Poem: Gold

I have mixed feelings about autumn. When I was a child, it used to be my favorite season. I’m not sure when it stopped, but it has to do with the beautiful colors coming and going so quickly. After the leaves have fallen and need to be raked up, it reminds me of the nature of winter, even if it’s not technically winter yet. And I’m not a huge fan of winter. For the most part, it’s simply cold and dull, and I’ve never lived in places with much snow, save Germany, and even then it wasn’t perpetual.

I wrote this poem from a poem prompt by Julia Garcia on her blog, Drops of Inspira. Her prompt for November was the color gold. As I was thinking about her prompt, I was reminded of Robert Frost’s poem, “Nothing Gold Can Stay,” and so this poem was born.

 

Gold

As the leaves faded
and sank beneath the depths
of the hill,
I wondered if winter
would not be more exciting
if we lived it
in black and white.

Until I remember the way
the deep blue ice
extends like a cavern
beneath the snow,
or the way the evergreens
remind me
of more than the sticky scent of pine.

When I feel my vision
fading to gray,
I close my eyes and turn my face
toward the golden sun.
Today I may not feel its warmth,
but I can still sense
the light.

 

***

 

Let’s chat! What did you think of the poem? What colors do you typically associate with autumn?

Similar poems: The Smell of Earth, Copper Coated Autumn Leaves, and Pine Trees

Poem: [Like fireflies in the night]

At work a couple weeks ago, I heard about the comet NEOWISE. Discovered back in March, this beauty will not pass within visible range for the next 6,800 years. While I could just use my time machine to jump ahead to the next sighting, I thought I’d try to spot it before it went away this time.

Unfortunately, the cloud cover made it almost impossible. For days on end, it we had thunderstorms and cloud cover that rolled in at night. It wasn’t until the last day, July 23, that I saw a break in the clouds around the Northwest where Ursa Major and its more well-known asterism, the Big Dipper, were supposed to show up. I used a compass and a star app. Thank God for modern technology!

I set up my telescope, and I waited. The sun set trailing brilliant colors on the remaining clouds, and I waited some more. I waited for the stars to come out, getting distracted by the occasional blink of fireflies. Then I had to reposition the telescope on the slope of the yard and hope I didn’t accidentally fall off the cliff.

When I couldn’t figure out which point of light was the comet—I couldn’t see a star with a tail—I started pointing the telescope at different stars to the left of the Big Dipper, hoping one was actually the comet. That’s when I found it. Now, the light pollution and humidity didn’t give me a great view. It looked more like a yellow star that was moving often enough that I had to adjust the telescope.

In the end, I got to see the comet, and the night inspired me to write a poem, even if the poem has little to do with comets.

[Like fireflies in the night]

Like fireflies in the night,

I watch the sparks burn

and blink out,

dying,

     drifting

down

beneath the boughs.

I wish I could feel

again

but my fingertips are numb

from this

            water

and all I hear

are the screams

of cicadas.

Set the pyre ablaze

until all I hear

is the roar

of the flames licking

                                    up

                                                silver stars

until the ashes dance away

like fireflies in the night.

***

Let’s chat! What did you think of the poem? What are you passionate about?

Similar poems: Passing Shadows; Concrete Forest, Paper Meadows; and Fireflies

Poem: Copper Coated Autumn Leaves

As I’ve mentioned before, we’ve recently moved into our new house. Recent as in November, but that’s still pretty close to now. Before all the leaves blew off the trees and buried our yard, I sat down before work one day, contemplating my surroundings, and came up with another poem.

Copper Coated Autumn Leaves

The deer come around here,

up where the trees shed

their copper coated autumn leaves

waiting for the oxidation of spring.

Here on the mountainside,

I can hear the wind whisper

to me

while the sirens below

struggle to break

the silence.

Listen.

Can you hear it?

The twit of the red-breasted

Eastern Bluebird as it perches on a post

—the maw of the doe as it calls to the herd

—the tock-tocking of the chipmunk

that I once mistook for a dripping gutter

—the indecipherable hum of the stars.

***

Let’s chat! What did you think of the poem? What’s your favorite element about where you live?

