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2012 April PAD Challenge: Day 11

For today’s prompt, pick a season (any season) and make it the title of your poem; then, write your poem. For instance, your poem might be titled “Winter” or “Spring” or “Rabbit Season” (if you have a sense of humor and like Looney Tunes cartoons).

Here’s my attempt:


even leaves
pretend they don’t care
from their trees
and letting the wind take them
wherever it will


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446 thoughts on “2012 April PAD Challenge: Day 11

  1. mschied

    My Discontent

    Grey fog permeates
    the ocular membrane
    to swirl into depressing

    Icy chills creep
    under the skin
    to ensure emotions
    remain frozen

    Leaden snow
    buries deeply
    all that once was

    with no spring to thaw
    a heart
    an imperfect crystalline hollow

  2. Pat Carroll Marcantel

    Snarky Season

    Lewis Carroll unleashed the Snark,

    and I’ll expose him to the fullest,

    as I know for a fact he’s kin to the Quark

    and they’re both on a path to collude-us.

    I have friends to whom I can turn–

    They live and work on Mt. Palomar,

    Amid the great eye that nightly yearns

    To catch this pair before they go far.

    Oh, I’ve known about them for many years,

    I have solid proof of their evil intentions.

    Their sneaky, snarky, evil sneers

    As they zoom around defying convention.

    They went into my office space

    Careening, carousing, a frump of a pair,

    Seeking all they could deface,

    Scattering papers into the air.

    Because it was the witching hour,

    I only stood outside the door,

    Listening, trying not to cower,

    I heard them say, “It’s done, let’s soar.”

    Through the window they made a retreat,

    While I, now brave, entered the room.

    Who would believe that I had been neat?

    Alas, my reputation might be doomed.

    What if no one believed this tale

    And thought my habits were deplorable,

    And proved the Snark did not prevail–

    It was just me, no longer adorable?


  3. Marian O'Brien Paul

    Maybe it’s Spring

    Mixed up seasons for some reason
    this year. Maybe it’s the new sunspot
    cycle just beginning or global warming,
    but it wasn’t March that entered like
    a lion roaring and I’m not sure which
    month left like a lamb. May’s flowers
    re-scheduled, arriving earlier, in April.
    And summer’s been commuting since
    February, unpacking 80 degree temps.

    Today brought balmy spring weather
    and a hefty wind. Tommy, not quite
    three, scootering home from the park,
    hit a bump: a tree root hefting the walk.
    He tumbled flat and scraped his hands.
    Back home during lunch, when asked
    “How are your hands?” he held them
    up for me to see and said, “See? They
    okay. The wind blew the hurt away.”

  4. Jolanta.Stephens

    My Autumn Years

    Leaves, not as fresh
    Slightly dry and crinkly
    Not as bright
    As they were in spring.

    Trees, A little bare
    More worn
    By the picking up winds
    Violently shaking them
    As Autumn leads to winter

    The Earth, A little more damp
    A little more cold
    Not fruiting as effectively
    A bit more barren
    Than last summer

    The air, A little colder
    Raindrops starting
    To spot the windows
    Constipated clouds
    Hover menacingly
    Ready to break forth.

    Turning away from the mirror
    Sheet over my head
    Is it really time
    To confront my ‘Autumn Years’?

  5. Lynn Burton

    Italian Seasoning

    I’m not much of a cook
    and he doesn’t much care
    as long as I wear his favorite apron
    and a smile.
    I’ve ruined plenty of dinners
    taste testing from his lips,
    adding too much spice,
    and setting off the smoke alarm.
    He prefers a long simmer to a
    fast boil, and we pour on more
    Italian seasoning.

  6. Arrvada


    Something happens to me in the spring
    As if a switch is flipped
    A light turned on
    The colors flash and flare
    Bright and bold my thoughts alive
    I think, I feel and know so much
    Coming awake along with the earth
    I am me, alive and well
    Smart and creative and beautiful
    I see the orange of the poppies
    And smile
    I am me
    I am spring.

  7. ceeess


    it’s almost opening day on my first senior spring
    hunting season for discounts, special shopping days

    my Scottish ancestors cheer me on
    my English ones chant “stiff upper lip”

    as I notice more experience lines
    showing in the morning mirror.

    I should focus instead on the simple
    joy of being, peace and wisdom:

    here still and not there—there
    some nether place where darkness

    holds sway, blocking out the light.
    Spring. Season of renewal, new life begins

    and hope springs in its eternal feathers.

    Carol A. Stephen
    April 11, 2012

  8. Janet Rice Carnahan


    Born in July,
    When the sun is as hot,
    As the highest fireworks,
    Blasting through a darkened sky,
    Beaches are crowded,
    People glowing,
    With suntan oil,
    Latest creams being put on,
    With the intent,
    Of being noticed,
    More than to be affective,
    Running with friends on the sand,
    As the only way to not get burned,
    While dashing wildly,
    On the way to the raging surf,
    Still looking cool, of course!
    Birthday parties,
    Were always in the sun,
    At the local amusement park,
    Children all running to each ride,
    Screams filling the air,
    Mostly in delight,
    Unless their swirled ice cream cone,
    Has fallen in the sand,
    Or salt water taffy,
    Accidently got in their hair,
    Summer after endless summer,
    The summer joy of July came and went,
    Until she had her children,
    When the cycle began all over again,
    With her watching their play now,
    Grinning up close while they laughed,
    Playing and enjoying their summer,
    Year after year,
    While they became adults too,
    And before they’ll have their babies,
    She will once again,
    Watch the smiling action,
    Nearby yet slower now,
    Remembering how amused she was,
    Laughing and running with the wild surf.
    In among her sun memories,
    Now as she ages on,
    Year after year,
    With a quieter summer house,
    Just holding her husband’s hand,
    Gazing out the beach house window,
    Watching the summer rain,
    Dance and laugh as it falls hapless,
    In no pattern at all,
    Slowly erasing,
    The fun beach memories,
    Yet as it waters the sunflowers,
    She smiles gently,
    As it reminds her,
    For each day of summer’s sunshine . . .

    A little rain must surely fall!

