Ancient mysteries
beg to be revealed,
but solemn vows
delay the revelation.
Down darkened
   hallyways
silence reigns;
initiates tremble
foreseeing the pain
   to come.
Candles glow in
   hidden chambers --
hoods hide faces
rapt with secrecy.
And now, a solitary bell
sounds out the hour, as if
confirming what should
and should not be told.
A stone. A gem.
And burnished golden pieces.
A chalis to drink in
the waiting words.
Ancient mysteries --
sacred transfirgurations --
need new blood
to withstand time
   and eternity.

Old soldiers
never die, they say --
but young ones do.
Wars rage on --
Man following
some ancient instinct.
Fight or flight,
and we won't be
the ones who turn tail
   and run.
Combat quickens
a Nation's soul.
The years pass,
the years pass....
Old soldiers
never die, they say --
but young ones do,
but young ones do.

The night rained on,
memories overcame
the night.
Heavy sighs
waited to be heard,
deep in the shadows.
Voices, nearly recognized,
filtered in and out
of the dark, slick leaves...
'Time before' flooded this realm --
hearts broken, mended,
then destroyed...
carried the memories
of love, love lost,
and never found..
A streetlamp's aura
displayed what
   was known;
glistening ghosts lingered,
beckoning through
the endless hours --
and I remembered
the touch of
   your hand.

The firelight casts
   an amber glow --
reflecting this amber season.
Acorn garlands hang
   with ease;
bowls of walnuts
waiting to be shelled.
Pumpkins brighten nooks--
vases filled with
   silver maple
dispel any gloomy nitch.
Apples wait to be baked
and pomegrantes
are a perfect display.
Dogs sleep by the
   hearth,
dreaming dog-dreams
of running through
   the fallen leaves --
while I make a wreath
of last summer's blooms
   gone to seed
and bittersweet vines,
their vibrant berries
   aglow.
Through the window
I gaze at the Autumn sunset:
tawny gold, pink-tinged peach
and pale blue-grey.
The air outside is chilled
a hint of Winter's cold
   to come.
But hearth and home
    are warm,
embracing this season's gentility.

My Autumn is so bittersweet.
The bee will rest soon;
songbirds fly south.

The beetle's work is done.

Thistle blooms have gone to seed
     and butterflies
have left the milkweed behind.

I stand among the costumed trees
and celebrate their colors,
   counting time.

The year is coming to a close:
Nature's cycle nears completion.

How sweetly sad for the
   days to pass...
summer's exuberance gave way;
winter's sleep is not far off.

Autumn's paintbrush
will begin to fade --
the bee will rest soon,
the songbirds fly south.

We heard the hum
of the flies first
on this deathscape,
this new home of ours.
And then we saw
the corpses of our
     souls.
We were judge
     and jury,
delivering a long,
mean sentence ...
better yet to feel
the executioner's
     gentle touch ...
but kindness was killed --
the ****** we first
     committed.
There is no forgiveness --
mercy was lost
     to the day.
But the flies,
they came first,
finding death with
     uncanny instinct.
No going back now;
no outstretched angel wings...
only the flies,
the incessant hum
     of the flies.

I sit and watch
the season pass --
the swallows
have flown south.
Sparrows huddle
in the trees,
waiting to be fed.
The leaves have
     begun to turn --
acorns litter the ground.
All the colors:
the yellow willow,
the orange maple,
     verging pink.
The browns and
     purples,
surround me now.
The mighty elm,
Autumn's last sentinel,
stands tall, baiting
Winter with its chill.
Soon bare branches,
     skeleton trees,
will haunt the skyline
and pine-cones will fall
with any sudden
     wind.
Soon I'll bundle
against the cold,
trudging through the
     snow,
waiting for daffodils
and Spring's delights.