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
As Autumn approaches, my mind drifts to the decaying leaves, Halloween, the cool, crisp breeze... The communal understanding that eternal heaven comes only with death— 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.
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
businessmen 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
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.
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.
hey i think ur p cool i like u alot maybe we could... hang out? or somethin'
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.
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.
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.
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
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
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
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
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.