  9. TezfromOz

    Times and Seasons

    Work hard play hard live hard hard life hard wife
    Mow lawn pull weeds paint door fix bed clean shelf
    Less of these more of those eat right eat out not tonight
    Volunteer help friends visit Mum
    Go to work go to church go to school (going nuts)
    Time with kids time with wife time for self – when?
    Sleep less rest more bed late wake early set alarm
    See doctor plan trip book taxi catch plane
    Get car fixed get house clean get yard tidy
    Make build repair plan think decide do


    There is a time and a season for everything

    1. Make to don’t list
    2. Follow through

  10. cajun75


    Fresh mown grass
    Daffodils and tulips
    Easter lilies and amaryllis
    Blooming profusely
    Cool nights
    Warm afternoons
    Sun in all its loveliness
    Gentle breezes one day
    Strong winds the next
    Oh the beauty and blessedness
    Of spring

  11. cstewart

    Any Season

    Any season will due when you are happy.
    The summer is never too hot,
    Nor the winter too bitter cold.
    The new foliage of spring is so delightful
    When you have spring in your step.
    And the Autumn is twice warm and crisp
    It is hard to believe, – at the same time.
    And life is good and sweet in all seasons,
    When you are happy.

  12. carolecole66

    Florida Spring

    Spring doesn’t come
    to South Florida I’ve been told,
    just summer, then summer,
    then some cooler days of summer.
    But in April the gold tree spills
    yellow blooms and winter dry
    turns emerald.

  13. mlcastejon

    Scissors Season

    this way come
    like an earthquarke
    will be upside down
    inside out.

    For that, you must be prepared, my little child
    to listen to your voice and follow her anywhere.

  14. Jannelee

    I try and try to write in rhyme
    Again and again on the paper
    I dash word after word in vain
    my noggin has nothing but vapor
    pushing and drilling my exhausted brain
    Maybe I’ll be able to write in time

    Now my little grey cells are vacant
    searching furiously for fine words
    sifting through my dull, jaded mind
    for nouns, adjectives and verbs
    but no eloquent phrasing I find
    between my ears remains dormant

  15. Katrin

    Puzzle Season

    The week at the shore
    in another’s beach house
    full of decades-old spined digests,
    travel guides to Nowhere,
    the American Heart Association’s earliest cookbook
    and a pop psych tome

    And when the rain arrives
    as an unwanted guest,
    we reflect, in this intermission
    from on the hop,
    upon how the
    unexpected is woven
    into every moment
    We should know the pattern,
    but so often forget to factor
    in Uncertainty in the formulas
    of Holiday

    So we reach for the puzzles
    the game of chaos control,
    and, piece by piece,
    we take this time to press
    order back into our lives,
    one knobby embrace at a time
    as the rain pounds the land
    in a suddenly predictable pattern
    of soaking stanzas

  16. Yolee

    Spring in the Deep South

    And already the air feels
    like it has tumbled too
    long in a dryer.
    Seasons imply
    surroundings are temporary,
    but summer arrived early,
    like a favorite aunt with a big
    floral bonnet and a wink
    in her stride resembling
    a beachgoer who seeks
    to plop on the perfect spot.
    Her purse: the horizon,
    set on the Sea’s table
    contains tools to fountain
    nature’s pen, compact
    mirrors formed by
    raindrops and peppermints
    for memory’s mouth.

  17. Rosangela


    Comes early, right when
    I am still getting my tan.
    Expels the festive heat
    turns away the sandals,
    and the minis. Sun is down
    and the cold blow reminds me
    of pea soup.

    It’s leaf-blower season.
    Noisy, obnoxious tools
    What’s the reason
    of leaves moving,
    and not removing?

    Maybe they need a leaf-vacuum-cleaner instead
    No, I am not mad!
    I just like the leaves there
    I think it’s fair.
    It’s fall.
    Yes, it’s getting cold, season loop
    after all.
    I’ll make pea soup!

  18. Arike


    Earth heats and humans pop up
    Park full of coats and strange souls in T-shirts
    The grass has barely woken up
    Half-crawled out of the mud, fresh green
    Stamped flat beneath determined feet
    Of prancing children and dancing cows
    No really, it was on the six o’ clock

    An agenda heavy with events drops
    On the mat. Too cold for the beach
    So people go cultural
    Reading a book is so last season
    Art fair, ethnic potluck
    Outside, but bring your coat

    Lean against a wall out of the wind
    Close your eyelids, a sunny orange
    Not long now, summer, the flap of a pigeon
    Nearly pooing on your head is almost a seagull

  19. Werewolf of Oz

    Autumn Air Spins Summer Samaras to Equinox Earth

    in spring we emerged up high
    branches provided home and shelter
    all summer we drew strength from the sun
    seeds of elm and hoptree in the centre
    maple and ash to one side
    hidden away amongst leaves
    mostly unnoticed
    until the time arrives to release and fly
    sad to leave, but we carry future growth

    from the canopy we are freed for one flight

    spin for distance, more wind means greater range
    each of us flying to provide future trees
    delighting humanity
    whirlybird on strong wind
    helicopter rotates in a dizzy state
    spinning jenny dances in tune with the season
    polynose dives down en masse seeming to race
    to Earth’s cradle we fall
    and rest hoping our seed survives

  20. shann

    To everything

    Tireseus walks the summer wall
    naked before the fish and waterfowl.
    He is whatever the wind decides.

    Before morning comes, the sun
    predicts the day, I set the table,
    prepare breakfast in tender light.

    My journey has been full of magic
    & visions, I only stopped to shower,
    wash clothes, and break bread.

  21. Christod


    I tripped and smacked my head against
    a metal chair in the Spring,
    when the weak pond breeze made me catch
    a shoe in wooden grooves
    as I tried to take it in, breathe it out,
    make my head sprout red on the green
    like blossom, like morning dew,
    like a reminder that this season violently
    knew that I’d just said Fall was my favorite.

  22. maxie2


    To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven:
    -King Solomon, Ecclesiastes 3:1

    The most difficult lesson to learn
    involves the truth of opposites:

    knowing that valley living
    deposits respect for mountains,

    famines alternate with feasts,
    luxury depends on destitution,

    and institution breeds the free.
    Sunshine alludes to the rain

    while a caress defines pain,
    knowing that trust requires faith

    and faith depends on evidence.
    The preeminence of truth comes

    through the prevalence of lies
    and a haughty disguise, in time

    will be tempered by the humble.
    To spring up, one must fall down.

    Slippery snow will line once-hot ground.
    The once-lost, in time, will be found.

  23. David Yockel Jr.

    Pound for Pound

    Spring comes in like a Cesarean section,
    forcibly cut from winter’s womb.

    The insulated, placental sound of April rain
    and the scratching of a poet’s pen,

    echo like an organ with keys tuned to the truth.
    Each beat brings another endless bed of cloudy

    capillaries to the surface of the evening sky. Just
    as a bested boxer trills blood like a heavy shower

    turning lilies into roses.

