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CK Baker Oct 2017
dust cloud heavy
in an apricot sky
cottonwood mucker
under ambrose pale
whippet and shepherd
mill at the earth patch
yellow birch hangs
over red bench park

combine shavings
in ***** rust brown
scissors chips
fall to the back stop
whiskey jack looters
sing patented chords
siblings (and 2 wheel enthusiasts)
give thanks

joyous retrievers
master the criss cross
bare maples stand
at settlers way
barred owl and blue jay
whistle the fore-wind
and goblins
pull at the seeds

wind gusts belt
over the west gulch
blood rush churns
in a chilling fall morn
hallowed grounds still
at the midday
quiet reflections
of the afghan
and hound

jumpers unite
at the oxbow
route runners bend
(on a sultry foray!)
meadows exposed
in the framework
ball park empty
with pennants past

barrel dirt favors
the brew house
crimson and copper
find bracken ridge gate
harvest hands savor
the honey and hops
blankets of color
for a winter's hatch

brush fire kept
under steady peruse
bark bites fly
and embers glow
pine cones drop
from timber tops
3 wick candles
set the dinner place

shiver and ******
at the piper's call
cob web dew
on shadowy gates
a chilled mist mellows
the season's return;
poets and artists
and dreamers awake
Rhesus Monkey Jan 2016
Our Autumn has arrived, but I don’t predict another spring.
The Autumn leaves are here to stay
but Autumn herself leaves.
Her wake
forever freezes us over, petrifying us to watch the sufferage.
The sufferage of the people around us.
Starvation, damnation, and crimes that are uncontrolable.
The autumn leaves are here to stay
but Autumn herself must leave.
I leave along side her, I am not here to stay
and watch you fall apart.
Your Autumn has arrived, but I really don’t predict another spring.
I wrote this for an english project in 9th grade. We had to use a song and build a poem from it
Danny Z Sep 2018
As Autumn approaches,
my mind drifts to the decaying leaves,
the cool, crisp breeze...
The communal understanding that eternal heaven comes only with
that Summer must always go.
And that beloved Autumn must always usher in bitter Winter who lays the foundations
for an exalted Spring.
Oh ****...I hope for a long Autumn, I want to make it stay—
like a host who lectures his party guest for too long
so he won't look at his watch.
Oh how I need the frumpy sweaters and pumpkin heads on window sills!
Oh how I need the billowing steam from milky beige cocoa,
the misty light rain in the gray of the morning,
the high canopy of fleshy red flakes!
And echoes of children laughing as they eat candy on their way home from trick-or-treating—reminding me that life can be enjoyed
with sacred rituals and good company.
I need Autumn personified—
a cool-headed, crackling-fireplace-girl.
A quilt-maker, cloud-gazer, two-dogs-and-a-cat bookworm.
Someone comforting like oatmeal.
Someone surprising like the first day of school.
I need Autumn.
I need Autumn but it never seems to need me too.
Alyssa Underwood Dec 2015
the last ash leaf falls
but it doesn't blow away
blanketed by snow
over the past weeks
a gentle autumn sun
has painted colored leaves
upon the ground
and thinned
the bright abundance
of the wooded ranges

most of the harvest
is securely stored by now
or sold at morning markets
by weathered men and women
in country garbs

vintners are busy with their lots
fermenting grapes
and entertaining those
who see their visit
as pleasant pastime and escape
from daily urban chores

hunters and lumbermen
are waking up
to shoot and mark

schools by this time
have settled into the new year
teachers are happy still to share
the knowledge of our world
with students still inclined
to listen

remembering their vacations
on the Bahamas or in Saint Tropez
step sprightly into offices
womanned by secretaries dreaming secretly
of beautiful Mallorca summers
and of those never-ending nights
on the Algarve

I guess it is a human thing
to find a new beginning
and do best
when nature’s breath goes easy
to collect the strength
for yet another fruitful year

or were it better
that we also took a rest?

           * *
JoelP Mar 2016
The mark of a character
more than a man
is the colour of autumn:

Of times that are changing
and worse than or better
Than what is expected
Or what is projected.

A heart that is fervent and honest, subjected
To the whole of a life that is lived, not protected,
Forgetting the loss or the gain, all rejected
For a true and clairvoyant ascent; resurrected
To the throne of Almighty, though wavering still
In the humble opinion of what is instilled
in the essence of man and the withering will
Of a husk.

