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Jurtin Albine Nov 2018
(And I've been picking dandelions)

The rush of wind chases a wayward cloud
Over the foliage's luscious green mounds
It billows on its good fortune allowed
Feeding flowers leave stock's
roots underground

Petals bloom; centered bud's pollinations
The sun burdens and caresses at once
The bumble lost its edge to pollutants
Overcome in the tepid meadows grace

The seasons start to grow long and narrow
Encompassing the changing of our times
within their altering breadths; to and fro
It's shown upon the rocks face's in tides

She's beauty, ruffling with sents of sweet dew
And in her pluck, spring has become renewed
cypress Nov 2018
some classify
while others
disagree

the decision to root
this thorn of chance
may sadly,
worm the systems

grotesque foliage
will enter through
near-dead

if one begins to fail badly
destroy
and discard
Maxim Keyfman Jul 2018
white foliage
white trees
white day
and the clock goes on
and the clock goes on
and death on the way

white sun
white rain
white night
and the clock goes on
and the clock goes on
and the darkness is on the way

it's not too far
it's not too far
to live a poet
it's not too far
it's not too far
he can see it all

and the clock goes on
and the clock goes on
and the darkness is on the way
and the clock goes on
and the clock goes on
and death on the threshold

12.07.18
Wellspring Sep 2017
I looked out upon the green meadows,
Glistening with fresh morning dew.

I took a deep breath,
The cold air filling my stale lungs.

I felt the grass under my feet,
Soft and swaying as I walked through it.

I moved towards the mysterious woods,
Dark and foreboding in all its' majesty.

I drifted between the trees,
Ancient history surrounding me completely.

I moved to the spring in the center,
A glimmering pool of hope, sunlight carefully caressing the surface.

I looked up into the dense foliage,
The leaves blotting out almost every bit of sun...

I looked up from the book I was reading, thinking;
'That was beautifully written, and beautifully thought.'
Eh... Bored and my nose is stuffing up...
Ma Cherie Sep 2016
I am painting word pictures today
tasting hot incoming Autumn  breezes
transforming splendor
dreary rain filled moments pass
bidding adieu
and welcome my rustic bamboo
fare thee well to Summer's sun
now in this Burning September

Entrancing
as the
dancing trees
in changing multicolored hues...
skies of crystal clear blue
cut outs of rolling hillsides
and lush Green mountains
in that endless and seamless quilt
sheltering the storms

My eyes are drawn
past the still lively green leaves
as the burning umber
and cardinal tipped ones
radiating
hat tipped
as chlorophyll ...
choking the beauty outward
from the petiole
like greedy verdant fingers...
the palm of my hand
I linger ...a moment
they wave in soft winds
...and I wave back

I remember
old-time Vermonters
like my Father
didn't care for the Sumac trees
thought perhaps a ****
only beautiful to look at
& they are so very lovely

These happy helpers
say hello to Fall
stick around
when everything else
already brown
holding down
needy dry hillsides
from erosion
growing fast and tall
turning into thickets...
for woodland critters
providing borders
unsung heroes beckon
along railroads,
highways ,
pastured Meadows
and Orchard edges
these beauties...
never really go away.

A harvesting moon
giving seasons
  five months
from the time
the leaves fall off
until they grow back
in the spring time
  serrated leafy knives
cut into the sky
a bittersweet
and bashful goodbye
sighing...
to drunken apples
and their dropping dried leafy friends

Surprisingly scrumptious
providing
we are foraging and gleaning
I make a lovely citrusy
sour and fruity tea
like wild cranberry juice...
imaging the Joy
inviting clusters of crimson know

Providing more than food
for winged ones
a sugar depository
loaded with antioxidants &
spreading sunshine
in darker months

Attracting  lovely colorful winter birds
my winsome friends
seed eaters
small singing kindred spirts...
tempted by seeds pods
of the Staghorn Sumac
and remaining wildflowers
bursting like burgundy globes
scarlet and brick reds
mellow yellows
  turning burning
blazing bright oranges
as the seasonal butterfly dreams
unfolding it's summertime schemes
right before my wondering eyes

  European and English
Gardens know
varieties
I can only close my eyes to see
accentuating loose,
textured landscapes
stunning gardens
& fern-like cousins
across the world
A Middle Eastern grind
of this crimson spice
from those crushed dried drupes
while they prepare rice for dinner

I so appreciate
what a gift we have to share
time is running short before
as told to me in times of yore
we brace as one for Winter's Bone
though I am not alone
Vermont it is my earthly home
all I really want to say
thanks for sharing with me  ...
on this perfect picturesque
Vermont September day.

