"septembers" poems
Have you ever felt like a child in the dark?
Where the whispers become thunder and the gods pound in your heart?
There's no sense in trying to quiet the storm
All that can be done is to embrace it with both arms
I feel like a traveller stumbling on a chest
Filled with something familiar but I can't quite place it yet
I found a picture lying in the dirt
As my mind was turned on by the velvet colored shirt
Some time ago, when my hair reached my eyes
I recall a quick visit that seemed to disappear and die
No matter how hard I try to remember
I can't come up with reasons I gave up that cold September
Now, as time's gone by, and things have changed
Like the inflections of my voice and memories estranged
I hear a voice from many Septembers ago
Like a harmony so rich that I can't wait to know
Dec 7, 2015
Dec 7, 2015 at 10:55 PM UTC
This was written a few Septembers ago. Walking on the streets of a now deserted beach island, only the leaves, in various states, to keep me company.
September,
walk with me,
under bridges of wedding tree canopies,
still green aplenty,
tho subtle marked for change,
making summer illusions,
environmentally unsustainable.
September,
stroll on pathways
of lesser, off the track, shaded lanes,
the sun blocker trees wear new necklaces,
brown and yellow diamonds,
a coming attraction of
their denouement,
their denudement.
The September trees are:
Ever so slightly stooped,
bent with weight of a surety,
knowing with high certainty,
their future, bleak,
bowed and drooped,
discouraged by the
cold travails soon to arrive.
Living in the recent past,
I am dressed inappropriately,
white tee and shorts,
past pretender,
still dressed in my
Gap issue summer uniform,
summer suspended animation.
Island streets are de-humanized,
gone home are the children,
newly fallen leaves have,
their place, taken.
The leaves are:
magically organized along
the sidelines of empty streets,
quiet stadiums of would be
kid's touch football fields.
browned, crisp and soulless,
first greet this solitary stroller,
like a cheering throng of ghosts,
celebrating a sighting -
man, as a seasonal fossil,
one that still is living
and worth reminding, yet
human too shall pass when
his fall arrives.
the leave's cheers make over
into jeers and mocking laughs:
Oh humans, they say,
your summer songs naive,
mais tres charmant.
On Crescent Beach,
the driftwood sadly forlorn,
looking more adrift than ever,
for no one passes to express
admiration at the past seasons
Nouveau Expressionism,
an objet d'art lonely,
for the beach gallery shuttered,
raising questions existential.
Is driftwood on the beach sans
human admiration,
art, truth or refuse?
I am looking backwards as the
Earth moves forward.
My own axis, my eyes,
conscientious objectors
refuse to be pressed
into service of the seasons.
No, no,
to involuntary servitude,
to rotation and revolution.
Nature's witnesses,
trees and leaves write
their own poem,
of foolish men who:
Bow and droop,
discouraged by the
travails soon to arrive,
Delaying their own fall,
finally shed summer delusions
like leaves upon the ground,
summer poetry silenced,
summer suspended, no more.
Dec 7, 2013
Dec 7, 2013 at 8:06 AM UTC
In the sordid caste
of flowers, the wild
rise on their stems
for a name,
and rupture into light
through the copse of partridge berry
distances tumble over the wet colours,
like mauve tongues
along the thighs of an eventual sunrise,
that comes moaning free
of the unforgiving dark,
in the wet jazz soliloquies of light
and suddenly, through the lips
of Septembers lovely grind,
to bind the Summers cunning wounds,
your hands reach far into the blue hordes
of wildflower,
and redolent fevers, kindled
by some hummingbirds blurred
and exquisite agitation, you
are the body of my confession
and South
marks the same
unfathomable distance home,
over the prairie
that tonight grants calm,
in the balm of C minor,
a mute, sibilant liquid dream of rain
soothes, my voice grows hoarse
and stills, though from the hush of willows,
rasps the vast reservoir of wind,
as the jay, a blue throb in the holly, casts
my hue in lush cascades of desperate, abandoned braids
lift the fevers muslin depths
and these unaccompanied words, sing
a sonata
proverbs in petty sounds
spill from a cracked jaw
and a parched throat,
in the Sabbath of the heart
heaven never thought to map
this distance and its jubilee
over wildflowers, I bear
your name to stay the mauve hour
of devout crickets,
crouched in the rain,
dying in the thick falsetto of mist
and the sordid hum of birds, dim
in their hollow cote,
and sudden blue, sudden blue,
how I adore you....
