For A Moment Golden

Fall, Autumn, Red, Season, Woods, Nature

image: Pixabay

For A Moment Golden

Days still bright, but shorter now

Trees in their annual decline

The skyline for this moment golden

Say for the stands of pine

Yet this gold wont last forever

Its moment a splendid show

For all too soon it shall be covered

By the arrival of winter snow

 

Padre

Autumn is running its course and is becoming grayer and damper (at least here in the UK).  This poem was penned in September is response to a call for submissions from Whispers and Echoes, to which I am so pleased that it was chosen for publication.

 

 

Trapped In My Ancient Fear

 

Park, Bench, Night, The Fog, The Darkness, Tree, Glow

Image by Henryk Niestrój from Pixabay 

The last several nights here in England’s East Anglia have been dark, rainy affairs in which the combination of heavy downpours, complete cloud cover, and lengthening Autumn nights have almost drank the light from the atmosphere.  Even car headlights don’t seem to fully break through the gloom.  The roadside becomes an eerie enclosure in which one can only imagine the fear and apprehension of our ancestors as they struggled through these lonely Brecks, Fens, and Broads.  Things are damp and uninviting, darkness tugs at the primeval fears of the unknown.  These conditions have inspired the following Etheree poem.

Dark
Gloomy
Autumn Night 
Closes Around
Suffocating Breath
Light Nowhere To Be Found
I’m Trapped In My Ancient Fear
Nocturnal Spectres Do My Mind Fill
No Stars Or Moon To Give Me Comfort
Terrified Of What Eludes My Senses

 

An Etheree poem form has ten lines in a 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10 syllable pattern.

 

Padre

 

Tuesday Writing Prompt Challenge: Tuesday, October 1, 2019: Write anything around the theme or words: Trapped in my ancient fear

Autumn’s Promise

Bench, Fall, Park, Rest, Sit, Autumn, Park Bench, Wood

Image by Pepper Mint from Pixabay 

Autumn’s Promise

Wet
Drizzle
Skies Clouded
A Cool Dampness
Bringing Autumn Chill
Leaves Their Green Abating
Golds, Yellows, Reds, They Now Sport
The Winged Flocks Now Journey Southwards
Daily The Light Grows Shorter, Dimmer
Summer Over, Equinox Having Come
But Hope, Nature Still Proffers To Us
This Fading Season Shall Not Last
There Is Promise Of Newness
The Cycle Runs Its Path
Spring Shall Returning
Bring New Greenness,
Warmth, Delight
Fresh Starts
Light

Padre

The Etheree poem consists of ten lines of 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10 syllables. Etheree can also be reversed and written 10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1.   A Reversed Etheree Syllable Count: 10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1.  A Double Etheree Syllable Count: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 10, 9, 8, 7, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1

COLLEEN’S 2019 WEEKLY #TANKA TUESDAY #POETRY CHALLENGE NO. 146 #SYNONYMSONLY. This weeks words are: FALL (Here in American usage) & GIVE

I have written this as a seasonal piece with Autumn (Fall) in its annual context, but I intend it also as an allegory of the gloom and despair that can descend (fall) upon us in life.  The “giving” of hope may not always be immediately obvious in the face of such “drizzly” circumstances, but like the coming of Spring, there is hope to come.

Padre

Beyond the Lair

 

Autumn was returning and the long hibernation of the Dragonette had come to a close.  Her sleep had been interrupted this year.   For reasons still not fully understood by her, she had risen in August.  The brief foray up the stairs of her lair had caught her quite off guard. Too early! she had mused.  But it also was far to late to return to her slumber.  She had, therefore, spent the month silently pacing her lair – waiting,  just waiting.  How she hated those long sun-filled days, with the blinding light and hot, humid air.  But now, the days were getting shorter, and the air was beginning to become crisp at night.  Her time to emerge was nearly at hand.

As she awaited the sunset, she thought of all that was before her.  She would fly through the lengthening evening.   She would soar above the unsuspecting people below, her airborne form so nearly that of a bat in flight that she would be mistaken for such.  She would feel the cool breeze in her fur and the fresh air in her lungs.   October, how she longed for All Hallows Eve, and then her work could begin.  From then until March, she would prowl the nights breathing her icy frost breath – freezing puddles and icing window panes with the cold signature of her passing.

But for now the miniature frost dragon was poised for all that would come.

Padre

Thursday photo prompt: Poised #writephoto