The last Wednesday Writing Prompt (June 5, 2017) was about autumn and its promises. “How does the wind and the promise of rain and crunchy leaves underfoot make you feel?” Here are poems in response to the prompt. Read on and enjoy …
When a plump late November goose
down day, warm and dry,
becomes over years
a filmy substance
a ballooned thread,
fly fish cast into a void,
a winter veil
nets your face
in the garden
or down the lane,
dew bling breath
in stubbled glazed fields,
a warm murmured spell of spiders
among the ice.
A strange movement
of language from
as if it has lost weight,
a cloud into contrail,
thinned with the years,
into one word,
to soft filaments,
blown on a breeze,
the decomposed dead,
© 2017, Paul Brookes, (The Wombwell Rainbow)
My Regreened Trees
Leaves on a tree wear a green mask.
Autumn as they die the mask falls
And we see their true self
Red, yellow or orange
a tree can no longer mask a leaf.
When it is too cold leaves turn brown.
When a leaf dies we see it’s true self.
The tree takes water from the graves
Replenishes with memory in water
The tree is the dead
Regreened leaves applaud life
The regreened leaf is a hand
Reattached to a limb
Tree feeds the hands of its canopy
Hears their clapping
I hear the special hand clap
of my late mother in the canopy
Of the applauding trees
And my hands want to clap too.
© 2017, Paul Brookes (The Wombwell Rainbow)
brought for the winter
down from Summer’s high warmth.
Abundance stored as welcome wealth
rests ready for the darkening.
Brought from hedgerows,
woods an abundance of wild damsons,
sloes, rosehips, elderberries,
blackberries, hawthorn berries.
Fruit is the seed carrier.
What is this ghost of a leaf?
Where is the pattern it makes?
How does the pattern of a leaf
become a ghost of its tree?
It is the season of the open door.
It is the reason of half day of light.
It is the reason of half day of dark .
We stand between days, colder,
on that eve of halves
when we go disguised
from old ghosts, new ghosts
cold door to warm door
in hope of gifts and a smile.
The Bearded Nut In A Hat
Soon the wise bearded ones with hats
and saw-toothed hands will fall
for us to collect their wisdom
in woven baskets.
Filbert or cobnut,
crack the hard exterior,
strip the paper thin skin,
nosh on the rich, sweet
nutmeat of wisdom,
that is head, heart
and baby inside the womb.
© 2017, Paul Brookes (The Wombwell Rainbow)
:: falling days ::
songs come via friends,
the books we read,
the place we breathe,
songs of the fading,of life
the words hit our hearts,
and sink in to stay, to pledge
another stage set,
driving the land, the songs,
carry us along, to our place,
the constant places,
we think don’t change,
the song of love, spinning,
dizzying, head and mind,
words of the books,
black and white
so the falling days,
end today, winter waits,
and the songs, and words,
tunes are all to warm us,
and hold us safe
© 2017, Sonja Benskin Mesher (Sonja Benskin Mesher, RCA)
irregular, you came, your best clothes
never mind. the first tune hit the mind,
patterns and mathematics.
the kindness that is, mixes
with dampened autumn air, and your woodsmoke.
all that there is. here.
© 2017, Sonja Benskin Mesher (Sonjia Benskin Mesher, RCA)
Leafy Boughs of Finery
When the air turns crisp and
harbors promises of cold nights
requiring the layering of clothes
to provide warmth the chill of
autumn dresses for the season
with leafy boughs that become
a finery of golds, yellows, reds
lining the street a fall runway
they bend ever so slightly to see
through the glass eyes of homes
where pumpkin pies are baking
and hot cider is brewing
© 2017, Renee Espiru (Renee Just Turtle Flight)
And here to cloase is a belated response to the prompt fro Wednesday Writing Prompt June 28, “tell us about your morning coffee …. or tea.”
ALL IN A DAY’S WORK (as shared over coffee)
I was late for work on Tuesday
And I took off in a flash,
Unfortunately my coffee cup tipped over
And drenched me with a splash,
My white shirt caught every brown drop.
Front and center of the shirt were splattered
I should have found the time to stop.
Those coffee spots looked like politicians twisted in a spiral,
How was I supposed to know that psychiatrists
Were waiting for the picture to go viral?
I was already marked as a careless man.
Women avoided me, I didn’t understand.
As a result I didn’t notice the hot dog vendor
Who was counting out his cash,
I’ve been told the noise of the impact,
Drew first responders and lawyers quickly to the crash.
The ketchup from the hot dogs added color, just a dash.
It was the brown shirt that made people turn and look at me,
All the attention, the crowds, even the President came to see.
I’m not saying that I’m famous because of my brown speckled shirt,
Neither did I gain some fame when I didn’t show for work.
It could have been those dirt splotches and the things people saw,
Or it could have been my imagination when I fell and hurt my jaw.
But I opened a coffee shop over on Fifth and Main,
And every day from dawn to dusk cars are there sure as rain.
I’m happy that I’m helping others, or maybe it’s just fate,
It seems If I’m kind to others, it won’t matter if I’m late.
The geese are flying south again, coffee prices are on the rise,
Meet me for a special exotic blend called MY CLUMSY SUNRISE.
It’s the one that got me started, and I don’t know if it will end,
Come and join our poetry group, the ones we call our friends.
Write about anything until you squeeze the last words out.
We encourage all who share, and those with fears and doubts,
Drink my coffee and let the words splash straight from your heart,
The end result is less important than the journey we all make,
We strive to improve the world, one coffee, or a story,
It’s a step we all take.
© 2017, Dan Roberson (My Blog)
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