Best November Poems
The single white rose captured the old gardener's attention,
He lovingly cared for it, like it was his own grand-daughter,
The roses were just like family and friends in his eyes,
He gave them bright sunshine, and plenty of fresh water.
He had always planted roses in reds, yellows, and pinks,
Yet, it was the one white rose that he favored most,
The old gardener admired it's innocence and elegance,
A quality that the other roses just could not boast.
This precious rose was pure white, like new fallen snow,
Which only a cold, late November day could bring,
It's delicate petals were soft to the finger's touch,
Similar to that of a feather, in an angel's wing.
The old gardener was perplexed and astonished,
Only this rose bloomed through spring, summer, and fall,
Each of the other roses had withered months ago,
The frost and cold weather did not affect it at all.
With a smile, the old gardener took one last look,
Unknowingly, death would soon come without warning,
After he had settled down for a nap in his chair,
He drew his last breath, later on that morning.
His funeral was held on the very next day,
Loving words were spoken, as he was laid to rest,
His grand-daughter approached, with tears in her eyes,
As she placed the single white rose upon his chest.
The cemetery was a quiet and peaceful place,
Where family and friends gathered to remember,
A gentle snow began to fall upon the casket lid,
Brightening the gloom on this final day of November.
The old gardener's soul departed from this earth,
Lead away by a choir of angels, on delicate wings,
Then on through the pearly gates of heaven's garden,
Where the white rose still blooms, in eternal springs.
November 25th, 2013
I wonder about her
as I shave suet and place thistle seed down -
once again
she reveals herself to the corner of my eye
a slight movement caught in the slant of a sunray
just enough to separate her shy form
from leaf litter camouflage
I turn to look at her
demure and just out of reach - yet
she seems to know I feel for her..
I regard her presence for a handful of heartbeats
before she hastens away in a certain way
head moving forward first then feet catching up
..rustling the earthy rust of gold;
fallen maple stars strewn beneath an arborvitae row..
a wing hanging down by her side
like a gate with a broken hinge
her gateway to freedom gone
she’s become a body bound to soft soil -
flesh and bones destined to feed the trees of life
soon her feathers - like thistle down - will animate aloft
weightless in soulful breaths of a swirled November wind..
pearls of muted beauty lost in innocence
given back to the skies
I wonder about the tender fragility of a tomorrow
in an air where mourning coos
are watered down by whimsical tears of gods
and stirred by a mortal’s yearn for return to natural flight
I commiserate with her silently —
for I am broken too
Susan Ashley
November 17, 2020
~ First Place ~
Premiere Contest: Brian Strand No 1175
Sponsor: Brian Strand
~ Second Place ~
Premiere Contest: 2022 Poetry Marathon Mile 17
Sponsor: Mark Toney
In November I write of winter
for I am weary of the old year and tired bones
I visualize all hardships blanketed with fresh snowfall
geese in a "V" as they flee on trade winds to the south
season's celebrations, toasting in the new year
senior couples delighting in a luminous sunset
knowing it might be their last together
In February I write of spring
for I am weary of the bone-chilling cold
I envision the circle of life resurrecting dormant earth and tired souls
zephyr winds teasing nascent flower petals and young hummingbirds
mayday flower crowns adorning laughing children
young lovers sharing kisses, dreaming dreams of
infinite possibilities
In May I write of summer
for I am weary of the bone-soaking rain
I forecast cloudless skies and longer days
Santa Ana winds dismissing every chill
a lark's lilting lullaby lulling loons on the lake
vacationing families basking in the warm outdoors
brides and grooms viewing limitless horizons
In August I write of autumn
for I am weary of the bone-dry heat
I anticipate bewitching fall winds tantalizing neon maple leaves
turkeys gobbling, ducks wobbling, thrushes warbling
harvest home throbbing with the aroma of fresh pie
middle age couples cuddling by the fireplace
giving thanks for all that lies behind and ahead
Lord, help me to view the past with grace,
the future with hope,
the present with contentment,
and to write of November
in November.
