En.Citatepedia^®.ro

Whispered Into Afternoon

Sun of autumn, thin and shy
And fruit drops off the trees,
Blue silence fills the peace
Of a tardy afternoon’s sky.

Death knells forged of metal,
And a white beast hits the mire.
Brown lasses uncouth choir
Dies in leaves’ drifting prattle.

Brow of God dreams of hues,
Senses madness’ gentle wings.
Round the hill wield in rings
Black decay and shaded views.

Rest and wine in sunset’s gleam,
Sad guitars drizzle into night,
And to the mellow lamp inside
You turn in as in a dream.

poem by Georg Trakl
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Autumn Becomes Winter

Autumn is becoming Winter,
And as it does everything dies.

Autumn is a slow decay in warm colours,
And Winter is grey and absent.
Some of the redy-brown leaves sit on the trees,
Yet the cold chill sings a song
That could only be the Winter.

It is scarf weather now.
I turn my collar up against the cold and damp.
The Sun has stopped shining all day,
Now we see it for a few hours a day
And then we are entombed in darkness.

You could run to catch up with the Sun,
But you’d never make it.
Be left like ship smoke on the horizon,
Just a spot in the distance.
You cannot escape the Winter.

Autumn is becoming Winter,
And as it does everything dies.

poem by Charlie F. Kane
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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An Autumn Crown

Watch the leaves turn
yellow, red and brown
Changing the sky too
And putting on autumn's crown

And letting in the joy
And happiness of sunshine
And filling the world with
The light and warmth of wine

watch the leaves turn
Yellow, red and brown
And reflecting serenity and peace
And putting on autumn's crown

And spreading joy and passion
And enthusiasm and hope
And clearing away the dust
And all pain and mope

watch the leaves turn
Yellow, red and brown
And creating a new life
And putting on autumn's crown

And showing you how to reach
The bright horizon afar
And nature glowing with colors
A twinkling like a star

Watch the leaves turn
Yellow, red and brown
Reflecting God's blessings
And putting on autumn's crown.

poem by Seema Chowdhury
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Our Metal Beast

Down the road we talk and laugh,
In the metal beast that gives us a ride,
Who knows if it is willing,
And who would really care.

Who ever thought we could ruin,
the life of that which gives it back,
the metal beast are everywhere,
Large ones that seem to carry,
Fifty or more on their tracks.

Or the small ones no more than five or six,
they can carry,
These metal beast,
we never question,
these metal beast that spew out death,
in a smokey and floating form.

Our metal beast,
that we learn to love,
Our metal beast are everywhere,
polished and primed,
or rusty and old,

Our metal beast that we hold onto,
that we love,
Or take for granted.

Our metal beast,
spew out death to our home.

poem by Rebecca Adams
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Tall Trees In A Blue Sky

(jack hues)
Tall trees in a blue sky
Stand together dont ask why
Stretch up to the blue sky
Pierce that ceiling if you try
You say these feelings do not last
Well I am gonna prove you wrong
You say our futures in the past
But I am gonna turn you on
Bright leaves in the sunshine
Pick me up when I feel down
Deep freeze if we don try
Seems like we go round and round
You say a dream will not last
Well I am gonna prove you wrong
You say our futures in the past
But I am gonna turn you on
Chorus:
You and me could last forever
If only we could stand together like
Tall trees in a blue sky
Like tall trees in a blue sky
Its a deep freeze if we dont try
Big man in a blue tie
Tells you things must be this way
Tall tree when the man dies
Havent heard a word he say
You say these feelings do not last
Well I am gonna prove you wrong
You say our futures in the past
But I am gonna turn you on
I am gonna turn you on
I am gonna turn you on
I am gonna turn you on
You and me could last forever
If only we could stand together like
Tall trees in a blue sky
Its a deep freeze if we dont try
Like tall trees in a blue sky
Its a deep freeze when the bombs fly

song performed by by Wang Chung
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I Will Always Love You For Who You Are

Even if the leaves of ground turn red of my blood
Even if the leaves of ground turn happy yellow into dust
Even the leaves of ground turn brown into ashes
Even if the leaves of ground turn black into the night
You will always be swaying in my breath
Because I will always love you for who you are

Even if they take out my mind again
And spin it round the midnight blue
Even if they take my heart away again
And throw it down a silent well
From inside that well your name I will call
Even though I don't like to make promises at all
This much I can always promise
Because I will always love you for who you are

poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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Autumn

(10/13/11)

The autumn leaves falling on the ground
The autumn leaves of yellow, orange and brown
The trees like a rainbow of colors
Such as this there is no other.
My friends would climb up the smallest trees
And shake the leaves down to me.

then the leaves are raked up and placed in a large pile
Children diving in and laughing all the while.
The crispy crunch that you hear
Sends the chills through your ears.

