Autumnal
time is short but I am
like a poet living on ink
and sad stories
hope will not burden me again
with summer thoughts
Poems on the topic: autumn
Poems on the topic “autumn” on Poets.by.
Gleaning
Yesterday afternoon, I picked and ate a ripe cherry tomato from my garden. For those who shuddered at my report of an early snowstorm two weeks ago, the real news here is the unprecedented lateness of a frost. Those white shooting-stars that were bent down by the snow? They’ve put out new blossoms.
It’s hard what to know what to make of it all, but this much I can tell you: the tomato was delicious.
Deep in the weeds,
the wrong shade of red for autumn:
last ripe tomato.
One Autumn Before Computers
A giant puffball bulges among
the dried stalks of goldenrod
like a misplaced hope.
I stuff it in my coat pocket & look
around for others, without success.
That evening, I chop its spongy cloud-flesh
into a sauce with clams.
Then, too, there was the spruce tree
a porcupine had recently girdled.
It stood in the dense center of a galaxy
of needles, some fallen pale side up,
some dark green – a pleasing blend.
Out at the feathery edge, a scattered pile
of hickory shells. I crouched there
tracing words with my finger
over & over in the soft dirt,
Just now
Half-disappearing
behind a screen of falling snow –
drab autumn color.
Postseason
at home plate
only a rabbit
late in the fall
November dusk
the light is going
a few idle boys burn a table
for the heat
Early autumn
my little trouble
making me lie at the office—
morning mist
After Trakl
Now the days begin to shorten
and when the candle is going out
the smoke descends
like a mind turned quiet
and we hear love take leave
without speaking…
Poem Beginning with a Line by Farough Farrokhzad
let us believe in the ruined
gardens of imagination
even in autumn rain
there’s still such radiance
leaves underfoot whisper
my wishbone song
really just a rhythm imposed
on the slow fires of decay
but now church bells
make for a glistening listen
the dead have nothing
and everything to do
with the emptiness
of numbers
their carnival is upon us
scarlet oaks glowing
Lookout
fall colors
a yellowjacket’s
unsteady flight
In Common
What does it mean to be average? When a computer averages the features from hundreds of faces, the resulting image will look like a supermodel. This tells us that what is average is not necessarily common, and vice versa.
But I love the idea of this perfect face held in common, each of us contributing our own small part to it. Together we are conventionally beautiful. As individuals we can be uncommonly beautiful.
first day of fall
a harrow’s
yellow teeth
* * *
poetry festival
someone says the lake
isn’t a lake
in wild–
flower beds now
only the cosmos
200 years
after Keats’ ode
autumn persists
churchyard labyrinth
zeroing in
on the X
where the dead
are said to sleep
my autumn face
skyline
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