Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Dec 2013
This was written a few Septembers ago.  Walking on the streets of a now deserted beach island, only the leaves, in various states, to keep me company.

September,
walk with me,
under bridges of wedding tree canopies,
still green aplenty,
tho subtle marked for change,
making summer illusions,
environmentally unsustainable.

September,
stroll on pathways
of lesser, off the track, shaded lanes,
the sun blocker trees wear new necklaces,
brown and yellow diamonds,
a coming attraction of
their denouement,
their denudement.

The September trees are:

Ever so slightly stooped,
bent with weight of a surety,
knowing with high certainty,
their future, bleak,
bowed and drooped,
discouraged by the
cold travails soon to arrive.

Living in the recent past,
I am dressed inappropriately,
white tee and shorts,
past pretender,
still dressed in my
Gap issue summer uniform,
summer suspended animation.

Island streets are de-humanized,
gone home are the children,
newly fallen leaves have,
their place, taken.

The leaves are:

magically organized along
the sidelines of empty streets,
quiet stadiums of would be
kid's touch football fields.  

browned, crisp and soulless,
first greet this solitary stroller,
like a cheering throng of ghosts,
celebrating a sighting -
man, as a seasonal fossil,
one that still is living
and worth reminding, yet
human too shall pass when
his fall arrives.

the leave's cheers make over
into jeers and mocking laughs:

Oh humans, they say,
your summer songs naive,
mais tres charmant.

On Crescent Beach,
the driftwood sadly forlorn,
looking more adrift than ever,
for no one passes to express
admiration at the past seasons
Nouveau Expressionism,
an objet d'art lonely,
for the beach gallery shuttered,  
raising questions existential.

Is driftwood on the beach sans
human admiration,
art, truth or refuse?

I am looking backwards as the
Earth moves forward.

My own axis, my eyes,
conscientious objectors
refuse to be pressed
into service of the seasons.

No, no,
to involuntary servitude,
to rotation and revolution.

Nature's witnesses,
trees and leaves write
their own poem,
of foolish men who:

Bow and droop,
discouraged by the
travails soon to arrive,

Delaying their own fall,
finally shed summer delusions
like leaves upon the ground,
summer poetry silenced,
summer suspended, no more.
an old summer~fall poem, revived, out of season, like me. See August 25
I am a Summer-Man
Nat Lipstadt
Written by
Nat Lipstadt
Please log in to view and add comments on poems