NOT JUST ABOUT LEAVES

Yes, it’s always about autumn
For so many, the best season
Perhaps it is a time to ponder
Or in morning mists, wander
But winter’s ice is not treason
As is proven in post-mortem

One can always sense the turn
As the span of a pretty bridge
Crossing from a summer’s joy
To fields of brown courduroy
And colder air from the fridge
Of the change, much to learn

As ever a remarkable transition
It resonates well, often in verse
And as a favourite time of year
Whose progress it tries to steer
Its language is full and not terse
Metaphor needs no permission

IN MY SHELL

I might at times give the wrong impression
My upbringing was always about discretion
With being carefulo about any intercession
Less tempted about always hitting the spot
And generally saying little rather than a lot
But a lack of interest well, it’s certainly not
Sometimes a muted approach may be right
Rather than loud arguing or starting a fight
In the long run, trying to stay out of sight
That one can be easily misjudged, it’s true
I would rather be counted among the few
Than the many, and part of a motley crew

Perhaps my mission in life was to be a spy
Despite my hating to ever to pursue a lie
Yet it has little appeal, I cannot think why
Always holding all cards close to my chest
To say little or nothing, just might be best
And if there’s choices to make, take a rest
At least I’m someone who can be discreet
And demonstrating trust should feel sweet
Yet it’s never the same as accepting defeat
But then can anyone really know who I am
No outward display that I do give a ****
Nor fake courtesy with a thank you ma’am

It’s not that I am scared or nervous at all
As my capacity for being brave isn’t small
But it is never anything like taking the fall
Sometimes it takes strength just to observe
Is it better to hit the car ahead or swerve
And it takes courage to hold one’s nerve
But in the end, it is all about appearance
Just hoping for a little bit less interference
Yet there are rules that require adherence
Stand back take much of life on the chin
It’s more about the truths that are within
But that is still somewhere one may begin

PLAY ON

It’s mostly music that moves me
As my brain does seek harmony
And some little disharmony too
Yet others take a different view
Inspired by actual visual images
Whether skies or pretty villages
But I still see these in my mind
Often in such sharp focus I find
Then hearing sounds of thunder
Yet which is more true I wonder

A melody can haunt me for life
Like painting with a pallette knife
As a line of colour spread across
Those ignoring art, it’s their loss
But surely, everyone is affected
When a familiar tune is detected
That resonates deep in the brain
It can be like turning up the gain
Hear the sound of a sweet voice
And surrender, without a choice

The genres can be jazz or classical
Yet the effects still can be magical
There’s something in those chords
It’s the joy and pleasure it affords
Being swept along in a state of bliss
Compared to a lingering loving kiss
All the other senses have their day
But few things can make one sway
Brain mix that spans left and right
Deep black turns to brilliant white

NOTHING BUT CARDBOARD

I would like to keep my stuff in a chest
One that was steel-banded oaken wood
Rigid and lockable, with a big iron key
But it’s a regular cardboard box for me
And I’d even use a metal safe if I could
But appearing as modest might be best

It never was planned to survive for years
And true that damp could shorten its life
On one side I do already see slight stains
But is dry enough inside for all it contains
The old memories of both joy and strife
Yet hard copies are still valued, it appears

All the ***** on top don’t meet anymore
A bit like the people in the photos there
Those I loved, back in my younger days
Moved on is now the much-used phrase
But each when dug out, is worth a stare
There’ll be some I’ve forgotten I’m sure

This cardboard box will not last too long
Now torn and creased, somewhat like me
But clearing the attic, cardboard will burn
To others, such memories of no concern
Viewed as trash, as far as anyone may see
If we cremate bodies, why is that wrong

THE LAST TRIP

Whether travelling by sea or air
A destination not just anywhere
An experience for he who dares
There’s always an understanding
Some have had a bumpy landing
But home is where the heart is

Whether the river Lethe or Styx
There’s good and bad in the mix
It’s all what the ferryman can fix
Just a modest final one-way fare
And quiet journey getting there
Just postcards now left in a box

Over a lifetime, so many places
All memories, a thousand faces
Yet few leave permanent traces
Despite how wide the net is cast
Except this time will be the last
The final voyage with no return

SUBJECTIVE

Taking a third person perspective
And is often easier to be selective
Yet so difficult to remain objective
But can still reflect personal views
And strange opinions one can use
Draping a character in your cloak

A second person narrative is hard
Never sure how to play that card
And likely always on one’s guard
Used, as if behind another’s eyes
With such intimacy it can surprise
As just like a stranger, you awoke

The first person is regularly used
Lesser chances of being confused
Whether one is angry or amused
Statements made from the heart
That can still upset the applecart
But smile at a private hidden joke

Whether He, She, They, I or You
In speeches, writings, poetry too
Ascribing words to someone new
The oddest subject is using None
Indistinct, when referring to One
But do not fix it, if it ain’t broke

KALEIDOSCOPE

The scene is a pattern of lit diadems
Something so beautiful in all its glory
As a splendid spectacle of coloured gems

Perhaps this device can relate its story
About viewing simple in a different way
Best represented in an allegory

Although a toy, it offers so many views
As a still life version of sparkling waters
Perfect geometry, all in countless hues

Such pleasure still seen, even if life falters
And every time it turns, the image alters