by - a brother 
playing basketball, the softness 
of a springtime rain, the anger 
of an autumn sky, a flash, 
and thunder rumbling. 
Sights, smells and sounds 
are grist to her mill. Nothing spoils 
her view until her best attempt is done, 
but still dissatisfied she tweaks 
and fiddles, substitutes a weak word 
for a stronger one. Finally content 
she sets aside her pen. 
They will know her now, 
know the skill that she exhibits, 
and know that she will always do her best. 

Copyright © Keith Bickerstaffe | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry |
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.

Copyright © Maya Tod. | Year Posted 2014

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

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

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

Copyright © Eamon Duffin | Year Posted 2010

Details | Blank verse |
Cracked open like a jar of peanut-butter,

             the mind is emptied

With a certain medicative methodism

That would be habitual,

             were it done more frequently.

A few things escape,

Like the shopping list left behind on the coffee table

Or the milk that was to be purchased.

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

Seem to linger like the plague.

Old telephone numbers cling to the crevices,

Rotting away with the names of former lovers

And something that once resembled guilt.

A constant ticker tape of obligations and responsibility

Clicks as it spits out the duties of the hour,

Constantly moving along to its unheard song

Between two unlistening ears.

In between are flashes of color,

Of autumn leaves and unseasonably bare legs

That grow goosebumps in short shorts

                 and a cold breeze.

Observations couple with imagination

To form shapes and sounds

And olfactory stimulation

That was never anything more

            than perfume in the wind.

To finalize the transaction,

The doorway to the mind

         collapses upon itself,

Smothering hot embers into nothing more

         than dank smoke and steam.

As the last gasp of airflow is fused shut

By the rush of busy-ness and day to day

A single breath leaks out, that had once simmered

On the lips of a beautiful woman.

"Un besito," she had whispered passionate once,

Two words that meant more than the world.

Copyright © Andrew Repenning | Year Posted 2012

Details | Verse |
Let us accept this pain
and some fear
it will heighten autumn colours
crack of clean air
black crows in blue sky
lake.

Rather than fight pain, falling
asleep in front of tv, 
understand the full
import of its situation
in the body. Blessed
once, cursed now
only fear prevents
full knowledge of experience.

The gray sky brings
winter, no blame.
The poet writes a few last poems
or continues to live with his pain.
In itself pain does not oppose
life, and may enhance it
or build character, create
wisdom. But too much fear
chokes the throat and burns
the eyes. It
destroys the last free
assessment of life.

              *                    *                    *

Now I am going to live in my body
as it is, almost fearlessly
running in pain, working
to abandon immortality
as a hope, conceiving
sunset after sunset
feeling what I feel.

On the streets I meet
many beautiful young women
curious to a certain extent
what makes a man older.
I can only say ten years
and the hand that reaches through
the cloud. I can say
only the knowledge of mortality
which makes us brothers and sisters
with the animals. And only
the acceptance which gives us wisdom
to couple often and lovingly.

How am I going to live every day
as my last, hoping happiness
outgrows fear by an ounce
or enough? By running, writing
and loving. By moving uphill
and downhill like a bear.
By committing my last words
to a powerful lord. How
do the clouds accept my dead
self? A rock thrown, a crow.

              *                    *                    *

When I am old
young girls will not be frightened anymore.
I will invite them
to my seat and tell
about the women I knew.
I will tell about
the clothes they wore
and how they earned a living.
I will try to remember
what was important to them
and if they had a favorite color
or knew how to divine.

Maybe I live and maybe I don't.
The smoke is white or black.
The winds are bright or dark.
The coins are heads or tails.
What have I been afraid of? 
Death is most of all like sleep.
We spend so long apart
after briefly knowing ourselves.
I need you to know myself
and without you all I know
is sun.





Copyright © Robert Ronnow | Year Posted 2015

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

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

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







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






Copyright © Brian Strand | Year Posted 2013

Details | Free verse |
My heart 
is my alphabet,
beating the letters out
through the pores of my skin.

I gather them
in my hands.

I mold the words.

And they pour down on the sheets,
like eager autumn rain.



© Gry W Christensen

Copyright © Gry Christensen | Year Posted 2014

Details | I do not know? |
Call me:

And I'll wait for the Winter.
You never left your bed.
Writing flaked out sessions.
Toppling frigid dread.

Call me:

And I'll wait for the Summer.
You never left your yard.
Writing  heated lessons.
Toppling being charred.

Call me:

And I'll wait for the Spring.
You never left your porch.
Writing muddied questions.
Toppling rains galore.

Call me:

And I'll wait for the Autumn.
You never left your couch.
Writing changed confessions.
Toppling sit in slouch. 

