Death
in autumn
colors in their beauty
falling without fear
without grief
simply ending the
story of the summer's
green outgrowth~
similarity cries out~~
Autumnal Tints in Concord.
"It is pleasant to walk over the beds of these fresh, crisp, and rustling leaves. How beautifully they go to their graves! how gently lay themselves down and turn to mould!—painted of a thousand hues, and fit to make the beds of us living. So they troop to their last resting place, light and frisky. They put on no weeds, but merrily they go scampering over the earth, selecting the spot, choosing a lot, ordering no iron fence, whispering all through the woods about it,—some choosing the spot where the bodies of men are mouldering beneath, and meeting them half-way. How many flutterings before they rest quietly in their graves! They that soared so loftily, how contentedly they return to dust again, and are laid low, resigned to lie and decay at the foot of the tree, and afford nourishment to new generations of their kind, as well as to flutter on high! They teach us how to die."
-From "Autumnal Tints" by Henry Thoreau; 1862.
tints of lacquered red bathe new moon's imprints
This evening's sunset
Paints sky into pink and blue
As the summer's warmth
Surrounds this body you love
As I am thinking of you.
The windowpane is weeping,
the sky has paused its slow stalking clouds
they hang now as still as rocks.
There was an ill-wind last night
it woke up the morning light too early.
I could write on the glass with a fingertip
but words would cry themselves to sleep
in this unmoving dreamscape.
A faint suspicion of yellow
slowly creeps up to my door
at a pace too endless to measure.
I turn away
listening for the telltale creaking
of my mouth
swallow this moment down
switch on the TV
where there may be is some activity
happening somewhere.
What women's issues do we address?
Echo, a dress
Who can purify her, whom I adore?
Echo, a door
If art melts, rocks can love to tune a lyre.
Echo - Liar
What's that raining down from above?
Echo, love
What do you yearn to believe?
Echo, leave
Is there something I should learn?
Echo, earn
Or someone I would betray.
Echo, disarray
Now tell me, Echo, how I may get by her.
Echo, buy her.
As mine, no doubt, I will be her sweet.
Echo, her feet
Is there any way to calm her anger?
Echo, hang her.
Love do you reign over the thunder?
Echo, no under
Written: January 20, 2023
You Select Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Brian Strand
An apology lightens my world with varnished hints of atonement.
Bring Color Back Into My World Contest
Jan 21, 2019
Start now to mint
A precious tint
Line by line squeeze
Cheer charms a breeze
Splurge with fond fest
Poise lives your zest
Truth in clear ease
Flavours true peace
Love is the art
That mellows heart
Leon Enriquez
21 May 2018
Singapore
Passion's hue is crimson rose
With heartbeats tinged in golden glow
Caresses color emotions flow
As kisses painted in lavender grow
Like a burst of colors in springtime
Love has vibrant hues sublime
The summer sky it tints in blue
The silver moon it then subdues
Love colors the heart with delight
As its many hues it imparts
And when love comes at first sight
A plethora of blushes paint the heart
Each sepia frame tells on old times,
Each face a name that wears a chime.
Lasting echoes from deep silence,
From times before, set countenance.
Flip through old stack of sepia prints,
Watch mind now snack on ancient tints.
Faces of yore hint of past times,
Sepia now stores a certain mime.
One by one float quaint former glaze,
Down life's rich moat swirls mental maze.
Old picture score where thoughts meet brief,
Indulge some more both joy and grief.
Memory cites in sepia tones,
Passage of rites now left alone.
Yet now and then, I sift to see
Feelings of when kin came to be.
I set aside this journey back,
Know time nor tide can bridge sad slack.
Our history is lost in mists,
So memory grabs random list.
A buried pile of kin and kind,
Here for a while, glimpses and finds.
Sepia colours in sultry glades,
Musky odours old prints now shade.
Happy and sad mix and mingle,
Stern faces glad in free stumble.
From time to time, I plough through piles,
Seek former chimes to court old smiles.
Leon Enriquez
31 May 2016
Singapore
At war with myself
Only one will win
Whether from loss of will
Or loss of wit.
I'll confront myself in the field
With the haze of a new day; my shield
The coming of the light; I wield
Slashes through the night I fight
With my mind; I kill this kind
Of negative thought which plagues my brain
And I'll take the blood from half
My mind from which it's bled
And paint the doors of my soul
With tints of red
Come seek true sights
In the clear light
Where form feels bright
Come let us go
Where colours glow
In brilliant flow
Come watch the tints
Of pulse and hint
As pleasures mint
Come feel the grounds
Where peace goes round
To make things sound
Leon Enriquez
16 April 2015
Singapore
As autumn flings her crimson robe
Each meadow spills a nectar's brew...
That in between, the leaves evoke
All ruby tints of night’s debut;
When cerise tendrils, mauve on oak
Parade their splendor in full view,
Then back again through red-flushed sky
Where Northern lights glow like magi !
Contest 241 of Brian Strand
Here in this city we seek good reason
To do this and that for enough payback;
We aim just to see beyond odd season,
In fashion and fad, in easy and slack.
Our daily affairs involve a plain face;
A copycat wave that slaves this instance;
On voice box we stare in somber enclave;
And wait for fine saves in deep dark distance.
Between dawn and dust, the weathered charades;
Turn each to each now with blank, bored faces;
Then do what we must to venture parade;
Accept time's endow with empty traces.
Weary and dreary find solace in sleep;
Nightmares once dreamy grip worries we weep.
Leon Enriquez
22 Apr 2014
Singapore
Amber skyline
Drapes midnight’s ceiling
Tints of luster fade
Airbrushed with mist
Wafts gently twirl
In a slow dance
To warm earth’s repose
©
Shanzi for Joann Grisetti
by nette onclaud
paintings on the unpainted walls,
though quaint or even mistaken,
exude the naive hope
of capturing
the shaking silhouettes of shadows
of the truth, the artful, the beautiful,
both vague and vivid,
and of coaxing
imageries to pause, to stay a while,
as the coarse canvas the brush
caresses with moist hues,
tints, tinges.
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