Question:

Have you ever kicked or thrown in the air Autumns leaves?

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I do hope that this is not to challenging for our younger poets. I am sure that if they read it out load it will become plain to them. Perhaps they may take courage and accept the challenges that poetry offers them.

The Last Waltz Of Autumn

I walked in solitude beneath trees whose arms and fingers were reft and bare. Who in past seasons nurtured with love, children born of spring’s sun and fed with nature's milk. Now they lay in colorful abandon on that same earth which fed them. They in gratitude do sacrifice their spent lives to repay with their bodies, a life which was given freely to them. So the cycle begins again.

I in my wondering gave no thought to their unselfish sacrifice, but did in thoughtless abandon scatter them beneath my feet, and sent them a merry dance, which to my ear did sound not unlike a maidens skirts as she, with joyful laughter, did whirl in graceful circles to the fluting of the birds.

T'was then I looked behind to view my path, which meandered in uncertain step, where, when childish impulse overtook did kick and scuffle, to send uplifting the colors of an Autumn gavotte. Thus did I unveil a path of dead and decaying memories, of balls that had come and gone in all of the mists of autumns remembered dances.

Aside me arose a hillside of color, the canvas of the painter, who with an artist’s eye mixed pigments of a promised masterpiece. And with a touch of his brush here and a touch there I stood and viewed not the canvas, but a finished masterpiece of reality, and my heart did leap within my bosom.

I felt alive, reborn to a world, not of my making, nor indeed to any man's, but to blessed Autumns creation; the third great artist of the Seasons. She, who must by her own desire, fills her own pictures with the sights and smells of Autumn. Of wood smoke, morning mists and sounds of the sky's feathered creatures migrating to climes unimagined.

Putting all thoughts of solitude behind me, I walked as a young lad, kicking in g*y abandon the sacrificial children of the trees. Sending them once again to a merry dance as I, in youthful impulsiveness joined in the dance to the sound of skirt in merry whirling accompanied by the lyrical music of birdsong, and the chattering of gray squirrel.

And the leaves of Autumn rose in one last waltz at my passing.

www.authorsden.com/robert

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12 ANSWERS


  1. Of course.

    With others, and on my own.

    Most always these years, on my own.

    "Forever Autumn" remains a perennial favourite.

    (Justin Hayward, Jeff Wayne's "War of Worlds")


  2. Lovely endings..........................

  3. Dear Mr. Harrison,

    That is a beautifully written piece. Very colourful and vivid. It immersed me in a leafy pond of burning red, and for a few moments I felt the cold whisper of autumn. My warmest complimemts.

    Thank you for sharing.

    yours truly,

    Lulle

  4. You do like to waltz, don't you?  This should be intermixed with snapshots of autumn's glory on display.  My compliments.

  5. Just yesterday, I answered a question on Y!A that asked if there was any distinction between poetry and prose writing and I suggested that the discrimination was an arbitrary one when the writing was the work of a master craftsman, and that the proper use of trope, linguistic rhythm, and precise diction was not exclusive to either realm.  You have created a lovely piece that - whether it is thought of as prose, poem, or a brilliantly evocative blending of the two - affirms my contention.  Thank you for affirming what I already knew, and more importantly, thank you for sharing your gift.  

  6. Your writing fills me with peace and makes me yearn for the crisp days of Autumn. Very beautiful.

  7. I can see the beautiful colors of autumn and almost smell the crispness and clean in the air! Thank You for that! Cheers!

  8. I can smell the leaf mould and feel the rub of my wellingtons,cold against my calves. Damp collar  warm on my neck and veined, multicoloured leaves of red and yellow and black and green stuck to my feet, dripping water through the branches and sunlight threads through branches. I am eight again.

    This is a beautiful piece of writing. Thank you.

  9. A beautiful prose poem, which uses sound and rhythm to accentuate the feel of kicking through leaves under bare trees and autumn skies.

    But why the antiquated "did whirl" and "did leap"?

  10. I thought it was beautifully written like words traveling on a breeze

    I too have my own thoughts... certainly, not as graceful or as beautifully as yours, but then my vision was not as a youth.

    It is meant to be read slowly like an old man speaking of his last thoughts.

    "Autumn Leaf"

    Walking softly toward my destination

    my shoes spread fallen leaves stacked below.

    Step by step, aided by wind,  I alternate

    sliding each foot forward, slowly, deliberately,

    seeking, and soon finding, a place to rest.

    Void of breath, lungs heaving, empty,

    I stop to view past steps taken,

    and see the dew moistened path

    of furrowed dirt left by my wake.

    Before me a rusty iron gate left ajar,

    an invitation unaccepted, unwanted, by me...  

    until now.

    Stepping inside a fence of ivy and iron,

    I stare at endless rows

    of white and gray stone

    sprinkled with frozen morning dew.

    White oak trees surround rising marble,

    fallen leaves layered from decades past

    cover paths void of life.

    Looking up I see a lone leaf

    with a color unlike any other,

    dangling, residing on the lofty tip

    of a stretching branch.

    Winds gather up whispered leafy thoughts

    soaked by the mornings dew and then send them

    spraying down on me, leaving their essence

    seeping into my hair, dripping into my mind.

    The leaf struggles but soon gives way to the wind

    I, standing still, wait patiently,

    for the fallen leaf to come to rest

    amidst others of its kind.

    Bonding with this lonely leaf my mind pictures

    its last thoughts as it floats toward the ground.

    "See me, see my well earned colors,

    a badge proudly worn entering the autumn of my life.

    Days numbered not forgotten,

    past sealed in the rotting bark of a decaying tree.

    Snowflakes on the horizon, tumbling down all around.

    Floating in free space,

    Lingering as the wind allows.

    reaching out one last time,

    breaking loose touching earthy ground.

    Waiting , crumbling, cold here, dirt all around;

    touched by others like me, silence abounds."

    Leaf and I become one, fate is our bond,

    the signs of death cover the ground we share.

    Continuing onward I step around hallowed ground

    and a single unique leaf peacefully at rest.

    In front of me I focus on a single marble stone

    bearing a name I recognize, my destination steps away,

    Without a whimper or a cry,

    armed only with faith, I taste fresh air

    as the wind caresses my back for the last time

    only thinking of here, now.

    I ease my way down, crossing my legs, sitting,

    focused only on the six foot hole in the ground...

    then willingly I close my eyes, my mind,

    and slide further down.

    note: I wrote this many years ago when my poetry and writing skills were novice, as still they may be. I only share as a reflection of your presentation in my own humble way.

    For me "It was time to go home"  wasn't it Robert?

  11. I an amateur poet, have never written any work as distinguished as yours. What a grand inspiration it is for me, to read your work so profoundly. My ambition endures. I don't know how one's thoughts become liberal to such fine, and elgeant lines. It must take a sharpening of an adroit mind, and I have not this to release or even bare. How sharp the shrewd must be to share, the truth of Autumn's artistic flare. You have captured Autumn's pride, and carried its glory to abide in words of wonder fittingly so. In hopes that I will one day be bestowed with as equal a marvelous growth, I take this with me, and forward go.

    I saw this single error.

    "Stanza five, change fills, to fill."


  12. Again, you have charmed.

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