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Aimée Oct 17
Orange, brown leaves,
Fall & sway down from branches on trees,
Everybody wrapped up in their cozy warm sweater & coats,
Sipping on warm coffee & tea.
The sweater weather's here behold,
And summers clothes we start to put away & fold.
We notice spooky decorations already down some streets,
And some of them would give you the creeps,
If you dare,
come take a peek.
MetaVerse Sep 21
Wither the flowers
     In country lanes
As Autumn lours.
Wither the flowers
And daylight hours.
     As Summer wanes,
Wither the flowers
     In country lanes.
forgotten are
those bright
autumnal colours
of the freshly fallen
no longer able
to offer
a crisp rustling
with each step
a whisper that
invites child
and adult alike
to kick
   and shuffle
playfully
ignoring the bite
of frost
unwelcomed
by noses
and fingertips

those downbeat leaves
lately of such
seasonal delight
have been rejected
by bough
   and branch
drifting meekly
without protest
or wrenched
from arboreal familiarity
by gusting wind
or gloved hand
turned to mulch
by constant downpours
muddily trodden upon
without second thought
clinging to any
passing boot
trainer or shoe
only to be scraped
and scuffed
on pavement
   or curb
stomped in a puddle
left behind
eva-mae coffey Oct 2020
there is something so very Soft,
about you.
Something cinnamon,
soothing and sweet.
Something woolen,
something warming,
something very Soft about you.
Jennifer Oct 2020
dark’s peering into day,
wonder when the dew’ll lay;
time’s slowed as skies turn static,
least the hours are less erratic.
orange lamps glow
outside a misted window;
earthy rain’s falling hard
but fire’s lit and sky is starred.
sometimes mist deceives the eyes:
seen silent figures’ quick demise.
ocean spits over the pier,
almost as grey as the Wear;
lighthouse shines it’s steely beam,
illuminating the horizon’s seam.
heaven’s sealed with wrought dull iron,
far away seems unearthly Zion;
harvest moon’s not as vague:
illuminating an eight-legged plague.
crows spectate above and below,
you’d be surprised what they know;
change leers at every bend,
nostalgia seems an only friend.
the veil is thinner than before,
perhaps open is another door;
harvest season’s coming to an end,
fields of Elysium this way wend.
Translated by Przemyslaw Musialowski 7/20/2018

Look! - white petals, like the first snow,
like a holiday linen tablecloths.
I? - I remember those holidays:
warm shadows of candles, you put on the table,
and the puff of breath in disarray,
entertains with the play of colors, and from feathers... sizzles.

Look! - from smoke I plait this poem short:
for fogs over an autumn meadow
with heathers strewn and drowsy,
for stubbles, fields and forests - in honor - of bards!
I? - I know they're hardly rustling
the strophes of simple words... And you? - you weave sorrows!

Wieslaw Musialowski 6/19/2002
Friends, I am asking for your understanding, because all my translations must be proofread and corrected. Poems are hard to translate (even in free verse translations). The original is rhymed. Regards.
A Simillacrum Oct 2018
Pay green.
All that you've seen
      this      year.
To come. . .
What's to come?
To come. . .

Got black?
Pay black.

Not black?
Get black.

Pay green.
All that you've ever
      seen      or   ever      will   see.
To come. . .
What's to come?
To come. . .

Indication. I'm a bad itch.
I'm worse than that --
I'm deliberate in
the gears that I turn,
year after year.

I'm a depressive *****
in a dark descent
from the spring spearmint
to an autumnal orange,
set in a somber sky,
to a familiar black.
1.
Summer chauvinist,

autumnal aspirations

moments warmest


2.
Present celebrations

No supremacy

Only admirations


3.
No constant lies

oft healthy life


4.
Love exists

If our heart insists.



© Sylvia Frances Chan
Copyright Protected
AD. Wednesday the 17th January 2018.
@ 18.41 hrs P.M. West-European Time
Zoë Bestel Jan 2015
porridge with syrup
duvets & long lies
crime novels, tea steam
she sleeps as the leaves die
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