  24. De Jackson

    Mourning Season
    for Melissa

    It’s a living, breathing
    thing in her chest,
    this grief, this ache.
    She lies awake every night,
    waiting for her heart to pull
    its shade, for the ticking of
    the clock to still, for those
    first few moments of forget
    when morning comes. She
    waits for the empty places
    to refill, wonders if the
    not him souls and frozen
    smiles who try to help will
    ever really help, somehow
    wants them all to stay, and
    go away. She feels her breath
    go in and out despite this void,
    this cold without, this brutal ampu
    -tation of life and laughter and
    love. She looks above, and then
    her winter heart holds just enough
    warm hope to do it all again.

  25. Bruce Niedt

    Late, late, late! Today’s NaPoWriMo prompt: Write a poem that uses the five senses.

    Mercurochrome Summer

    The third time I skinned both my knees
    the summer I was eight, my mother
    just shook her head. You’ll have scabs
    on top of your scabs, she sighed,
    as she painted them both with Mercurochrome,
    that vile red liquid antiseptic that stung
    worse than the scrapes themselves.
    She eased my pain with a cherry Popsicle,
    the sweet and cold in my mouth offsetting
    the hot throbbing in my knees. Afterward,
    I went outside and showed Danny next door
    my war-painted battle scars, then stuck out
    my cherry-stained tongue, and told him
    I drank some of the Mercurochrome.
    Yuck! he cried.

    It was a day full of red: Danny’s big sister Julie
    sashayed by to show off her new red sundress
    and flip hairdo. I told her she looked like Sandra Dee,
    but Danny said she smelled like onions. Later,
    a fire engine screamed through the neighborhood
    when Mr. Berry knocked over his barbecue grill
    and set his lawn on fire. Fresh cut grass and charcoal
    smell good, but not when they’re put together.

    I read in my science class that when the sun
    goes down, the reds are the first colors to fade.
    By dusk, my knees were no longer bright red,
    and evening sounds took over for the colors –
    the ice cream man on a late run,
    mosquitoes teasing my ears, crickets chirping,
    and the Fisker brothers setting off firecrackers
    in the woods. I got ready for bed, pulled my
    pajama pants over my tender knees, which were
    already beginning to heal.

    1. lionmother

      OMG Bruce! You brought me back to those summer days when I also went around with red knees from the Mercurochrome. I suffer from arthritis in both knees due to all the skinning they had.:) Yet you described those summer nights perfectly!

  26. PKP

    Hi one and all…. So many wonderful poems … fabulous community… The Street is bustling and I barely had the time to read never mind to comment today. Apologies and my own personal public regret. I’ll try to stay on top of things and get in more reading and commenting in the days to come.

  27. cam45237

    Basketball Season

    I liked my eyes, blue like my uncles,
    Maybe not as vivid, but still, a rare recessive that placed me apart
    From my green-eyed, brown-eyed friends.
    And my clavicles, sharp, defined – I wore square collars at every opportunity
    To frame those lovely bones.
    And my breasts, of course, my breasts.
    Not shallow “A”s like my sister whose long blonde hair, long legs, tan skin,
    Lean waist were, let’s face it, hard to beat and hardly fair.

    The first time
    The boy next door noticed the furrow that had formed between the soft slopes of cleavage
    My arms encircled the basketball that we were scrambling for.
    That was the first time that I felt a Woman’s power,
    When his gaze would not turn until I wrenched the ball away,
    Spun past him, bounced it off the backboard, breathing hard.
    He never looked at me the same again.
    And I never looked at him
    The same again.

  28. seingraham


    You swoop in with an impressionist’s palette
    Putting the cerulean sky to shame when you smear
    The forests with carnelian, ginger, ochre and dabs
    Of every shade of green; the fields lay down carpets
    Of unimaginable buff, wheat, and barley-brown
    For you – autumn, the most regal of the seasons
    Putting on an immense show before bowing out
    Flaring bright as any Viking’s funeral then sailing off
    Leaving earth fallow, ready for icy winter’s arrival.


  29. PassionateQuill

    (year of the dragon)

    He had been born in the year of the dragon. And while he so evidently possessed many of the positive traits typical of the sign; romantic, energetic, and intellectual, she’d often come to discover that meant he could also be fiery, intollerent, and unrealistic. Of course this hadn’t mattered at first, not when he was slaying her with unexpected tokens of affection and non-stop enthusiasm for all things, his relentless pool seeming to spill over bringing life to every dark corner of her world.

    But that was months ago, when they first met, when the year was new. She on the otherhand, was born in the year of the dog. Straightforward, faithful, if occasionally stubborn and at times bothered by unwarrented anxieties. That must have been why she had warmed up to his energetic spirit so quickly, clung to his confidence, stuck by his side.

    Yet now the year was drawing near to a close, and dusk seemed to be falling over them, concluding what she had somehow known all along. Dogs and dragons are not ideally suitable, and they were no exception. She could not find warmth in the hearth of a fiery dragon uncontent to linger too long at home.

    Though as he drifted away with the year’s end she tried to look positively at the end of their season together. Next year would be the year of the snake, and she was quite certain, full of much potential.

  30. hurtin-heart

    All the lovely fragrances in the air
    Beautiful colors everywhere
    Spring has always been my favorite time of year.

    As i look around, everything changing
    Seems new life being breathed in everything around me.

    As i gaze at the beautiful scenery
    Fond memories of times past
    Come back to me.

    Night also is my friend
    As i sit and gaze at the stars
    They seem to be winking at me
    So diffrent in the spring they seem.
     Yes, spring is definately 
    my favorite time of year!
    Samantha Tinney

  31. LCaramanna

    Seasoned with Laughter and Love

    Once upon a time,
    a little girl lived
    in a house on the
    southeast shore of Lake Ontario.

    She sailed through
    sunny summer days,
    gentle waves splashing,
    fished small mouth bass and perch.

    As autumn leaves painted red, gold, and orange,
    she bid a fond farewell to feathered friends
    with a kiss for luck, chubby fingers waved goodbye
    until wings disappeared over the horizon.

    She skated on winter’s ice,
    sliding and gliding, silver blades flashing
    bundled in a purple snowsuit,
    knitted hat and scarf held in the heat.

    She wide-opened windows, filled her house with spring music of
    robin cheerios, sparrow chirps, chickadee dee dees.
    Mrs. Mallard with peep, peeping chicks
    pecked bread from her outstretched hand.

    She picked daffodils in the sunshine,
    Puddle jumped in the rain
    Wished upon the evening star
    Left her footprints in the grass wet with morning dew.

    Once upon a time,
    a little girl lived in a house
    on the southeast shore of the great Lake Ontario
    where she seasoned life with her laughter and love.

  32. Angie K

    Favorite season?
    At one time, I favored summer most of all –
    time for swimming, sleeping, reading, imagining…
    carefree as the butterfly, simplicity reigned.

    But summer left me wishing, longing for what couldn’t be.
    and as I pondered, the leaves changed, the crops ripened,
    the butterfly tucked herself away.

