Fiery colors above our heads,

Long figures dancing around,

Flowing and draped in reds

With ornaments and crowns.

Nature's Kings and Queens.

Autumn in all it's splendor.

Some spectacular scenes,

Burning fast like ember.

It's my first poem published here, hope some liked it.

&the world was small
compared to that of
hearts and flowers

And poems were only
whispers among the trees
that you weaved with
your frail

You are the bright
light against pale
paint, the tiny curve
in the corners of
a smile--
the quiet
in the pages of a book

You are all the
beautiful things
--if ever eternally--
(so slightly your life flickered)
you are.


A dedication poem to eecummings

It frosted good and hard last night
for it was twenty-eight degrees,
heat and humidity are now gone
so we’ll welcome the snow and bare trees.

But today the sun was shining bright
high in the October sky,
there never was such a shade of blue
to delight my searching eye.

The Burr Oaks dropping their golden leafs
no more Maples a fiery red,
the quaking Aspens are flattering maize
a warm quilt, to put the earth to bed.

A soft golden tongue
flickering over oaken bark.
The leaf light patterns
playing through the trees.
A warm and gentle forest
to pause under in wonder,
then live in forever.
The depths of Mother Nature.
The jewels for the uncrowned
Queen of the World.

Daniel Magner 2017

if I had to count all those who hurt me
I'd have to count 'till infinity
if I counted those who did me wrong
I wouldn't have the power to stay strong
if those who help and those who hurt
engaged in a war
even the darkness of my mind
could protect me no more

but I'll remain faithful

for sunsets, for love
for the broken stars above
for beauty, for peace
for the gracefulness of trees
for happiness, for my family
but most of all for me; yes, me
I'll always suffer faithfully

there's not many good things in this what other choice do we have, then to hold on to what gives us hope and remain faithful, that things might get better
Six Flowers Oct 9

"Protect this man", I asked the trees,
"who rides through dale and dell,
and send a message on the breeze:
a whisper that he's well."

I asked the wind to carry far
the words I couldn't speak:
"I miss your heart beside my hearth
yet wish you all you seek."

I asked the waves to take this lore
across the rainy sea
and lay it on some distant shore:
"Remember - love - be free."

tall afternoon shadows were cast
all giants of mast
across the block
height's soaring stock

stretching from fence-post to fence-post
many feet in host
the tip flies big
a great lofty sprig

trees towering like skyscrapers
high of tapers
late eve's lanky stalks
lie on ground walks

Minute Poetry

The Minute Poem is rhyming verse form consisting of 12 lines of 60 syllables written in strict iambic meter. The poem is formatted into 3 stanzas of 8,4,4,4; 8,4,4,4; 8,4,4,4 syllables. The rhyme scheme is as follows: aabb, ccdd, eeff

Falling trippingly into October.
For barely a rustle made in September.
Trees stood in singularity
until this true Fall day.
When long, crosswinds did blow
from the Western winds,
inviting me to play.
Whispering cool crisp
apple, scented promises
on this most truest of Fall days.
Breezes bustling the mighty magnolia
in her imperial prominence.
Putting on quite the autumn dance
in her magestic sway,
knowing her steadfast
she's here
to stay.
Baby oaks shadows shake
heavy leaves of Summer
bending and shaking
in steady
vibrating quakes
next to her grace.
Little more brittle,
imagining soon,
chlorophyll shall break
away into subtle shades
of orange sherbet
and strawberry moon
red marmalades.
Roasting, hot chocolate,
cinnamon brown
and lemonade yellows
no longer soured,
to tone the mellow,
calm the air
enchant the fellow.
Catch a leaf.
Grow love.
Be a flower.
Falling into Fall
this fine hour

10-3-17 (C)

Finally, I'm getting my Fall poem birthed. It takes us longer here in the South.
Thanks for reading! K:)

What ruminations do the incandescent, ivy-clad trees,
whisper to the wuthering winds from the farthest shores?
Do not, the neighing leaves, fluttering, and dancing with the breeze,
mingle amongst the gusts fair, as reunited friends, at a carnival fair?
Or perhaps, their hushed whispers, trace the ramblings of the drooping dwellers,
who were so daring as to build upon nature's perennial, the scion, that now laughs with the ebon wind,
and shakes the speckled, many-hued clothes-line, from high boughs and brambles;
And, bringing the potted earth, falling to meet its ancestral home, exposing that wary person,
who could not, shrouding behind the mantelpiece,
look out and see afar, and realize both matters of the truth and black lies spun on fragile threads.
But, why should he? Did he want to see with the malice, that the wind shimmered,
spreading its enchantment through the brambles of that old spire, crooked in heart and hand?
Or, would he rise to the order of the protectorate, a guardian of his homely abode?
But, it shall never be the latter, for as this tale is spun, that perennial is long gone,
gnawed of soul and life, standing, a father of an older age, beneath the skies dim.

Ian Woods Sep 29

they say trips to the woods
for the hips can be good
get to grips with a long forest trek
advice sound, they'll be bound
having found the way round
walk that ground though it might cost your neck

there are midges and mites
causing itches and bites
merely hitches in that dangerous place
pitching over felled logs
into ditches and bogs
needing stitches to knees, elbow, face

but there's much worse than that
in that cursed habitat
for those not averse to outdoors
trees dismember and slay
on dark December days,
so remember, it pays and then pause

think of poor John and Mike
to the lake shore they'd hike
to draw pike like their fathers had taught
unafraid of the cold
they downplayed the tales told
as they made up the tent they had brought

in the ice they'd cut holes
to entice fish with poles
then suffice it to say, death occurred
did they make a mistake
take a snake from the lake
or had sacred wood spirits been stirred?

the search team they sent
to the stream where they went
seen a tent and rods bent but no more
and those guys, since removed
their demise was not proved
no surprise- this had happened before

things occur every March
mid the firs and the larch
some prefer to walk on a spring day
with their tough leather boots
a rough map of their route
and enough spray so bugs stay away

but they fail to come back
when they trail the wrong track
they surveil yet that walker's misplaced
it's supposed they have drowned
died exposed, never found
case was closed, just another erased

it's an evergreen curse
but the summer scene's worse
extra mean, that's the theme seen in June
from a tour of say, five
maybe four will survive
and once more someone won't be home soon

dads and mums being kind
let their sons walk behind
say have fun - but don't wander too far
but some treats are not sweet
and depleted, retreat
with an empty child seat in their car

some will talk and opine
creatures walk the tree line
that they stalk trunk to trunk causing grief
others stated the wood
could be sated by blood
or placated with kids in its teeth

once the good folk are plucked
and their blood has been sucked
then the wood displays shades of deep red
call it autumn or fall
that's the sum of it all
said and done, Mother Nature's been fed

if you wonder the number
rent asunder by lumber
six feet under with bones torn from skin
they'll extol round camp fires
that the death toll's much higher
since no one polls who dares to stroll in

man and child and ladies
in the wild, hugging trees
you're reviled, time to leave, have a care
sun or frost on that path
you'll be lost, do the math
for the high cost to breathe that fresh air

On hearing David Paulides on Missing 411.
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