in a darkened, smoky room getting lost amongst the swell third eye spies my walking doom an angel, staring straight from hell black eyeliner, matching attire Designer, destined to set souls on fire destination heaven no designated driver begging for attention I had to feed the pyre
she enjoys the tension in it for the chase I'm here on propension could be any race like a Disney princess twice the grit and charm every piece a twin set she takes me by the arm tells me I should drink this hands me something fizzy I downed it in an instant started to get dizzy
and I can't remember what she said her name was something like November.. Erica.. Blair .. uhh. . as her face was melting she told me to sit down but the stool kept bending and I'm on the wood now she's bent over double tried to pick me up but I'm seeing double I might be in trouble
battle with the stairwell I had to hold her hand asked her what she did, she said you wouldn't understand I asked again, that was when she let go of my hand small miracle I didn't fall 'cause I could barely stand somehow made it to the back seat asked her where we're going she just closed the door and said you're better off not knowing
Grief arrives like a mist across the fields. Bees brave the morning chill to work the last of the marjoram. The suprise swallow nest, above the shop door, is empty. There's a metal taste in my mouth. It's like the tea I used to get from the Friends stall at my local hospital. Left. Over-stewed. Late Summer throws her gifts at us with outrageous generosity. Plenty beyond reason Harvest beyond measure.
In the Oriental medicine tradition, Autumn is the season most associated with the element if Metal. Late Summer is associated with the element of Earth.
And if I grow, the harvest will be mine and only mine Because I am my own and you are yours.
The soil does not reap the rewards of the roots which brought forth spring bloom nor autumn crop. The cloud which carried rainfall does not demand praise for the leaves it fed. The sun does seek praise for the flower its rays coaxed heavenward And you will not take credit for my soul and it’s abundance. That is between me and my creator.
With bated breaths We exhale into crisp days Cinnamon scented winds Will carry tidings of cozy nights As the trees drape themselves In silks of red and gold, Beacons in the foggy nights, Wearing their best attire In celebration of the harvest moon
Humihikab na naman ang kalawakan, Natutulog ang mga bituing Patay-sindi kung magparamdam. At ang bagong-gising na buwan ay sumisigaw Na parang mga pinag-samasamang alikabok At syang isinaboy sa garapon ng buhay.
Kusang nagtutuklapan ang mga nakahilerang pader Na pinino na parang mga buhangin sa dalampasigan. Habang paisa-isang nagbabato ng galit Ang mitikolosong likido na tumataboy Sa mga ekstranghero ng sanlibutan.
Nagsisimula na ring gumapang ang pananim Na ang binhi'y hiningahan ng kariktan. At sa malalambot na mga ulap Ay magtatapat ito ng kanyang paghanga.
Hinahawi na parang mga bagong pitas na rosas sa hardin Ang bawat bungang muling ihahasik sa pagsapit ng dilim. At sa ikalawang pagbangon ng binhing pinagmulan ng lahat Ay masasaksihan ng bawat nilalang Ang sinasabi nitong liwanag na bubulag sa lahat.
Let October’s fool fall With the autumn dusk; A cornfield tatterdemalion With terrible teeth And broomstick hands. High on the hill, Encircled by dancing children And harvest lovers, Jack’s pumpkin blazes As yellow as prairie gold Under the ghostly lantern moon.
A belated Halloween experiment - partially reconstituted poetry. More dilute and less tasty than its CS inspiration. ;)
‘I spot the hills With yellow ***** in autumn. I light the prairie cornfields Orange and tawny gold clusters And I am called pumpkins. On the last of October When dusk is fallen Children join hands And circle round me Singing ghost songs And love to the harvest moon; I am a jack-o'-lantern With terrible teeth And the children know I am fooling.’ - Carl Sandburg, Theme in Yellow
As plaintive tones from a distant flute drifted across the mesa valley the sun over Spruce Tree House began its descent toward dusk.
Above the courtyard, Anasazi masons plaster-sealed the final stones on the great cylindrical tower. Collisions of mano and metate echoed across the canyon as women crushed dried kernals into cornmeal. Others hummed as their skilled hands brushed thin black patterns onto scores of newly crafted bowls and jars.
A young girl rushed up a ladder to announce her brothers' return from ripe mesa top fields, carrying baskets of fresh cut corn, squash and beans on their backs.
A summer of nourishing rain promised that storage cists would be stocked well with food for the arduous winter ahead and seed for the vernal plantings.
Dusk fell on Spruce Tree plaza as rich aromas of venison and fresh baked flatbread suffused the crisp October air.
Anasazi is the fourth poem in a cycle called Echoes from Colorado.