The autumn leaves reminding us
That Halloween was very near
Where we could dress up and create some fear.

But for now we would have our fun
Chasing each other with our water guns
Diving into leaves of gold and brown
Hoping that we wouldn’t be found.

The park keeper was as happy as can be
From raking the leaves he was free.
He would pick them up and putting
Them into the metal cans- and the smell
Of burning leaves would fill the air
Letting people know that autumn was here.

(memories are made of this- like the song)

poem by Louis Rams
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Poem (Remember midsummer: the fragrance of box)

Remember midsummer: the fragrance of box, of white
roses
And of phlox. And upon a honeysuckle branch
Three snails hanging with infinite delicacy
-- Clinging like tendril, flake and thread, as self-tormented
And self-delighted as any ballerina,
just as in the orchard,
Near the apple trees, in the over-grown grasses
Drunken wasps clung to over-ripe pears
Which had fallen: swollen and disfigured.
For now it is wholly autumn: in the late
Afternoon as I walked toward the ridge where the hills
begin,
There is a whir, a thrashing in the bush, and a startled
pheasant, flying out and up,
Suddenly astonished me, breaking the waking dream.

Last night
Snatches of sleep, streaked by dreams and half dreams
- So that, aloft in the dim sky, for almost an hour,
A sausage balloon - chalk-white and lifeless looking--
floated motionless
Until, at midnight, I went to New Bedlam and saw what I
feared
the most - I heard nothing, but it
had all happened several times elsewhere.

Now, in the cold glittering morning, shining at the
window,
The pears hang, yellowed and over-ripe, sodden brown in
erratic places, all bunched and dangling,
Like a small choir of bagpipes, silent and waiting. And I
rise now,
Go to the window and gaze at the fallen or falling country
-- And see! -- the fields are pencilled light brown
or are the dark brownness of the last autumn
-- So much has shrunken to straight brown lines, thin as
the
bare thin trees,
Save where the cornstalks, white bones of the lost forever dead,
Shrivelled and fallen, but shrill-voiced when the wind
whistles,
Are scattered like the long abandoned hopes and ambitions
Of an adolescence which, for a very long time, has been
merely
A recurrent target and taunt of the inescapable mockery of
memory.

poem by Delmore Schwartz
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A Gentle Madness (Love Poem)

Love is a gentle madness that leaves you empty,
Giving everything and expecting nothing back.

Love is a gentle madness that makes you feel alive,
Taking pleasure in every little thing she does.

Love is a gentle madness that changes everything,
Making your life impossible without her near.

Love is a gentle madness that drowns your sorrow,
Blinding you to her perfectly obvious imperfections.

Love is a gentle madness that brings you peace,
Holding you closer than her breath each night.

Love is a gentle madness that turns your world,
Seeing only beauty as she looks into your eyes.

poem by Ian Beckett
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The Mood of Depression

You dark mouth inside me,
You are strong , shape
Composed of autumn cloud,
And golden evening stillness;
In the shadows thrown
By the broken pine trees
A mountain stream turns dark in the green light;
A little town
That piously dies away into brown pictures.
Now the black horses rear
In the foggy pasture.
I think of soldiers!
Down the hill, where the dying sun lumbers,
The laughing blood plunges,
Speechless
Under the oak trees! Oh the hopeless depression
Of an army; a blazing steel helmet
Fell with a clatter from purpled foreheads.
The autumn night comes down so coolly.
With her white habit glittering like the stars
Over the broken human bodies
The convent nurse is silent

poem by Georg Trakl
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Autumn

So still—so still! Only the endless sighing
Of sad Æolian harp-notes overhead;
Only the soft mass-music for the dying;
Only the requiem for the newly dead!

