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Can we linger here
For a while
Laying in bed
And listening to the rain song
On the roof?

The comforter a shield
From the sharp cold around us
And the smell of old books
Wafting through the air
The falling leaves a jigsaw
We can put together
In shades of red

I’ll bring you apple cider
-your favorite fall drink
While I’ll have something
Probably with a tinge of pumpkin spice

When the sun goes to rest
And the rain carries on
We’ll drift off on the melody
Of the ever changing chorus
Above us

It’s lovely
To lay here
With you
It was Morley’s idea, originally.

Well—technically—it was her idea. She was the one who suggested it. She’d read about the pumpkin festival in The Neighbourhood Weekly, which Dave always said was less journalism and more passive-aggressive scrapbooking. There was a coupon for kettle corn and a blurry photo of last year’s pumpkin queen.

“They’ve got a corn maze,” she said, circling the date on the fridge calendar with the kind of enthusiasm she usually reserved for yoga passes or tax rebates. “And there’s a trebuchet!”

That was the moment Dave perked up.
“A trebuchet?”
“A pumpkin trebuchet,” said Morley.
Dave’s eyebrows shot up like they were trying to escape his forehead. “Why didn’t you lead with that?”

You see, Dave had a theory. He believed that nothing—nothing—bonded a father and son more than launching something across a field using medieval warfare technology.
“Other than blowing things up, shooting things, or fishing,” he said.
Sam, his teenage son, didn’t look up from his phone, but nodded just enough to endorse the theory.

So the plan was made. Saturday. The whole family. The pumpkin festival.

Now, Dave has a history with autumn.
More specifically, he has a history with pumpkin-related injuries.
There was the Great Carving Debacle of 2003, when he tried to recreate the face of Elvis on a jack-o'-lantern using only a melon baller and a paring knife. That one ended with four stitches and a pumpkin that looked like it had seen things it could never unsee.

Then there was the incident with the gourd bongos. But we don’t talk about that.

So when Dave said, “Let’s carve a family pumpkin this year!”
Morley, already tying her scarf, just said, “Only if we carve it after we visit the emergency room, and save us the trip.”

But Dave was in full-on Dad Mode.
This was about tradition. About memories. About picking out the perfect pumpkin together.
You know—the big orange beacon that says: this family has it together.

When they arrived at the festival, the smell of roasted corn and wet hay was thick in the air. Children were running around in dinosaur onesies. A man on stilts was juggling squash. There was a booth selling artisanal cider that tasted suspiciously like Tang.

They made it to the corn maze first. Morley squinted at the map nailed to the fence.
“Dave,” she said, handing him a copy, “remember last time?”
“I only got mildly lost,” said Dave.
“You were found by a Girl Guide troop from Sudbury,” said Morley.
“They gave me cookies,” said Dave.
“They took pity on you,” said Morley.

It was agreed that Sam would go with Dave this time.
“You’re our tracker,” said Morley.
“Cool,” said Sam, not looking up.

They disappeared into the stalks.
Twenty minutes later, Sam emerged with a caramel apple and no Dave.

They found him forty-five minutes later, arguing with a scarecrow and trying to get GPS on his phone.

Eventually, they made their way to the pumpkin trebuchet.
It was run by a man named Doug who wore a welding mask and had one thumb too few.
“Safety first!” he bellowed, before pulling the lever and launching a pumpkin clear over a cornfield.
Dave’s eyes gleamed.
“Sam,” he whispered. “This. Is. Living.”

Somehow, Dave convinced Doug to let him load one in himself.
Morley, sensing doom, had already begun rifling through her purse for the insurance card.

Dave lifted a particularly large pumpkin—he said heft matters—and, with a theatrical flourish, placed it in the sling.
He pulled the release cord.
Nothing happened.

He gave it a tug.
Still nothing.
So he gave it what he called “a proper man’s yank,”
And the arm whipped forward with a medieval vengeance.

The pumpkin flew.
So did Dave’s hat.
The trebuchet did a sort of ancient, wooden backflip.
The pumpkin, instead of soaring majestically across the sky, hit the axle and exploded like an orange grenade.

Morley later described the result as “like standing beside a Jackson ******* painting made of pie filling.”

Dave wiped pulp off his glasses.
“Well,” he said, “that one’s a write-off.”

They left shortly after that.
Sam with a new appreciation for physics.
Morley with half a sleeve of emergency wet wipes.
And Dave—with a mild concussion and a bag of frozen corn on his head—declaring,
“Next year, we build our own trebuchet.
🎃 ALL HALLOWS EVE 🎃:
🎃 HALLOWEEN!!! 🎃


The glow of the
jack-o-lantern
glow is so bright,
warding off evil
spirits, on
all hallows eve night.
On this creepy, and
spooky Halloween,
Ghost, and Gobblins
are found and seen,
Werewolves, Witches and
Vampires
are everywhere,
Creatures are on the prow
without a care.
Looking and Searching
for people in sight,
On a spooky and frightful
ALL HALLOWS EVE NIGHT!!!


B.R.
Date: 10/5/2024
apricot Oct 2024
🧸☕🍂˚ ༘ ೀ⋆。˚
Your flavors dance on my taste buds like a vine.
In lattes, baked goods, and candles so bright,
You bring warmth and joy to my autumn night.

Your aroma fills the crisp air,
Invigorating all who dare
To savor your sweet, spicy delight,
As leaves turn golden, and nights grow tight.

Your magic is in every sip,
A symphony of flavors, a trip
To a land of comfort, and cozy cheer,
Where pumpkin spice brings us near.
Its offically October so I quickly came up with a poem abt pumpkin spice
lib Feb 2024
beneath the pale stars
your strong arms holding me tight
the clock strikes midnight
carriage returns to pumpkin
dress of silk and gold to rags
another tanka poem
Anais Vionet Oct 2021
Happy pumpkin spice latte season!

Someone said the leaves had turned
to butterscotch, banana, and lemon
but they don’t taste right.
I love everything pumpkin spice
Logan Robertson Oct 2020
Sally's Halloween dance the pumpkin patch
She plays the field, tricks and treats for her match
Thru to the winding vines, she scored
A Jack-O-Lantern she adored
With her sweet find Sally beamed at her ******

Logan Robertson

10/17/20
10/10/8/8/10

It's fun to write with puns and innuendoes and Sally does it swell.
Summer gets darker,
Sun begins to fade,
Our lives get more wise, through the dances of autumns haze.
Leaves fall off and a charmed aroma of sweet cider symphonies come down the trees unto hearts that bleed.
Enjoy the rich colors autumn brings, deep burgundy red, grape purple, golden bronze and chocolate sweetness floats into the air of a summoned season that we call Fall.
Delicious treats on our tongue touched pallets,
soft, warm, chewy cinnamon buns, red stains covering our lips from that glass bitten candy apple we bought at the fair. Smells of apple cider and maple syrup and our lovers kiss that is smooth like a pumpkin spice dream when my chap stick smothers your face in such delightful ways.
I love the fall, it is my favorite season. What is yours?
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