I don't know the same autumn that most of the country does as our change of season is almost non-existent but if I did I hope it would be something like this...
Beneath Indian Sun
memories of summer become brittle beneath Indian sun, watercolor splashes cling to outstretched arms like spoiled
children, stubbornly refusing to let go until bribed by cooling breeze, coaxed to lay upon browning grass for winter's
nap... and their whispers drift, echoing within silence of changing seasons, secrets heard only by autumn leaves
-gorgeous write Myrna You have shown us beautiful colors and let us hear the brittle memories like stepping on dried leaves. I can't help but feel the "cooling breeze" and if I listen closely, I can hear the "whispers drift" and echo "within the silence of changing seasons."
~Butch Howard
Not only is it wonderfully worded poetry, it is you and your home area. It even sounds like you... telling us inner secrets... and we know that we've been treated. A smooth and tender whisper of love for home. A keeper, too!
- Happy Birthday! September 26, 2007. I'll never tell the number.
- Bill
My sort of poetry. First of all Autumn is my favorite time of years and your descriptions are as though I had vision into YOUR PART OF THIS COUNTRY. tHIS IS BEAUTIFUL!
sUSAN
Using Calgary as a backdrop the author satirizes the self-serving nature of the public as it continues to fatten itself, not only physically, but egotistically as well.
(Self-published. Please contact author directly to order.)
Enter the pages of diaspora in quiet introspection. Bathe your thoughts with subtle humor; synchronize your spirit-sense with history-in-heat; fall headlong with eyes wide open into
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~Butch Howard
Be safe,
Karen
- Happy Birthday! September 26, 2007. I'll never tell the number.
- Bill
well done...beautiful pen...
John
This is gorgeous. In Texas, there are no seasons: only hot, still hot, hot-ter, and warm. LOL Well done!
(((HUGS))) and love, Karla.
sUSAN