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Best Poems Written by Gregory Joseph Firlotte

Below are the all-time best Gregory Joseph Firlotte poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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A House Haunted

It stood there
looking empty and old,
neglected and sad
with windows shuttered,
covered in shadow 
both day and night,
hovered over 
by trees whose branches
disguised the house
and made it seem 
a part of the 
overgrown landscape, 
completely surrounding it,
keeping strangers and unawares
at bay.

It stood there
shrinking from the present
almost lifeless,
a house with no soul
no face, no breath,
as if it started out as a ruin
and was determined
to remain so for all time,
unwanted, unkempt,
shunned by passersby,
its roof looking tortured
its doors uncertain
as to whether they opened at all 
and no one knew
and no one asked.

It stood there
talking to itself
in a silent conversation
that no one heard,
talking about things
that used to be
as though the Past was in the Now
and the Now belonged to the Past,
and who would dare
to knock on its doors
or tap on its windows
to see if anyone would answer
or show their presence
to the world outside,
a world gone by.

I stood there
on many a night
along the side of the road
just endlessly peering
at this lonely old place
wondering, waiting
for a light inside
to be turned on
at the same appointed time
emanating from behind
heavy and yellowed lace curtains
that looked like tattered spider webs
in only one crooked window
and one window only
hung with spidery lace.

I stood there
on those moonlit nights
bewitched by this house
listening to calls
and breaths of wild things
that roamed all around me
under ink-black star-filled skies,
but no light from moon nor star
could illumine
this clapboard-covered curio
from another day and age
concealed by branches, vines
and bramble,
bushes and nettles 
and mystery.

I stood there
wondering
who turned on that only light,
who roamed the house by night
who walked its tilted floors
who locked its uncertain doors
who hung the curtains of lace
who built this unsettling place
who called this abode their home
and how many hallways would they roam
and are there secrets that lived inside
and what was the bramble trying to hide,
was there anything for it to reveal
anything for it to tell
this house haunted that knew me so well?

copyright © 2019 Gregory Firlotte

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Winter

I awoke to find 
that Jack Frost had paid a visit 
to my bedroom windows
for the very first time 
this Winter.

If only I had seen him at work
I would have thanked him
for decorating 
my otherwise plain view
to the outside world.

How amazing he is,
working under cover of Night
creating countless
of the most delicate ferns,
interwoven, unfolding
in two magical dimensions.

They are the most crystalline lace
through which I can now survey
the sparkling hoar frost 
on the crusty snow out there
covering everything in sight.

I awoke to see
a black-masked cardinal
punctuating the white-draped forest
with its brilliant red and pointed crest
hopping from branch to barest branch.

They love the cold,
these whistling red greeters of the morning,
these messengers
connecting Earth with all Spiritual realms,
feathered angels ushered in on North Winds. 

I, too, love the cold
for it makes me realize so many things,
as it clarifies and purifies
and purges
all souls as well as the soulless with frigid acumen.

I awoke to see
ice on the pond,
Winter's pier glass, a frozen mirror
hemming in the sad brown cattails
in a cold, opaque yet delicate parquet of Nature.

The arbors
in the garden
stand like hunched-over skeletons
almost afraid to be seen
without their green Summer raiment.

The vines about the arbors
hold tight to their arched ramparts,
clinging bravely in spite of the cold
knowing that the pale Winter sun
will be gentle with them.

I awoke to hear
a rap on the door.
"Breakfast is ready,"
came a voice from within and without,
smelling the aromas of coffee and toast.

The cold of the old pine floorboards
made them creak even more,
revealing my whereabouts
from room to room
like a ghost on its haunt.

And the staircase
seemed more steeper than before,
as I descended to the kitchen
where warmth and conversation
around a hot cup would be found.

I awoke to find
that Winter is our friend,
our ally in Time,
a defender, a hoarder,
a keeper of all things 'til Spring.

The chill of Wintertide
makes all else more cozy
like sweaters and blankets
and fireside evenings
until the embers and their memory
no longer remain.

I realize now
more than ever before
how Winter has changed me
forever more,
and made me realize
not too soon nor too late,
what it means to see Winter
waiting at Autumn's gray gate.

copyright © 2019 Gregory Firlotte

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Wild Lupines

I stumbled upon
a field of Lupines
and what a sight it was.
Proud spikes swaying
in the morning breeze
poking their colorful heads
above the wild grasses
and Oxeye Daisies,
delicate Fleebane
Queen Anne’s Lace,
Hawkweed and St. John’s Wort,
Large Bluets and Buttercups galore
all mixing in a meadowy display
showing off their beauty
in a Summertime way
that gave me pause
and made me realize
how Nature’s randomness
of flowers and vines and bushes and trees
create the most amazing magnificence
where every living thing
sits side-by-side, never competing
never complaining, never repeating
comely and divine, a work of art sublime
that would all change come tomorrow
but today this was all mine.

