Autumn’s beauty.
Amber leaves fall, twirling round and round,
Dancing in murmuring winds,
Until they kiss the tepid ground.
One after another,
a brisk breeze streams.
Heavens are painted with cotton candy white and blue,
Resembling what makes bliss filled dreams.
It's where wishes come true,
When beauty breaks through.
Descending from smiling skies,
It paints the realm,
Baptizing it in a rapturous guise.
It's not so much as to overwhelm,
Despite being glamorized like a prize.
Breathtaking in every way,
I wish it would forevermore stay.
Fire and Death
Crispy crackling and burning branches,
Roaring red and leaping leaves,
Silent streets and howling winds,
Shuddering chills and woolly socks.
Bonfires and woods, pine cones and death,
Nostalgia and regret, loss and despair.
The air dampens yet the leaves are dry,
Crackling and flitting in the sky.
Cobbled lanes so mesmerising,
Death really is so tantalising.
Slick
One day greasy
copper leaves
for the sweeper
to push.
Next day winter
knocks early
all in a rush.
Temperatures
fall but not
quite enough,
so soft snow
covers pavements
with freezing
grey slush.
Footsteps are coming,
trying to be quick.
But the going
is rough
and old shoes
are slick.
Trying hard to
stay on track,
slick shoes find
a pavement crack.
Alas! alack!
double whammy:
pavement tilts:
icy tsunami.
All brown, too red- Silent
Yesterday,
My mind fell, and dropped into autumn again.
I close my eyes– it's always autumn here
Red whistling, whittling away my Motion-Still.
Nothing to stir, too calm are the Trees who's arms curve in their naked shame.
Brittle are the dead that coat my clotted boots.
Sad is the muffled ground, drowning under their free fall.
Mass suffocation– as an Oak cries to winter. It's smite to steady these rustling screams.
All brown, too red, all weeping.
Autumn
The vibrant oranges, reds, and yellows appear.
Leaves escape from their summertime captivity,
and fall freely to the Earth.
Children run outside, clad in a light jacket.
They dance in the sea of leaves, recently raked by their parents.
The sunsets match the vivid colors of the trees.
The nights are cooler, with calm winds blowing softly.
Friends and family's gather around carefully built fires.
They roast marshmallows and tells stories of summertime.
Only when the become the mosquitoes meal, do they head inside.
Fall in the Valley
It's not the leaves that strike me,
but the memory of choking.
Perfect writer, perfect reader,
I drown in autumn,
in tender piles of gliding pollen,
that drift into my lungs
and filter through my organs,
wadding to each other
at the bottom of my spine.
Everyone around me suffers the same
but their pain is distant,
and mine is intimate.
We cough in unison.
