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

Meet me in
the morrow
lands as light
entwines and
weaves,
we’ll watch the
bronze sceptre
of the trees.

Take my hand
through autumn;
waltz amongst
the falling
leaves,
dance with me
a while up-
-on the breeze.

Count with me
the steps as
we, dance our
whole lives through …

“One - two - three
Two - two - three
Three - two - three”

  … and I’ll fall,
in love with
        you.

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

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

I've waited for you
to confront me and
I've been plain as a
pine board; I am warping.
Stick me up
straight and return
those favors.

You haven't seen my collage
in this little green book,
I speak all things, true as
spring.

Perhaps you are waiting
when the buds are sitting
on the tree and kiss the
air,
And perhaps I can breath better
and confront you: love and affection
gleaming in my eye.

Instead of the way I walked to
my duties, nonchalantly, handing
this green book to you,
but, I should have smiled towards you;
encourage the renaissance
of truth and the affectation
my mind has upon you.