Sweetly but no longer dazzling our eyes
Energy ebbing ,her motivation low
Putting out colours which do not surprise
That her less vibrant hues no more do glow
Embracing dull, sedate and sombre dresses
Mocking us, her nature being to tease
By slowly doffing her brighter tresses
Each voyeur rapt with her strip to please
Relish her seasonal seductive dance
Full of fluttering russet ,brown and gold
And her brazen and denuding stance
Letting the dowager become so bold
Leaving onlookers in a stunning trance
So that they fall for her siren romance
Eve of fall
denuding of trees
No longer lush whispers heard through the leaves
A low pitched moan a creak here and there
In warning to all listening
to heed and beware
The salad days behind us
and winters hounds approach
Ravenously looking for remnants of life to poach
The air increasingly
bearing a sting in the fog of new day
the fickle sun wears a ring
Announcing its departure
Rushing to its betrothed
On the other side of the world in silver arraignment clothed
The trees declaring without fail
Some years more vibrant than last
The comings and the goings that happen much too fast
Caught up in lifes bounty unable to see
that summer would end we couldn't believe
we'd witness its death and solemnly grieve
Pulling tight our woolen wear
to the inner rooms we go
to pray once more for early spring and awaite the sleet and snow
The way of man and the way of God:
the two are not the same.
For a man will see a forest,
and will create a clearing,
and hack out an existence,
denuding the land of life,
using the logs for his home,
tilling the ground to plant food,
and sit in front of his fire,
and eat his food,
and declare, “Life is good.”
But God will see a clearing,
and will invite the birds of the air
to cast their seeds where they may,
and invite the crawly things
to burrow and thrive,
and bring forth the rains for drink,
and the sunshine for warmth,
and declare, “It was very good already.”
----------
for the The Clearing Poetry Contest
sponsored by Craig Cornish
written on 02/10/23
The scent of decomposing leaves pervades the air,
a ghost-grey mist hangs, lifeless, on the branches; bare
from vehement leaf-stripping winds, awhile passed through,
denuding all; from Ash to morbid, toxic Yew.
Their once green leaves; now dark brown dead beneath my boots.
I close my eyes and hear almost no sounds, save some:
A Robin's song forewarning cruelty to come.
The fractious calling of a Tawny for his mate.
A clinking rattle of a slowly closing gate.
Faraway children playing indistinct pursuits.
Spring's vibrant fresh green shoots seem now so faraway,
memories; another time, a different day.
A serenading minstrel Blackbird; fresh and sweet,
the smell of grass, unfurling flowers, new lamb's bleat,
a mighty Oak-to-be put down its first fresh roots.
All will too soon be buried in a blanket, white,
as inevitably day turns to darkest night.
The Blackbird returns; with soft singing, tilted head.
I follow him beyond the bridge to where I'm led,
crossing to the delicate sound of lyres and flutes.
Evening turns to mime -
you emerge from its cameo artistry,
your dark unraveled hair cajoles
in a lamp shaded theater.
Moments clash together.
A denuding madness is ungloved,
a palpable heat mauls.
Long into the cleaving night
unsheathed and reckless,
flesh sings its serpentine songs,
waterfalls plunge into unleashed rapids,
hard ridden gestures
disown all gentle speech.
After the blood blushed tangle,
a listless languor.
We listen to the footloose night
as it slips into velvet slippers,
we ride the tide of a waning moonglow,
our hands shadow play,
mimicking the gossip of bare walls.
I adore the way
Autumn breezes in
denuding deciduous trees
of their vibrant leaves
During the shortening days,
the soil will be clothed
in a crisp colourful blanket
of ochre, orange and scarlet
which, in time, will become
a skeletal lacy shawl
as the decaying leaves
become at one with the earth
I love to amble through the glade
marvelling at the dappled light
which casts eerie shadows
as the bare branches
are moved by the zephyr winds
Although I am rapidly approaching my own Autumn years
I can’t resist
kicking my way through
the rustling golden gown
of fallen foliage
feeling a sense of calm
as I recall my halcyon childhood days
Serenity Awakened Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Regina McIntosh
08/19/20
Abandoned! Assaulting winds thrash flailing limbs,
denuding boughs of golden dress;
gone the gaiety of glowing beginnings
when springtime sun seduced soft soil,
fondling slight buds of green, foreplay in fecund fields.
Forlorn, like a vacant house,
dark windows blankly stare despair,
the fissured dream convulses;
Whistling winds, keening,
“Gone away, gone away . . .”