written 25 October 2021
I am somber
like November days
and my words speak
weak, as if through tired tongue
I see the trees
stand naked
reaching their limbs
across the stream
as if touching
and comforting each other
from the bitter cold
that's settling in
sometimes I envy them
I want to stand naked
arch my back
reach towards hands
and feel the comfort
of more than I am allowed
and escape the bitterness
as it settles in
it doesn't seem fair
to question a day
or night that wears the same veil
as me, colorless
and silent in the breeze
as it whispers
through the trees
sometimes
I want to lean my ear
and eavesdrop on them
I want to peak beneath
the skies veil and see
the colors blend
to see the rain
less clear
through colored drops
fall upon a canvas
and paint a masterpiece
I want to feel my hands
finger a pen, without tingling
from bottled up emotions
to feel my soul inside me
not as if locked outside
looking in, as if a stranger
to my own life
not be the afterthought
or an emotion beyond words
of some poet's muse
I want to know the meaning
of this emptiness
I want to understand
why the tree is as naked
as my thoughts in winter
yet dressed heavy in the summer
and most beautiful in the fall
why does beauty fall
become grounded
and dance in November's wind
somber, like the day....
November falls
In languid swirls
Of lacy sorrowful leaves
Waning circles
Of shortened light
How bold the cold becomes
Clearing the weighty clouds
From the pristine ebony ice
Of the heavens
Their astral beauty
Reflecting your eyes
As your hand follows
The celestial lanes of comets
All while the topaz earth
Covers our feet
With the comfort of gravity
Yet I will always
Hold you higher
As high as the
Searchlight of your heart
As high as
Numberless destiny
As high as the
Spirals of the sky
Guiding us north
Even if we
Fall short of the moon
We still have
The infinity
Of stars
11/26/22
Poem of the Day - 11/28/22
First Place, Brian Strand Premiere Contest #53
G O L D E N
flower
of the solar throne
your far-away fire reigns immortal -
blossom wild beauty of chrysanthemum skies
hold me in the unfolding glory of your well-wishing petals
as Indian summer’s rays ravish and relax the chill
tender is the topaz passion
in the sunset of your satisfied season
and seductive is the ripened ember
in the harvest of your lingering light
S O L
to soul -
suffuse my surrender with pulsar persuasion
your ambient nectar
embolden me the honey of your citrine haze -
a fortune my ruby honeycomb to save and savor..
anemone ambrosia for my essence to sip
when the amber blush of November’s kindled kiss
turns ashen
on Winter’s cold grey lips
Susan Ashley
November 9, 2018
~ Third Place ~
Contest: N/A Re-Run
Sponsor: John Hamilton
My evening sky glints motifs gold
In orange vibes turned ruby bold
Glowing remnants of shining snow
Where pewter winds merrily blow
Swirling imprints of amber glaze
Bending hues of setting sun rays
Prairies sway season’s dreaded hold
Wailing in grief, as blossoms fold,
For fallen leaves and wintry woe
That shudders trees in frosted throe
While browning pastures cattle graze
Where foothills gleam in twilight haze
When fervor yawns in dreary mold
And garden sighs of parching cold
Pine trees, ebullient, dance in row
Enchanting hearts in nature’s show
While ogling the stars passions blaze
As romance blooms in moonlit gaze
On horizon mauve dreams unfold
Where blush of morn lovers behold
Greeting November's scarlet glow
That tawny dawn's sunbeams bestow
Glistening face of shortened days
Wooing warmth in autumn's malaise
Written: November 26, 2020
Submitted on October 26, 2022 to:
2022 Poetry Marathon Mile 18 Poetry Contest
Placed 1st: Lay November Poetry Contest
Sponsor: William Kekaula
Eight syllables per line (howmanysyllables.com)
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.
10-28-17 rev.
Poem of the Week September 6-11 2016
Oh I love the sound of the rain
a softly spoken spiraling sustain,
marathon runners against the grain
all soon lost within their drain...
One slows down near my eye
a staring contest with a somber sigh,
could it be a suspicious spy?
as my tears match their coasting cry...
It then speeds up again
leaving satiated sorrows within its stain,
for it utters no words to complain
only the remnants of its strain...
Avoiding languishing lanes to leap
where whispering wallows weep,
formless in its kaleidoscope keep
racing down the window to sweep...
Longing lugubrious raindrops skewing
victimized amidst my viewing,
each one in a ponderous pursuing
a dismal deluge in their renewing...
A jaded journey of their repeating
sharing thoughts upon our meeting,
all is dry after their completing
memories once shared now fleeting.
Aug.09.2019
Writing Challenge 1,
August 2019 - Just Write
Sponsored by: Dear Heart
Musical background...
Signs of Nature
Rain Sounds
Stormy Skies
Female Virtual Voice
Placed 2'nd...Thank You
You were never my friend.
My heart would never, ever allow such a small thing.
Soulmate?, maybe...though so much more in the end..
I will give you my heart, only if you promise never to break it.