Cherie Nolan © 2016
Changed Title- my apologies.
I miss my father every single day but I was certainly glad to see him in the Sumac trees... I am certain he is watching now consoling my heart as I bid adieu to the days of summer.
Knit Personality Aug 2016
Another yellow leaf,
   Another red,
Descends like grief on grief.
Another yellow leaf
Descends like disbelief.
   Descends o'erhead
Another yellow leaf,
   Another red.
Viji Suresh May 2016
Another shore,  another age
I walked those sands, searching...
Some shells,  some foliage,
I ran at the waves rushing.

Beyond the third white wave,
Curled against the fourth...
The brittle crab shell swayed,
Bobbled,  speeding forth...

My heel firm and grounded
The waves raised with a crisp honk..
The catamaran,  I spotted,
On the wall, seated a white conch...

Staring at the conch, I dreamed,
My fingers traced the tiny lines...
The lines circled edging for release,
I placed it near my ear,  it whined...

The song of another shore,  another age
I hear you now,  calling me
I hear clearly,  my voice interlaced
I stand here,  it's you I feel...

Looked up at the sky,
Looked at the sand,
Looked side ways,
Looked beyond...

Without a clue,  where to move,
I followed your voice from inside,
Another year,  another month,  or forever,
But,  one day we will meet,  soon enough

This day we will recite those lines,
For another shore,  another age,
Your words will still beckon,
I will follow your words,  till there is no return.
JR Rhine Dec 2015
I am a tree in Fall.
I stand still and watch my memories change
Color in the cool weather.

I feel them
Growing weaker
And weaker.

I begin to forget them
As they shrivel up,
Detach and are whisked away by the wind.

Their fate lies crushed under thick boots, once
Dancing like frogs in the luminous headlights
Across the ancient highway.

Forgotten.
No longer pestiferous in their existence,
floating on like abandoned enigmas.

Odious infernal vagabonds, tramps  
Camping outside the windows of my mind
Parading pitiful parasites.

Praying away they are swept
Like a room unkempt
At least lock the door so to forget.

The wind remembers.

Carrying their corpses to the world unknown
Ambiguity in promised eternal rest
Frondescent purgatory.

The wind, leaning in close
To hear their last words
Icy dread bequeathing an autumn chill.

She laid them down morosely,
Kissing their forehead,
Quickly turning on its way.

The leaves struggled to follow their stricken vessel,
Tossing and turning in its wake
But they were already forgotten.

By the boots, the wind,
the lights, the highway,
And I.

I look forward to the days of frozen landscapes,
Anonymity in the wake of omitted identity
Superseding a fragile existence.

Closing my eyes I shudder
As the wind seeks to rectify me
Into the uninterrupted blank slate.

A prepared cringe, a response
To impending sobbing at my feet,
Antiquities now quite bothersome.

Like a lost child,
They beg to be cooed and nurtured,
Loved and cherished.

I continue to look ahead,
Ignoring their presence like vexing strangers.
I hear their souls cry out in anguish

As they are tossed by the unwary wind
Bashed into rancorous rocks
Drowned in the rapacious rivers

Crunched under bellicose boots
Burned with their brothers and sisters
Stabbed, scattered,

Chewed and vilely spit out
By the grating teeth of a ravenous
And frightening creature,

Held on a wooden leash by a pair of coarse hands
That float above the thick boots;
They sift between its sharpened fangs.

The days grow colder.
Histories are soon forgotten,
As time begins to slow.

Shedding any remaining sense of self
I am at peace with my surroundings
I close my eyes and take deeper breaths.

The wind's frigid breath fills my lungs
My chest, my stomach;
It resonates through my body

Down to my feet so entrenched in the earth
And up through my outstretched arms
To the tips of my icy fingers.

As I begin to freeze over
I feel that I am about to take
My last breath.

I draw in the cool air around me;
It fills me.
I hold it in.

I am growing still.
There is nothing to hold me back
No past to regret.

There is no present to seek
No journey or quest
No first step or new chapter.

There is no future
For the moment
For time is standing still.

With my eyes closed,
With my last breath held,
The wind and time envelop me.

In their arctic clutch
I succumb to the vast white emptiness
With joy and peace

In my heart.
Time has stood still
And I am asleep.
I must have a slight obsession with foliage.
kris evans May 2014
autumn is not all about fallen leaves.......
its about leaves clad in satin red.........
its about logs  wearing mushroom hats......
its about a caterpillar flying as a butterfly......
just as love is not about losing your self .......
its about gaining someone who found you..........

— The End —