So strangely dim!—the grey mist on the heather,
The chill cloud-twilight in the wind-stripped bowers,
Where gold and scarlet sunlights lay together
On harvest fruit and summer wealth of flowers.

So empty now!—only the dead leaves sifting
The dead brown berries underneath the trees;
Only my fair dead treasures idly drifting
About my footsteps in the autumn breeze.

All over now! No flowers that must be tended
Are left to grow upon the open plain;
No fruits to ripen; for the harvest's ended—
There's no more need for either sun or rain.

The infinite hope, the boundless, strong endeavour,
The love and joy I never thought to sum,
The precious things that were to last for ever—
All gather'd now, and nothing more to come!

Only the shroud of snow, the white star-tapers,
The passionate storm-winds, wailing in the air;
Only the icy rain and tearful vapours,
Only the winter darkness of despair!

* * * * *
So still, so sweet! with tender breezes blowing
Amongst the hills and o'er the Lowland sod,
And golden drifts of dead leaves softly strowing
The seed-graves hollow'd by the hands of God.

So grey and calm! the crimson glory faded
From this low sky, pale blue and purple-barred—
This placid sea, with steel and silver shaded—
This fair earth, now with autumn furrows scarred.

In the decay such chasten'd beauty blending—
Beauty late-born of peace, and hope, and rest,
As in a saintly life when near the ending,
When all its strife and labour has been blest.
The harvest-time is past. But there remaineth
The well-stored treasure-house—the hidden seed
That dead leaves help to nourish, which containeth
The germ of a new life that's life indeed.

poem by Ada Cambridge
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Catch The Sunset

A lifetime with a classic pain,
does not give me peace or freedom.
Blind ideas scream,
breaking the antique silence.
Becoming was not,
the ending of desire,
or senile decay of lips.

You were destroyed,
by your weird dreams.
Silver spoon,
seldom became the bread of poor.
Sweated and smashed,
I picked up green
sprigs of sorrow.
It was a gift of sun and water.

Waiting for my turn
to catch the sunset
and the new moon together.
I wanted a life as a leaf,
drifting out on the hill,
touching the stillness of the thing,
the emptiness.

poem by Satish Verma
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Signs of Autumn

The signs of autumn are upon us. Wow!
The Sun is heading south and harvesting
Is ready for a host of crops by now.
In early fall the days are warm as spring.
The leaves are turning yellow, some are red
And few are brown as yet. The oaken tree
Is dropping fruit and squirrels running ahead
Of other squirrels to claim a guarantee
Impending drops are won. The scent of leaves
Is carried by Septembers gentle breeze
Throughout the day bestirring memories
Of seasons past: A time of youth, who seized
The autumn moments with a measured scheme:
To laugh and play; to sing; to love and dream.

poem by Albert Ahearn
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Autumn Song

Leaves of brown they fall to the ground
And its here, over there leaves around
Shut the door, dim the lights and relax
What is more, your desire or the facts
Pitter patter the rain falling down
Little glamor sun coming round
Take a walk when autumn comes to town
Little stroll past the house on the hill
Some more coal on the fire will do well
And in a week or two itll be halloween
Set the page and the stage for the scene
Little game the children will play
And as we watch them while time away
Look at me and take my breath away yeah
Youll be smiling eyes beguilding
And the song on the breeze
Will call my name out and your dream
Chestnuts roasting outside as you walk
With your love by your side
The old accordion man plays mellow and bright
And you go home in the crispness of the night
Little later friends will be along
And if you feel like joining the throng
Just might feel like singing autumn song
Just may feel like singing autumn song
Youll be smiling
Eyes beguilding
And the song on the breeze
Calls my name out in your dream
Chestnuts roasting outside
As you walk with your love by your side
And the old accordion plays mellow and bright
And you go home in the crispness of the night

song performed by by Van Morrison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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At End Of A Holiday

