Autumn leaves an aftertaste that kisses cold.
Then transfuses startled green veins with gold.
A shivering whisper, slips through oak and elm.
As faded yellow disciples tumble from their realm.
As it hums through wheat; the heavy heads bend low.
To ripen while the last warm amber winds still blow.
A long-drawn-out sigh, draws summer from its reign,
Gold and red leaves tumbling down to an empty lane.
Thin mist curls upwards from the cooling ground,
Cold breath slips down, through cracks, without a sound.
Gasps rattle shutters, and worry the tiles and doors.
Sends dry leaves scurrying like mice around the floors.
Autumn breathes on apples till their red cheeks glow,
Then thumps them down one by one onto the ground below.
It finds the restless geese beneath the cloud.
And beckons them south, to join the gathering crowd.
At dusk its voice turns hoarse, as darkness grows.
Growing rasping and raw, with winter up its nose.
Then Autumn, now breathless, loosens one last leaf.
It spins to Earth, collapsing, in gold-flared relief.
More often, her soul widens
farther than breaths of a moon...
and through irreverent eyes,
she saunters into the ledge of woods
past time's curfew and nobility --
a wanton stroll by this sylph
daring the commoness of old rules--
Twirling along pebbles and sand,
kindling night's liniment glorious
like the flared climb of dusk,
her wildfire spews a wanton blaze ----
fearless like some insolent woman
rising from mediocrity, burning oil
while dragonflies sleep in a lull ;
her navel radiant in the flickering,
feathering night with such
stubborn will...a maverick defying
traditional anthems of her nun's school.
Yet, this flared essence turns into warmth
as she tenderly flushes my fears at night
to hold the moon soft blue
while her arms delight in classic tunes,
cleansing my tears with hums
of ardor...and wings spread on
hope's ride divinely beaming with grace:
Mother.
Mama- light tenderly cuddles me;
each sky, each ream of grass
healing my rough, young adult soul...
With such feminine flamboyancy
this maiden sways in sassy motion
flashing, flitting, flaming a sweet minuet
beneath a mural of moonlit madness,
her flared gown fair as gemmed feathers
this one white rose, radiantly rising ,
her flight of fancy floating on yard's floor
and like a nubile nymph of nightfall;
she parades with petals on a pageant...
How this femme fatale; a floral rune
glides gaily...such sizzling sensation,
goddess of spring's glossed grandeur!
I remember an oh, so tender, young man
Surrounded by people yet still so alone
If but one desire would come into view
It would be to find a true love of his own
If knowing oneself comes only in time
I guess then that can explain how he felt
And yet at his core he did struggle with love
In playing all of the cards he was dealt
For with every new person he met
In his mind was but one thing to fret
Maybe this one will like me
Maybe this one will like me
All he ever wanted was love
Every waking thought was to blame
For everything he saw everywhere
Seemed only, well to flicker the flame
I remember those feelings, I mean about him
That person that I have been talking about
The word insecure had not even yet flared
And yet I, no, he was so riddled with doubt
Yet I remember feeling
Maybe this one will like me
Maybe this one will like me
You first sought my trembling hand in perfectly sown, soft-honed land.
When our lips quiver gripped with virgin steam by an aloof stream,
time flared our romantic, teenage passion through forest-spiced air.
We lost logic under starry skies devoted to our sighs.
Years did not fray my feelings for our time in youth's twilight rays.
I oft wonder if peaked, bare recall tenderly takes you there ....
Between the lines, the words don’t sleep~
they coil like smoke, they twist, they weep.
Not penned, not pinned, not bound to page,
but wild as wind, as storm, as rage.
The unwritten verse hums in the throat,
a hymn too bright, a note too sharp~
it cuts the air but leaves no mark,
no ink to prove it burned so dark.
What ghost-song lingers, half-remembered?
What love was lost, what ember tender
never flared to written light?
(Some poems ache—but never bite.)
The page stays white. The silence grows.
The unwritten knows.
Oh, the unwritten knows.
A little bird...
chirping his words,
While others stirred.
For he could sing...
a pleasant ring,
welcoming Spring!
Chipmunks approve...
as flowers moved,
in joyful grooves.
A gentle breeze...
tickles the trees,
leaves wave with ease.
Squirrel's steal nuts...
sputtering struts,
stashing their huts.
