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Aug 2018 · 1.4k
Ode To Autumn Apples
Ash Slade Aug 2018
packed in the family car,
going slow down the smaller
roads. radio set to a classics
station. we talked about
the latest news, things
we've heard, how work was.
sitting in silence for part of
the ride, as we listened to the
wind from the sunroof and
windows.

the apple picking harvest
is back again. I can't wait
for supple afternoons with
a crisp breeze. drinking
sweet cider and munching
on powdered rounds.
walking orchard rows of
tower trees \plucking red
noses high and low.

sneaking bites in between
picks, juice dripping down
face and sticky fingers.
it's like you're a child again,
on slow weekend mornings.
dragging day passes on,
the parts tied in
conversations and quiet
moments. crack of twigs
a crushed creed

that fills the spaces of apples
falling to the floor, bruised
by a sharp hit. I pick them
up to look at, taking in the
dents and gray flesh. I
throw them back to the
compost beneath the fruit
tree. the pieces that escape
scars, I plop into my sack
that's gradually getting
heavier.
Aug 2018 · 1.8k
Ode To Turning Seasons
Ash Slade Aug 2018
traffic backup,
    roadwork signs.
drive down road,
    little houses
treed yards.
    brown leaves,
first sign of fall.
    kids about to go back to
school\parents
    return to work. rolling
on the seconds go,
    ticking by faster
each year so it
    seems.

cars piled up,
     to slow, won't go.
tiny dancers in the
     wind blow on to car
windows,
     another sign of coming
Harvest Season.
     people resist the clear
trademarks
     enjoying the fall,
but resenting the
     winter.

I can't understand
     New England birds,
you're housed in
     cocoons like caterpillars
that guard against the
     elements,
not freezer coldness
     that animals call home.
I'm not sure the memo
     reached you,
but this isn't the
     South.

trees like snakes,
     shed their
rainbow skins, as
    "Old Man Winter"
kicks in. the sound of
      leaves crunching, cold
on the floor under foot.
     Autumn's death has
no memorial,
     birds flying South
a eulogy.
Jul 2018 · 139
spring break freeze
Ash Slade Jul 2018
ice came down
mixed with rain
streaked windows
on this april spring day

thunderclap
struck the sky
bolted across
blanket white deck slick
greased up the skillet
stir up some eggs
fried, plated

bangs, knicks, scrapes
pushes on curb-top
pours into driveway
rips mailboxes from posts
in muck

like drums
rat-a-tat rat-a-tat
down it spills
beating on housetops, hose-water
streets

neighbors drive on
wash-out roads
a few speed through
riper to pass slow

folks losing electricity
trees fallen 'round
hibernating, little, town

colorless sounds clog up headset
on a mismatch sort of day

out-of-place ride-out
gasket blown
Jul 2018 · 193
fruit salad
Ash Slade Jul 2018
Bruised bananas, oddball oranges

arranged apples/pleasant, purple, plums.

mouth suckers/sour, pucker footballs.


Scrumptious, seeded, spheres,

carved centers bullseye red.


Tiny, tangy, tangerines toying tongue

juicy joy lasting leisure

twisted, ****, grapefruit/paralyzing buds.


Spring strawberries dripping stain

white shirt brand new.


Green grapes, giant reds, sweet bursts

eye explosion.


Little lime sliced, ice in drink, slowly sipped

pretty pineapple rounds Christmas jellied.


Pulverized pomagranate splitter splatter all around

shrunken, squeezed, prunes/beet colored juice bottle.


Bitter bite, cold cherries/yuck yuck, they're the pits.
Jul 2018 · 136
through little roads
Ash Slade Jul 2018
through little roads tired car pokes
on the track to Ordinary Joe's
gatecrasher, purple shuttered, fort
between two white picket fence houses
tucked up half-pint box out of line on the line
in cold, squeezed, lemonade
sweet spring ambrosia to the lip
of deep green blanket children sit on, play on
running around shoes and socks
thrown on sidewalk hot as frying pan
crack an egg/hear it sizzle
dotted trees all the same side to side
rooms hide in cramped spaces like cubbies
slips of lip like butter roll off snake tongues
daggers pointed
circus act on display or an animal in the zoo
that doesn't fit in this topsy-turvy slide-show
called life
hackneyed stares glued in place on childish faces
like a match of heads or tails
cupped hands carry quarters for crank candy jars
at mall, or pick-up sticks snatched from floor
Jul 2018 · 965
Coming Down #2
Ash Slade Jul 2018
Coming down, it all falls down.
let yourself fly away like free bird.
slow up your pace losing full speed,
lend your ears to things heard.
all gathered 'round please take heed.