'LEAVES and brambles from hill and hollow
Come and gather!' the children cried;
'The sun goes down, and the night will follow,
A moonless night on the dark hillside.'
All ways they wandered — the dry twigs snapping,
With laugh and prattle and song between;
Down on the rocks the waves were lapping,
The long swell swaying the seaweed green.
And she stood by in her white sun-bonnet,
All lace and snow on her tressy hair,
With a gold king-beetle dreaming on it
A lotus dream in the lustrous air.
Was it love, or a dove in the tall tree cooing?
Was it love, or a dove that loitered nigh?
The eventide is the hour for wooing —
But I was silent, and she was shy.
Then suddenly rose a far faint humming,
A growing noise in the evening hush,
And the prattle of children homeward coming,
Laden with spoil of the gold-brown bush.
'Leaves and brambles from hill and hollow!
The way was tangled, and tangles tire.
The sun goes down and the night will follow, —
Now down on your knees and make us a fire!'
The leaves were wet (how a storm may hinder!)
The brambles damp with a shower at noon;
She bent to help . . .and my heart of tinder,
Ah, why did it burst to flame so soon?
'Dry leaves, dry leaves from the twilight forest,
Or bark that is sheltered, or hidden ferns:
Dry leaves, dry leaves!' the children chorused,
'The drier the leaf the redder it burns!'
The fire leapt up with a sudden glancing,
The first flame flushing her hands of snow;
And round about went the children dancing,
Their faces lit by the rosy glow.
That fire has gone beyond all returning,
For wild winds scatter and chill rains drench:
All dust the leaves; but a fire is burning
That wind or water shall never quench.
Ah, leaves and brambles from hill and hollow!
And two together, and violet eyes . . .
The sun goes down, and love must follow,
A quenchless fire, and a flame that dies.

poem by Roderic Quinn
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Helian

In the spirit’s solitary hours
It is lovely to walk in the sun
Along the yellow walls of summer.
Quietly whisper the steps in the grass; yet always sleeps
The son of Pan in the grey marble.

At eventide on the terrace we got drunk on brown wine
The red peach glows under the foliage.
Tender sonata, joyous laughter.

Lovely is this silence of the night.
On the dark plains
We gather with shepherds and the white stars.

When autumn rises
The grove is a sight of sober clarity.
Along the red walls we loiter at ease
And the round eyes follow the flight of birds.
In the evening pale water gathers in the dregs of burial urns.

Heaven celebrates, sitting in bare branches.
In hallowed hands the yeoman carries bread and wine
And fruit ripens in the peace of a sunny chamber.

Oh how stern is the face of the beloved who have taken their passage.
Yet the soul is comforted in righteous meditation.

Overwhelming is the desolated garden‘s secrecy,
As the young novice has wreathed his brow with brown leaves,
His breath inhales icy gold.

The hands touch the antiquity of blueish water
Or in a cold night the sisters’ white cheeks.

In quiet and harmony we walk along a suite of hospitable rooms
Into solitude and the rustling of maple trees,
Where, perhaps, the thrush still sings.

Beautiful is man and emerging from the dark
He marvels as he moves his arms and legs,
And his eyes quietly roll in purple cavities.

At suppertime a stranger loses himself in November’s black destitution;
Under brittle branches he follows a wall covered under leprosy.
Once the holy brother went here,
Engrossed in the tender music of his madness.

Oh how lonely settles the evening-wind.
Dying away a man‘s head droops in the dark of the olive tree.

How shattering is the decline of a family.
This is the hour when the seer’s eyes are filled
With gold as he beholds the stars.

The evening’s descend has muffled the belfry‘s knell in silence;
Among black walls in the public place,
A dead soldier calls for a prayer.

Like a pale angel
The son enters his ancestor’s empty house.

The sisters have traveled far to the pale ancients.
At night, returned from their mournful pilgrimage,
He found them asleep under the columns of the hallway.

Oh hair stained with dung and worms
As his silver feet stepped on it
And on those who died in echoing rooms.

Oh you palms under midnight’s burning rain,
When the servants flogged those tender eyes with nettles,
The hollyhock’s early fruit
Beheld your empty grave in wonder.

Fading moons sail quietly
Over the sheets of the feverish lad,
Into the silence of winter.

At the bank of Kidron a great mind is lost in musing,
Under a tree, the tender cedar,
Stretched out under the father’s blue eyebrows,
Where a shepherd drives his flock to pastures at night.

