Autumn sips from Winters cup
Swallowing deeply of the breeze
Last leaf trembling has had enough
Releasing itself from yonder trees

Expelled upon the bleaching earth
It's colour is an obscene attractant
To note that which will die at birth
Bleeds into pale as its exactment

It screams 'oh colour me red/gold from death
to succour barren earth in the hours I dream
return my memories before I was colourless
until once again, my true colours  are seen

Adventuress my life comes,  with a price
Courageously I recolour a score more than thrice

It's not the fact that
everytime I open Hello Poetry
I have to open a new tab
on my computer screen
to a dictionary
No Sirree

It's not the fact that
I come back to read them
Six, Seven, infinity times
and always wonder
Could that be me?
They are sooo easy
(of course it's me)

It's not the fact that
He makes me think thoughts
that should have been sleeping
throughout my whole human phase
bringing up ideas that are better left
when we are prepared to retire
to the stars, I think he's part Mage

It's not his witticism, completely admired
It's not his heroism, completely tried
It's not his ability to not be able to deflect
It's his ability to be able to unashamedly connect

But no one will ever hate you for that... if there is anyone here who can't understand the same, don't hate the player, hate the game

I watched a video once
about a song competition
Where artists were invited
to send their masterpieces in
The winner to be recorded
for eternal prosperity
because even if the world
Hated it, it would still be out there

Obviously in this technical age
many online videos arrived
what they didn't expect was the envelope
that cost less then a dollar to mail
it held their interest without fail

Fred was 94 years old
and he'd written a song
for his wife, his sweet Lorraine
neatly hand written and mailed
he had nothing he wanted to gain
Just to tell these people
of his sweet Lorraine

75 years they shared a love
that would most of us shame
the year of the the competition
He lost his sweet Lorraine
and even though he couldn't compare
to the incredible musical talent out there
The music studio visited Fred
and said
We also love your sweet Lorraine
and we want her to live, for you, again

And they wrote the music to Fred's words
and sat with him as he listened
as his old heavy eyes glistened
he just nodded and said
Yep

What makes me cry
is this emotion called Love
While joyous moments are undeniable
the lows must be spoken of
I'm more afraid than ever
of the deep abiding Love
I share with other half of my soul
the one who truly knows me
the only one that will really care
Then when I go before him
his heart will shatter
but Love will still beat
with nobody left to share it with
and only memories in retreat

So yeah, Love makes me sad, makes me cry and I'll always be afraid of it, even as I own it

At the end of seven minutes
What will remain?
Hopefully not
an empty page
I'll test these glorious minutes
as if the end if my soul
is nigh
and try
To live to the fullest
I leave with a dry eye
an burbling well
of unused thoughts
a special little piece
of me
That I never thought
I could wrap with any sort
of decorum
Leaving it under the seat
of a well trafficked forum
Just a little surprise
to light someone's eyes
Just a tiny thought
plucked from so many
*Desire the world
claim your own little part
insider your heart
and never let any
deny your pleasure
For what we all treasure
is something that lives
inside us that is our very own
Our own little piece of the world
Where we can be some one

Steel bites, nips with pain
Ruby tears spill, painting eyes
silver, like cold rain

10W
did you feel them?
those words that are mine?

Haiku
did they kiss your lips?
or simply drift behind eyes
that missed fingertips

Acrostic
Ten thousand emotions
Held in my heart
And yet, they depart
Never to just sit all alone
Kindness will repay

Yawning is the cavity
Of  split open feelings
Under fragile skin
*Please stay..,

Freestyle
Nobody knows where they are going, they just pretend as they look forward that they have a destination in mind, only to find, they've come full circle, back to where they began and then, they just start again
They cry for what's lost on the path, it fell out of their pocket, somewhere along the way but, the wonder of the Circle is,  it has no end, they can pick it up again, someday....

it's not worth
dropping angst
over the edge
of the ravine
just so the troll
can feed
they hide under bushes
and tickle snakes bellies
for a reason
because once
they were
The Captain
of their own ship
but couldn't steer past
the rocks of their own
****
now laying deep
as rusty bones
of their own ignorance
of the lighthouse
The just want to haunt
another house
Like anything starved
it will just whither
and die
Feeding the troll
gives it good eating
Hold onto your
success, so fleeting
just cross the bridge
and let it be buried
beneath its own lies