Cast down the expectations
of men about to die.
Cast down appropriation
of rivers running nigh.
Cast down the desperation
the manifold disguise,

And live and breathe
And die and seethe
And shake the weight of Atlas from your shoulders,
Free to be the thing of all things
That is known to only thee.
gracie Oct 2018
Keats says, "transcendence of the self",
so you become a fox, copper-coated,
bright-eyed. You become the light of a
harvest moon, playful and sweet,
dancing across the forest floor,
you become a lingering scent
on my thrift-store sweater: balsam or
cold brew coffee, wafting
through the bustling café. You become soft
Sunday afternoons, forehead kisses and
pretty words whispered over the phone,
the curl of my lip as I drift off
into sleep.
i think ur p cool
i like u alot
maybe we could... hang out? or somethin'
Lily Feb 2015
In the middle of the night,
we were cold rolling stones
in an empty street.

Our souls bundled up with some sense of permanence
as you walked me home for the last time;
It was home, for the last time.

The darkness of night trespassed my secret shelter,
at the lingering of our embrace.

The first and last warmth
I had felt,
was yours.

Morning would be colder,
I might not feel the same acquaintance with autumn
as I had with you.

I walked with you under trees,
spots of sunlight rested on our skin and clothes;
orange-gold leaves falling
around our bodies, softening the ground,
beneath our feet.

In our innocent nature,
we stood in defeat.
the first poem
Robert C Howard Sep 2018
Prophesies of impending fall
     creep stealthily over the Great Divide.
Gold-green Aspens shiver in the breeze
     like leagues of fibrous wind chimes
serenading the mountain slopes
     with aires of shimmering gold.

A few distant bugle calls echo
     across the Big Thompson valley
as bull elks warm up for the autumn rut.
     Sudden early gusts of frigid wind
bring waves of sleet and snow -
     in tune with the turning polar axis.

The greater chill is soon to come.
     The animals know it as do we.
Bears bulk up on grasses, roots and berries.
     Elk and deer drift down from the heights
To show their young the ways
      of the plains and river valleys.

We pull our sweaters on
     and toss another log on the flames
and greet the harbingers of approaching fall
    creeping stealthily over the Great Divide.

September, 2018
Cacherosi May 2017
Autumn wind whispers your name
As the color of the leaves changes to flame
Earthly green to feverish red
I wish we could be more than friends
Before autumn ends
Her eyes are beautiful with a hint of sadness, so dark and dreamy
JT Sep 2016
I don't know what he was to others—
   fireworks, lemonade, ants crawling on a picnic blanket—
   but I always knew him at his worst.
He was sleep cycles shaped like carnival pretzels,
   days that bled together,
weeks that clumped like a rat king
   under floorboards in the beach house.
He spoke in clouds
   swollen with diluvian rain,
daggers of lightning
   cracking the river in half,
the language of a muggy body in sticky room
   staring out a window
at absolutely nothing.
   The sort of stuff that makes me think
he didn't know his own strength,
   most of the time.

As always, when he died this year
   he died by degrees,
bedridden in the hospice of September.
   I listened to his death rattle
 of rustling yellow leaves
   and watched the last of the fireflies
crawl from between his parted lips.
   When he went cold for good
I built a pyre out of his firewood bones.
   The ashes fell into the soil
like seeds in waiting, and I watched
   the moon grow so large that it stretched
the nighttime like candy licorice
   and made it longer than before.
My duty done, I turned to go.
   The smoke rose up to embrace the sky,
and at the time, I could have sworn
  that from the corner of my eye
I saw it curl around
   and wave at me.
version four point something.
jane taylor Oct 2016
as you awaken
from deepest slumber
as amber dawn
opens your eyes
with whispers of lavender
remember the sweeping stillness
allow it
to continually cascade
washing you
with hints
of autumn’s rising sun

i place many of my poems over my photography
to see the poem/pic combo go to
Deborah Birch Nov 2011
One day I rode upon an Autumn train.
The sky was slate, the wind was cold and blue.
I saw stark trees and brilliant leaves and rain,
and yet I only thought again of you.
I'd come out on this trip to hide myself.
I thought I'd not be found right in plain sight.
Music I had, and earbuds from the shelf,
I soothed myself with them all through the night.
And when the morning came, all cloudy cold;
all still and sad and broken I became.
For in my heart, I'd suddenly grown old
and all I'd left to whisper was your name.
I droppped my hat down low upon my eyes,
and hid in Love's most distressing disguise.
jane taylor Sep 2016
hints of auburn drift creating a soft cadence against the autumn wind
almost heard in lieu 'tis felt somehow awakening souls buried long ago
giving birth to falling crimson leaves tinged with maroon and gold
abandoned dusty roads transform under enchanting spells cast by fall

burnt orange pumpkins standing solitary on wooden porches threaten to reveal
hidden secrets held by dusk’s luscious cinnamon seasoned air
once fulgent sunflowers begin to slumber softly beneath the harvest moon
whilst autumn’s trance brushes all it touches with honey colored hues

i stand pensive as an amber leaf gently twirling falls to the ground
bewitched by thine supernatural powers; thine gifted artist’s hand
who with one ****** turns to butter amber all that once was forest green
and imbues my soul with thine exalted essence forever ripening

