Autumn grieving

A terzanelle for the dverse prompt. This one was a bugger.

 

This night is full of aging autumn grieving,

With winds that bend the threshing poplar boughs,

Their nerveless fingers golden leaf-wealth thieving.

 

To the sky, sown bright with swans and ploughs

Of constellations wheeling girt about

With winds that bend the threshing poplar boughs,

 

I raise my face to watch the season’s rout.

Wild eddies twist and chase the fallen leaves

Of constellations wheeling girt about,

 

Drenched in that silver shooting starlight weaves.

Like feathers torn from some poor wind-tossed bird,

Wild eddies twist and chase the fallen leaves.

 

If stars had voices would their songs be heard,

Or would the echo flutter lost in space

Like feathers torn from some poor wind-tossed bird?

 

The owl is king of moonlight, glides with grace

Amid the gold of aging autumn’s grieving

His call an echo fluttering in space,

While winter creeps, earth’s summer leaf-wealth thieving.

In this falling time of the year

Taking a poetry break. A terzanelle, though it preferred iambic tetrametre to pentametre

 

In this falling time of the year,

With golden leaves and berries red,

The rain and fog is grey and drear.

 

Beneath my tread the brown and dead

Of leaf fall, nut husk, seed pod strewn

With golden leaves and berries red.

 

The house sits silent, grey stone hewn,

Amid a rolling dewy sea

Of leaf fall, nut husk, seed pod strewn.

 

Falling rain and flailing tree,

In autumn gales we’re cast adrift,

Amid a rolling, dewy sea.

 

The sky is wild, clouds fly as swift

As white-sailed ships that catch the tide—

In autumn gales we’re cast adrift.

 

The bare-branched trees, leaves scattered wide

Are wreathed in fog so grey and drear,

Yet white-sailed ships still catch the tide,

In this falling time of the year.

Long road

I wrote this terzanelle yesterday, still thinking about Sarah’s ‘journeys’ prompt. It’s a form using repetition, so it fits this evening’s dverse prompt too.

 

Is there an end in sight to this long road,

And these curved meanders so like a stream

Between the drifting leaves of trees grown old?

 

Home is a real place, not a hopeless dream,

Beyond the sunset sky touched with pink blush,

And these curved meanders so like a stream.

 

The path fades with the light of twilight’s hush,

It runs past darkling hedges through the night,

Beyond the sunset sky touched with pink blush.

 

Although there is a moon of silver light,

The shadows grow to hide the path—a sea—

It runs past darkling hedges through the night.

 

The memories will never let me be,

Though the place we left lies far behind,

The shadows grow to hide the path—a sea.

 

I peer into the dark but cannot find,

Between the drifting leaves of trees grown old,

The place we left that lies so far behind;

I fear there is no end to this long road.

Shoot

I have just discovered the terzanelle, so here’s one for the dverse open link night. We have a flock of pheasants squatting the wooded part of out property, probably escaped from a shoot. Long may they prosper.

Photo©Dick Daniels

1024px-Common_Pheasant_RWD2

 

The trees and hedges rattle with the sound

Of pheasants coughing their alarum call,

While guns shots echo through the hills around.

 

Cold mists are blown away, the gold leaves fall,

A peaceful scene were it not for the cries

Of pheasants coughing their alarum call.

 

Birds bred to fly into the guns and die,

A feathered carpet on harvested fields,

A peaceful scene were it not for the cries.

 

They have no jaws, no weapons no stout shields,

Their splendid beauty lasts a few short days,

A feathered carpet on harvested fields.

 

They shout their war cry when the gunfire plays,

Fly low with graceful wing beats through the trees,

Their splendid beauty lasts a few short days.

 

From covert break, swept by the kindly breeze,

The trees and hedges rattle with the sound,

They fly with graceful wing beats through the trees,

While gunshots fade, lost in the hills around.

Hanging to the edge of autumn

For the OctPoWriMo challenge, a terzanelle. I’ve slightly modified the last lines, as in a villanelle. This is the first time I’ve tried a terzanelle, and I quite like this form. I’ll probably try it again.

 

When hanging by my fingers to the edge

Of autumn and the golden falling year,

Red berries jewel garlands in the hedge,

 

Flutter of feasting birds is all I hear.

Clutching in my hand the last warm rays

Of autumn and the golden falling year,

 

I look for you—ahead are cold dark days.

Must I face them without you by my side,

Clutching in my hand the last warm rays?

 

I wish I was a hare to crouch and hide

From slings and arrows that the darkness brings—

Must I face them without you by my side?

 

Somewhere in the last dusk blackbird sings,

I hear you calling not to cede and fall

From slings and arrows that the darkness brings.

 

Sunburst through the clouds lifts night’s dark pall,

When hanging by my fingers to the edge,

I hear you calling. I’ll not to cede and fall

Like berries from the garlands in the hedge.