original photo @ Pebble Beach by bb, enhancement compositing by bb
Blood Moon
it was the time
the blood moon
.
rising in the dusk
boiling sea of red
bleeding through the trees
blood moon
.
holding onto earth
clinging to a breeze
holding every breath
blood moon
.
drum of blood
drumming thrumming
drum of blood
blood moon
.
sprites lept high
and snapped in glee
biting deep into the sky
blood moon
.
hanging lowly
rising slowly
never blinking
blood moon
.
cats wept cowling
wolfriend howling
men saw madness
bloodmoon
.
moon
.
moon
.
see the moon
.
bloodmoon!
brulebilly
Autumn,
She sighs
And Shivers,
Part of her body Quivers.
It is that time again.
Head falls heavy;
Winter comes
Prepared in soul and mind
For dark winter nights.
What joy can Autumn
bring?
Except the promise
of another Spring.
Vigilanty Lady
The leaves turn shades of reds and browns
Some people then start to frown
As it means winters drawing near
Soon be the end of the year
But I love this Autumn Season
Why you ask, so many reasons,
The sun still shines the air is crisp
In the early morning mist
Yet in the evenings we get all snug
Drinking hot chocolate from a mug
Cosying up in front of the fire
This one is real, no electric wire
As we walk we tread on leaves
Wearing jumpers now with long sleeves
The colours make me laugh and smile
And for spring to come will be a while
DizzyBlonde
AUTUMN UNEXPECTED
Autumn came
and took me by surprise
when I was still enjoying
the warm touch of green grass
and scented summer buds.
Autumn came
and I wasn't prepared:
part of my essence withered,
suddenly my words failed
to record thoughts of past times.
Autumn came
and with it the cold vision
of a winter near.
Unexpectedly,
but not unguessed.
Autumn came
and with it reality
crudely showed itself:
all loves and dreams
will fade away.
Autumn came...
How many more we'll see?
Come dear, closer,
hold my hand,
let's fly together on this wind.
© Salvador Oría
15-10-2003
NOTE: In the Southern hemisphere we are enjoying a superb Spring!
AUTUMN EXPECTED
Autumn came
with those scented last roses,
birds flying back
to their temperate lands,
crickets arranging their beds...
Autumn came
with a crisp cold to stay;
billows of smoke now're seen
here and there
firewood knows its time has come
Autumn came
and I feel comfortable
with the pang of its airs
I won't say no to the inevitable
I'd rather use the best of them!
Oh autumn, a season feared
these days. Why do you try
to disguise your scythe
if the crimson leaves
will show it anyways?
Oh autumn, I'll let your arms
embrace me, hug me
with your golden shades.
I know, I know well
what it means.
Autumn came
but I am now waiting for it
with my luggage ready
We looked into each other's eyes
and I knew the time was fit.
© Salvador Oría
Buenos Aires 16-10-03
The Last Few Days
By Bobby Neal Winters
Autumn is my favorite time of year. Summer is too hot, winter is too cold, and spring is too brief. In autumn, we have moderation and stability—or at least relative stability. Autumn is a time of wisdom. In the spring, we don’t dread the summer. And ‘dread’ is not the right word. What I mean to say is that our outlook lacks realism. We look from spring to summer and say, “Bring it on. Do your worst,” not even knowing what the worst can be. We don’t think about the burned brown grass of late July, August, and September.
By autumn, we have learned wisdom. We know that winter is coming, so we look ahead and prepare for it. We don’t say, “Do your worst,” because we now have some sort of idea what the worst is. This is a bit less pronounced here in Kansas than in other, more northerly places. In Kansas, we do have four distinct seasons, but the god’s of the Plains are capricious. We do get breaks between the winter blasts. The snow comes, but then it goes away again. In other places this is not true.
My family and I lived for a year in Utah, and the snow that arrives there in January will be there in March. I noticed that the days of autumn there are treated with great reverence. I worked on the BYU campus and had but a short walk home. When I walked across the Quad during fall, I noticed there were an inordinate number of students out playing with Frisbees, throwing footballs, or just lying on their bellies on the grass, reading books. This was especially noticeable when there was a storm in the forecast. Young people, still full of life, drinking in the last days of autumn before the storms come.
Those days that we are young are few and stormy, like spring. We know more about the weather than we know about what life has in store. We spend all of our time looking ahead to the future saying, “Bring it on! We are ready!” when we don’t even know what for. In kindergarten, we want to be in grade school; in high school, we want to be in college and in college at work. We are ever ignorant that our lives may make us at times burned like an un-irrigated field in August. Maybe it is being burned that brings us wisdom.
The Psalmist tells us, “The days of our years are threescore years and ten; and if by reason of strength they be fourscore years, yet is their strength labor and sorrow; for it is soon cut off, and we fly away.” I am now passed the halfway mark on the fourscore, and I don’t feel all that strong. With three children, a career, and numerous activities, I am in the high summer of my life and sometimes feel a bit burned over, a bit in need of a rain that I cannot reasonably expect anytime soon.
But I have friends who are in autumn. They have lived through the same things that I am in the process of living through, and they still stand. Some of them have retired, but some are still involved in their careers. Their careers, however, have found their proper proportion, their proper place.
They are still involved in their children’s lives, but now at a distance, away from the daily frenzy, letting the mistakes necessary for the learning of wisdom be made. There are grandchildren to be treasured and doted upon.
Having themselves learned wisdom, they now drink in the warm days and relish the cool nights. Winter is coming, along with its storms. It will be here, but just now they will enjoy the pleasures of these last few days before the storms begin.
(Editor’s Note: Bobby’s book, Grandma Dipped Snuff, can be purchase through his website www.okieinexile.com)
Through the open window
Slips the scent of gunpowder
Rotting leaves
Sweet sour
Burning leaves
Myrtyrs to the turning year
Chrysanthemums
Spicing the deep mint
Of pine and evergreen
Cold comfort
Silently announcing
Winter's approach
SuzzieUK
The Abbey Rooks
Hushed, the morning, a drizzling mist,
until October colours burn through.
A burnished elm stands sentinel above
the Abbey walls, a grave façade
while moss and lichen cling behind.
And then the Rooks, so many Rooks,
a pressing down of darkness, black,
and the noise, the overwhelming
noise, as the sky tears apart;
streaming out from the labyrinth,
all feather, eye and stabbing beak.
Leaves falling, spiralling downwards
to the bodies of the black monks,
while their souls take flight once more.
Phoebe
Autumn Colours
One morning i look out of my window.
The first thing i see is that the world is aflame.
But the Fire is cold, just a cruel reminder
Of a summer that has left us in the mercy of the rain.
Liscense to Slay
Autumn Now
Copper wind, shortening days,
At dusk the window-glass receives my face...
Oh how I miss
Sun, shadow, swimsuit, sand and seas!
© Salvador Oría
Sprout Days
Soon the telephone will flutter.
I'll pick up the part that's like a cold
yellow bone, hold it near to my head,
and a sound like the sound of your voice
will echo faintly in my ear.
It will ask me how I am,
enquire about what I've been doing,
and I'll tell it, only partly lying,
of the events of the day.
Of how I walked out on the hard
white ground, and saw the dyke
at the end of the garden
running black and full
from the storms. How I felt
a pale sun on my face.
How I ran my palms up the rough
iron stalks of the last sprout plants,
and watched the solid green marbles
tumble into my basket.
How the colony of rooks
still squabbles over real-estate
in the spinney. How I saw you, young,
striding away across the fields.
And how in the night, listening
for your footfall,
I heard the bark of a fox,
like a dying cough.
Ted Slade
A song for Autumn from Expresso Kid
