Poetry Collection

Here is a collection of a half-dozen works presented in the chronological order in which I composed them--AW

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Autumn Rose
By Autumn Writer
© Copyright 2011

Little soldier, so proud you are in crimson tunic,
emerald epaulettes and matching pantaloons.
Stand tall and face bitter autumn winds
which scrape bare the once-green garden wherein once would parade
colored battalions in summer victories, too many to name.
Comrades all in crimson, pink, yellow, white
You knew them well in days of golden summer light,
But the wind; the cruel, autumn wind, must blow.

Stand tall, though lonely you face the autumn chill.
Colored tunics falter each dwindling day and
ever-lengthened shadows disguise their worth.
Summer glories seem not so long ago;
deserving they may be, reside in dusty memory.
The autumn wind may sting and tunics fade.
Courage! Do not dare waver. Though lone you gaze at tearful sentry post.
Wonder at crumbled leaves swirling at your feet.

Your legion comrades: where have they gone—where have they gone?
Glory—will it ever shine again?
What seems a tear is but the chilly dew
and not despair, for years of duty done will dry the eye.
The heart knows when autumn winds
whisper secrets in soldiers’ ears:
“Stand at ease and take your rest,
and with crumbling leaves find lost comrades in the dust.”

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Lighthouse
by Autumn Writer
© Copyright 2011

Solitary star, lonesome blinking light,
Sentinel on this ragged night
I fight the gale, the stinging sleet
my frail, small craft strains for yonder point
Where shards beneath the boiling sea
lurk in evil hope of my descent to devil’s teeth.
to sleep in the cold, dark and silent deep.
Can You see me?

Lighthouse, do You know how vain my spirit spent
that Grace which once fell to me as free as gentle rain?
I missed it not, ‘til this awful squall refreshed my memory.
It is gone. Wisdom forsakes me—or perhaps it was I who cast It off.
How can that be? How can that be? I barely felt It fly away.
But, when morning breaks the sun will rule the sky.
You are ever at your sentry post and as I sail by You call to me:
“As men grow old they come to know, Lighthouse guides them home.”

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November Rain
by Autumn Writer
© Copyright 2011

November rain descends in angry spatters
on crumbling leaves that lie in tatters
on chilly ground that waits its winter sleep.
Forgotten flowers bow heads and weep.

Chilly drops—what purpose in their minds begot
to wet the ground when it matters not?
Grumbling clouds grow grayer still;
speak to all of nature’s will.

November rain brings back to mind
showers of May, left so far behind.
She was my mistress—we danced and sang
‘til the toll of age and duty rang.

Had we dallied just a little while,
waited for the moistened earth to smile,
with fertile soil and sun-warmed air,
would the partaking have been so unfair?

We were profligate in spending our youthful days.
‘Til time and age bade us mend our ways.
We were indifferent to fleeting of joyous times.
And now to repent—the hour chimes.

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Christmas Poem
© Copyright 2011
Autumn Writer

Silent forest, leafless trees in frozen night
in darkness shadows rise and come to life—black brigades,
pointed arms, reach out to barricade the Seeking Soul.
The brilliant moon brights a meadow close beyond.
But sullen timbers slumber ‘neath snow blankets, near forgot,
Stumble, fall; the saving light appears so close away.

As snow is foe, it is the ocean on which to sail.
A coverlet hiding all that is—or might seem to be.
Truth disguised, remains in frozen place,
recalled in blurry memory—beware—the forgetful descend to icy fate!
Lonely footprints left behind define the trail, soon to be re-covered.
Mindful steps ply inch by inch dark edge of frozen wood, in time revealed.

In the hoped-for clearing snow is deeper still.
Grainy powder, swirled up by brazen, scowling wind,
crystal cloud, stings as witch hazel on a fresh-shaved cheek.
Nostrils fill with frozen vapor. A star shines bright through the snowy mist.
Star of stars; Light of light, Master to the full moon’s delight.
Squinting eyes turn heaven-bound. Can the heart find what must be found?

What has been and what is meant to be
The unknown rightfulness of each act and forgotten deed.
The answer, the object of the frozen quest:
O, Star, brighter than the moon, have you come to make it known?
Does your travel through the Heavens bring Truth to this barren land?
And where Starlight falls to frozen ground, will Wisdom, at last, be found?

