Autumn Poems

Autumn is the season that signals change for launching a gentler life, and it is the time for harvesting the fruits sown earlier in the year. The variety of colors that are bound to fade and wither and the cooling weather have always inspired poets.

Here are five poems on autumn by Joy Cagil:

Autumn (A haiku chain)

floating from the sky

scarlet leaves of bitterness

soon the harvest moon

some shrill geese in flight

the brook sluggish like the sap

gold turns sepia

horse chestnuts rolling

over vermilion piles

on the rusty lawn

with final farewells

a lonely heart breaking in

the bare arms of oaks

Ballad of the Wind

Among autumn leaves

rustling in thick frenzy,

the wind sees the apple

and rises

with a celestial song.

“Rosy lush lips touching fingertips
on emerald green the chosen palette

come gently sway, to mark the moment,

with luxury of weightlessness.”

Shiny, untouched,

a pigment of impetuous joy,

awakening red, delicious,

floating to the wind’s tune,

welcoming,

the conceit of choice.

“Rosy lush lips touching fingertips

on emerald green the chosen palette

you gently fell, to mark the moment;

did you think the wind would catch you?

The color of dreams fading away,

when grass kneels to cushion the fall

to miss the harvest in a rotten mush,

but upon reflection, it’s worth it all.

More vital than life is

the vanity of a kiss,

if beauty is madness

when the wind blows.”

Autumn Rain

The autumn Rain

spread nail polish

over the city

to glitter on

the sidewalks,

asking the flat world

to come alive

and shape up without

stocks and bonds.

But the traffic was hectic

and the people were stacked dominoes.

In frizzled kiosks,

tabloids turned

to paper boats

and went a-sailing

in the gutters,

avoiding haphazard

feet in boots.

Because the traffic was hectic

and the people were stacked dominoes.

Then rain imposed authority

over the umbrellas

with the pitter patter feet of

poetry’s thrust

for a little change in

focus

to create a change in

result.

Still the traffic was hectic

and the people were stacked dominoes.

On Crabapple Beach

Before Crabapple Beach rolls over

in its sleep to dream

of summer people

who’ll desert it again,

I scoop up the sand inside the arches

of my feet and wander

under the rising moon,

unafraid of the beach bums,

the cool water,

or anything else except

drowning

in the ocean between

me and the world.

Accordingly, I peek

for clues of life inside

well-lighted beach-house windows:

soup steaming on a stove,

white flowers in a coffee mug,

two lovers in an embrace,

slender volumes of verse

on a windowsill,

promising an eternity of simple joys

to souls with private pains.

And I recall a delicate moment

when, on a late autumn night,

on Crabapple Beach,

a little girl penned her first line of poetry,

her first newscast to the world,

with a sigh, as if saying, “I do,”

to a lifelong marriage

of clumsily scribbled words from her spirit,

and she felt the earth move

under her feet,

before overnight-gusts barreled through,

inserting icicles inside the sand.

Mute Autumn

They met in a dream

where fireflies flicked in quick farewells

and farmers gathered lush harvests

under a fragile sun.

While rusting leaves wavered between color and reflection,

whispering rumors as they fell,

she warmed her hands by her heart’s fire,

watching him walk up the plank over the pond.

He, a migrating bird; she, a deep-rooted willow,

speechless, deliberating the fusion

of two separate species

in a unique world.

In straw-filled terraces,

never enough nerve to talk,

Delicious, Gala, Rome, Winesap,

Cortland, Jonathan, a windfall crop,

she held up the apples one by one

and crushed them into glistening cider,

trying to charm him with her potion.

In that season of colorful shadows,

so adeptly developed was the illusion’s art,

the emotion so strong, it intimidated the psyche.

Maybe, she froze like the darkened pond,

too full of mystery;

maybe, he didn’t hear her silence.

But then, it was just a dream,

a dream that didn’t make allowances

for sleeping.

Joy Cagil is an author on http://www.Writing.Com/
which is a site for Poetry. Her portfolio can be found at http://www.Writing.Com/authors/joycag

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