    The kaleidoscope of leaves fell,
    with piles for jumping in, colors for contemplating, beauty to soon be blown away.
    Trees came to rest, preparing for a long slumber.

    It was a new time, and a new favorite season came –
    winter brought crisp air and red noses, icicles for feasting, snow for oh-so-much.
    This white medium allowed for building forts, creating stick-armed friends, molding angels.

    But the angels melted into slush, the icicles became puddles, the world turned gray.
    An inner voice called out, pleaded really.
    Where had the sun’s glimmer been hiding? We’ve slumbered enough. Could the trees awaken?

    The answers crept in silently, green shoots snaking their way up through the now-browned leaf carpet.
    Not wanting to awaken the world too quickly, the first small blooms appeared,
    White, yellow and purple crocuses making way for the smiling daffodils and flaunting tulips.

    Then the trees joined the chorus.
    Delicate redbud canopies, understated dogwood, sweet crabapple blossoms.
    These were the harbingers of the leaves, the trees’ coats that sang, “We’re back!”

    So a favorite season? Definitely spring.
    The promise of new life, renewal of the old, and the welcoming of the butterfly.
    She’s back!

  33. Melissa Hager

    Seasoned Greetings

    Nothing makes your mouth water like
    scents which permeate the warm,
    humid air of a Low Country kitchen
    in summer.
    Fresh herbs from the garden
    dance in a skillet with vine ripened
    tomatoes and onions
    harvested only that morning.
    Swing low sweet chariot.
    Bring that fork on home.

  34. Michael Grove

    Spring Daze

    Heaven sent us a new message.
    Told us of great things to be.
    Waltzed us through the cold dark Winter.
    Shined a light and set us free.

    Gotta love a new beginning.
    Daffodils in a foggy haze.
    Awakening earthly surroundings
    born to us within Spring daze.

    By Michael Grove

  35. Nickie

    Wedding Season
    (in India)

    Perhaps it starts with
    saffron velvet embroidered
    with topaz butterflies.
    Or indigo silk bordered
    with tangerine vines.

    Soon gathers into
    an explosion of splendor,
    a kaleidoscope of color,
    the nights aglow in brilliant hues
    of amber and wine and sapphire.
    Shimmering garments
    in parrot green and peacock blue.
    Shades of apricot and ochre chiffon;
    burnt orange and cinnamon brocades.

    Silver sandals and raspberry rose purses,
    gossamer shawls patterned with paisley,
    long woven coats in mustard and copper.

    Jewel-toned fabrics compete
    with jewel stone adornments:
    Garnets and sapphires encircle wrists,
    opals and amethysts drip from earlobes,
    diamonds and moonstones adorn foreheads.

    with fancy frippery,
    with sparkles and spangles.

    And in the midst of the dancing
    and the delectable feasts
    and the garlands of marigolds,
    the brides and grooms emerge
    through the cacophony of color
    and walk together around the fire.

    by Nickie Shah

  36. Connie Peters

    Last Hunting Season

    “I saw a deer up in the woods.
    Some one shot it.
    They must have lost it.”
    “Yeah?” I said,
    not sure if I should believe it.
    In the afternoon, he said,
    “I saw a deer up in the woods.
    Someone shot it, must have lost it.”
    “Yeah,” I said,
    not sure what to do about it,
    even if it was true.
    In the evening Dad said it again.
    For him to remember something
    three times in the row,
    there must be something to it.
    So for the first time in my life
    I donned a bright orange vest
    and walked up in the woods
    with him to see about this deer
    someone lost track of.
    Half the time he couldn’t
    remember what season
    it was, and he’d often ask
    what was legal to shoot.
    Surprisingly he walked right to it.
    This was a man that carried a rifle
    from the time he was nine years old,
    had gotten over fifty deer
    and couldn’t remember
    the names of his five daughters.
    He still knew the woods.
    He tagged the deer,
    pleased he’d gotten one for the season,
    his wife and daughters relieved
    he’d stay out of the woods.
    The meat was bad.
    We never told him.
    It was his last hunting season.

  37. ely the eel

    Back-n-Forth Rag

    Just one hundred miles between our two homes,
    yet a change of the seasons readily comes,
    two hours after the dry desert air
    savoring moisture, our Bernardo lair.
    We love our two homes, both seasoned with love,
    Spirit surrounds us, within us, above.
    The cats like it too, their joy adds a spice,
    three parts of playful, one jigger of vice.
    Our lives are perfect as any fine thing,
    no matter the season, always our spring.

  38. sarite

    Hi! Been having lots of technical difficulties with this site–pw resets, “posting comments too fast” about to give up. Am posting my poems at saravinas.blogspot.com Our fearless leader once again made me stretch outside my comfort zone and set up a poetry blog. Thank you Robert!

    Spring in Sacramento

    Walking to school
    ‘Neath pink petaled fairies
    Who danced and tempted
    Scenting the breeze
    With pixie dust
    Designed to please
    Or make you sneeze

  39. RJ Clarken

    Seasonal Kyrielle

    Autumn sings a blustery note
    which says you’ll need a warmer coat.
    Leaves are orange and Bordeaux.
    The seasons come; the seasons go.

    And Winter’s icy counterpanes
    are full of glistening crystal chains
    and puffy, fluffy drifts of snow.
    The seasons come; the seasons go.

    Then Springtime blooms with daffodils;
    bright pansies sit on window sills
    and rills once frozen start to flow.
    The seasons come; the seasons go.

    The boys of Summer hit line drives;
    the opening of pools arrives;
    the sun, the beach, that golden glow…
    The seasons come; the seasons go.


  40. traci

    Dresses on trees
    Sweatshirts seen on people
    Birds flying south above our heads
    Contemplation as ripples in water
    Flowers take a much needed rest
    Grass does a phoenix feat
    My favorite time

  41. emmajordan

    Season of Healing

    I have come
    to a place where
    my threat no longer lives.
    He is gone.
    Forever gone,
    ashes buried in the earth.

    Still I find
    I feel fear
    washing over me
    threatening to drown
    waves surfers wait for
    as challenge of their ability.

    Depression so dark
    it is impossible to see anything
    in front of me
    and I struggle between
    living with it
    accepting what he is still
    doing to me
    even in death
    or looking up
    toward the peak
    seeking hand and toe holds
    no matter how small
    to grip on
    my way back.

    I decide to look up
    even in the midst of a moonless night
    and I reach
    feeling for that small but strong
    ledge to grab onto
    and a toe hold
    where I can dig my toes in
    and push pull my way up
    out of his death grip
    moving slowly
    with a goal in sight:
    the peak of the mountain.

