Poetry Blogs (leaves)

Dead Leaves

You once grew green

On lofty branches

Defiant against the clouds

Fluttering in the breeze

But now the tree has gone

Just a pale ghost of memory

And the sky is dominant

In my front windows

Your first death was brittle

Old man skeleton scratching

Whipping up your decline

In whorls of frustration

And when the rain came

Like falling tears

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LeAvEs
How they have fallen,
Laying thick,
Pressing the jostling grass
Under them.
Obliterating it from sight.
Their browns and yellows brighter
Than the grey above.
Achieving a moment of glory,
In death a dominance.
Looking up to freed branches
Framing veiled light,
Had they thought to fly,
Letting go their source of life?
How they have fallen!

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A fiery clown has come down

Over forests, lanes and towns.

No trumpets blown, no drums rolled,

Out of the morning mists he strolled.

Yello! Yello! It's party-time!,

He smiled. His reds and golds he sprayed around.

And God's whole house was swathed with hues untold.

All about the orange glowed, crimson leaves displayed.

The ceiling now was light with blue.

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The fluttering of the autumnal flags

clinging onto the last hope

of the now distant summer

brittle and brown they hang on

for dear life to their arboreal home.

The bark, it protects and guards the

living trunk against the bite of the

Northerly wind while the leaves

they suffer stoically the chilly breeze.

One final breath, and they are pulled

from their earthly space

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Before I go

Let me drink this rich wine

Let me sing my delight

This gold red dawn has promise:

vibrant with the cold sun

vanishing valley mists

leave damp spider web to shimmer

mistdrops on the long reeds

and ungathered lawn leaves

damply shining

against the muted green of wet grass.

This amber morning has perfection:

wonderfully wooded leaf tints

golden...

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He watched the leaves float

in the pond

windmoving on the surface

drop-pitted by rain,

leaves, orange-brown against the black depths

He watched the leaves stick

to the patio

wetgluing to the slate

slickened by the storm,

leaves, orange-brown against the black stone

He watched the leaves move

on the trees

wildwaving off the branches

leafstripped by t...

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Sycamore leaves dance

In only the lightest breeze

They never turn askance

Like leaves on other trees

Sycamore leaves flair

Within their perfect ballet

In just the lightest air

Blowing up the valley

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And then, suddenly, it was calm - the morning wind which threw

rain hard against the window panes and sent beech leaves rushing

across the grass to pile gold-brown against all that the borders grew,

all slowly dulling their greens to wet, muted browns, brushing

the soil as their leaves curl and droop - vibrant Spring-strength gone,

fading sadly.

                         The wind ...

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Do you hear a rustle
as you walk among the trees?
Do your ears detect a crackle
as you feel the autumn breeze?

In amongst the birdsong
are there murmurs in the lane?
Do you feel a little something
that your senses can't explain?

Is there a ripple as you roam
along that woodland way?
Is it coming from above
Perhaps it's hard to say?

As you walk the forest's path
Is there whisper ...

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The leaves fall down
Why doesn't it make a sound ?
There is no need to frown
I'm not here to give your heart a wound
Look at the show, isn't it peaceful ?
Isn't that a reason to get cheerful ?

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Little men with little hats,

running with the bats.

over the hedge and under the fence,

dodging frustrated cats.

people call us gnomes. but thats not who we are...

were pixies born from guilded stars.

hearing mother nature call when all the leaves begin to fall.

sprinkling diamonds in woven webs on frosty mornings

when all thats green slumbers in its bed...

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I'm in love.  

A soft breeze rustles the leaves on the trees just outside my window.  All is silent save the ocean roaring in the distance at a rhythm too lovely for words.  And the wooden clock in the corner holds his pace, savoring this time of night when his tick tick tick is finally heard.  It's dark now, all around, except some photos sliding in and out on my computer screen.  

I feel p...

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Winterfylleth (October)

We die! We die!

scream the old men

of the trees,

as their grip slips

from skeletal fingers

holding them aloft.

They fall to earth

in a blaze of golden glory,

coming to rest

at the feet of

great oaks, sycamores,

birch and elms.

Rustling in their cardigans

of orange and amber

like dry skin

in...

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Seasons turn but I don't care

people come and go

bright blue skies and golden leaves

won't heal broken souls

People and leaves fall and rise

up against the time

missing those we loved so much

we all long to die

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And so as nothing leads to nothing

and your weary eyes

leaves turn golden then they fall

grasping for the past

An old tramp in the corner

monument of life

you used to own the whole world too

benches for thrones, friends to trust

All is gone yet you still live

bursting with sweet love

Love of golden fallen leaves

- that is what you've...

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