The timing of this challenge falls on the Autumn Equinox in the Northern Hemisphere (or indeed the Spring
Equinox with our poets down in Australia). From the great composers such as Vivaldi to the master poets,
Autumn has inspired so much beautiful work. I cant do better than Mother Nature at providing a theme so it
is that of Autumn.
Autumn moonlight --
a worm digs silently
into the chestnut.
Open to Autumn
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness!
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;
To bend with apples the mossed cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o'erbrimmed their clammy cells.
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep,
Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers;
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cider-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.
Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too, -
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing, and now with treble soft
The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
Happy Quilling and Blessings to All
Leaf’s skeleton what stories you could tell
Of days when you hung green upon your tree,
Of winds and rains and sunny days when skies
Were blue; of conversations eavesdropped as
Children, families, friends, lovers, brigands
Even, sat beneath the boughs of your home
Playing, laughing, talking, loving, plotting:
And you have kept their secrets well; yet when
You fell , those very persons passed you by,
Not mindful of how much they’d shared with you.
But someone with eyes that saw beyond your
Wasted state, was captivated by your
Still arresting beauty and photographed
You, and now we write poems about you,
Verses that speak of whence you came and how
You lived and of your gifts to us mortals.
And long after we are gone, your mother
Tree will live, and her future leaves will once
Again be privy to the secrets of
Our children and perhaps their children too.
Once Upon A Leaf
Once upon a morning a tiny leaf was born,
The smallest nub that you could hope to see,
It clung for dear life to its verdant mother as
It was presented to the family.
She nourished it with all of nature’s finest food,
Drawn from the very the belly of the ground,
She quenched its thirst with living water from the sky,
No more loved leaf was ever to be found.
And it grew strong, a product of its mother’s care,
Able to withstand sun and rain with ease,
And unperturbed by harsh winds that would sometimes blow,
It learned to sway to and fro in the breeze.
Until suddenly one day it noticed changes,
Its one green skin was showing signs of age,
And based on what it had observed throughout its life,
It recognized the start of a new stage.
Too soon the time had come for it to say goodbye,
And from its mother's branches to be torn,
To drift down to the earth that had once nurture.
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Thou twisting, tumbling wind blown leaf
Floating gracefully upon the earths floor
Faded, withered, composed autumn reef
Of shaded Autumnal colours thy bore
That peacefully slumbers for evermore;
To complete thy cycle, of life after death
And nurture again the soil of earths core
To thrive once again as it did once before.
Memories Of Autumn
The old garden seat is empty now
As the Autumn leaves begin to fall
The earthen floor shall turn to snow
When winters season begins to call
Only a robin perching on the wall
Portray`s forth a sweet choral song
A heartened sprite of nature to all
Remaining nigh all the winter long.
The old garden seat is empty still
Covered with leaves of red and gold
Spent of sap towards autumns chill
Devoid of vigour in shades so bold
Nurtured roots within a forest fold
Replenishes soft fruits of the season
Procuring new growth from the old
Mother of nature hath her reasons.
Green leaves descend, a flowing stream
Upon the garden wall,
Each tendril curling gently down
To where the raindrops fall.
Old tree, once proud, now worn and grey,
Embraced by ivy trails;
The falling leaves a memory,
Wisdom held in ancient tales.
The softened ground encrusted with leaves,
Shades of red, hues of gold;
Reflections in the autumn rain,
A mirror to behold.
A busy squirrel hiding food,
His winter larder filled,
Each nut he finds a treasured gem
As from the tree it spilled.
Along the path the leaves have swept,
A wave of autumntide,
Along the way the year has gone
As seasons now collide.
The fading sun of summer’s dream
Entwined with cooling breeze;
Another year must meet its end
As land begins to freeze.
As day meets night in equal time
The darkness comes to stay,
But we are kissed in moonlight, love,
While sun has gone away.
Seek not love in blooming cherry
Nor in the pastel shades of spring,
For love is not a subtle thing
But vibrant as an autumn berry.
In golden hues the heart shall sing,
To feel the warmth of love’s first kiss,
In sweetened bites the ripened bring
A joy that’s known as heaven’s bliss.
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Mad summer’s heat has gone away
And in its place it’s left the rain.
For awhile cooler days are left to play
Then perhaps the heat will be back again.
Autumn presents a more liveable day
For humans but not for what is grown.
Whilst we live a more pleasant way
Springtime’s display is being sown.
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I have no name
Blissful was I born,
Like a rose upon a thorn;
Blissful I became,
Still the thorn could cause no pain,
Until that day, shattered and torn,
I crushed the rose and plucked the thorn,
And with the thorn, my finger pricked,
Till from the wound my life’s blood dripped,
And with the blood, a field was sown,
Yet the blood that flowed was not my own;
Full many a year I watched that field
And saw the crop that it did yield.
I reaped the crop upon an age,
And discovered that my name was Rage.
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