Coming down, it all falls down.
trading this nightmare for a dream.
down on my knees eyes to sky,
carvings I read what do they mean?
I stare at the faces of passersby.

Coming down, it all falls down.
I'll move on to a place for only bards.
pushed 'n shoved idiots don't budge,
bang their gavels loud and hard.
people acting like a judge.

Coming down, it all falls down.
one day grins will turn to frowns.
hecklers claim seeds sowed,
in this clean shaven town.
no "X's" mark the spot or roads.

Coming down, it all falls down.
won't anybody put'em in place?
misplaced doubt and fear,
crooked smirk on face.
people stop and sneer.

Coming down, it all falls down.
you see won't rearrange?
that what you think
it never changes,
how can it be?
Ash Slade Jul 2018
thunder saw the eye of storm, it saw cutting
wind, hail crashing down hard. mud on streets,
snapped limbs swooped,
zig-zag bolted sky. slick night dash of cars.
things built of metal, left out turned to rust.
banging shutters tapping house like a drum, or
fingers scratching them like washboards in a
jug band.
listen to backdoor radio, jamboree of the night.
nighttime animal sounds on speaker, thunder
greeted broiling sky, lit-up like a firecracker
show. refuse flew in cloudless sky, rain
put out fire.crickets played fiddles in grass,
as wind blew panpipes. people heard nature's
chords as a eulogy to the snake-skin
of parted days.
Oct 2017 · 228
10/21/2017
Ash Slade Oct 2017
crows near barn    faded red    white stripe panes
scitter scatter    peck at grass
crunch leaves
coated floor    scavenging seeds
overhead like gold/red skyscrapers
angular    tall
declension
touches down
free fall
folks claim it's passed us by
it jostles senses
ramshackle deck    weak 'n worn    flimsy 'n haphazard
wobbly    uncertain    ***** on railing
fall into hands
dismantling of childhood
once was    no longer is
whistles blow crunchers onto old meeting place
furry Beanie Baby zips across pole
Oct 2017 · 258
Rambler's Blues
Ash Slade Oct 2017
hit the fields runnin'    check back
brother    sister
let me teach ya'll    how to act

don't wind up shunned    by the Pharisee crowd,
wave ****** flag cool    colors loud
don't hold    baited 'n hooked
people    push 'n shove

take another look    see **** ya'll do
to me    us    anyone
bicker clash

dustups    like jabs    at punchin' bags,
knock testament    down    inside gut
play rough    balance tough    ***** dumps

can't have    place on run    not planned or deliberate
desecration's child
dislodged    drabbletailed     'n wild

daemon/cacodemon sittin' on shoulder
presses down    like cinder blocks
reels 'n rocks

steps in avenue     make or break
waves goin' steady    backed down 'till now
up in face    utter stainin'
shakedown    beat down
daggers fly around

big shot judge 'n jury    rapid fire sea fury
shook up soda pop    foaming soft
cap off
slides down fast
slow to swallow    won't last
sweet things    arise 'n pass
Ash Slade Sep 2017
all that's gotten is seen
don't gauge I'm gonna flip-flop
I say it brusque
I'll furnish it bald
backers aren't closely precise
don't tell me no whoppers
I'm not gonna gnaw
biting
gut
deep-seated
babbles
bellow
people take it
they grasp
forecasts
drag down
fall
jolts me askew
people acting
like foremen
on top of
record breaking
packs
I'll put'em in their place
wipe cackled sneer
off face
go along
watchman
cover steps
handed over or granted
speeds quickly 'round
don't tell me how to sojourn
it'll hold up
zilch
so sort out
road
to trek down
walk warily
or you'll slip up
A work in progress. There's all types of brands, customers, and consumption.
Sep 2017 · 183
Harvest
Ash Slade Sep 2017
big road sign
pick'em from trees like giants
apple harvest
jack-o-lantern orange pumpkins
sweet fall cider
soft
crisp
crunch
sip
fire engine red
red on green
row upon row
apple pickers pick
fall
composting clay
autumn ambrosia
in a bite
pumpkins overflow
stacked
up
high
red barn store
wood
baskets
barrels
sweet
red paint
*****
snatched from
outstretched
witch's
hands
cajoling
their symmetry
is
like poisonous
snake
venom
pears
vegetables
root beer logs
peppermint pieces
paper sack
homemade
cookies
crumbly donuts
dusted in
snow
brown bag
packed
tight
like children bundled
for snow
piled in car
headed to cradle
About orchards in the fall. Small town charm.
Ash Slade Jul 2017
I come from where everyone knows
your name
Everybody acts the same
thinks the same
Doesn’t ever change.
I come from three schools where
there were no secrets
People knew it all.
Same old kids
recycled teachers
Year to year  
saw you at your best n' worse.
I come from school newspapers  n' voice discovery.
Hard to be honest in
country towns where critics aren't
Welcomed.
I come from fabric stained in
rebellion. Instilled by my parents
sowed in experience.
I come from past n' present
in a world that's so lost.
I'll only say it's worth any cost
to reconnect with roots.
Walk steps in my shoes
miles on this highway.
It might become clearer what your
willing to pay.
I come from needing to reform standards
from not wanting to be typecasted 'cause I'm small town America born n' bred.
I come from assumptions that I'm prejudiced
when I'm not.
From needing to figure out my place
inside n' beyond this isolated box
Where people are carbon copies.
Ash Slade Jul 2017
Small town America
Enemy n' friend
There's plenty I don't get.

