On those dreary days
when skies are grey
and all the clouds are black
hey that's me I'll be
running through the raindrops
in my torn and worn out mac
it may be gloomy yet
when the weather's wet
and the dismal day is dark
that's me you'll see
splashing through the puddles
out there in the nearest park
I love a rainy day a rainy day is fine
I gotta say altho' I love a rainy day
in November I prefer your sunshine
my elegy-
my muse covered in death
my wistful cry for help
innocence in her eyes
her last words and hug with a embracing smile
promises made and promises fade
8th of november, when moon turned red
the curse would lift but my roses turned black
the great eclipse returned and claimed another laugh
death of me inside
my lover absquatulated me by that time
lost two souls
on and by-
november 8 and another goodbye
two different years but same eclipse
cursed my sky, stole its shine
NOVEMBER 2022
Rightly so, the poppies flood
Early in the winter sky
Merrily stood in field, and this
Existence of mine has passed by
Maybe they'd watch us contend
But are authorities ever sober?
Early now, in Winter's sky
Realise how they owed her
Unwillingly ignorant to the loss, they'll be
Scorching their retinas, a veil of red
The gales of November sit still on my mind
while I stand to remember the Maritime blues
Twenty-nine souls cradled by the sea
perished as the gales of November blew free
"We're holding our own just like an old shoe "
transmissions and messages lost in debris !
Superior storms blew hard and unfettered
as the gales of November amok, ran the sea
Twenty-nine souls gone astray with the wind
and the mountains and lakes still echo for thee
Its a "Lightfoot" connection that sings of your plea
as the winds of November blow wild and blow free !
We stood at the edge
of the back yard,
next to the garage—
where I’d pretended to be
an astronaut in a
cardboard spaceship—
on a chill November night,
watching Sputnik II
arc across the sky.
I didn’t know why
he was rarely home—
or why it wasn’t always
like this when he was:
quiet,
steady,
present.
All I knew was the stars were out,
and he was beside me—
and Laika was aboard.
I didn’t know then
she had no way back—
no reentry plan,
no soft descent.
I pictured her peering
through a tiny window,
tongue lolling,
stars reflected in her eyes.
I thought
someone would bring her home.
Now I know
she died within hours—
heat and panic rising
in that cramped metal cradle
while I, warm in my pajamas,
believed in science,
believed in rescue,
believed in my father’s voice
saying, Look, there she goes.
At least they finally gave
her a monument
in Moscow.
The Day the Country Died
November 22, 1963
three pm e.s.t
fifth grade
pa speaker clicks on
“today, at one pm c.s.t
President Kennedy shot
he is dead”
our young substitute teacher
gasps then starts to cry
we are silent
school is dismissed early
buses home, no one speaks
our country has changed
The echoes of the slam still haunt the air,
A limping ghost, the trauma's heavy share.
The lawyer's words, a hollow, broken plea,
Justice delayed, a cruel eternity.
One year, two years, the clock relentlessly ticks,
Three years of limbo, where the spirit breaks.
The plea bargain looms, a soul-crushing trade,
For freedom lost, a heavy price is paid.
Handcuffs again, a chilling, familiar sting,
Rights recited, a meaningless, hollow thing.
The prison gates, a chasm dark and deep,
Where hope lies buried, and the soul must weep.
But even here, a flicker, faint and small,
A whisper of resilience, rising above it all.
A memory of laughter, a love that still remains,
A promise whispered, that hope will rise again.
Dark Sunday nights
The month of November
Nothing I care to remember
November 21, 1963
He took the harmonica
from the bib pocket of his overalls
blew thru left to right, low to high
back and forth a couple times,
slapped it on his palm
like he’d tamp his cigarette,
one of those unfiltered Camels
on his dulled dented Zippo.
He blew a quick riff up the scale,
inhaled it back down,
spun his harmonica around
slapped it a couple more times,
stopped as if thinking
about what he’d play
then smile that smile he’d smile
while looking at her,
start in on The Tennessee Waltz
watching her stand up, close her eyes,
hug herself and sway.
As he played he moved to her side
wrapping his left arm around her waist,
she draped both arms on his shoulders
and they glided around the living room
in a world of their own
viewed by us six kids,
all of us grinning and smirking
and making kissy faces
watching mom and dad,
mom singing the words
motioning us all up to dance
that night we stayed up late
that night before
president Kennedy was killed.
wake me up when it's all over
"when the ink of my pen stops bleeding
when there is no trace of their memories"
wake me up when the nightmare is over
november's sadness will take me down
burn the bridges to the next run
lunar eclipse and pacing under the sun
gray will return in it's darkest shade
November 22, 1963
I was in fifth grade
my teacher cried
Oliver McKeithan
Orange is the color of the dead leaves falling to the ground
Orange is the bright bonfire crackling in the night
Orange is the smell of a freshly baked pumpkin pie
Orange is the feeling of the fall breeze blowing through the air
Orange is the taste of a perfectly cooked turkey for thanksgiving dinner
Orange is the sound of the children laughing through the pumpkin patch
Orange is the crunch of fallen leaves under your feet
Orange is the feeling of a new sweater
Orange is a young fox chasing a squirrel through the backyard
Orange is autumn
It is September and I am still tired
still yearning for change that I know won’t come
still searching for some kind of a feeling
through a pile of fallen leaves, this ground
definitely seems to have hardened now
because the grass doesn’t blow in the wind
like it used to, and I don’t feel the same,
either. But it’s okay and I’m okay.
I’m afraid my bones will freeze this winter
and I’ve grown rather tired of searching
through all of these dead leaves on October’s
hardened ground. I think my heart feels the same.
Burdened and buried yet benevolent.
I’ve tried to dust off the decorations
but it collects like tears on my pillow
late at night when the storm pounds within me
like rain on my picture window, it looks
as if the clouds are breaking up, but no,
they haven’t. October looms before me
like those ghosts on the television set,
except I am frightened by this sure scene
before me. Will November feel the same?
I remember the end of one November
When my urge
To see the forest trees
Was unbreakable.
The leaves and the trees
Were still lively and red
But still and half way dead.
Discovering fallen trees
Ancient mounds
And new paths with distant sounds.
It was hard to carry on home
Where my other soul
Laid on my chest
Like the still winter trees
Deemed to rest.
I remember the end of that November
When his string
Seemed unbreakable.
Maybe in a few years or so
But not today or tomorrow or ever.
I remember the ends of November
When he went over yonder
Swimming in our streams
Lying in the summer’s heat
Tugging on the leash
Gobbling on nature’s sweets
Galloping to wherever we may meet
Again.
November moon,
dangling pearl
trailing the face of dusk
like a brooding tear.
Morpheus leads our way
through luminous sleep,
through stained glass shards of
our multiverse.
November moon,
you languish unrealized,
in somber slumber fog.
Our mortal arousal,
our wounds are reopened.
Morpheus leads our way,
through lustrous ruminations,
through spiraling remnants of
our Megaverse.
November moon
We hardly notice you
in our narcoleptic cloud,
our emergent consciousness,
our collective imagination.
Morpheus leads our way
through refulgent recall,
through steep sleep stages,
where we are unified
as one.
Specific Types of November Poems
Definition | What is November in Poetry?