Details | Gregory Joseph Firlotte Poem

Beneath the Sugar Maple

I've lain beneath this sugar maple before.
In fact, I know it quite well.
And it's seen me and watched me throughout the seasons.
And it has its own stories to tell.

In Spring, it would hear about all my wild dreams
for the months and the year still ahead.
And I'd watch its new leaves unfurl and spread out
for a canopy over my head.

I'd lay there for hours and hours on end
reciting verses 'neath a wet springtime sky.
And sometimes I'd lay there for no other reason
but to ask the Universe "why?"

The maple, of course, would stand silent and still
just listening to my thoughts and my words.
It must have imagined "Just who is this soul
whose passions and dreams I have heard?"

In Summer, I'd lay on an old cotton blanket
and gaze up at the now deep green leaves.
"How beautiful you are," I would say to the tree
and bask in the summertime breeze.

Its shade would protect me on a hot July day
and guard me from the bright August sun.
Butterflies and bees and birds would swoon past me
like a parade put on specially for one.

All about, the clover would bloom and bloom
in a carpet of purple and then white.
And I would lay on my blanket 'til the sun would set
deep into a long summer night.

In Autumn, the maple would be changing again
from its green mantle to that of orange and gold.
And I'd find myself sitting 'neath it in the shortening days
whose warmth turned to darkness and cold.

I pondered on those days beneath that old tree
lingering in the quick fading light.
Its quivering leaves in the brisk Autumn air
seemed to shiver through the frosty Autumn night.

The gold maple leaves would fall by the score
into delicate piles and mounds.
And I'd shuffle through the leaves and they'd rustle and scatter,
then sit 'neath the tree on the cold ground.

In Winter, the maple would stand there exposed,
with limbs and branches all bare.
It seemed all alone, but somehow I knew
that it knew that I would always be there.

It stood in the storms, it stood in the rain
and it stood against the bitter and snow.
I'd look up at it swaying in the hard Winter wind
from the snowdrifts where I stood down below.

Yes, I know it quite well, this sugar maple tree
for it and I grew closer o'er the years.
And come nearer to Spring, the men would come tap
my tree for its sweet syrup tears.

copyright © 2019 Gregory Firlotte

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The Coming of Autumn

The Coming of Autumn
Gregory Firlotte

Imagine the sun with its dimming rays
peeping through leaves on wind-chilled days.
The earth shedding its green and flowery cloak
to take on a red and orange yoke
and chimneys send forth wispy veils of smoke
that announce a new season to all the folk. 

Outside the pumpkins and gourds are full
while inside one piles up blankets of wool.
And we tend to the hearths to ward off the chill
and reminisce about the Summer that bides with us still
in our collective memories but only until
the frost comes to stay to do Autumn's will.

copyright © 2017 Gregory Firlotte

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Blueberry Pie

Just saying the words "blueberry pie"
changes the way you feel.
And it's no wonder it finds a place of honor
at the end of a home-cooked meal,
for there is no need to pit nor peel
this sweet-tart low-bush fruit,
just add a dash of sugar and a flaky shell
and a little bit of love to boot.

When you say the words "blueberry pie"
most everyone turns their head,
anxious to learn if they can have a taste
for it's better than cake or cornbread.
And isn't it fun to see its purply goo 
on your fingers or encircling your lips,
or showing everyone your purply tongue
as though you were in a pie-eating championship?

And have you ever smelled a blueberry pie
emerging hot and fresh from the oven?
Does the aroma trigger a thousand fond memories
and send you into the kitchen running?
And is there anything more enticing to see
than a slice dripping with vanilla ice cream?
And then gobbling an extra slice or two
is like living out a blueberry dream.