People judge what isn't clear
It'd be nice not to care
It's hard to do when different is odd.

Originality is mocked 'n scorned by
folks who claim to know what's best.

Christianity's just some gimmick
When your heart ain't really in it
But I'm a sinner too I cannot judge.

Don't speak openly about taboo
Subjects lest wrath be invoked.
Problem is walls won't crumble till
They're spoke.

Open mind 'n willingness to compromise
Would be nice
Though I know it will not be.

Small town America
Home of conformity

Nonconformists be shunned
Get yourself set right or we'll send
You on the run.

Small town America
There's traits I like about you

Country roads
Peaceful breeze
Leaves upon tall trees.

Rubbing me wrong is how people treat
One another
Could be they think its normal
to have such kinds of morals.

Don't perceive this as an attack
I'm proud of my roots

It just gets me down
That folks around can be so
Mean.

Small town America
Don’t talk about differences
Everyone has to be identical to the next.

Stuff you leave behind picket fences
To be buried
Left unsaid
In small towns.
Jul 2017 · 259
Fragments caught up in wind
Ash Slade Jul 2017
Fragments caught up in wind
Aroused prayers of long, shifted spans
Went unheard
Deaf ears?
I wait here.
Pieces caught up in cyclone
Past shell of self
All I ask is no whitewash.
Roll on
Just roll on 'n on.
Splinters caught up in windstorm
Cloudburst breakdown
Chains cut loose
With your past make a truce.
Jul 2017 · 102
Cross On A Hill
Ash Slade Jul 2017
On top of road near Lakewood
Park
stands an old, tarnished
cross.
Takes fresh bent
to discern
if your sightless
I don't place blame
'cause you cannot see.
Fractured it can be made clear
Supreme omnipotence resides there.
I presume you've by no means surveyed
as you've went along
all that you affirm might be
askewed.
Jul 2017 · 168
Americana Revival
Ash Slade Jul 2017
Chisel black night cold as tarnished steel.
dandelion fuzz committed to wind
mingles with dirt.
Summer thunder boom
broken clay becomes chocolate milk
drencher residue.
Homespun tapestry
quiet streets
rust dented road signs.
Music blaring in cars going up/down country roads like highways.
Lawn mowers rev up buzzing
gasoline smell
non-stop going 'round
front back.
Refills pile up
cold ones
each one better than before
gotta keep cool.
Ice Cream Truck eases 'round bend
same old song again n' again
years well spent when we were young
setting in distant sun.
Ash Slade Jul 2017
Stares into cold --- black --- night
Stares into cold --- black --- night
Man with hollow eyes
Man with hollow eyes.

Stares into cold --- black --- night
Stares into cold --- black --- night
Lost his sight
Lost his sight.

Stares into cold --- black --- night
Stares into cold --- black --- night
Lines can't be drawn 'tween legitimate or false
Lines can't be drawn 'tween legitimate or false.

Stares into cold --- black --- night
Stares into cold --- black --- night
Cut off from facts
Cut off from facts.

Stares into cold --- black --- night
Stares into cold --- black --- night
Rejection of brokenness his handicap
Rejection of brokenness his handicap.
Jun 2017 · 98
6/24/2017---Bottle Cap #1
Ash Slade Jun 2017
Ridged edges
Popped off
Cold one.
Refuse of
single
Empty bottle
Lingers inside
Sitting ----
Awaiting ----
Degradation to set in.