    It is an almost impossible climb
    from hell’s depths
    to this season of healing.
    I will make it.

      1. emmajordan

        Rosemary and De,

        Thank you both for your comments, most of all for your encouragement. Yes, it is very much autobiographical. Hope? I have several framed prints in my room with hope illustrated or illuminated. I need the reminder.

        The allusions to climbing come from, of course, the deep pit I have lived in for many years, but also my love of rock climbing.

        Again, thank you.


  42. omavi


    A cold wind blowing
    Readying for hibernation time
    In this time of declining sun
    This time of hunkering down
    Crawling with the comforting zones
    So weary from heated moments
    Welcoming as life blood flows slow
    Pulsing upwards towards skin
    Warming from with everything
    That touches with frigid demands
    Pulling within and letting that natural
    Follow the warmth and get warmed
    Giving it a reason to really want to live
    As everything decides to lie down in dust
    This the time that renewal is bred
    Laying down to sleep
    Knowing rebirth is the next

  43. Rosemary Nissen-Wade

    Autumn in the Northern Rivers

    Always so warm
    the trees and flowers
    behave as if it were Spring.

    Wattle and bougainvillea
    bloom profusely bright
    along the roads.

    Most years, even my roses
    bud and flower briefly.

    For a short while
    we open blinds and curtains,
    not keeping the temperature out.

    The fans are off, the heaters
    not yet switched on.
    We let in the air.

    Gradually the nights cool
    after clear, sunny days.

    The mountains stand out sharp
    around the sky-line; the rivers
    gleam, filling their banks.

    ‘Why,’ we say to each other,
    ‘Would you want to live anywhere else?
    How could you ever leave?’ (We are smiling.)

  44. Sara McNulty

    Robert, I love your poem for today. Here’s mine:

    April 11, 2012 – Day 11
    Pick a season and make it the title of your poem


    Seasoned gardener
    in protective sun hat,
    gloves to cover
    roughened hands
    used to wield tools
    for digging, weeding,
    seeding, and pruning,
    ushers in Spring, fruit
    of his labors, joy
    on his face at birth
    of careful cultivation.

    Summer garden’s
    pungent scents
    grow ideas for light
    suppers–pasta with basil
    and oregano, potatoes
    patted gently with rosemary,
    and chicken sprinkled
    with fresh thyme and sage.

    Seasoned hands,
    tender seasonings
    from Spring origins
    to Fall’s fruits.

  45. Miss R.


    Through these prairies
    You come and you go,
    Changing partners with
    Winter to and then fro.
    Such a tease deserves
    Nothing but my disdain,
    Yet every year I fall
    Madly in love again.

  46. Mary Mansfield

    After the Fall

    Heart shattered
    Into millions of pieces
    Covering my path,
    Nothing to do
    But walk through the shards,
    Slicing my feet
    Into a bloody mess,
    Another attempt
    To keep me prisoner
    In his private torture chamber,
    No parole or reprieve,
    Merely a captive
    To his anger and cruelty.

    I may be weakened,
    Anemic and drained,
    But the fire continues to burn,
    Propelling me into the fight,
    A fight I have no choice but to win.
    The consequences of losing
    Too dire to consider.

  47. Imaginalchemy

    After the kind of day I’ve had, I have to compose something stupid. So here it is:


    Basil, thyme, oregano, and bay
    Springtime greens to flavor my filet.
    Paprika, Chili, Red Pepper flakes
    Add the sizzle of summer to my steaks.
    Cinnamon, nutmeg, ginger, allspice
    Make the autumn soups oh so nice.
    Sprinklings of sugar, granulated and confectionary,
    The whites of winter in my baking sanctuary
    All the season’s flavors on my shelf
    But I’m keeping the cooking wine for myself.

  48. Khara H.

    Winter will find you

    This weather will bundle you
    in sweet powdered warmth.
    Winter trees its way to you,
    rooting you in fleece and fire—
    this season of birth groans
    and lace, of steeped tea and fetal bones
    growing and creaking
    beneath the soil on a whim.

    Pine spines will blanket the earth,
    chasing nonchalance
    on breezes wandering the world
    for a flesh limb swing.

    Hide yourself away
    in the spiced scent of quilted cloth,
    your feet hooked into its earth
    like a cinnamon fresh crocheted
    wing. Your skin will soak in
    this January needling air,
    crisp and fragile as the slumbering moth
    frozen in sleep in some dim
    oak nook.

    1. LCaramanna

      Oh, I love this poem. For me, there is nothing better than a 32 degrees blue sky diamond sparkle on snow winter day. Your first four lines have me wishing for the winter we really didn’t have this year!

  49. Khara H.

    Holmes County

    Yellow blossoms burst with pale cheeks,
    exploding forsythia.
    All the world is teeming
    with tails that flush the sky in bright pink chatter.
    Their chime
    Laps at the breeze as a fresh, ripe sun
    segues between time and hilltops. Below
    Polliwogs dance the river.
    Mothers gaze upon their cotton peeps,
    the fresh thrown
    apple cores and upturned eggshells
    spun hollow. The barn, the field,
    the blanched fence roar with life, beasts that till the night
    with breaths and sighs.
    Behind the barn, the henhouse is a rush of quivering white,
    while newborn foxes yearn to tread
    with momma in.

  50. Maria Phoenix

    A seasoned cook will remind you of the time of year
    The holidays near
    Like a painter with canvas, the colors emerge from pots and pans
    Or a sculptor molding dough with bare hands
    Warm cinnamon autumns
    Dark chili winters
    Bright chive springs
    Cool watermelon gazpacho summers
    A seasoned cook has the ability to conjure
    Laughter from that time Jeff spilled punch on his lap
    With a batch lemon bars
    Or the time Lily caught the flu after playing tag in the rain
    With a chicken and leek soup
    And the comfort felt from a lentil stew
    When grandma died
    A seasoned cook uses a recipe at first
    Then shifts into secret ingredients mode
    A seasoned cook has a gift
    To bring the past to life
    And ensure the future
    With a cup of broth

  51. deedeekm

    Spring Awakens

    Skin sighs
    I unfold like a new leaf
    Soul deep warmth
    Frost puddles around stiff 
    Bones of winter
    Now donning cotton
    Bright as sun
    Blue as sky
    Ivy twines around
    Graceful wrists
    Clouds crown a feathered
    Nest Scattered hair
    In honeysuckle breezes
    As light changes
    We awake to the scent
    Of grass

  52. claudsy

    Okay, so I wimped out with haiku. Too much on my plate today.


    Popcorn ball flakes sail
    With winds howling for fear’s sake,
    Drifting to bring peace.


    Seeds’ green heads waver,
    Nodding to sky in joy,
    Leaving Dark for Light.


