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Best Poems Written by Edlynn Nau

Below are the all-time best Edlynn Nau poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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Autumn In Waiting

Autumn in Waiting 

I love when vineyards turn 
to yellow, orange, and red.
I will get up an hour later,
and may earlier go to bed.

The valley floor strewn wide,
with Chardonnay leaves.
Growing tall on their stalks,
are the corn in their sheaves. 

Clouds shaping skyward, 
sculpting Michelangelo’s art.
Grapes gone to seedlings,
waiting cold winter’s heart.

Whips of wind curl and lick,
at sleeping summer gardens.
Burgundy mums fall and nod,
in clay that freezes or hardens.

Blonde grasses turn white,
waiting for tinges of green.
While other trees go to sleep,
with leaves no longer seen.

Things seem to linger,
or stop nature’s clocks.
Birds preen their feather’s,
to fly south from our docks.

Time, stopped for the mellow,
with unknowing hesitation. 
We wait for the deep sleep,
of wet winter’s presentation. 

-Edlynn Nau 
© November 10, 2019

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May She Comes

MAY SHE COMES


May she comes, quite boisterous, and so loud.
She melts the frost to orbs of liquid dew. 
From dark of moon returned to full and proud,
and waxes bees and moon in breath she drew.
Centaurus follows May with eyes of night, 
while pressing Crux and Virgo into play.
She'll gather breeze and scent within her flight, 
and tuck their luscious song in her bouquet. 
May comes wooing with her amorous hook, 
and kisses deep and laughs at each and all.
In lustful flirt she holds us with one look,
and we're in love with May until the Fall.
May she comes, dressed emerald in French lace, 
Sultry, yet always innocent and chaste.

By Edlynn Nau 
© May 1, 2016

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Recipe

RECIPE

Tiny, glowing, hot in its skyward climb,
it warms the creatures like morning baked bread,  
grows high, dies low, is part of cosmic time.
Flowing, agile, glistening droplets spread,
wet with life, liquid mirror in one song,
splashing high, vast enough to fill a bay. 
Light, sailing, lifting lungs it becomes strong,
into sea, in sky, a blue holiday, 
thin envelope keeps oxygen inside. 
Crusty, thick, ore and fine silica cools,
forms a dirt shell for its earthly fast ride, 
botanical in sticky molecules. 
Hot flame, wet rain, deep breath in bold granite,
elixir, concoction... rarest planet. 

-Edlynn Nau 
(Original draft date: September 3, 2018)

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Censorship

CENSORSHIP

There is a language I spoke and I knew.  
It fluently told it's stories in dance.  
Graceful chaînes that turned our spirits out 
and razor sissones to cut with candor.  
There is a light song I willingly played.  
My fingers glissade, ran, courir, en croix, 
rapidly crossing the tired yellow keys.  
There is a bleached canvas white with nothing!  
The brush has eyes.  It's clever at seeing, 
tout va bien, and always without me.   
It tells me what is beneath the linen,  
a textured story in shape and color. 
There are no jagged edges in assemblé. 
The poetry, un mot, could keep the time 
on paper. It knew dimensions, of four, 
in every breath.  It saw the frozen rose.  
It sprinkled stories of death or exploded 
in dimples of joy.  It holds my hand and tells on me.  
A firefly in bourrée is silenced from the play.

By Edlynn Nau
October 8, 2016

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Dead At Home

DEAD AT HOME -For Veteran's Day 

It's a gray day, in the café, 
by the side of the road.
There's an old man, took a firm stand, 
trying to loosen the load.

It is struck luck, with his last buck, 
but he pays for his soup.
He has no wife, all of his life, 
he is out of the loop.

He will bum thumb, in a ride from, 
here to his cardboard box.
There's a sleeping roll, a piece of coal, 
and a pillow made of rocks.

Allegory. 
No glory. 
A mad sad told cold story. 
Alliteration, of an allegation, on how he kills for glory.  
Then the lie dies, in GI's, when our soldier kills a man. 
All told, he is not bold, but this tale is secondhand.

He preaches whale's tales, of army mad males, 
as he calls for his god. 
Then he dreams schemes, of the war machines, 
and ghosts that run him odd.

Then he weeps sleeps, and a secret keeps, 
and he hates the morning light.  
He has lost his place, in the human race, 
and he always will take flight.

He will dine fine, on the red wine, 
which he drinks from a paper cup. 
He will watch stars, and count his scars, 
but his heart has given up!