Degradation to set in.
Awaiting ----
Sitting ----
Lingers inside
Empy bottle
Single
Refuse of
Cold one.
Popped off
Ridged edges.
I found a bottle cap in the parking lot of where I work.
Jun 2017 · 113
6/21/17#2/Preacher Man
Ash Slade Jun 2017
SUNDAY is a Preacher  Man
Walking hills n' plains
He walks towns n' cities too
Looking for to gain
Looking for to gain.

Filled up on the Holy Ghost
He gets what matters most
Saving souls that are lost
Willing to pay every cost.

SUNDAY is a Preacher Man
SUNDAY is a Preacher Man.

SUNDAY is a Preacher Man
Wears cloaks of night 'n day
Persist he does prevail he will
Don't think you can escape
Be careful of moves you make.

SUNDAY is a Preacher Man
SUNDAY is a Preacher Man.

Preacher Man done gone n'
Told me
Each man's got his vice.
If we could overcome'em it'd be
So nice.
Preacher Man warns not to think
Twice
Just to make wrong right.

SUNDAY is a Preacher Man
SUNDAY is a Preacher Man.

SUNDAY is a Preacher Man
Walking hills n' plains
He walks towns n' cities too
Looking for to gain
Looking for to gain.
Jun 2017 · 165
6-2-17#2
Ash Slade Jun 2017
Gray sky Connecticut day
Wet blacktop damp cement
Odor.
Every other day storm
Never stays away
Behind clouds somewhere.
No explanations
Unclear reasons
Each spring.
Slick roads
Puddle splash
People don't know how to drive in
This weather.
Once you've experienced it ----
You won't change it.
People wanna flock to the sunny coast
It's their choice
They'll come back
Connecticut's like a vortex.
Sinks you in it's trap
Just can't leave it
Behind.
If your from New England, you know the seasons.
Jun 2017 · 161
6-1-17 #2
Ash Slade Jun 2017
Tell it to me straight.
Spin me no fancy tales.
Let it come easily without
Stops
If it doesn't I'll accept it
Don't change it to
Fit your plans.
Move on
Let it be
Don't sow seeds of disharmony
Let it be.
Tell it to me straight.
Don't tie fancy ribbons 'round
I don't care if ***** messy
Naturally speak.
I request honesty
Please give that to me.
That being said ----
I understand if you cannot
Just don't lure
Me
With false hope.
Let it go
Let it go
Move on.
Does truth even exist Anymore? If so, what is It?
Jun 2017 · 145
6-1-17
Ash Slade Jun 2017
Don't ask questions
I don't have answers to.
You'll only get silence if you do.
If that's the game you want to play
---- go ahead I won't stop you
Just be careful how you go.
Every risk you take
Each move you make is
Your own
No one else's.
Games of chance, choice
That's life
Doesn't pay to fight alright.
Form your own interpretations.
Ash Slade Jan 2017
closed eyes


raw
silence.


listening to wails
within. burdened
load,
identity queries


weigh upon
crushed back -


like sacks of heavy rocks.


each pound representing
foreign parts of me.


fragmented splinters

stand apart

from whole.


like white blankets
piled up,


black chalkboard

paved clear,


heaviness is lifted.


inhaling hesitantly
redemptive breaths


exhaling slowly wanting
to hold on.


responding willingly,


these cries show me what I am.


black piece of coal


among polished
diamonds -


you can actually see me


from within
to my surface.


unrefined,
unpolished


am I. am I. am I.
I took a deep breath and listened to the old bray of my heart. I am. I am. I am."

Sylvia Plath
Sep 2016 · 744
Autumn Nights Spent Gazing
Ash Slade Sep 2016
On an autumn night, I gazed out my window,
    fixing my sight on a star stenciled abyss-
wondering if prayers flew, how high they'd go
    or if they could even reach loved ones I miss.


Fixing my sight on a star stenciled abyss-
    Searching night's stillness, seeking answers,
or even if they could reach loved ones I miss.
    Lights sparkling, are twilight's angel dancers.


Searching night's stillness, seeking answers,
      wondering if prayers flew, how high they'd go.
Lights sparkling, are twilight's angel dancers.
      On an autumn night, I gazed out my window
A Pantoum.

I challenge anyone who looks at this poem to two things.

First, leave a comment. It can be good, bad, constructive, whatever...Just offer something.

Second, attempt to write a Pantoum and share it on your profile and send me a link.

How To Write One
http://www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/wip/pantoum.html
Ash Slade Sep 2016
This place is haunted-
a narrative being told.
Spoken from elder's lips,
passed down rungs of time-
it's more than just a customary legend.