    Daisies keep cow friends
    Company on sunshine days,
    Giving selves as food.


    Squirrels hurry on,
    Gathering winter’s food choice,
    Quarrel over safes.

    © Claudette J. Young

  53. lluecampbell

    Wolfmoon Bay
    Hung from a Northern sky
    Lopes along
    The Lake Superior shoreline
    On a Shakespearean summer night
    Of elegant words
    and meanings layered
    Within Sonnets and sighs.

  54. Marcia Gaye

    ‘Tis Always the Season to Love Her

    She looks like autumn
    She laughs like spring
    She thinks like summer
    But here’s the thing –
    She’s never winter
    She’s never cold
    She is mature
    But never old
    She doesn’t bluster
    Doesn’t hide
    She doesn’t lock her warmth inside
    But spreads it
    Shares it,
    Opens wide.

    1. Marcia Gaye

      Thank you both. Today I had more chance to read and enjoyed both of you also. It seems this is the “season” for (mostly) good and kind nature-like poems. Angst and rage have their place, but today’s offerings were (mostly) so relaxed.

  55. Jane Shlensky

    Planting Season

    She smells spring traveling
    on a winter wind, her boot toe
    poking under frosty leaves
    for signs of life impatient to begin.

    A shoot of green sufficient
    to quicken her old pulse
    tells her it’s almost planting time,
    to get her seeds tucked into sleeves

    and yawning into life, tiny plants
    unfurling, like a hand opening
    a finger at a time, sun seekers,
    green and reaching. When they beg

    for transplanting into a world of soil,
    the season will be here. She knows that
    for sure, an almanac in her blood.
    She can smell spring traveling on the wind.

  56. Jane Shlensky

    Duck Season

    He cleans his gun again, oiling
    its parts and working the trigger
    mechanism, prelude to flocks
    in migration, landing on ponds
    and lakes to rest.

    His decoys are shined and ready
    to float a promise out onto the waves
    to draw tired birds in close where
    they hover just before they drop,
    his cue to shoot.

    Keeping the dogs quiet as they wait
    is key. But they are edgy, already
    tasting feathers in their mouths,
    anticipating short swims and
    heroic retrievals.

    He loves being among the rattling
    reeds and cattails, and half hates
    to kill ducks, pretty as they are
    paired and paddling on the currents,
    riding the air,

    their necks extended and pointing home.
    But it’s duck season, a traditional hunt
    in these parts, followed by the smell
    of roast duck, sauced to sharpen it,
    and he lives off
    the land today.

  57. DanielAri


    and Jamie and I became fast friends, bonding over
    tequila and Spanish rice in the coop living situation
    we found ourselves in; so when he asked if I wanted
    to go with him back home to Argentina, I said why
    not. He played guitar and had landed a gig in a cruise
    line band. He found work for me in the main kitchen,
    scrubbing. We committed six months, boarding July,
    scheduled for leave in January in Buenos Aires. By
    the time we landed, we had stopped being friends,
    not through any fault of his or mine, but only because
    the season of our being together had closed. He had
    his band; I had the kitchen crew, who had taught me
    a good deal of Spanish over half a year, and not a little
    Portuguese, too. Jamie had decided to stay onboard
    another year, but I disembarked alone into the city
    because the night air in January was balmy and clear,
    and I felt ready to be alone, if that was what winter
    held, so long as I could be held by that warm winter
    in a place where words, smells, electrical outlets, cars,
    women and men, and the way we all related, was new.


  58. Kendall A. Bell


    I wait winterlong for you to wake
    from a slumber that has kept your
    long limbs immobile.

    Your night stand has become a
    mini mausoleum, nothing disturbed
    from when you last touched it:
    your alarm clock frozen at 11:14,
    your hair brush with long, blonde
    pieces of you half off the stained wood.

    Every night I visit the sterile space
    you encompass now, watch your fingers
    and toes in hopes that they respond when
    I sing your favorite song, fill the room
    with tulips of every color.

    When spring arrives, your garden blooms
    and I swear I see you carrying a watercan,
    hear the buzz of your name on the honeybees,
    hold the hope that you will bloom again
    among the machines that hold your breath.


  59. PSC in CT

    Hurricane Season

    Tempest, she storms in
    ready to blow, bound
    to rain on your parade
    heated, intense, hell-bent,
    gale force spitting fits of fury,
    lightning thrashes, thunder
    crashing, tantrum unrestrained

    abrupt cloudburst gushes
    teeming torrents, pelting hail,
    downpour rushes, rivers
    rising, flood tide spiking,
    while you scurry for cover

    incremental shift in weather:
    squall to shower to sprinkle
    to mist, warms to steamy,
    suddenly stunning
    cloudless blue sky

    don’t be mislead by her
    soft balm, sweet calm,
    sunny disposition
    you’re just caught
    in her eye

    best you can do:
    lay in supplies,
    batten down hatches,
    and hope you can
    weather the storm

    1. Domino

      The alliteration made it better, and it was already really good! “incremental shift in weather: squall to shower to sprinkle to mist, warms to steamy, suddenly stunning cloudless blue sky.”

  60. Jamal Abboud


    When winter comes savoring the warmth
    With cold relish to eat up reminisces,
    And mist swoops on my windowpane,
    And frost attacks my garden’s narcissus,
    Envying my wealth after I have become alone,
    Coveting my pleasures of love I have known.
    When the joyful images of yours before my pain
    Becomes a treasure in my cold haven
    After you have gone where souls go,
    So I have believed, so I have always known,
    Where pure spring jasmines lightly grow
    In the world of innocence in heaven
    In my sick heart, where you feel secure,
    My dearest place, where you shall endure
    My absence in your world of memories,
    Where I shall keep your heart of dust
    Above my burdens, beneath daggers of frost.

  61. JRSimmang

    The Fall of Man
    dear man,
    and smell the dawn
    from your comfy couches of incest.
    Your season has ended,
    blistering heat pouring from your mouths,
    created in your bellies,
    scorching the cities and rivers.
    The time has come to recline,
    dear man,
    and smell the dawn of a new era.
    Soon your leaves will wilt,
    your mighty oaken arms will bend,
    and your spark will find no fire.
    dear man,
    and when you do,
    seek not the warmth you have once provided.
    Instead, find the chill,
    the conflagration of frost,
    and smell the dawn of a new era.

  62. Domino

    Windy Season

    The petals in the portico
    swirl and turn
    turn and swirl
    they make me feel
    like a much younger girl.

    A girl who would
    laugh as she
    rode her bike home
    pushed by the wind.

    A girl whose first thought
    on a windy day
    was of a kite
    and that ridiculously
    wonderful song
    from Mary Poppins.

