Written: September 15, 2026, for week's Poetry Challenge:
Autumn Memory
The leaves came loose like letters from the trees,
and skittered silver-gold along the lane;
the wind went whispering through russet peas,
then curled its cool refrain around the rain.
I still recall the harvest's amber light,
the scent of apples crushed beneath our feet;
your laughter lingered, low, against the night,
while woodsmoke made the dark seem warm and sweet.
The pumpkins burned like lanterns by the door,
and dusk drew lilac veils across the field;
we spoke of things we had not voiced before,
as if the year itself had paused to yield.
Now autumn comes, and all the old winds start—
the leaves fall, but they cannot take your heart.
You have come mightily upon my brows,
Yet blessing my folly when I had cried nude and
Watery,
My vagitus loud with the frenetic timbre of wartime
You have swept through the corridors of
Silhouetted stalks, fanning lean, vertical leaves that shield
The nakedness of the African seasons —perched
And soggy,
And at waking time, when November bares its
Thunder-whetted fangs with the ruthlessness of a Puff adder.
It is cold and skin-whitening.
Streaks of flaking, dancing rods descend on femurs un-pumiced.
Dehydrated throats accompany ancestral hymns on the
Humming bees’ melody, stifling the courage of the Tchagra.
Drab, and cracking the serrated softness of heels and
Stale, moss-ridden kernels, the waves of the storm,
Blinding, besiege our common sempervirence,
Long lost among the blurred firmamental gaze
And straw-gold material upon this prostituted earth.
Snuggly warmth comes by the power of woodsmoke
When dawn, shy from the raillery of the rising sun,
Hastens to the coronation of sacred rain beyond
Our limits —a pomp of relegated and flustered seasons.
The scorching yellow has dim
and the cuckoos call out to each other.
parading above the paddy of gold
are grey tufts of warm and humid clouds
lunging onto the trees,
with crackles and flashes of silver light.
Boughs of ripe mangoes sway
marigolds and freesias cup all they get
quenching their thirst after a rigid summer’s reign.
Tapping on my roof
like a child playing drums on dinner plates
the pitter and patter goes on.
the earthy smell rise as weeds stretch and flowers yawn.
the season of rain
of nature’s music, of cold nights and
new blooms.
The season of mirth as woodsmoke
tangle with petrichor.
Rain like a true Knight
galloping around.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Christmas tree was real, always~
pine needles littering the carpet
like fallen promises.
Mother's hands smelled of pine resin
and brandy-soaked fruitcake~
her laugh a ribbon unwinding
through the underheated rooms.
We believed in everything then~
the rustle of wrapping paper angels,
the miracle of snow settling on the porch
like an angel’s breath.
Through a haze of woodsmoke
the radio hummed of
Bing Crosby Christmas tunes
while our wool socks scratched
against Granny’s sofa,
its springs complaining
beneath our sugar-rushed weight.
No one told us time could be folded
like tissue paper around a gift~
that decades later,
we’d still taste peppermint sticks
and hear the distant choir
of a dozen jingle bells
still tied to the doorknob
of memory.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The limp red sock, half-forgotten on the mantel,
still smells of oranges crushed in December mittens.
Its toe cradles a fossilized candy cane,
while the heel remembers the weight of walnuts.
Once, it bulged with promises—
a tangerine sunrise, chocolate coins,
and the thrilling rustle of cellophane.
Now, it sags like an unanswered letter.
I press my face into its woolen hollow
and inhale childhood like woodsmoke.
Crisp breeze
ripples the scent
of dry leaves' golden breath,
rustling in the woodsmoke of fall,
fragrant.
maples
drape long alleys
woodsmoke-scents stir crisp air
bright leaves whirl down on musty ground’s
carpet
Woodsmoke
Sweet, resin pine
Rising, drifting, curling
Comforting warm chimney fragrance
Autumn.
the world
begins to change,
woodsmoke and hot cocoa
bring memories of childhood home
long gone.
SCENTS OF AUTUMN
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
crisp air,
woodsmoke gently curls,
leaves of cinnamon and spice,
earth breathes deep, a musky, sweet grace,
autumn.
Woodsmoke, Laughter, and Warmth
Sunlight slanting through pines,
the creak's cold whisper,
a child's echo of laughter.
Bare feet on smooth stones, slick with moss.
Ankle-deep in melted snow, a shiver on the skin.
The taste of distant winter, sharp and clean.
Splintered light on the water's surface,
a fleeting mirror of a girl's wonder.
Flickering flames,
a circle of warmth,
faces I know by heart.
The mountain's breath a memory.
Drying by the fire,
the scent of woodsmoke clinging to a wet t-shirt.
Laughter, a low hum of stories,
spun in the smoke that rises and disappears.
Hands held out to the heat,
the red glow on fingertips.
The day a perfect circle, beginning and ending here.
A final, deep breath before the chill returns.
Contest: Breathless
Sponsor: Constance La France
Written: 24/05/2025
Quote "To breathe is to live, and without breath, there is no life." — Lailah Gifty Akita
A breathless house wheezes
Winter looms with frost-laced breath,
this house shudders in anticipation-
Its narrow corridors wince at the thought.
These rooms have shrinking walls,
their windows wedged shut,
And doors refuse to stay open.
The air hangs heavy, like woodsmoke
curling through blocked flue pipes.
I do not breathe-
I sip air through a bent straw,
and when the wheeze arrives,
it’s like a violin strung too tight,
always threatening to snap.
Running was a rebellion, still is,
playing football, was a war of attrition,
With head covered by a towel,
hovering over a steam bowl for hours.
Today, I carry an inhaler,
like a priest carries a bible-
not always believing,
but when breath becomes prayer,
I reach for it.
Thoughts keep coming back
of late afternoons
with the dark wings
of currawongs weaving
pathways through the high
branches leaving long threads
of song draped across trees -
the drifting skeins
of woodsmoke from winter fires
burning in cozy rooms,
eyes fixed in hypnotic stares
on dancing flames and minds
meandering the past, some
about to fall asleep.
Thoughts keep coming back
of snow falling silently
in feathery flakes
outside the window
and in the distance, an owl's
plaintive call going unanswered
in the thick air.
I listen to the sound of the fire,
a ticking wall clock,
breathings from beneath
a folded quiet and the drip
of melt water from somewhere
in the dark. I would like to stay
here but the fire is dying out
and its glowing embers
are nearly spent. A chill
is seeping through the cracks
opening between the past
and the present.
My long-lost winter is here
Even if it has not snowed,
For by and by, woodsmoke is near
Drifting slow across the road
A most distinctive scent
It carries to the nose,
Up, up a chimney vent
Where a fireplace glows
Quite pleasant, yet strong
This scent I do remember,
Though it lasts not long
From many a dying ember
The season's sure sign
Where a chill has set in,
Warms their heart and mine
So let another winter begin
Woodsmoke in the wind
Just here and gone that day,
Passed the weathervane spinned
Up north near my way.
When butterflies float downward like a leaf
As air of Autumn dances everywhere
Whispers of wings become a bright motif
Floating, drifting, wandering on blue air.
Scents of cinnamon whisper treats to come
As wondrous woodsmoke warms us from within
At entry doors are straw and flowering mums
Every shape and size of gourd and pumpkin
Fall promises us all its bright enchantment
A whirling, orange world of wind and leaves
Known as a season of mad derangement
Yet of all- it is the one that most appeals
If I were to choose one season to be
I'd sleep until Autumn whispered to me
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