Short Crisping Poems

Fantasmal Walk back into line
limes and lemons keeping time
So like crisping bacon or drinking wine
Out of the box ...can you spare a dime?
Touch me with your lust devine
Hating you!...with each new rhyme...

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in its umber amber mellows
where sunburnt veins
stretched in parched meanders
where greens decay has bit with fangs stretch
lost in my footsteps crisping crunch
and autumns orchestra growls in
picked pockets of slips of mists
and echo hangs in moments grace...

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Autumn has always awakened the artist in me
   with its bold palette of crimson, umber and gold.
Ruffled russet gowns, once adorning tree limbs
   lay wrinkled and scattered across the forest floor.





             October 27, 2020 
Liberum Divisa 2 - Sponsor: Greg Barden
Excert from 'The Crisping Days of Autumn'...

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I saw a leaf today
in the up-draft -- 
one last dance
and lift before
the Fall Finale;

crisping and fading,
flaking...but only an
illusion of death, for we
know the chemistry, and
the majesty of seasons -- 

thinking of our shared
love, the years of affection
ever greater...would be
an unforgivable pity
if heaven
were the only
contrary….

...

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Tip your head and stare skyward.
The tallest firs one can see.
Small clearing for a campfire.
At the wooded edge.

Sun beams down upon the path.
Gives one last splash of color.
Forest's palette to enjoy.
Now the night sets in.

Blanket of stars,crisping air.
Stir of creatures in the dark.
Calm silence and cricket song.
Nature's symphony.



written by Deb Wilson 
Tuesday December 25th,2012
for contest "Natural Dodoitsu"...

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Autumn in the leaves
Speckling change 
with crisping dew
when a season done
with green
(as earth's sky
paling blue)
putting to rest
the old
making way
for God's new;

I finger the age-spots...

other blemishes
nature's obvious rots--

preparing for 
again our spring
touching the ring
I still wear 
for cherish--
such vows
were never made
to perish

I rewrite, with death
we do not part

for no temporary 
a true heart.......

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Silken green
in hues of piquancy- 
sheltered moss, 
under fringes of fungus;
separated by nature's vibe,
spores lace the Earth,  
and thrum against
the open sores 
that gape at midnight moil.
 
Treacherous stubs, 
clung to by the hands 
of fifteen near six,
crisping the ruffles, 
by her sweat and poise.  

Barley silenced breath, 
fermented in a heat of the kettle, 
bulbs of silken green
in hues of piquancy, 
remind me that I should leave....

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I can hear
the wind making snowballs
fading leaves crisping
chattering acorn crazed squirrels
a soft rustle of chilled bird feathers

I can see
low hanging branches
offerings to short nibblers
the beginning blush of a Red Maple
the edge of the day creeping closer

I can feel
the excitement
of distant V’s
chittering sparrows at sunrise
scampering squirrels
school bus arrivals

the hints of fall
gently claiming its season

John G. Lawless
©9/30/2022...

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