Dan Beyer Aug 2018
autumn mist rises
across the glazen waters
through the aspen grove
Brody Blue Aug 2017
I’m no troubadour
Who sketches and scores
A playwright’s lovely romance
But thru the valves of my heart
Song swiftly departs
As time releases its sand
The cracks in cement
I’ve tried to repent
But the rain and cold continue their rants
Till I’m slowly calmed
By the manicured palm
Of the one who has my hand

I’ve traveled down roads
Of dirt and of stone

I fell on when I left the nest
Though the metaphor used
Is often abused
I figured that it was what’s best
Though I’ve often feared
One will never be dear,
I’ll only be under arrest
I’ve finally been freed,
Chains are what I need,
Of mail, my heart they protect

The ocean is vast
So I stuck to the mast,
Handcuffed, overboard I won’t fall
But my crew was in shock
As I picked thru the lock
At the sound of your siren call
Your voice, although pleasing
Was mighty deceiving
For my fate was not why you bawled
You were above the abyss
Hoping I could assist
You, and you’re submerge I could stall

Thru the forest we walked
As you blindly balked
Your grin and the squint of your eyes
Until the leaves were billed
Of their chlorophyl
And the shroud of green withered and died
And a rumbling stampede
Of a single black steed
Proved your wrists were still bound with twine
And the faceless champion
Carved out a canyon
In my heart and my soul was fined

’Neath the street-lamp that glows
As dim as my woes,
My mind won’t allow me to sulk
Under it I have pondered
And learned nothing is softer
Than your lips the gods had to sculpt
I’ve done nothing but croon
Thru cycles of moons
That your touch was one to exalt
But I refuse to desire
A fuel-less fire
So your mem'ry's shut in the vault

Thru midnights of bliss
With restriction dismissed
I cheered and clanked my glass of ale
And though the red in my cheeks
Proved my health was not weak
My heart was green and pale
And I battled demons
With horns and in sequins
And they seemed to always prevail
As conquistadors
Till I stood before
A mana-filled holy grail

A lonely brass chorus
Throughout ev'ry forest
And desert and sea all alike
Played the song of hope
You wrote and composed
When I came back into your sight
Though I was still weary,
Your memory dreary,
A haze in the past moonlight
I was soon convinced
By what you commenced
And my lamp was soon burning bright
A song about my mistress' eyebrow
Saint Audrey Apr 2018
Solvent and solution
Kept assuaged for so long
Treading in the selfishness of my subconscious state
Of barely traceable memories, spurred on by the gravity of time spent
At the briefest hint at past involvement

Each leaf falls, eventually.
Every pristine little well formed tended to.
Each nurtured, cared for, parcel or idea.

I can watch them for hours
Watching them fall, one by one, for hours.
When days start to bleed together, out of the corner of my eye,
I can always see them, marking progression.
Collecting in drifts, then, taken by the wind, then
The rot sets in.

I used to watch this.

I used to find time.

The roof cast me in its shadow, even standing along the banister that runs along the length

Even as the final rays of sun start to vanish one at a time
yovanny andres Sep 2018
how could i ever forget your words about dragons & nature
when the autumn comes, it all comes back to me
how you and i were both filling ourselves with drugs
in two story's apart
in a city at night, where the autumn leaves we're stroling through the streets
where i first met you, talking, smiling, smoking,
looking at me
time will eventually find you, and cut you right open
aquis Sep 2018
i’ve missed your cold warmth
your cozy melancholy
that sets my leaves free
“Autumn is a second spring when every leaf is a flower.” Albert Camus

Mike Robbins Oct 2017
In the dim yellow light beneath deciduous trees she spun methodically in Autumn. Shadows loomed aloft, chirping their approval. She spun and seemed to levitate, the flickers of the evening flame reflected in her pale green eyes darting in between loose strands of bland vermilion hair. And she spun and spun as if she'd spin forever,


She was Autumn there and then, personified in glints of golden green and faded yellow brown descending listlessly to greet the open canvas of the forest floor.
And the shadows pressed into the earth and disappeared as overhead the rain slashed through the shyness of the crowns betwixt the trees.

And she slowly spun her last, and lastly, panting stood before me *****, shivering in the gentle gales that rose and fell like Mozart's heavy heart.

I beckoned her with dead weights crudely fashioned to the pauldrons of my coffin that hung lowly, swaying listless as the leaves. And she smiled a tired smile and blew the kiss I yearned for seasons to receive before collapsing in the dirt.

In Autumn.

-Mike Robbins-
October 1st, 2017
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