Jan 15, 2013
Jan 15, 2013 at 1:03 PM UTC
.
*He had ascending eyes
of sapphire,
the kind in which angels sloshed in their
royal chalices,
the kind of blue Poseidon gnashed
his teeth for.
Born in the 25th dying date,
Septembers’ autumn bleached scent flows along
his bloodstream.
A smile that belonged in the crooks of these sapphire seas,
a soul unholy as Adam
& Eve’s.
His love was not fierce enough
to contain this poet's heart
my pitiful phoenix can be ripped asunder
by the wrath of
a dandelion.
He couldn't swallow the sun
so silver fire rained
anytime it pleased.
We are the skylines
not gallows
and yet we hang ourselves upon the night skin
and collect
the stars as if they were
our alibis.
If you love me,
let me go?*
My silver eyes don't see you in color anymore.
.
Jun 1, 2015
Jun 1, 2015 at 8:56 PM UTC
With starshine beaming from beaded eyes,
I could only nod and grin,
while aspiration and sworn sorrow disintegration
rained upon me.
Anna killed future Septembers with a promising
ring in newly righteous hand.
In rabbit trails she talked --
high fashion and porcelain skin,
but like all rabbit trails,
most of the stories ended with a dead rabbit.
Anna still entertained my company
despite the gleam of my once longing glance
burning out light years ago.
Healthy, we.
Settling, sea.
Sailing, no.
Drifting, yes.
Purely bruised.
Sighing in dream.
I'd follow Anna into the rabbit hole.
I'd feast on
her mouth wet with honey.
I'd sleep in the milk
of her skin.
I'd happily allow
destruction in her care
and become
freshly hewn in
the river's bend,
the wrinkles and
the calluses of
her weary hands.
In blood I sat,
defeated rabbit.
No prize to gloat,
only picket crypt
to curl.
Jul 23, 2011
Jul 23, 2011 at 10:05 PM UTC
autumnal leaves scent your hair
weaving the reverie of stranger summers
of smoke and arboreal decay
bone-fingers, ceramic mug
shivering *** under the wool
these septembers bewitch me,
their wincing smile-
how good it is
to feel so sad.
Sep 24, 2012
Sep 24, 2012 at 8:52 PM UTC
Septembers remind us
that change, while inevitable
is always beautiful.
That each season of life
brings different weather.
The flowers don't have to
be blooming year round
for our surroundings
to be full of color.
Transformation
does not have to be
growth to be necessary.
Sep 13, 2019
Sep 13, 2019 at 10:04 AM UTC
September is never my month.
My life's been at its worst every single September for the past 3 years.
Threes years ago in this month I found out we would be moving by the end of the school year away from the house I had lived in for 5 years of my life.
I was 11 when we moved.
I lived at the house for a little under half my life.
I slowly watched all of my childhood memories being shoved into boxes and taped up just to be found 10 years later in the attic of the mysterious new house we would move into and that tore me to pieces.
We moved in may and I felt okay about it but then we started school the next year in 6th grade and then September came along and he went out with the cousin I hated the most, the girl that treated me like **** and even my best friend.
I still loved him and that ripped me to pieces.
He realized how amazing I was in February and We started dating in March that year.
It was perfect all summer.
Then September came along in 7th grade and he broke up with me on the 19th.
I didn't cry.
But I wanted to.
Oh, I wanted to so bad.
I still loved him and that tore me to pieces.
I held on to hope that he would realise he still loved me until March that year.
My cousin was born on what would have been our one year anniversary and that ruined that day for me.
I stopped waiting for him.
He came back to me as soon as I got a boyfriend in April.
We went out for awhile until I realized I didn’t love him the same.
Through all of that there was one person that was there for me and I had the slightest crush on him because I was so focused on the other boy.
I realized I loved him the summer before 8th grade.
When school started we didn't have any classes together and didn't have time to text as much as we used to.
One of my friends Told me how she saw him in the hallway and I started crying because I never saw him during the day.
September started and I decided to tell him that I liked him and he handled it okay.
It turns out that he was actually going to ask me out, but one of my closest friends gave him the whole “what if it ruins the friendship” speech and he changed his mind. He knows that I knew everything and now it's different.
Septembers a *****
and I think now I understand why Greenday wanted to sleep through it.
