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Norman Crane Oct 1
After autumn's leaves depart, the branches
hang like spiders after dark, impending
winter moons and ice: The night advances.
Silence echoes the silently standing
trees. Ravens sail upon the frosted breeze,
and the small burrow for the longest sleep.
A cold rain collects in puddles of unease,
The naked forest unobscures a deep
uncertainty about tomorrow,
And the foxes speak in quiet snowfall voices
of the days that were and will be hollow,
Lanterns light a carriage.              Doubt rejoices.
In the dusk black vegetation spreads like cracks
in glass. The carriage scratches tracks
into a muddy past.
Vintage Dive
In elder times
humans filled
caves with
sorrow
for
watching summer’s
fall into
the seasons of night

As a surprising
consolation,

we were gifted Autumn

with her vintage
palate of violet
plums and gilded
acorns,

buried under
mosaics of
variegated leaves

which dive through
the dawn
after
bravely
letting go

spiraling
southward
stirring
the season’s ***
while
painting
the forest floor
in
a masterpiece
of welcome
change.
Fall is an inspiration for all artists and creatives. Often a fan fave. Easy to write about. A joy to experience.
Ashley Rowan Sep 25
a storm rages in me

a storm no one has ever seen

it begs to get out
Ashley Rowan Sep 22
i've been standing here
every cold morning
waiting for the leaves
to turn brown
until my breaths
are making clouds in the air
and misty daybreaks transpire

autumn, my love
Ken Pepiton Sep 10
Proof, tongues spark fires.
As I burn in indignant
rage of uselessness.

But if I could I would make all houses fireproof.

Fireproof,
my house could be buried.
It would be fire proof, but I can not pay to do the job.

I can imagine it done.
I can imagine living in a mound I paid to have made,
I can imagine finding funding in a lottery ticket that blows by.

In my chthonic dwelling place,
I might imagine forging peace from scorn,
I might imagine shaping forms for horns and bells,
I might imagine making hate bow before darkening my door.

Fireproof,
in California, in 2020,
in the September like none can remember. listen:

Some say san'ana win's be blown in spite,
of all them prayers and they prayers,

Peacemaker sorts, say, not t'night.
Wounded warriors wisht redemption, gimme one mo' shot,
I got t'tell, t'*** outa hell. f'free, {humming birds were singing}

yeah, free, for the troof.
seekt 'n' found,
settled down, watch 2020 vision in 1963 mind,
at the Stardust Drive-In, on Route 66.

Kids, I cannot lie, I was a liar by trade and inclination,
so I do know how, and why, liars prosper.

I lack the knack.

I suspect Plato had this problem.
Nobody will believe me if I say I know this, but
IF
I were to say Socrates says he thinks this
or that,
I could talk to myself for hours, if I were Socrates
and Plato…
I could carry on trial-tri-tryag'in-a-logs,
make a joining thing
attack a subconning science, see a mental canker worm,

at the core,
lusting for more. And swallow.
--
Try the brandy, we perfected the tekhne, in 1263,
the very essence of a satisfied mind,
we captured in patient perfection.

Faster fasting, 2020, see, you ask me, I say, go slow --

look around,
some things happening here, there, where my words
are where you are,

and that's
kinda kool.
We come up to the Kool taste, all
gnostalgic gnshit.

Why so serious, seriously, if Schiller says, to this day,
our kind are at our peak in states of whole
heart and mind harmonized play.

Nobody blows my horn, see,
I move the needles, shhh
sing a song sung in pines,

say, sighing, I know, softer, I know
softer, still, I know

I heard
Little Boy Blue, come
blow your horn… yeah, pretty sure…

The brandy, right. I knew some things changed.

Fireproofing plan, began to take shape
and was buried in
details,

yes,{yes, yes} the rub, the scratch on the glass,
rough diamonds
find that act
vibratorily
such a rush, ping, the sing, ting - tones spiders feel,
while kiting over grand granite domes
protruding from Baja to Reno, and beyond.
--
A wise man built his house on this rock,
and I bought it, on credit, by God,
I declare I am no man's slave,
I owe no man, but to be a true and noble friend at all times.

Naturally, of course, in the flow of all things,
as AI has guessed it might look
from a distance, we see

we are a very tiny bit
of everything at once.

What I think I am matters, just exactly that much.

-- and on earth, in reality,
I thank God Almighty
and the best of luck, for firefighter types of minds and bodies.
Wishes work, I believe in the overall goodness of intention. Hate is so distracting from hope and better effort, invested in the future, from now.
Domino Black Sep 7
Starry nights, Summer days,
You're energy; an Autumn haze,
I feel a breeze,
And when you speak,
Your voice shies me away
Cycles end,
Where seasons part
Yet when you speak
Your voice still,
Could shy,
My calm but, winter'd heart
I told you I would find you a spring poem
filling your mind with the smell of daffodils
the worded anticipation of warmer, saturated

But poems about spring feel tacky tonight
like a valentines day chocolate that melted
in my back pocket where your hand fits

They reverb a sublimity, so far sickly
softness that my tired eyes can’t grapple to focus. I’m trying but spring means that

My year has been swallowed before me
and the only use I see for budding sakura
are for peppering that grief with scorn.

There’s no optimism in the mother’s womb.
Yesterday’s shellacked optimism is matte.
Fertility doesn’t subdue reality. Sigh.

Perhaps I will sleep it off. But then,
perhaps cynicism in the face of ******
beauty, is my becoming a poet.
Trish Aug 31
leave me like sunset on winter
with no chills and regrets
do not comeback during spring
and give butterflies on my stomach
i let the summer heat
burn all of our memories
reminiscing how things used to be
is like the autumn breeze
(it's been a long while since the last time i posted it's time to get back on uploading poems again since my passion for writing is back)
it looks as though a new home will be home
as a dandelion changes so does the seasons

leaving my families abode
may have the real reason

to stay in a place that is welcome.
Home searching poetry.
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