Similar poems: At Night, Autumn, and Lost as a Leaf

Poem: At Night (Audio)

I’m working two jobs now, both part-time positions. One is substitute teaching, which can be nice depending on the role I sign up for that day, and the other deals with space, which is pretty awesome, especially since I’m working on a sci-fi novel now. I particularly like how it’s pushed me to research more and ask questions I wouldn’t have initially known to ask, like “How many people are going on the Mars mission?”

Oh, and did you know we’re going back to the Moon, and then we’re planning on building a space station that orbits it called Lunar Gateway? Super exciting stuff.

If you couldn’t tell, I really like my job, which is such a change from working retail. I may not work as many hours as I did—not yet anyway. I’ll be pushing for full time. But I am super passionate about what I do, which has helped the transition from Europe back to the States be all the more bearable.

At Night

I used to feel robbed

by the way the night crept in

and stole my light—

my time to tend my plants,

time to read in the warmth

of the sun.

But now, I see the stars

once again.

The light is still here

if I take the time to look for it—

to spot the International Space Station,

to let the land rest,

to read in the warmth

of the fire.

***

Let’s chat! What did you think of the poem? What’s your take on nighttime?

Similar poems: Fireflies; Concrete Forest, Paper Meadows; and Starlight

Poem: The First Snow (Audio)

Welcome to the new face of Word Storm!

After I finished my MBA, I did some tweaking, and I commissioned a lovely graphic artist to design a new cover photo because dragons and tea, travel and thunderstorms. ISN’T IT PRETTY!? Thanks again, Rowa!

But I don’t just have a new cover photo for you. I also spent a good deal of time in December recording the published poems and the Reader’s Choice from 2018, and I’ll be doing some more recordings this year as well. Poetry isn’t just meant to be read on a computer screen, but it’s also meant to be read and shared aloud.

The First Snow

The first snow is fleeting,

fluttering one moment and

                                                melted the next—

but to the driver going to work, she is a blinding sleet,

cascading, bottling up your light and tossing it back—

to the biker heading home, she is the needles,

while the flesh is the pincushion and throw.

The second snow is silent,

drifting down in spurts

                                                taking turns with the sun—

but to the magpie fighting the wind, she is a rip current,

a tether caught on feathers, holding back branches—

to the red rooftops sloping here, she is but a coat,

taken off and folded up indoors.

The third snow is loud,

crackling thunder

                                                howling wind—

but to the mother waiting for a call, she is but a sound

of wailing, complaining, she’s heard it all before—

to the child waiting for a taste of dusted sugar,

she is a touch of dreams, sleigh bells, and numb fingers.

***

For more audio poetry, check out my Poetry page and don’t forget to subscribe to my YouTube channel!

Let’s chat! What do you think of the new design? Enjoy the audio additions? What did you think of this poem?

Similar poems: Biking to Work, Snowfell, and In Season

Poem: Autumn

People often ask me why I enjoy biking to work so much, despite the change in the season. Within the last week, the temperature dropped, the rain became more frequent, and I can see my breath in the morning. But I relish it. Okay, I complain about the cold a bit. After I open the door, I often turn around and grab an extra scarf or a vest, but still. It’s the perfect biking weather. Summer is too hot. Winter is too cold. Spring and fall are just perfect.

The chill is just enough so that biking warms me up on the uphill bits, and the wind cools me down on the downhill ones. Every now and then, the sun comes out just long enough for me to take off my jacket, and the scattered clouds after the recent rain make for brilliant sunsets. The slugs come out, the fog lays over the fields, and the leaves are turning.

Sure, it’s not always pleasant. I tend to over-romanticize things in some of my writings. Fall—like life—is full of ups and downs. Hence, the following poem.

Autumn

Autumn sweeps in like crushed dreams—

filled with the scent of rotting apples,

the plight of a squished slug beneath my bike tire,

the wilting of the sunflowers, sagging in the field.

Death comes for us all—

but first, it sets the forest ablaze with reds and yellows

as the goldenrods fall like tiki torches,

and mums crackle and burst with purple and orange flames.

Wind trickles down and raindrops howl—

striking my face as I bike to work,

walk the dog, set foot out the door.

A book sits closed by the hearth—

ribbon wedged between the pages,

somewhere near chapter three,

waiting, just waiting for its reader to come home,

settle down with a mug of black tea,

and breathe in the damp musk of autumn.

