wildeheartdream on To Sonnet or Not to Sonnet… To Sonnet or Not to… on Form, say whaa?
Autumn at Hand
Trees, branches, a trunk with eyes
gazing at a world
reflected in the still water
kaleidoscope of pond —
what can the world see
in the mirrors
hanging there like oblique
with pine needles
The logs on the surface
leave their decomposing bodies
The dead leaves on the forest floor
flakes of metal left to dissolve
back into the earth
like the iron they were forged from.
If I think too long
of that sharp metal, I can imagine
the taste of my own sanguine humour,
copper and red like dying summer
heat irradiating, then cold fusion.
The conclusion is left unsaid.
The only way to see the sky is to hang yourself.
Autumn is my favorite season, and I some how end up with a lot of autumn poetry.
The Ache in My Chest is Loss
I wander around my house
staggering from thought to thought
trying to place this familiar disquiet.
I count the leaves
on my doorstep to distraction.
Futility in spades.
Miscarried, shimmering like vapor,
the wind takes them.
I’ve been here before.
Stranded, a mote of
between two beams of sun.
I should be grateful.
My existence is not transient,
it is gold-soaked autumn.
I am not grateful.
I am vacuous.
Life run out.