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Tag Archives: Autumn poem

Dublin Tale

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Here on the far side of the ocean
that crazy rumor turns out to be true.
Rain fell hard all night.
Wind swept through the trees,
shook everything loose.
We wake this morning
to a world where all the
streets are paved in gold.

Scary Story, Morning Glory

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All summer long, my neighbor’s porch blossomed.
Now those morning glories, sweet faced and blue,
stop their perpetual climb, turn shocked faces
to stare out at the transformed world.
Bare trees, sidewalks covered in skittering leaves,
and their own porch perch surrounded
by pumpkins and paper ghosts.
Yesterday, a fabric witch appeared.
Waiting to see what happens next,
tiny blue faces shiver.

Wild Lilies of July

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The orange lilies of July
sudden and unplanned
startling as miracles
are long gone now.
The next act appears:
Autumn wildflowers
star in this season’s hit
side of the road show.

Leaf and Lady

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Back here again, in the country of clocks,
there’s no time to write a poem.
Inside my head, behind the gears and metal wheels,
wander poems about quilts and wildflowers,
old friends and that maple tree I saw yesterday,
each green leaf edged orange
so precise it looked painted onto the leaves.
Contrast made the green brighter
than all the million greens surrounding it.
Something rattles around in me, humming
about that contrast—
how it reminds me of my old friends—
but the chain of words and thoughts
to get from leaf to ladies takes time
and that is gone, again.

Summer Ends

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Again, this circle.

Rain threatened to fall all day
both inside me and in the air.
The world grew colder. Clouds gathered.
The wind picked up.
It shook those
poor windows, so used to being
Opened to the breeze.

It took hours, mostly all day,
to remember: Words written down,
and autumn comfort food—soffritto
made with the last of the garden’s tomatoes
and yesterday’s bread. These were the cure,
the Art of making do with this particular life,
the one life I have.
Toast to it with the last of the wine.

The Novel Bunch

aka: The Happy Bookers

The Sketchbook

MOSTLY MONTREAL, MOST OF THE TIME

Red Wolf Prompts

I came to where you were living, up a stair. There was no one there.--John Ashberry, "The New Higher"

typewriter rodeo

custom poems on vintage typewriters

A Poet in Time

One Poet's Writing Practice

Writing the Day

A Poetry Practice

Invisible Horse

Living in the moment

leaf and twig

where observation and imagination meet nature in poetry