Singing Wind, begot of ice, sting the hungry ears
with crisp replies to questions posed so long ago,
And creaking limbs in yonder glade, sing sweet songs
of a Midnight Star which bears Yuletide Grace to heed.
A man stands naked in the snow
cloaked in warmth of Starlight, peaceful rest to you, Seeking Soul.

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Secret Morning
© Copyright 2012
Autumn Writer

Silent sun, uncertain light,
screened by frosted clouds from frozen night,
sifting through the tangled forest top.
Forest’s edge, the chilly brook
wanders through a path of ice.
Morning beckons; onset of another day.

Rise up, shake off the night of fitful sleep!
The sleeping herd awaits its master’s call.
A sudden snort of frozen air; a bellowed wail,
antlers strike a hollow stump, echo through the wooded pall.
A lonely howl comes in reply, joined by another and then two.
Stay still, listen; death is calling—too close away.

Nature does command that morning follows night,
that snow shall shift as sand upon the meadow,
that wolves will hunt and deer will run away.
How does the fine line draw in sands of snow,
dividing law and that which is sublime?
Can a deed, in grace embraced, endure through evertime?

The does are frozen in their fright, the hungry pack surrounds.
Safety could be close at hand; silent voices warn to flee:
a leap and bound, then run away—new forests’ edges to be seen.
Yet, whirl about with lowered rack and face the pack;
a thrust, a yelp, an antler cracks; a stolen glance—the does in flight,
as hungry teeth complete their fatal deed.

In spring the forest edge is warm and soft, the brook runs fresh and clean,
save blood that rests in soil below where flight to haven might have been.
Fawns lie hidden in the grass, a forgotten antler beckons
a question which they cannot know, but may one day come to reckon:
“How does one know to trade the view of future springs in lifetime owed
for a leap across an icy brook with scenes of heaven to behold?”

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Endless Sky
Autumn Writer
© Copyright 2012

A wind is blowing soft upon the plain
in early hours that wait the break of day.
Grasses bend and shake their heads
at meager light that turns their blades to gray.
The morning air is chilling and I yearn
for the warm abode from where I came.

In the east appears a tepid glow
where the earth turns under the horizon.
It is the promise of the morning sun to be:
the burning star that lights the day
and warms the hearts of they who yearn upon the plain.
The time to bright the endless sky is near.

I strain to read my watch in the predawn light.
The darkened face has no words for me.
It is old and chafes my skin upon which it lies;
my fingers caress the aging leather band.
Last night, I took it from my father’s trembling hand
as he lay dying.

O, father, before you leave this life, divulge to me
why I treasure this old watch of yours, yet hate it so.
It will bind around my wrist as I stand upon this windy plain.
Tell me why I crave your blood and sweat so close to mine.
Your silence robs me of my comfort, and I must confess
that many were the days when I did not love you.

As these questions of a child ramble through my soul
the star of dawn appears in consuming flash of light.
It speeds a laser-ray that strikes the faded dial
where truth of time commands my averted eyes.
It points my way as day rises high above the plain.
I see him ascend the brilliant beam in the endless sky.

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Orion in the Sky
By Autumn Writer
© Copyright 2012

Orion, fearless hunter in the sky,
Canis Minor and Major, ever faithful, at your side
What is your quarry on this winter night?
Is it the lion, Leo, growling before the palace gate,
or perhaps the Great Bear lurking in his northern lair?
Could it be the dreaded Hydra?

With your quest so bold, would you dare the sting of Scorpio?
Does it please the vain queen, Cassiopeia, sitting in her chair
and Cepheus, crying for Andromeda chained to the rock?
Will they bid you take your summer rest in peace,
safe, unseen, where Aquarius brings you cool water
and Lyra sings you and your loyal dogs to sleep?

And what of I who scans above each night
Clinging to Polaris’ flickering light—wondering at the Hunter’s plight?
Let me go with you—for I am a hunter, too.
I’ll help you slay the demons in the sky, and in return
you’ll show me the secrets of the heavens, and find a place for me there.
Don’t leave me to confound on this bare and misty ground.

Or, must you remain in your world and I abide in mine,
to search the purpose that is my destiny?
I cannot dwell in the sheltered bliss of hallowed tales
for many savage beasts in this coil abound, I know.
I shall defeat them, each in turn
and men will call me Perseus.