Written: September 15, 2026, for week's Poetry Challenge:
Autumn Memory
The leaves came loose like letters from the trees,
and skittered silver-gold along the lane;
the wind went whispering through russet peas,
then curled its cool refrain around the rain.
I still recall the harvest's amber light,
the scent of apples crushed beneath our feet;
your laughter lingered, low, against the night,
while woodsmoke made the dark seem warm and sweet.
The pumpkins burned like lanterns by the door,
and dusk drew lilac veils across the field;
we spoke of things we had not voiced before,
as if the year itself had paused to yield.
Now autumn comes, and all the old winds start—
the leaves fall, but they cannot take your heart.
What a picturesque panorama this is.
My eyes peer into the beautiful landscape
Of my vast, vivid imagination...
It is such a wondrous escape!
Funny, serendipitously finding you here
In this Shangri-La, patiently waiting for me.
Believe me, there is no place
On this earth I'd rather be!
Here we are, blissfully walking among
A serene golden field without a fuss,
As the unstable world crumbles
Like Gibraltar all around us.
What an adventure! It's a sheer thrill
Getting away from it all with you
We'll chase butterflies to our heart's content,
Misspend our time taking in the view.
In this haven of peace and tranquility,
We'll repeatedly sojourn; it's our royal domain,
A welcoming, breathtaking getaway
To come back to again and again.
Blown along this windward stretch
Dressy shadowy
As light of step, skied a-twirl
Savour each birch-girl.
Swept, enriched, up in whose fame
Dazzles ghostily
Now to whose art converted
Pavlova's; well-bred.
You look uncomfortable in your skin,
always primping and preening;
beauty shines outside, but then within,
your vanity is scheming.
Always seeking the observer's gaze,
who knows what you're meant to be?
It must be exhausting to erase
flaws the world will never see.
My home, lull amidst balm, solace in rural dwelling,
escape from rampant load and skewed burden in towns,
close knit family loiter with passions swelling,
wistful hindsights swoon oe’r sumptuous tree top crowns,
I extol mint leaf purlieus, tranquil garland phase,
in course sentient, where friction, discord, worry,
is banished at the whiff of an ambrosial haze,
prismatic hues, those scenic views soothe when in a hurry,
seconds taciturn as the peep day sunrise looms,
to linger in silence yet caress the spring omen,
purple clouds tint cocooning garden blooms,
In artic winter, tranquil spot engulfs twin snowmen,
time counts for little when under bright shelter’s spell,
relief from futile rigours found behind green hedge,
sweet chirp from red crest bird cordons off this shell,
mine to cling to and seek refuge when life is on edge,
fresh fruit one munches in orchard dribbles down chin,
to pluck mushy berries from sprawling brambles,
and inhale scented gust with a surreal grin,
heaven in a haven, sweet home from madcap scrambles
SAVOUR THIS, MY CHILD
Nothing reflects reality
Like God’s supreme beauty.
Look into the mirror, child,
And see His greatest reward:
Savour it in thanksgiving, for a while:-
No matter how many times you do,
You’ll always see God’s precious beauty
Looking back at you: this will always be true:-
Know that your beauty has its fragility, needing
To be anchored and solidified before it can be
Sanctified utility: codifying its glorifying liberty:-
autumn colors begin
slowly at first then explode into woods aflame
first frost falls
chilling each leaf's core
awesome colors bring mountains fame
not shore
red, gold
beauty exclaims
fall
autumn colors begin
awesome colors bring mountains fame
fall
Though eminently computable,
born in silicon fog,
it's a baby that's not beautiful,
a disloyal, faithless dog.
It's a welcome to an empty room,
a monster's sightless eye,
a bottle of cheap perfume -
the poetry of AI.
The crisp wind flowing through me
tree trunks prepare for a deep hibernation
Autumn’s delights are immortalized in memories
with an unmistakable spectrum of colors
I found myself humming
... while wild rose hips ripen
Nature
wills it so
that life
must always
adapt.
And evolve
when small
mutations
spark change.
Sentient
beings
seek out God,
for life
claims a soul;
to ascend.
Autumn's many colorful moons seen through the lens of a camera,
I see beauty and color everywhere.
As a child,
I did not know there was a harvest moon.
I loved watching the full autumn moon,
as it seemed to change colors.
Autumn's many colorful moons seen through the lens of a camera,
have changed over the years.
What has made this change?
The huge night clear sky is not as clear as it once was,
the full bright moon is not as bright.
Do we see the change year after year?
Do we even care?
I weep for the beauty of olden Autumn days,
a more peaceful time.
A bright full moon and clear night's sky,
that was once seen through the lens of a camera.
bereavement
of beauty:
best
bodies
become
broken
bottles
In the garment factory
bloom the
delicate young women.
I live in a rented house.
When the bear-dance
comes to an end,
drawing
zeros
again and again,
I must return
from the school
of the bees.
Rivers
brush their teeth
with neem twigs
deep within
their waters,
there is
a secret
world:
horses and fireflies,
and a rain-wet
shiuli tree,
a vast
fragment
of stone,
all alone,
beneath
the vastness of space.
The jellyfish boats
are returning home.
Beyond the rooftop
of the three-storeyed house,
a pine tree
stands,
in its own mood,
the monsoon clouds.
Having dived
deep into
the depths
of my own being,
near the burnt-out
stub of a cigarette,
I find myself
wondering:
Should I
write anew
Goanna and Twilight?
Little Echoes spreading 2
From Kentish stones at Lympne's historic keep,
Where cameras roll and modern tensions creep,
The broadcaster delivered, sharp and loud,
A scathing judgment to the listening crowd.
The news of the return, he fiercely claimed,
Had left the royal household deeply blamed;
It landed heavy on the palace floors
Like rotting sacks of spuds behind the doors.
From sources wrapped in strict, protected shade,
He sketched the rift the swift arrival made
A rival camp upon the British soil,
Apart from those who do the daily toil.
He spoke of grifters seeking wealth and fame,
With shifting burdens and a fractured name,
While in the wings, a softer echo sighs
On lucky families under heavier skies.
The male Hine’s Emerald patrols his cattail fen
low through sedge and seepage
his compound eyes pluck gnats from the air
two yellow bars flash along his thorax
hindwings catch the morning
Chimanimani Mountain mist beads over quartz
the female Rock Threadtail
six black feet braced on the edge
her wing tilted toward the sun
eyes—black
He misses the gnat
darts, veers, halts midair, pivots
his ommatidia fixed on her raised wing
smitten, his heading shifts
the female Rock Threadtail rests above her stream
=======
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