Or there are screams which escape the sleep;
When an iron angel approaches man in the grove,
The holy man’s flesh melts over burning coals.

Purple wine climbs about the mud-cottage,
Sheaves of faded corn sing;
The buzz of bees; the crane’s flight.
In the evening the souls of the resurrected gather on rocky paths.

Lepers behold their image in dark water;
Or they lift the hemp of their dung soiled attire,
And weep to the soothing wind, as it drifts down from the rosy hill.

Slender maidens grope their way through the narrow lanes of night;
They hope for the gracious shepherd.
Tenderly, songs ring out from the huts on weekend.

Let the song pay homage to the boy,
To his madness to his white eyebrows and to his passage,
To the decaying corpse, who opened his blue eyes.
Oh how sad is this reunion.

The stairs of madness in black apartments –
The matriarch’s shadow emerged under the open door
When Helian’s soul beheld his image in a rosy mirror;
And from his brow bled snow and leprosy.

The walls extinguished the stars
And the white effigies of light.

From the carpet rise skeletons, escaping their graves,
Fallen crosses sit silent on the hill,
The night’s purple wind is sweet with frankincense.

Oh ye broken eyes over black gaping jaws,
When the grandson in the solitude
Of his tender madness muses over a darker ending,
The blue eyelids of the silent god sink upon him.

poem by Georg Trakl
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Nature' S Kindergarten

Deep, blue sky,
Overcast
With clouds white.
Gentle breeze
Kissing the branches, trees, leaves
And the nascent buds in between
Caressing
The concrete crust.

Stronger it blows
Trees take to the floor
Branches conduct the choir
White to grey
Synergy high
Bang the floor
Dance
To tunes of thunder
Lightening strikes
In the milieu
Pours the virile
The entire show
In silence bids bye.

poem by Sanjay Mehta
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Autumn Falls

Autumn falls,
Before Indian Summer begins.
And in New England...
Temperatures cool,
To warm again.

Autumn falls!
And so do Chestnuts and Pine cones,
As well as leaves blown swiftly...
From an assortment of Oak and Maple trees.
And those that remain to cling...
Bring astonishing colors,
Of Orange, Red and mixtures of hues...
Yellow and Brown to them bring.

Autumn falls...
Dramatically!
To leave barren the trees,
Except for the Pine...
Mysteriously,
Just before the first snow of Winter...
Covers with a bright white majesticness.

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Beautiful Autumn

Beautiful autumn
Before night's winter fall
Slowly with its strum
In frosty nights call

The dreams of darkish play
From evenings in the night
Each winter’s icily play
In lost longing's flight

Beautiful yellow red
Leaves of the falling decay
Each peeling blossom bed
That gives the night its day

Their garden going to brown
When life is in its sleep
Like evening in winters gown
In tinctures not to keep

Beautiful dreams going
Flowing the last of autumn
With all its golden glowing
And drowning of river’s hum

The dreams of the cloudy sky
In days of the fallen leaves
Questions to ask for why
The world is of smile and greaves

poem by Peter S. Quinn
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The Light in November

The light in November slants low.
It fills my eyes as I glance
askance through amber trees
and see the leaves descend in
gold flashes
past my open window.

The autumn sun skirts
my low Suisun hills
casting deep shadows
along the ebbing marsh

where wading egrets probe
still, black waters

and finding their prize
rise to blue heaven,
white, slender wings
elegantly beating
the softly falling sun.

poem by Steven Federle
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Interval

Gone the wild day:
A wilder night
Coming makes way
For brief twilight.

Where the firm soaked road
Mounts and is lost
In the high beech-wood
It shines almost.

The beeches keep
A stormy rest,
Breathing deep
Of wind from the west.

The wood is black,
With a misty steam.
Above, the cloud pack
Breaks for one gleam.

But the woodman's cot
By the ivied trees
Awakens not
To light or breeze.

It smokes aloft
Unwavering:
It hunches soft
Under storm's wing.

It has no care
For gleam or gloom:
It stays there
While I shall roam,

Die, and forget
The hill of trees,
The gleam, the wet,
This roaring peace.

poem by Edward Thomas
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