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.
September is a season in between,
where nature is silently changing.
Where what is grown becomes a harvest.
Where stocks of corn invite a harvest,
with longer nights and shorter days between.
To reap the fields in a season changing.
September for farmers is a time of changing.
When fields are plowed after the harvest,
as they move from fields to silos in between.
September's changing between seasons brings a harvest.
Autumn means rest now.
The green harvest is gathered
And the barn is full.
squirrels’ rewards, gifts
harvests of autumn, blessings
gathering bounties
coolness of dawn breathes courage
leaves wash the mountains in hope
I have never been a believer in destiny or fate
and hate the thought of a fence without a gate.
Freedom should be a bounty offered to everyone
and I don't just mean when the day's work is done.
After each ripened harvest there should be a gain
of useful things gathered and lessons learned remain.
I've the mindset of que sera sera; what will be will be
it eliminates anxiety and it's always worked for me.
I'm often accused of having my head stuck in a book
So, if you can't find me, that'd be a good place to look.
Chances are I'll be reading about cloudless blue skies
or some dismal love story in which the sad damsel cries.
It's curiosity that keeps me turning pages of a tome,
to visit places, I'd love to see like Japan, Athens and Rome.
I usually carry a backpack with me, filled with books...
not caring if people stare at me with disconcerted looks.
blue harvest dusk
gathers at the book’s edge~
I carry its questions
forward, each page leaning
into whatever waits
to be read
Two houses sit side by side on a quiet residential street.
In one, lives a man with an unlatched gate,
always ready to pause his lawnmower
to ask how your mother is doing,
offering a spare hand when it appears one is needed,
or leaving a basket of fresh tomatoes and cucumbers on the porch step
just because the harvest was good.
In the other lives a shade-peeker, a shadow behind pulled blinds,
who measures his property line down to the inch,
grumbling heavily under his breath when an autumn leaf crosses the boundary,
starting his car engine, revving with an intentional roar,
building a higher fence
out of a quiet, lingering spite.
For years, the coldness attempts to stake its claim,
trying to choke out the light with petty grievances
and silent, harsh glances.
Yet bitterness only locks a person inside their own small fortress,
leaving them alone with the echoes of their own noise,
and barring the door from the inside.
When the real storms roll through,
it isn't the tall fence or the sharp words that hold fast.
The stubborn, simple kindness wins out every time,
outlasting the cold
and leaving a light on in the dark.
Golden ribbons stretch as far as the eye can see,
A boundless sea under the sun's gentle light,
Where every stalk of amber wheat sways free,
Unfolding a vision so breathtakingly bright.
The wind comes whispering low from the west,
Tracing soft ripples across the warm, heavy grain,
Turning the quiet soil into a restless crest,
Rolling like oceans over the open plain.
Each gust carves tides through the deep golden hue,
A shimmering swell of honey, brass, and straw,
Rising and falling like waves in the blue,
Holding the heart in a silent, reverent awe.
Above the calm surge, the warm air comes alive,
As jewel-toned dragonflies shimmer and gleam,
While tiny gold midges weave through the hive,
And lacewings float past like a summer day's dream.
High in the canvas of an immaculate sky,
A crisp wedge of swans cuts through the soft white,
In perfect formation, soaring gracefully high,
Shadows drifting over the field in their flight.
Picture-perfect and still, yet endlessly in motion,
The earth paints a masterpiece under the sun—
Where the dry prairie wheat turns into an ocean,
And heaven and harvest are woven as one.
Planting a seed
Blooming courage indeed
Looking up to the sky
Not considering, time to die
Knowing heavens are there
Protection from the crows who scare
Reading books filled with studies
Asking, how much money?
Trusting powers that be
Truth will see
Sun shining bright
An illuminating sight
When break time arrives
Reason to sigh
Showing a path
Towards the bath
Sweat well spent
Cultivating investment
Heat saying goodbye
Autumn leaves fly
Seasoned to perfection
Ready for collection
Harvest pay received
Graciously, I believe
Joyful thanks
Leaving the bank
No longer fearful and blue
Cash in hand is cool
Barreling pork
Work
Done
Time for fun
Spending
Since holiday season is pending
Intimidation threats are gone
Since courageous honesty is the new dawn
silvers wealth whispers
feathery intimacy -
dream of harvest time
Poetry Wheel Challenge
Theme: Night
Emotion: Longing
Color: Silver
Season: Harvest
Form: Haiku
Object: Feather
Verb: Whisper
When Autumn bring hues of amber color,
I stand looking in awe and in wonder;
the forest is strokes of watercolor,
soon, the forest will have snow cover.
Farmers are busy for Harvest season,
the corn, grain and pumpkins, and all that hay;
that ever clock ticking in my region,
for all the farmers there is no halfway.
I am looking forward to Thanksgiving,
the turkey, stuffing, and the apple pies;
and watch the leaves falling, changing,
in nature a trees sleeps- never dies.
But, the wild winds and rain make huge trees shake;
and many moan and groan, shatter and break.
harvest
the clock ticks on
crimson moon brings peace
year's harvest is in full bloom
good night
The children snuggled and
tucked themselves into bed
as Nanny Agatha crept into
the dark room.
She wore a sharp, wicked grin
as she pulled a wooden bowl
from her apron.
Inside sat bruised, oozing
apples, completely covered
in fuzzy green mold and decay.
"Time for your bedtime treat,"
she hissed, her voice sounding
like dry, scraping autumn leaves.
She held a sour, rotten slice toward
little Tommy as she began her eerie
tale.
Her story was about a wicked witch
who trapped children inside deep,
black wells.
The brothers stared at the bitter, slimy
fruit, their hearts racing with glowing
dread.
"Watch every bite," Nanny whispered,
her shadow stretching long across their
shaking shoulders.
The bedroom windows rattled violently
as the foul stench of the fruit filled the
air.
She blew out the candle, leaving
them trapped in the dark with her
endless, unsettling story.
Some might say,
Evidence was first found,
Outside during the day,
As shadows moved round.
Others could contend,
That it started as a force.
Coreward extend,
Causes spinning on course.
People with crops,
Would look to the sky,
Pull out all the stops,
To harvest a ready supply.
Crew on ships,
Gazed up at night,
Saw way Ursa Major dips,
To find the guiding star's light.
The North Star becomes the center,
Half math game overhead,
Orient the circle,
And answer be read.
Looks of a celestial body,
Can be observed,
Unless the weather is shoddy,
And sky libations will be served.
A container is used,
With something inside,
Keeping players amused,
And rules abide.
Sometimes our perception,
Is altered by the scene,
Invokes more reflection,
Or feels like a dream.
Sometimes it goes fast,
Sometimes it feels like forever,
Having a blast,
Or an arduous endeavor.
Many words to measure,
Other languages and ways to represent,
Covet it like a treasure,
So you will not later repent.
When warmed by inspiration's sun,
I take my favorite tool, my pen,
and plough a careful furrow through
the rich, deep soil of thought.
With eagerness I plant a row
of words, and watch them bud and grow,
then marvel at the miracle
that God and I have wrought!
Sub Categories
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.