Allegory. 
No glory. 
A mad sad told cold story. 
Alliteration, of an allegation, on how he kills for glory.  
Then the lie dies, in GI's, when our soldier kills a man. 
All told, he is not bold, but this tale is secondhand.

-Edlynn Nau

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Time Machine

TIME MACHINE

We always try to build a TARDIS,
in thinking we would look the smartest.
But then, who's time would we travel in, 
with a choice for dimensional spin.

A fragrance can take us back in time, 
or a perfect shade, or taste of lime. 
Our famed music is a time machine, 
in compositions from Bach to Queen.

We recognize how to bring time to a halt,  
by following our bliss in things we exalt. 
New experiences will let us foresee, 
advancing in time with our visions to be.

The Hubble is a magical eye on time, 
to take the photographs of our one verse rhyme.
A brief look backwards beginning now to then,
or from nothing to something and back again. 

Our future is such addictive dope,
we read in tea leaves or horoscope. 
We expect we are aware with ESP, 
and predict in life what's meant to be. 

We're back in time with old photographs,
that mark pasts, in graphic epitaphs.
A sound will transport us to a place, 
with one vibration we've moved in space. 

We future trek with our imaginations,  
because we see forward with our creations. 
In our minds eye, we consider and admire,
with envisioned futures of our hearts desire. 

By TARDIS, DeLorean, or a Quantum Leap, 
Tesseract, CERN, and our Visions in sleep.
Through a Wormhole or the traces of a déjà vu,
the past and the future, are present with you.

By Edlynn Nau 
©June 23, 2016

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Party Vine

PARTY VINE

The Sweet Pea is a social climber,
behind your back, a wisenheimer.
In the night it wields its powers,
Sweet Peas strangle other flowers.

Sweet Peas think the rainbow's somber,
they use the Fall to upstage umber.
They twirl tulle skits in every tint,
cheat the rose and pungent mint.

The splendid buoyant burgeoning pod,
is full of seeds it dumps with a nod.
Sweet Peas are fervent fertile bunnies,
they tease the bees with shameless honeys. 

This pea legume will make one drunk, 
it throws loud parties from its bunk.
In sweet perfume and showy dress,
it's backwards with oblige noblesse.

Sweet Peas smell like Orange Crush tastes,
It weaves green tendrils like Irish lace. 
When breezes blow so soft and heady,
they throw their blossoms like confetti. 



By Edlynn Nau 
November 8, 2015

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The Glass Eye

The Glass Eye

My window is an eye on the morning stretch. 
Raspy green grasses tangle up in the vetch.
A mama quail runs down the soft red clay path.
Her fat round babies edged to the drain for a bath. 

I see the hill slope up in poppy and craggy oak.
One lone gray cloud trails on cobalt blue, like smoke.
The sounds of a barn owl are near but it hides,
And only my window can find where it resides.

Then finally, the children dance by on to school.
The window knows innocence here in the rural.  
A giggle, a shout, dropping books as they race,
The bus winks lights, on the knoll, in its place. 

My window blinks back with it's stare of the hill;
Its shimmer reflects our morning time drill.
The eyelash curtains brush back with the breeze,
I turn to my paper, and coffee, and do as I please.

By Edlynn Nau
©  April 20, 2016

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Misdemeanor

MISDEMEANOR 

A soft lisp runs through blonde summer grasses,
shoving at kites or the hems of long skirts.
Umbrellas and hats stir as it passes, 
jumbling at picnics, it teases and flirts.  
It picks up speed while playing with Marty, 
and takes his land legs as he tries to walk.   
The unseen source can raid a yacht party, 
by strewing boats that are moored to the dock.
Laughing in whispers or screaming in storms,
a mythical being, felt but not seen.
Its guests are blind to the brail it performs,
it can be gentle, or just as well, mean.
Wickedly hurling a house in the air,
or docile enough to tousle our hair.

-Edlynn Nau 
© May 21, 2018

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Gypsy Wine

GYPSY WINE 

This red summer is buried in the wine, 
it holds a fragrant oak and note of mine,
to drink to heart and heart to love divine,
we sip the sun rays in and off the vine. 
The crystal glasses clink to celebrate,
a golden moon too full to hesitate, 
to give a kiss and kiss to hold our fate,
in every drop we drink or pause to wait.
When shooting stars are in the wine we drink,
and sunsets fall beneath a rim in pink,
forever hold and hold to keep the link,
between the things we say or thoughts we think.
Let's raise a glass, it may be Summer's last,   
to see the season slip so sweetly past.

-By Edlynn Nau
© August 18, 2016