A blue jay glared...
his feathers flared,
presence declared!
mutton-chop sideburns
bellbottoms... flowery, flared
chic… chains and chest hairs
.
and out mine
patagia flair'd
flared
snatch'er
*zez; dictionary.cambridge.org
polish-english noun squint, a
squinting position of the eyes
“Shine/ It’s your golden hour (oh)/ You slow down time/ in your golden hour (oh)” Lyrics from JVKE’s “Golden Hour” (Jake Lawson/ Zac Lawson)
I waken and see Dawn is raining down.
A goddess, she wears sun as her crown.
Her droplets (not wet) are instead, gold rays
sweeping landscapes as a flared flowing gown.
Glorious are the Goddess Dawn’s ways
as resplendency on my lawn she lays.
Flower petals pose, ready to unfold -
their faces upon the goddess to gaze.
How beautiful is my garden to behold -
Daylillies making a parade of gold
and the Morning Glories, facing the sky,
dance in the breeze. They’re enchantingly bold.
Their crimson faces are anything but shy.
Everywhere their warm brilliance meets my eye.
Birdsong now has stilled! Sky grows deeper blue.
To the “Golden Hour” I must say goodbye.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Between the lines, the words don’t sleep~
they coil like smoke, they twist, they weep.
Not penned, not pinned, not bound to page,
but wild as wind, as storm, as rage.
The unwritten verse hums in the throat,
a hymn too bright, a note too sharp~
it cuts the air but leaves no mark,
no ink to prove it burned so dark.
What ghost song lingers, half-remembered?
What love was lost, what ember tender
never flared to written light?
(Some poems ache—but never bite.)
The page stays white. The silence grows.
The unwritten knows.
Oh, the unwritten knows.
It's insane how vain they've been in the Bazball reign
Disdain campaign won't refrain restrain slain again
Won't explain just say we'll double down entertain
In the Bazball larder one ingredient just go harder
Their riposte we lost because we did well over train
Despaired repeat defeat flared cos were too prepared
Inane taking the pis* our abyss Aussie bliss... Bris Bane
I didn’t see my privilege because I was
separate in many ways from those
who did not have it
by fate not white-white
that honeyed light that people like
me enjoy, like caramel on vanilla
as brown-like as is allowed
to maybe someday be even beautiful
people liked my skin, they told me
my eyes
loved my outside. even as a child
I thought, but I had nothing to do with that
See, that’s the truth about skin
we don’t do that to ourselves instead
they make it that their likes are favored
I didn’t see my privilege because I was
blinded to those without
it, I didn’t know
those who suffered from society’s gaze
or remained unseen by the hierarchy
of which my unearned color provided membership
hatred, tribalism, shame, oppression also
unearned
I didn’t see my privilege until I did
some still don’t
and then I tried to understand
when things did not make sense
when anger flared from people
not like me, who did not like me
and what I represent
and I tried to see from behind their gaze
I saw how angry I would be
without the privilège I didn’t see
My Wildfire
You touched me
and the forests inside me flared not gently,
not like a kiss,
but like the match that forgets it was ever small.
I burned not for ruin, but for release.
Even the stars watched from a distance
But you
you vanished in the blaze you lit inside me.
Chose the sharpest edge of silence
and called it peace.
Left your body like broken bark, your name
like smoke in my lungs.
And I
I sift through ash, finding pieces of myself
you never meant to leave behind.
The fire is out.
But the ruins remember.
And damn you for dying like that
and leaving me to live in what’s left,
Written: October 11, 2025, for contest sponsored by: Craig Cornish
*****************
The obsolete stone fort stood ubiquitous and ominous,
a layer was full of tales and osmosed senses.
Towers cast a silence that weighed on my chest—
as the wind whistled through castle slits,
It slid past the slumped ramparts.
Wet clay—damp air sighed in the gaps of dawn,
cold beared my step, which felt both cruel and vast.
Fear and solitude were etched into every wall~
yet my will flared, torchlike, in my gaze.
This castle—whether chosen or not—is my refuge,
The roof evokes nostalgia yet lacks warmth—
I recall sunshine seeping over willow trees,
The stones convey the idea of fortitude.
Life must follow me from hollow halls—
to chambers where my pulse dares to echo.
It ought to linger where apathy holds no sway~
quench your thirst from the dark wells of lust.
Shape a shield from the void that wraps us,
It is dotted with heirlooms, built bare of love,
and grasped tightly in the inferno of despair.
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