Nov 22, 2015
Nov 22, 2015 at 12:53 PM UTC
I'm heaving prose at you and you don't even know it. Like fish jumping into a boat that's empty. Having risen before, being brave would seem easier, lighter maybe. Like great fluff or a fugue of an earthy red wine. My tear ducts are hollow drums, if I could I'd give you a metaphor about weeping, but I'm wept out and worn out. I'm not tired or worn down. I'm an obelisk, or a saber perhaps. I'm good coffee from a specialty roaster, but I come in a to go cup. Coffee should never be consumed from a to go cup.
You're one of those pennies people pay one dollar and one cent for, stretched out with new print on them. At the zoo they can be bought. At places where the middle class can be classless they can be bought.
You were once a starlet. A golden and imperfect deity. I'm still worshipping you. You're my startling ****** but the rigging is busted. Now I'm onto acid washes and back on ivory. Maybe you didn't mean to leave cue cards and question marks like keepsake memories under our bedroom duvet.
I'm only asking for you.
While I **** around each new city in the jargon of a Calder sculpture. I've punched door mice and killed rattle snakes with the heel of my foot. Step on with the right and bring your fingers to your lips. I've been calling good luck for decades now. Julys Septembers and Novembers too.
Just a regular guy with a big ******* rooster.
Some girl said we're swimming for each other in the dark, but I know your eyes have adjusted to the light. Don't compensate for ordinary experiences. Realize what I realize and taste the snow.
Oct 7, 2015
Oct 7, 2015 at 2:25 AM UTC
His eyes feel like mad August;
his breath, hot like hope.
there’s oil in his insides,
and fire twisting in his veins.
He glances past the striped tent,
which rises and swells with wind.
He sees a cluster of trees drinking stars,
as whispers usher through their contorted alabaster marionettes.
His childhood was a stranded candle
arrested in bruise-colored nights.
The lone light writhed, howled;
but soon was strangled in wax.
He always planted those volatile reminiscences
in the soil next to his rotten garden heart.
and felt those sickly seeds turn crimson,
as each parasite boasted its own pulse.
His skin kindles coliseums
of gasoline-soaked bones.
Slumber-sunk fireflies keep a hollow flame going,
as shadows melt among the incendiary waves of his hair.
He meanders into the light-studded circus,
with a drop of sweat wobbling on his nose.
The spectators fasten his flesh with their stares-
and he slowly peers out at their silhouettes wriggling in the twilight.
His torches burst to life.
Scalding red veils crackling out of existence;
and immediately smoke tugs at his lungs.
His body hisses as he brings the chaos to his teeth.
A charring succession of infernos singe his throat.
Relics of his past heaves upward,
those tears, souvenirs of lonely Septembers, illuminated
between the feathers of phoenixes.
And that pillar of flame suspended above his lips,
cradled by deep liberating exhalations,
collapses within itself.
And the Night applauds.
Oct 19, 2013
Oct 19, 2013 at 10:07 PM UTC
It is in Septembers, Octobers, and Novembers
That Autumn dresses up,
Adorned in warm, golden tones of color,
And waltzes with her prince, The Fall Wind.
But when the clock strikes twelve,
Winter comes along with her December and January Winds,
Snatching up Autumn’s bright apparel
And clothing her in nothing but somber tatters.
Autumn keeps quiet, until the first rays
Of Spring’s long awaited sunshine
Touches the depths of Winter’s dark dungeon.
Autumn is showered with Spring’s rain,
And is coaxed into fashioning a new dress
With the same warm, golden tones of color,
But, this time, in a different pattern.
It is Summer’s sunshine, now, that assists Autumn,
With an occasional July thunderstorm to help form the new dress.
August passes by to give his opinion, and Autumn is finally ready.
For it is in Septembers, Octobers, and Novembers
That Autumn dresses up,
Adorned in warm, golden tones of color,
to waltz with her prince, The Fall Wind.
