Blithe breaks at the illumination of muted yellow leaves,
so alive, nearly laughing like children; still life clinging.
Autumnal blouse of painted bark and pretty sleeves.
Silence of bluebirds and red robins - inward singing.
The rake’s barely broken earth, a few clingers at task.
Season’s copacetic with only a tinge or tingle of coolness.
Time’s fallen back as I read and write in open-door-bask.
I will join worshippers at church to net November’s fullness.
A shiver, a shake, an ooh, an ahh, A phoebe does go
on and on about the break of day; brightness in her clutch.
The slightest breeze bursts forth to create the ebb and flow.
It’s like an artist brushing hither then thither; a mirthful touch.
More beaks join the chorus, as will I, when I hear the music.
Oh how delightful, a dizzy dance of bells in the wind’s socket.
I swoon and sashay, on the pavement, in communion’s cubic.
How much more seasonal joy leaps from robin redbreast’s pocket?
LATE BLOOMER
sun highlights
the bod of oak bark -
Autumn knight
CLINGERS
won’t let go -
cling to puppy love,
its branches
CLEAVERS
cleaves to old
relationship vow -
storm shakes loose
LANDING
the leaves land
amidst the old maids’
bitterness
BRITTLE BONES
the children
jump in old gals’ laps
living loud
RING AROUND THE ROSIES
circle round
sing, “ashes…ashes…”
and fall down
LEARNING CURVE
life up there
in the lusty air
now seems strange
GONE WITH THE WIND
scattering
the old bats’ ashes
to the wind
REBORN
phoenix lands
a bitty wiser
and lighter
A sense of mortality makes us clingers
Resurrection as a lifestyle makes us stewards
the last remaining vestiges of autumn
bitter clingers
parched and weary
shriveled in dismay
harried and harassed by an ill north wind
launch into oblivion
to join the sea of lifeless carcasses
on the forest floor
----------
for the Winter Storm Poetry Contest
sponsored by Kim Rodrigues
written on 12/25/22
October was mild this year,
softer and gentler then most,
colored muted on trees
that clung fiercely to their leaves,
they lingered and fluttered
into November’s days.
Then derecho’s linear blast
roared before Thanksgiving week,
wiping gusts with gusto,
appropriately,
ravaging the dead clingers
from their long, gray branches.
Dead, arboreal splendor
precipitates down, down
to the wasted brown
grass of November.
Last leaves scattered and blow,
across yard and street.
Good timing,
snow predicted on Friday.
I often fill my pockets up
With all sorts of stuff
From breath mints to deodorant
When there's a need to freshen up
Along with a dime or two
For those important calls
When I need directions
For the times that I am lost
My favorite flavor of chewing gum
Double the pleasure, Double Mint
Which most times slides from the wrapper
Where I just kindly brush the lint
Undoubtedly as always
There's a few string clingers on
Which in wisdom I save for later
For that urgent urge to floss
One or two pet rocks
That along the road I found
I just put this part in
To give you something to think about
I sometimes put my hands in my pockets
Though there's barely any room
Still a hand sometimes need a rest
If it's got nothing to do
It's little wonder I fill them up
With all sorts of stuff
Cause don't cha know when it comes to stuff
You can never have enough
Four fingers and my thumb rest on your thigh,
Positioned around the bend of your knee,
Moving just as far as the eye can see,
Because your skirt hides the ultimate high.
Four fingers and my thumb creep like a spy,
Making circles as you react with glee,
Moving under the fabric meant to be
The boundary that I should not pass by.
Up your thigh with my thumb and four fingers,
Causing your inhibitions to go numb,
I firmly position my five clingers,
As they marvel at how far they have come.
Your breath leaves as the sensation lingers,
While four fingers wait outside for my thumb.
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