Where do dreams go when they die,
After the romantic sighs, after the broken-hearted cry?
Does a haven await perished aspiration?
Or is abandoned hope sour fodder
for rodents and insects pilfering?
Gather the wasted twigs, the windswept straw,
feathered soft with anguish breast plucked raw;
interweave new hope to resurrect cadaverous old.
Truth states roses bloom in desert sand;
believe.
Copyright 11-19-2019
spring… cuckoos make
listen… silence… cuckoos gone
position vacant
~
the voice of summer
a roar of wonder… hark life
new generations
~
hark a whispered swish
a breeze denuding trees
autumn confetti
~
winter respite
hibernating mammals
silent are the nights
Bewildering
Yet, astonishing
Is how the leaves are emblazoning
With such stunning
Coloring.
They are capturing
The essence of fall. As the wind is blowing
Through the trees it's whispering
To the leaves it's time to fall. The uncloaking
Begins in a swirling,
Twirling,
And floating
Dance which is denuding.
It shows the webbing
Of spindly long thin wooden extensions exposing
The interior making
It the exterior while comprehending
That when the tree awakens from sleeping
Which is impending.
It will be nurturing
Up new growth revealing
Again the resurrecting
Of something
Totally amazing.
Did you know the Gecko cannot blink ?
No I did not, but it sounds alluring that image
Of a focused lizard reptilian in glorious intent
From hide bound tail to protruding cheeks and jowl
So I blink, too tired to contemplate the enemy who stalks
Unruly neighbor holding night long juice jointed jamborees
Where alcohol steams the atmosphere with its truth venom
Inhaling vapours that create this courage that carries cowards
Yes I will blink, sleep deprived laborer courting reluctant pens
Refusing to yield hidden gems and buried treasures like jade
And tanzanite blue rhythms that accompany melodies and dirges
Legend has it that only the cry of the lion is met with sympathy
That of the lamb actions firing coals and flaring wood piles
Eager to consume flesh of the flesh returning it to the soil
Crosses are only temporary and sting in Easter
If carried by the many Simons that dot our unholy lives
Mother was the first and most enduring taken for granted
Only Gecko’s know the patient denuding effects of focus
Turning this pages that refuse to yield riches
And daily only seem to offer me
The menses of aborted dreams
We begin at the beginning: a clove of garlic, too hard-headed
for its own good, combined with two large onions, their first denuding
revealing fallow gold: the second layer, a pale green puberty,
then, the heartless blade of the knife slices into the virginal white
purity of a cumulus cloud, which the shape-shifter processor
reduces to odiferous pearly drifts, destined tor the fry pan's
oil of olive from sunny Southern hillsides. This bounty blends
with the underpraised, but indispensable tomato, staple
in the kitchens of Italy and Spain, then Crimini mushrooms,
sliced within an inch of their lives and browned in a skillet to bring
odor of earthiness to this angelic mix. Six buttery ovals
afloat in their embryonic bath offer elixir of egg to the whir
of the beaters. With infusion of feta, and one of mozzarella, it
marries with the mushrooms, and in lieu of vestal virgins, lies down
with the pasta. We go now to oven. Heat does its homage, then
with souls of the missing, we come to table, a chair placed
for Neil: napkin, plate, and fork, until he welcomes us
Home. Hosts us once more.
for Neil Irvin Gray, 1918-2014
False Warrior
Cold spear of winter’s harbinger
pierces the heart of summer
leaving her wounded beauty
bleeding out upon the landscape.
Autumn – cruel mercenary force
despoiling the scent of bounty
laying rot the un-ripened hope
denuding the cloaked forest,
Driving color from the stalks
into the shriveling roots
unable to withstand
frost’s crippling grip.
Marching under grey skied guidons
trampling the browning fields
mocking the heraldic false pride
of rainbow colored foliage.
Pawn – sacrificed by Winter’s greed
drawn into the icy depth of loss
duped by the beauty of the battle
to expire on the winds of change.
John G. Lawless
10/16/2015
Parched lips dry mouth in sweltering heat,
Tantalized to tremble as fingers rest,
Caressed by the silky covered skin;
The thumb plays within her navel spot.
Denuding probe; she peels with laughter.
The sun breaks to split in smacked moves;
In the sweetness our juices combine
Quench my thirst in flesh provoked Delight.
The lips gain color in wet kisses;
A Florida orange whets my dream.
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