***

Let’s chat! What’s your favorite season? What do you think of autumn? Do you see it as a bunch of cold, dark days or time for more tea and reading?

Similar poems: Biking to Work, Lost as a Leaf, and Shadows

Poem: Still Life in Spring (Audio)

Reader's Choice Poem of 2018: Best Imagery

It’s officially spring!

At least it is where I live. Actually, we had a pretty early spring, a brief snow that killed most of the crocus, then sunny day after sunny day. It’s unusual for this time of year. Usually, we get more rain, but I’m enjoying the sunshine! (I kinda miss the rain. Then I don’t have to water my outdoor plants.)

Until we get our next rainfall, I’ll take whatever kind of weather we’ve got! (Unless it's tornadoes/droughts/floods/earthquakes/tsunamis/erupting volcanoes. No and thank you!)

Still Life in Spring

Have you ever seen a flowerfall?

The way the petal spills down the rocks,

a bouquet of white and purple icicles.

The cherry blossoms unfold like origami—

one day baby buds, the next busty blooms,

then their color drips away like waterlogged paper.

The sky’s painted blue; somebody forgot

to erase the smudges of white and with one stroke

a blur of purple-gray thunder shatters the illusion.

Not even the ground is still—

she crawls with ants, writhes with worms,

cracks from the dry days all too firm.

The tomcat stands petrified in the field;

the hawk swoops down; the dog bites dirt

as the mice wait for the rain to come down.

***

Let’s chat! What does your typical spring weather usually look like? Do you prefer sunshine or rainy days? What’d you think of the poem?

Similar poems: Early Spring, Dandelion Seeds, and Some Notes on the Three Days of Summer

Poem: Early Spring

Weird weather can be fun, like when you get an early spring in January and the daffodils pop up and then you get sunburned because why wouldn’t you want to be outside?

On the other hand, it can be annoying. February sees winter return. And then March sees spring. And then the first day of spring is celebrated under a layer of snow.

I just can’t wait for spring to officially be here so I can start gardening again. I already planted my cucumbers indoors and their gravitating toward the window. Even the plants want to be outside.

Until then, I’ll have to suffice with my houseplants, tend my indoor veggies, and think on the warmer days.

Early Spring

I want to call it spring, the way

the sun

            drips

         d

         o

         w

         n

           

             like dissolved

          snow dustings

while the bees zip

            v e

        o          r

       the fence.

Yesterday I donned by trench coat,

turning up my collar to the blistering

                                                            wind.

Today I opened the doors

                                                let the breeze dance

      for a spell

          as I knelt

on the porch

to trim

back

winter’s rot

revealed like toys hidden

under a blanket

now melted

                        away.

***

Let’s chat! What’s your favorite season? Did you have an early or late spring this year? Or was it on time? Do you have any plans for this season?

Similar poems: Weird Winter Weather, In Season, and Some Notes and the Three Days of Summer

Poem: Snowfell

No, I did not misspell snowfall. The title is Snowfell on purpose. I like the thought of a quaint little town in the mountains, slick with a layer of ice, covered in a layer of snow, and dusted with another layer of loose flakes. Where its citizens bundle up in fur coats, sporting long scarves and colorful berets. This place is, unfortunately, fictional. But I did draw from some elements of a European winter. And I can dream. 

Based off the latest snowfall in my own little town, the following poem features an early winter. 

Snowfell

The crunch of snow underboot
is quite unlike the rub of
some cotton ball, though they both
send a shiver down my spine.

Her aroma tickles my
nose, her pale flakes make me sneeze;
some breeze whirls the strays like grains
of sand on this lived in land.

Mistletoe hangs green on these
bare branches now cradling
white blankets, green parasites,
like some love is born of death.

Fog fills lungs, bitter iron
touches my tongue, eyes water,
souls soak, sweat freezes, smoke blows
on this here autumn morning.

***

I’m also running a giveaway for my novelette series. So be sure to add it on Goodreads and enter to win one of three free signed copies of Last of the Memory Keepers series!  (Offer ends Dec. 8, 2017.)

Let’s chat! What’s autumn like in your hometown? How about winter? What’s your favorite thing about snow? 

Similar poems: Weird Winter Weather, In Season, and The Crow and the Heron