If the promise is never to be kept, I'll forgive you...
again and again.
For that is what this thing love is, all it ever does, or was.
When you look in the mirror do you see someone worth loving?
Don't you know it lies? Won't you listen to me tell you the truth?
It's about time you knew.
It was always you that was the smart one, you know.
Can you be smart enough to shut up and let me in?
The old hurts will go away. Or maybe they won't, doesn't matter.
I will love the broken you, with all your wonderful hurt, just as much.
Guess what?, you aren't perfect. And you can tell I ain't no carnival prize..
But there's something real, worth holding on to,
I could always see it in your beautiful eyes...
November, as the poets say -
autumn's demise, winter's gateway.
Its shortened days and longer nights
descending, death is in her sights:
leaves fall, as is their yearly fate,
while beasts prepare to hibernate.
November, as my lady lies
so silent, moving not her eyes -
with ashen skin, lips cold as death,
I wait in vain to feel her breath.
Her soul immortal, this I know,
yet in this life I'll grieve her so.
Written 26 November 2020
The End of Love
A secret grief rips apart all that was
Slaves to the sexual caresses of time
Stallions in black gallop gallantly in fields
Of spring full wishes
Thou seeith the birth of love
Naked hopes surrounded by sweet perfumes
Seduced by the gods or by demon fools
Dancing, towards our own charades we sing
Funerals consume autumn’s dead poets
The gravestone cold and gray
We hug it like a long lost friend
One may see a battle lost
The other a battle won
In November we reminisce the soldier and singers too
Didst you know I was a prostitute?
Selling my soul to the hourglass of eternity
Foolishly hoping to sleep upon her breast
Shivering as others seem to fall right at deaths door
Brimstone, black and rose
The underbelly of St Laurent
Youthful boasts as the old man in cane hobbles
Generations sailed down the main
Some seeking solace others finding fame
Vaguely the recollections appear
Visions inside dreams inside the darkest fears
The end of love is near
For the hand above is reaching
As I float to the end of time
Enchantment in the crypts
Ravens dancing as they consume our mortal
Hearts
No smiles, no sleep
Thou did knowest I’m surely certain
The dance of death
Only to be followed
By a piper
And angels violins
Rags and shrouds, kiss them all goodbye
Hallelujah
In Memory of Leonard Cohen, a fellow Montrealer, 21 September 1934 – 10 November 2016.
We lie ‘neath the oak
on a carpet of brown leaves
that lost their amber glory.
With eyes tightly shut,
we envision spring’s return—
hoping our love does the same.
Resembling my soul,
November leaves seem exhausted,
slumbering under sleeping trees,
gently rustling in the breeze.
Selfish skies are covered in grey clouds,
but the angst in the air remains stale.
It's been fourteen years,
yet his ghost still appears in the mist,
remaining silent, as death never speaks,
but I've become content without answers.
In the drizzle of disappointment,
I'm fading away without the rain.
There is no one to listen to the
grief nested within my heart,
so I'm unable to process the torment.
The birds on my window seem numb
without a morning chorus - I feel their sorrow.
So, I listen to the songs he used to sing -
how his life is of no use to no one.
Each word engrained in whiskey memories,
a reminder of weeping in corridors long forgotten.
But, I wonder have I become an replica of him?
If so, then burn my effigy into nothingness,
for I've become tired from existing
within shattered seasonal flashbacks.
Yet, I'll wear this 'Joker' smile,
so my mum cannot fathom my muffled misery.
In the eternal silence -
I wonder if you will wait for me across the river
and guide me beyond the unknown verge.
So much is hidden behind the veil,
where only words can remove the obstruction,
but I'll always be an adjective
to your misunderstood metaphor.
Outside was I one evening
with my jacket on,
gazing at the pumpkin
still out there on my lawn
with its face carved in a grin.
It was November first.
A sad mood I was in.
For Halloween was over,
and October’s pretty days
of brilliant reds and yellows
would turn to browns and greys.
I went to get the pumpkin
to toss it in the trash.
Behind it I caught sight
of a bright and tiny flash.
I thought perhaps my eyes
were playing tricks on me.
The flash had arms and legs
and wings with which to flee.
It was a little fairy,
and she used a wand to show
a message made of sparkles
to set my heart aglow.
Her twinkling wand spelled out
“Be happy for this reason:
Soon will be Thanksgiving
and then the Christmas season.”
November’s Twinkle Fairy
appeared to me that day
to show the season’s sweetness
before she flew away!
Nov. 17, 2019