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Archive for the ‘fall’ Category

For Nov. 27

Autumn – apple cider, pumpkin pie, smell of burning leaves, crisp evenings/mornings

 

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Thursday always Thursday;

Have you ever wondered why

It’s the day long chosen for the bird and pumpkin pie?

Turkey always turkey;

Have you ever wondered why,

A native thundering aves

Stuffed from thigh to drumstick thigh?

Dressing always dressing;

Have you ever wondered why,

Dressing packed inside of him then inside you,

Eating till you sigh?

Eating always eating;

Have you ever wondered why?

Because eating with the family is a blessing

Before bye-bye.

– eab, Nov. ‘75

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A precious All American Holiday has been desecrated by “professional” pigskins.

Professional players are the priest and high priests of the god of sports.

– eab, 11/21/12

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AUTUMN

 

Black tree, tall, beyond,

Leaves small, bright, blond,

Days short, hazy light,

Nights long, moon bright,

Past the summer brief,

Now autumn, quiet relief.  

– eab, Fall ’66

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Lost Leaf

The breeze came and turned it a little.

The frost made it slightly brittle.

The wind hit it in the middle.

And the rain ended the riddle.

It was a leaf.

It was down with many another;

Maybe a sister or a brother,

On that branch over yonder,

Before the rend made them wander.

Its life was brief.

eab, Oct. ’65

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Paths

PATHS [1]

An open field not hindered by a fence

But rolling on to the horizon,

And a wooded land without a zone

Or a deep valley forest that is dense;

 

Are each, in its separated way,

More enhanced and enchanted by a path;

If large or small be the limits it hath,

It matters not, or if made at night or day.

 

Paths are used by animals of many kinds:

Milk cows, horses, rabbits, and rats

Wild deer, sheep, and the proverbial ants;

Each path so different in what it finds.

 

Trails and paths are enjoyed and needed by man

Whither in foreign, or native wood or field.

Each to him a different scene may yield

And make going easier where they can.

 

Paths are made by treading and wear

In various places, be it valley or hill,

Or by a spring or along a rill;

And are used till they become bare.

– eab, Oct. ’64

[1] This is the first poem, written as an adult, for which I have a copy. (One handed in for a college class was not returned.)

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Time was when Mr. Leaf was attached,

Tied comfortably to his own home Tree.

He was close to his fellow brethren,

Greenish, growing in Tree liberty.

 

He had his function in the Body,

Helped the Tree (though he was slightly curled)

Gave the Tree his loving, living best,

Growing, glowing there above the world.

 

Then air took a little colder nudge,

“Autumn” as the human’s call it, fell.

Mr. Leaf got a tinge of color,

He did not seem to feel quite as well.

 

More cold came into his leafy world,

And a fall rain or two came his way.

The Leaf noticed he seemed less attached,

He began to enjoy his new sway.

 

A critical moment came to him;

He found himself loose from his home Tree.

From the Body he severed his ties.

Mr. Leaf was, at last, “really free.”

 

Oh, what a sinsation [1] this all was,

He found himself flying through the air

He could turn right, or he could turn left,

So different from when he was “up there.”

 

He actually got to see the world.

He saw things he had not seen before.

The Tree had limited his past life,

The world had variety in store.

 

As he moved away from his old Tree,

Mr. Leaf liked his new-fangled ride.

He even was lifted up so high,

Gladly he was proud, of his new pride.

 

How nice it was to slip through the air,

Giddy, to be caught up in the swirl,

He enjoyed mixing with other Leaves;

Raved in the charm of a sleek Leaf girl.

 

He did notice in honest moments,

He was closer to dirt than before.

But he swirled, swirled, forgetting that thought,

What fun it was to once freely soar.

 

Excitedly the world came closer;

He knew not how dangerous it was.

Dirt, from distance, had earthy appeal,

Up close he saw bling, it lacked the buz.

 

Swooping, slopping ever downward now,

Mr. Leaf landed in his descent.

The world was hard. He’d expected more,

Its hardness hurt, his old surface rent.

 

Was this stuff rock? Was this thing real mud?

After fun was he stuck to the ground?

Where was the freedom he thought he had?

Where was the “free life” he had just found?

 

His Body, his faithful old Tree stood,

It hadn’t moved; he’s the one who fled.

The Body (his lost Tree) was alive.

Mr. Leaf, with his “freedom” was dead.

– eab, 9/28/09

[1] Purposefully “spelled” this way.

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