And who used to bake those blueberry pies?
Your grandmother or a neighborly friend?
And didn't its savory buttery crusts
make you want dessert time to never end?
So how do we know that a blueberry pie
has changed the way you feel?
That look in your eye and that smile on your face
are quite hard to conceal.

copyright © 2019 Gregory Firlotte

Details | Gregory Joseph Firlotte Poem

Indian Summer

Indian Summer
Gregory Firlotte

Indian Summer lingers for a while
with a cascade of warm sunlight 
caressing crimson, gold and russet leaves
with deep honey-colored rays. 
The air is quiet like a whisper 
and the earth still smells of late, late Summer grass
and a delicious heady scent permeates every sense.
Corn shocks stand and pumpkins sit majestic in hay-strewn fields 
awaiting their autumnal purpose. 
Crows caw in the distance as if to say, 
"Look! Look at the splendor of it all 
before it flees in cold November winds!"
Tender, sunny days slip into cool twilight quicker and quicker, 
and well-loved and well-worn quilts are pulled closer and tighter 
in an embrace that signals the bittersweet exchange 
of one season with another.
It is a time to nap in a snuggled solitude 
and with a thousand blazing hues hovering overhead 
from leaves that must fatefully drift downward to earth
to rustle in piles around the footfalls
of anyone who has ever dreamed deep orange dreams.
O, Indian Summer! Yes, Indian Summer! 
Please stay, we beg. 
Let the warmth of your gentle hand 
touch us just a little longer 
as we walk in meadows and along paths, 
still intoxicated with golden, sunlit yesterdays.

copyright © 2017 Gregory Firlotte

Details | Gregory Joseph Firlotte Poem

Late Autumn

LATE AUTUMN
by Gregory Firlotte

I sit by the window 
at dusk
as the world outside 
disappears slowly
one moment 
after the other
and the silver gray sun 
takes shelter 
behind barren trees
to seek
another place 
to shine once again
for someone else 
sitting by another window
also peering
at the world outside
on this late Autumn day.

Gray skies now linger
and gray clouds now loom
But I am happy
to know
that I am warm
and I am content
to be sitting here
awaiting
the cold Autumn rain
that will soon trickle down
this window and cleanse
for once and for all
all final remains
of Summer away
and move on its way
to another place
to rain once again
for someone else
sitting by another window
also peering
at the world outside
on this late Autumn day.

Details | Gregory Joseph Firlotte Poem

Sea Glass and Sand Dunes

Once again, I've spent my day
drifting among the drifting dunes
staring at colorful bits of ocean-tumbled glass
that shimmer, sparkle
and refract the still-warm October light
in my shaking uncertain hand
as though I was looking
into my very own past and future
at the same time
that was made from pieces like these,
pieces of joy, heartache, happiness
and little shards of leftover sorrow
that had repeatedly washed ashore
over a lifetime of trying to recall
everything that ever mattered.
And the gulls know,
for they know everything and see everything 
from their airborne perch and they, no doubt,
know everything about this drifting drifter 
now settled snug and secure
in the side of an ever-changing dune,
my wind-shifted haven for this wanderer
who comes here every day
scouring the beach and scouring the soul
for blue, green, frosted and amber gems
loosened from Neptune's necklace
hidden amid stranded seaweed and the twisted wood
of abandoned piers and long-sunken boats
that have been worn down in the dark briny depths
into otherworldly sculpted creatures
along this deserted beach of my sun-faded childhood.
What is it about sea glass and sand dunes
I ask myself and any passing stranger
who also believes in salt-laden breezes,
rock jetties, lighthouses, 
old fishing nets, tarnished brass lanterns,
rain-soaked Saturdays
and the bellowing of unseen foghorns?
I quietly put my fragmented multicolored amulets
in my pocket and begin the walk home
amid patches of beach grass and goldenrod
to the endless sound of icy-gray waves
and the cries of my friends the gulls
who know I will be back another day
to drift and to ponder and to search 
for even more sea glass and sand dunes
once again.

Details | Gregory Joseph Firlotte Poem

Come Halloween

Come Halloween! O Halloween!
We hide in the shadows no longer.
For this is our time to revel and rollick
in the fast-slipping twilight 
and don the cloaks of hallowed ones
who have journeyed before us
at the end of the harvest
and the thinning of the veils
between the Otherworld and ours
that shake the souls and frighten the hearts
of those unwilling to welcome the night
in which the sacrosanct and profane
duel unrelentless in their unseen and spiritual bouts
from minute to hour, from door to door
from field to forest, from fire to ashes
stirred by the wind and pummeled by the rain
until all is melded and finally dissolved
into the darkest dark of the night
without stars, without moon
without the flicker of candles 
lit over and over against the blackness of space
fearing the knock on the door, the rattle of the window
the shaking of the floor, the shadows on the wall,
the tingle on the flesh, the creaking of the stairs
the rap on the table, the howl of the unknown
the sound of voices whispering ethereal words
that echo like ripples on a hidden stream in a hidden dale
beyond the reach of all who await the approaching dusk
to revel and rollick and don the cloaks
at the end of the harvest and the thinning of the veils
when we do say, Come Halloween! O Halloween!