    Diana Terrill Clark

  63. Buddah Moskowitz

    Autumn (for Rachel, who has been in Montana 26 days)

    It was still winter
    when you left,
    and spring doesn’t
    hold out much
    hope for your return.

    I doubt that
    you’ll want to come back
    to the oppressive heat
    and smog of
    a Moreno Valley summer,

    so perhaps,
    I’ll have to wait
    until Autumn
    for your return.

    Autumn has always
    been my favorite season
    but if you told me
    you were
    coming home tomorrow,

    spring would be my
    new favorite season
    of the year.

      1. Marjory MT

        I can taste it now!
        Whenever we come to vacation in Kelowna, BC.
        We go to the Greek Resteraunt!
        WONDERFUL – world’s best lamb chops

        Worth the 250 mile drive

  64. Sally Jadlow

    (NOT autobiographical)


    “Deer season,” he announced
    as he loaded his equipment
    into the truck.

    With a quick peck on the cheek
    he was out the door.

    When he returned home
    he carelessly left his camera chip
    in the computer.
    That’s when I learned his deer
    were the two-legged variety.

  65. Marianv


    Icy reflections of moonlight
    brightens a world subdued by snow.
    4:00AM, I peer through my window
    A young deer – rough coated, with two
    nubby buds, the beginnings of antlers,
    Quietly nosing through
    the ruins of our garden
    Smaller than our dog, I think,
    Then I realize that he is standing
    in snow that rises above his knees.
    No swift flight for him; slowly he lifts each
    leg from the snow, steps carefully-one at a time–

    Where do the wild creatures go when their world
    lies buried beneath a crust of snow glittering
    in the icy moonlight? Listen as the coyotes
    howl at the moon as they
    And all the wild creatures go hungry.

  66. taylor graham


    Today we’re the wrecking crew
    to tear out green grown wild in our garden,
    weeds that take over the earth.
    But wait.

    Morning dew’s cradled
    in hearts of miner’s lettuce. Here’s chick-
    weed with its dainty
    white blossoms, tang on the tongue.

    Imagine all these greens
    in a basin in the kitchen, crisping for a salad.
    And here’s lace-edged purple vetch,
    and filaree—beloved of sheep.

    All these weeds, and others
    whose names we don’t even know—
    might they be the answers to questions
    we’ve never asked?

  67. Joseph Harker

    Channeling some Donovan today…

    Season of the Witch

    Must be this one: a young spring
    whose cathedral sky has been draped low with
    deep blue clouds, the rain beading in checkmarks

    along windows and the sun surprising
    out from behind. A soiled spring rich with scent,
    magnolia turning brown on the branch, alley cats

    wrestling behind the dirty grates, the trash man
    stripping off his jacket in the unexpected heat.
    A spring where everybody’s tempers are short

    and sex drives are high, where winter’s
    monochromatic quilt is giving way to skin
    tone, farmer’s markets, unruly daffodils, laughter,

    whatever color that may be. A rhythmic,
    sensory spring that watches the flower buds
    begin to swell with pleasure, thinks of the ground

    wet with birth, delivering up its treasures.
    Why would a witch wait for jack-o-lanterns
    and frost-tipped evenings to work some kind of

    body magic? Here are the wanderers,
    punch-drunk on the world: tantalized and
    tantalizing, hoping to capture some of this new

    rainbow for themselves, being nothing
    but biological joy, tempted by this glorious life
    which is the simplest, strongest, truest spell of all.

  68. zevd2001

    It rained a lot
    this winter, filling the roots
    down deep, pushing the shoots higher
    moving on and out, from under

    the sidewalk, short shoots rise between
    the cracks. Nothing gets lost here
    where the city loves nature. Most of the time,

    in these here parts,
    come the first warm days everything
    grows all of a sudden, shocks of yellow,
    purple, tropical gardens dropped upon
    a terrace just left there to be,
    every thing green and colorful . . . and I lke it.

    Zev Davis

  69. lionmother

    That Spring

    Spring came offering gifts
    lush blossoms’ fragrance
    filled my senses and
    entwined with the new
    feeling found suddenly
    In my new grown body
    anticipation as if each
    moment should be
    pressed and kept
    the light soft and
    desire bubbling like
    scented oil inside
    urges unknown
    until Spring placed
    her floral hands upon
    my electric skin and
    made me lay on the
    moss carpet of new
    grown grass as I
    succumbed to the
    wrapped myself
    in garlands of desire
    and afterward wept for
    the loss of my childhood.

  70. Marjory MT


    —When I was just a little tyke
    I raced through meadows green
    and danced with floating butterflies
    to a robin’s lilting theme.

    —I wondered down a wooded glen
    where sunbeams filtered through
    to skip across a babbling brook
    that fed a pond of blue.

    —I used a wooden boundry fence
    like a gymnast’s balancing beam
    and acknowledged bobbing daffodills
    that waved at childhood dreams.

    —I marched with lazy bovine herds
    that meandered with switching tails,
    fed wobbly legged, spotted calves
    from special feeding pails.

    —I gathered eggs from hidden nests
    and scattered fresh cracked corn
    for a flock of hens and ducks and geese
    that greeted me each morn.

    —I knelt by tender shooting sprouts
    of tomatoes, corn and beans
    while veggies danced before my eyes
    like Christmas sugerplum dreams.

    —I traced a fuzzy caterpiller’s path
    past half eatten tender greens
    ’til I found him snuggly curling up
    to spin on butterfly dreams.

    —I was so free to leap and dance,
    to race and shout and sing.
    I rompted about with month old pups
    to celebrate the Spring.

  71. Domino

    Sports, Schmorts

    Everyone knows
    football season is in the fall
    And football games from
    all over the country
    are played if you have the
    One can root
    for whatever team
    one chooses.

    And Soccer, don’t
    forget soccer, that
    the rest of the world
    calls futbol or football.
    It goes from August
    through April.
    Games are on
    all the time.

    Basketball season, too,
    is so fascinating. And
    NASCAR starts in the spring,
    along with baseball.

    Tennis and golf
    have their day,
    if they’re not
    preempted by
    some other,
    more important

    And the Olympics
    are coming again this

    Luckily for me,
    reading season
    is all year long
    and though one
    may root for a particular
    there are no
    real competitions
    or time
    unless you count
    the Hugos.

    So while others in my home
    are avidly pursuing
    the sporting life
    from the comfort
    of the couch,
    I am happily
    ensconced in

    1. Marjory MT

      Our little family must be strange
      we do not watch a single game.
      Can’t waste my time to see it all
      be it foot’ – basket’- or baseball
      There;s so many other things to see
      in books, outside and at the sea.