Copyright © Holly Bohto | Year Posted 2017

Details | Free verse |
Like autumn leaves the colors of my life have changed

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

Strange is the surroundings now similar are the horizons

What I thought would be easy has become hard

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

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

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

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

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



Copyright © DAVID GRASBY | Year Posted 2013

Details | Ballad |
The beauty of that place was such
that I just hadn't mattered much.
Except for me, the trees were bright
with vibrant leaves.  Oh, what a sight!
The crowds would mingle and would rest
among the brightest and the best
where thoughts and dreams together meld
in beauty so unparalleled.

Those autumn trees would grin and shout,
"Hey, look at us.  Come check us out.
We've colored leaves for you to see."
And so it was for ev'ry tree -
except for me with branches bare.
I didn't brag.  I didn't dare -
for people laughed - and newlyweds
just rolled their eyes and shook their heads.

A boy yanked off my one last leaf,
then ran away - that little thief!
So there I stood, ignored, alone.
I was a poet tree, unknown.
Exposing all my worthless whims,
the breezes weaved around my limbs.
The days were long and getting cold.
I knew that I was growing old.

A gentleman came strolling by
who paused a bit.  I don't know why.
He was a man, quite elderly
who found an old leaf under me.
He picked it up and for a while,
I thought I saw a little smile.
He contemplated for a time
and then reread my dead leaf rhyme.

I'm not a poet tree, they say
so yes, my poems blow away.
But high in humble love they sail -
across the plains and over vale,
over seas and over shores,
before they rest near Heaven's doors.
They're found by men of humble heart
whose souls are touched and set apart.

Let colored leaves not camouflage
those covered trees that sabotage
the perfect rhymes of poet's love
which blow as snow from God above.
God's love is oftentimes disguised
from people who are mesmerized
by pretty leaves that promise bliss
and worlds of joy and happiness.

But seasons come and seasons go
as brooks and streams and rivers flow.
They never stop.  They never end.
If only man could comprehend.
For sailing from the empty trees
are tears of love inside the leaves.
So leaves as these are worth the rhyme
and fly along on winds of time.

©2015 louis gander - www.ganderpoems.org

Copyright © louis gander | Year Posted 2016

Details | Ballad |
I'M CRYING OUT LOUD 


Oh, my love , I can still feel your presence
I can still almost taste your last kiss 
your touch I still hunger for so much
the years and tears are passing with time
I tried so hard to shake off your indifference 
My mind is holding every memory 
I have so much I want to say 
But it's too late now
Oh, how I cry so loud 
I pray somehow things will work out
But how ? when it's all over now
I hear you in the whispering wind
I hear you in the quiet of the night
I try so hard to get you off my mind
but my life is always apart of you
Now matter how confused I get
about this painful darkness 
I see you in my dreams 
I cry for you to hear me
But how could you ?
you could no longer fight 
for what is happening to me 
it's isn't your fault that I am broken
it's not your fault I will never let love find me
I cry so loud for the world to hear me
I miss you 
I love you 
I need you 
I don't know how to live life without you
I'm drowning in this pain 
the rain is every day 
in the silence I talk with you
but you could never hear me
I'm lost in a crowd where tears fall
where the grass is the greenest 
and the roses are red and sweet
I am having a hard time to speak
can anyone hear me?
can anyone feel my pain ?
Please take this sorrow from me 
I feel I can no longer breath
We could of hard a life together
Oh, we almost did
we could had dance in love forever
but somehow we still are
I miss your laughter 
Oh how it haunts me 
among autumn leaves
I hunger for your words 
your kiss 
But all that I once known of long ago
is only a memory 
that keeps eating away at me
you're everywhere I look
you still have my heart hooked 
I reach out to touch you 
in all the red and yellow leaves 
while you sleep 
I'm desperate for your warmth 
but all I have is an empty bed
I hold on to your pillow 
where I flood it in tears
I know it's time to let you go know
but my heart wont let me
you left me all alone 
every year 
every seanson 
you are my reason to keep moving on 
I wanna feel your loving touch 
but again maybe I am.

Poetic Judy Emery 

Copyright © Judy Emery | Year Posted 2017

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Staggering, solemn, orange
Reborn like a felled tree

Copyright © Rhea Daniel Dear | Year Posted 2007

Details | Rhyme |
A lot's been said about poetry
And what it has to give
Your words can even bring to life
An object that dosen't live

Take a chair, for example
What can really be said
It carries us when we're tired?
A recliner becomes our bed?

A chair is so much more than that
It's where we rock our kids
It sends them to their world of dreams
As they close their heavy lids

It meets us on the porch each night
As we wait for the evening's breeze
It's where we cherish the autumn months
As we watch the changing leaves

It's something we can count on
An old and familar friend
It's where we count our blessings
As our day comes to an end

It's where Grandma told us stories
And where her Bible was read
She'd read aloud so all could hear
Before we went to bed

Poetry is what we feel inside
And the words we decide to use
It can even bring a chair to life
Just by the words we choose

Copyright © Larry Belt | Year Posted 2011