Sep 27, 2016
Sep 27, 2016 at 10:53 PM UTC
Girls like me are taught to treat our bodies like metaphors, we are taught that we can only be desired if we are oceans and hillsides, if we are Septembers and sinkholes. They paint us, all sunset eyes and nicotine, hoping to color us in with their washed out words, so that maybe we can mean something. We are taught to fold into ourselves, to shrink our waists and our voices, that being small minded will compensate for the space that we take up. We are taught to apologize for the space that we take up. Girls like me have to be thankful to the stranger who comes and dares to want us, as if we’re only worth our weight in love poems, as if he’s doing me a favor with his wandering hands. Girls like me fill our heads with shipwreck and sorry’s, hoping that this time it’ll be different. That this time, for once, love might be blind. That this time, for once, we can be enough. Girls like me are afraid of being enough. Because maybe if I think of my body as anything more than a graveyard, your ghost hands will find somewhere new to rest.
Sep 15, 2014
Sep 15, 2014 at 12:20 AM UTC
I won't deny
October brings me 'round
September flies
October settles me down
Pumpkins and Halloween
I love to discover
New visions and carvings
Of jack-o-lanter
Handing candy to smiles awonder
Wish my young childhood days
Of October I remembered
But still miss sweet Septembers
r
Sep 30, 2013
Sep 30, 2013 at 4:43 PM UTC
Natten omslutter os som ringe af stål.
Jeg vil se igennem dine øjne,
transparent hele vejen.
Gennembore dine organer og sprænge rygsøjlen.
Tåget og tung af medicin ser jeg dig.
Mørke og reptiløjne.
Kolde som sne. Kyniske.
Solsystemet danser over jorden af bregner.
Man er forpligtet til at tænke håbefuldt,
men jeg tænker ikke håbefuldt.
- men famler i blinde med kolde hænder.
Isblå negle og blodmangel.
Lad os gå sammen, tænker jeg,
men tier.
Sætter mig i stedet sammen med de andre
og vi klipper huller i hinandens hud.
Septembers fjerne varme sætter lys i mine øjne og
drager mig ud i natten.
Lyset erstattes af kulørt neon og tager pusten fra mig.
Der er en indebrændt stemme i min hals
og for enden af halsen sidder munden.
Tungen slår knuder og jeg kan næsten ikke,
men med sammenbidte tænder, skriger jeg.
Efter hvad aner jeg ikke.
Inhalerer det sidste marv ud af dagen
og hoster den ud med bræk.
Samfundet er dødt,
og jeg vil ikke længere forestille mig livet
med lungerne fyldte af kviksølv.
Jovist har vi været i det grønne. Jovist.
Jeg kom til festen i den sorte nat. Natten af ramaskrig.
Jeg ligger søvnløs i mælkevejen
diffust omsværmet af natteravne og stjerneskud.
Stjernedød.
Jeg lytter til deres stemmer,
ser dem igennem øjnene
og på et tidspunkt går jeg hjem.
Dec 21, 2014
Dec 21, 2014 at 4:24 PM UTC
I guess you really did it this time
Left yourself in your warpath
Lost your balance on a tightrope
Lost your mind tryin' to get it back
Wasn't it easier in your lunchbox days?
Always a bigger bed to crawl into
Wasn't it beautiful when you believed in everything
And everybody believed in you?
It's alright, just wait and see
Your string of lights is still bright to me
Oh, who you are is not where you've been.
You're still an innocent,
You're still an innocent.
Did some things you can't speak of
But at night you live it all again
You wouldn't be shattered on the floor now
If only you would seen what you know now then
Wasn't it easier in your firefly-catchin' days?
When everything out of reach, someone bigger brought down to you
Wasn't it beautiful runnin' wild 'til you fell asleep
Before the monsters caught up to you?
It's alright, just wait and see
Your string of lights is still bright to me
Oh, who you are is not where you've been
You're still an innocent
It's okay, life is a tough crowd
32, and still growin' up now
Who you are is not what you did.
You're still an innocent.
Time turns flames to embers
You'll have new Septembers
Every one of us has messed up too
Lives change like the weather
I hope you remember
Today is never too late to be brand new
It's alright, just wait and see
Your string of lights is still bright to me
Oh, who you are is not where you've been
You're still an innocent.
It's okay, life is a tough crowd
32, and still growin' up now
Who you are is not what you did
You're still an innocent.
You're still an innocent.
Lost your balance on a tightrope.
It's never too late to get it back.
Nov 27, 2012
Nov 27, 2012 at 6:49 PM UTC
A site I used to post to had a somewhat unhelpful, not to say discouraging, line when you had posted a poem and nobody had commented it.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“There is no comment submitted by members.”
Nobody bothers; nobody cares;
nobody gives a hoot how my work fares
– or they mean to say something, but no-one remembers.