Those with nerve,
are able to travel up-
a crooked, spiral staircase.
Cracked wooden steps,
creak as footsteps ascend
and descend them. Some people
are so weak-stomached-
they fall backwards down
those rickety stairs.

A hutch upstairs-
in cobwebbed hallways,
contains padlocked secrets
of departed eras. Steadier hands-
can play with fire, attempting to push up-
it's entrance.
Their hands are inclined to be
unsteady.

Only those with their sense in check-
should venture up to this home
of "Attic Ghosts." A person must know
what's in store-
prior to freeing those haunted
wanderers. They're known to be tricky,
keeping people on their toes
in tizzies. They're not crummy,
just aiming to give you-
willie nillies.

Let this be a warning-
people who make this trek
might not see morning.
Scared straight out of their skins-
petrified from within,
at things they can't and shouldn't
understand.
Sep 2016 · 188
Autumn's Arrival
Ash Slade Sep 2016
Travels through your bones-
first slowly, then builds up a steadier momentum.

At instances, striking when least expected,
overcoming people as they adapt to the conversion
of seasons.

Shifting from very hot, to a bitter chill,
eventually stepping into a cozy fall breeze.

Absolute balance between, supple winds,
and contented warmness.



Crows cawing, squawking,
uninterrupted-

perched upon black tightropes connecting wooden poles,
that are their homes. Gliding through New England air,

swooping down-
scavenging brown earth in pursuance of nourishment.

Raisin' a ruckus, as sunrise's alarm clock, awakening
us to day's dawning.



Evening enters the scene-

skies with the bluest glow,
encompass our yard with warm
embraces.

Chirping of crickets comes through
screen,

a choir with harmonies so rich,

their melodies sooth the night-
with lullabies writ by nature's own hand.



Ever increasing twilight as daylight fades into night,
blankets tallest trees-

with a soot-colored quilt-

provoking nighttime's celestial sphere,
to appear more rapidly.



As blue converts to darkness,
I'm reassured by a fuzzy green blanket,

wearing an older sweatshirt
with an eagle and town signature on it,

that once belonged to my father.



Autumn nightfall-

unfolds like a prayer,
at each day's close.



Season of serenity,
caressing evening and day.
Sep 2016 · 561
Autumn Rains
Ash Slade Sep 2016
I stepped into autumn rain-

it was cold as it wet my feet
near a rusted black mailbox.

Walking a cracked and weather-beaten driveway,
bent down-
smelled odors of dampened pavement.

Fragrances of autumn when rain showers or pours,
reflect stark distinctions-
from when the weather is warm and dry.

Can't stop wondering, if we're headed toward
a rainy season. That wouldn't bother me as long as
rain-
pattering on surfaces of gray and
blackened asphalt roads and country drives,
spoke of new beginnings-
through observant eyes.

Rain on green grass-
cultivates an aroma of roots and earth.

Pounding down-
picking up steadier momentum,
as it splatters ground.

Soil christened,
by millions of clear teardrops-
streaking faces of clouds above,

rolling down-
refreshing and purifying
deepest roots, buried in dirt.

Everything appears so fresh-
seasons of reinvention,
on the surface of sidewalks and blacktops

represent-
slates wiped clean.

I breathe in-
this autumn air, surrendering
sighs of relief-
as I ponder deliberate ruminations

while listening to autumn rains.
Aug 2016 · 233
Snapshot 8-18-16
Ash Slade Aug 2016
Old wheelbarrow.
abandoned near woods.
lying on straw and dirt;
rusted and tarnished, used to carry
soil and bricks; colors faded
retired.
resting uneven,
is it only destined to waste away with rolling
years, has it served its purpose?

Rolling snapshots of memories allude to junctures of childhood.

Yelling with glee,  we went, my sister and me
as it advanced down the hill!

Sometimes just me with dad,
pushing me in the barrow
around the yard, under the tree in the summer breeze, followed by a hug and an ice tea.

These memories, I cherish; links to
the past. cherished reflections

Faded into obsolescence. a period of easiness,
that implied simplicity; now a simple snapshot of a thought.
Aug 2016 · 308
[ Walking an uneven road, ]
Ash Slade Aug 2016
Walking an uneven road,
carrying a heavy load.
With no place for repose-
or spot to unload.

My mind writes an ode
to open spaces and rain.
For seeds, we haven't sowed,
and links of time like chains.

Feet planted in soil, l left unplowed.
the earth beneath us, rough, rugged-
tears drops fall from thunder-clouds.
pouring from- an emptying bucket.

Like memories fade away,
as metal turns to brownish rust.
The past like boulders weighs
upon me, reminders of broken trust.

— The End —