The fire of my passion is reduced to grey embers;
the most piercing of glances just meet with dull stares.
There is no comment submitted by members.
Nobody bothers; nobody cares.
Like summers of hope fading into Septembers,
or flowers I’ve grown being smothered with tares,
I search and I search but, despite all my prayers,
I read once again, with a chill like December’s,
“There is no comment submitted by members.”
May 9, 2016
May 9, 2016 at 10:33 AM UTC
10 words.
Dull,dank, and wet.
Septembers now arrived.
In full force.
Keith Wilson. Windermere. UK 2017.
Sep 10, 2017
Sep 10, 2017 at 5:45 AM UTC
25 pale blue julys
My moon floats soggy and
Dimming
Breaking apart and
Sinking
Amongst this
Acid sunshine
I am a peacock in eels skin
And i want to remember to forget
All those awful Septembers
Hack them off of my skin
But they regenerate quickly
Like stubborn tumors
I am just the dust on a napping cat
I hold the bottle up to my lips
Like a samurai sword to the throat
Except with much less honor
I pull the chain on the overhead
Light
It flickers a bit
Then decides to sleep
And the stars follow me like
Night gnats
And i put my body down
Forever or just tonight
It is not up to me
25 pale blue julys
The worm crawls up
Past the rain
Tastes the sun
And laughs
Jul 6, 2016
Jul 6, 2016 at 12:00 PM UTC
I'll always feel in my chest broken Septembers. I am languishing with the days, head first to a point of no return. I am the ghost of an abducted goddess, the one who bled all over saffrons and still holds on to her sorrows. I bid farewell to the sunglow on wildflowers. I bid farewell to daylit copper fields. I bid farewell to golden hours, as down I descend to the sweetest madness, and up it goes to consume me.
Sep 10, 2021
Sep 10, 2021 at 11:36 PM UTC
I don't quite remember that
Pretty projection or dubious construction.
The dream that kissed with tangible lips
I cannot elicit
A lazy shape of limbs
Sprawled across threadbare blankets.
Warm hearts and cold feet.
Bookshops piled to the rafters;
Places of whispered exchanges
And smiling, arm through arm.
I can't conjure up
The taste and stain of cheap red wine,
A tongue that laughed and sung
To Louis Armstrong, on the radio.
In cold Septembers
And aching Decembers,
Left to my reckless imagination...
I wish that I couldn’t remember.
Jan 25, 2014
Jan 25, 2014 at 1:43 PM UTC
Please carry this water for me
It's much too heavy beneath my eyes
It sloshes at my walls incessantly
drowning in and out of sighs.
You flowed your river into my well
until I could see the sun,
but the draught from 2 Septembers
has but dried me into a cold drum.
Stones now line my hollow-pit
covered in engraved words from you.
The cracked imprints from distant days
that I painfully run my fingers through.
I now climb one word a day
through fleeting truths and lies
But till my fingers crest the edge
It is nothing but dark skies.
Apr 23, 2013
Apr 23, 2013 at 5:26 AM UTC
Fragments of the past
Dancing on broken glass
Sunless Septembers
A cold ache
For what we once had
Sweet melodies
Poured out of our lips
Warm summer nights
Sealed with a kiss
Glistening eyes
Wholesome and true
Unsaid goodbyes
Linger in our minds
Cool breezes
That blows happiness upon our skin
Green meadows that stretch for miles
Meet our joyous eyes
Worries disappear
Erases the signs
They were ever here
September days
Can't make memories fade
We've still got the pieces
Of everything we made
Apr 16, 2014
Apr 16, 2014 at 1:59 PM UTC
one simple sting on the tongue liver shocks and
drop by drop you
lie through your teeth.
six Septembers and nine days to the mark I
was gone like a cat hiding in the drains.
look at me. I am yellow with anticipation.
corrode dates and twist memories like rags and red soak
sick and perforated you proliferate and the
cycle continues..
Mar 17, 2018
Mar 17, 2018 at 11:19 PM UTC
hardwoods reduced to naked indignation -
blackbirds voice their mathematical equations
field smoke bound for the dusken diamonds of autumn ..
dove mourn the close of day ..
the crackling corn ..
Septembers hay ..
a locomotive bound for Montgomery ..
ash enroute to the moon ..
Sep 21, 2023
Sep 21, 2023 at 1:49 PM UTC