      1. Domino

        LOL Wonderful Marjory!! My current husband only picks and chooses a few, but I was once a sports widow!! It’s okay, though, reading, sewing, so many other things to be done!!

  72. HannaAnna

    Spring Means

    New life… eggs… babies
    New life… flowers… leaves
    Another year of planting crops
    A fresh start for mother nature
    Spring cleaning and fresh lemons
    Summer’s almost here
    The greatest time of year
    At least for the children

  73. New_Writer49

    Winter Wish

    Winter has come with a cold wintry mix.

    First snow falls then ice what shall come next?

    We all wish for a White Christmas, but this is more than we asked for.

    We wanted to make snowmen and angels with wings.

    But with ice packs abound all we got were arms and legs in slings.

    Winter set upon us with a wintry chill.

    I hope that winter moves on more like the run of the mill.

    With snowflakes and temperature up above, all I can wish for is a wintry love.

  74. dextrousdigits

    Season of the Wolf

    City Streets roamed by destitute
    tattered layers of clothes
    pushing grocery carts
    looking for scraps
    sleeping in alleys
    huddled on park benches
    on layers of cardboard
    Looking hungrily for hope.

  75. DanielAri


    and in the late Pleistocene, names for time periods
    related to earth’s passage around the sun formed
    in the cultures of humanity. These names varied,
    but over the ages—into the Holocene epoch—they
    cooled and congealed, centering logically around
    equinoxes and solstices. Names of seasons came
    in sets of four—until the Commercial age began,
    marking a sudden shift, a snap in geological time.
    Seasons bifurcated and warped according to the
    manufacture and dissemination of merchandise.
    In this millennium, we mark the year’s passage:
    Valentines, Mother’s Day, Dads & Grads, Wedding
    Season, Back to School, Pre-holiday, Holiday and
    New Year’s Resolution Season. Lately, the weather
    itself has begun to line up with the new schema.


  76. dextrousdigits

    Vivaldi’s Seasons
    Vincent’s vision
    Monet’s strokes
    Bosho’s pen

    waterlilies and ponds
    scare crows and paddy fields

    Birth, growth, withering, returning to Maya
    treasured reminders
    sacred beauty
    each season.

  77. deringer1

    Winter At Last

    I lived my carefree youth in spring,
    my freedom in summer.

    autumn brought loss, joys fleeing
    like leaves blowing in the winds of change.

    and now, in winter, my will is gone.
    I relax into a wisdom higher than my own

    and wait

  78. dandelionwine


    Greenly growing
    uncoiled seedlings
    buds of breezing
    bending bows
    surging sap tides
    succeeding star arc
    extending cloud bursting
    deluged miry rut
    raking red breast
    robin bobbing earthy
    booty this
    tumultuous high
    seas season
    stealing sun

  79. Mike Bayles


    Buds on bare limbs
    dream leaves
    speckle vistas
    of blue skies
    cloudless clear
    on a spring day
    while fresh smells
    of early morning rain
    stir senses,
    and the sound
    of my favorite song
    coming through an open window
    greets me,
    and I’m forever young.

  80. Anders Bylund

    The Calm Before the Storm
    Early April, and I
    Stare down the barrel of a loded gun.
    Blame the deadlines imposed by Uncle Sam
    And the neverending hunger for relevant and fresh
    Or thank your weary writing talents
    For leading you into this career
    Where fruit hangs low once every three months.

    Either way, the facts don’t change:
    Earnings season begins again.

  81. Lana Walker


    Season five began
    in March
    with truly a
    boring show

    Out of loop
    wanting the scoop
    I watched
    slow, slow, slow

    Don’t get why
    the story and set
    captures such
    huge acclaim

    Is it cathartic?
    Perhaps hypnotic?
    Or a balm for
    the insane

  82. posmic

    Late Winter

    Just when you think
    it’s never going to end,
    it does.

    There will always be
    the last day you wear
    your serious parka.

    It’s like stages with
    your children: One day,
    you’re breastfeeding

    or listening to them say
    that funny thing you think
    you’ll always remember;

    the next day, it’s gone,
    and you didn’t think to
    write it down, mark it

    on the calendar or in a book.
    Nature keeps its own notes,
    is always writing a book

    we can’t read yet.
    Brown slush becomes
    mud on our shoes;

    as quick as that,
    the next chapter
    has already begun.

  83. Paoos69


    Young leaves sprouting
    A fresh green
    A new look
    New energy abounding

    Dead of the winter gone
    New ideas spawn
    As the new season dawns
    With winter descending

    A new conscious
    New resolutions
    Gone are the dilemmas
    New contemplations

    Magic of the season
    Nature’s precision
    Call it science, call it nature
    Call it God’s caricature

  84. barbara_y

    The luxury of being cold on summer

    that unnecessary pain of holding ice too long
    against a tongue alive with sweet and acid
    is an M&M of memory, SourBall shock
    of diving into cave-spawned rock-delivered cold
    clear running water and bobbing to the surface,
    air trapped against your back and legs and face like carbonation
    rolling through the down to rise, silver
    water skins of August sycamores minute
    gray-green magicians fanning shuffled leaves
    and whispering take one. To soak the cold in
    like a beer or orange crush, a bottled self
    the minnows try to taste with small translucent kisses
    like the bites of timid lovers, is to promise
    climbing into sun-baked, dust-limestone-water-honeysuckle
    cashmere summer, sugar smooth.

  85. gtabasso

    Hunting Season

    We grew up eating wild game
    that dad brought home for mom to cook:
    grouse in the spaghetti sauce
    and venison meatballs;
    venison steaks with white wine,
    onions and green peppers;
    rabbit stew, grilled pheasant, frog legs.

    I will never forget the two times
    the house stank
    because he made her cook
    groundhog and squirrel.
    They went into the garbage
    and we gagged for days.

    Now, an old man in a wheelchair,
    he years for the past
    when he could walk for miles,
    climb a tree, sit in a stand,
    drag a deer home.

    He misses the natural world,
    looking into those liquid eyes,
    mumbling a prayer of forgiveness.

    1. posmic

      Great! Very nuanced. Both the necessity — and yes, pleasure — of hunting for food, as well as the gross and violent aspects. I love your ending, with your dad’s strong and ambivalent feelings.

  86. Willy


    Oh, down to the woods I go, hi-ho.
    Down to the woods I go,
    With a camera and blind
    Bobbing over my behind.
    It’s down to the woods I go.

    Oh, watch the jakes preen just so, hi-ho.
    Watch the jakes preen just so,
    But ol’ tom makes the cut
    When he does his turkey strut
    And the jakes’ only preen so-so.

    Oh, when the mating time’s no mo’, hi-ho.
    When the mating time’s no mo’,
    Then the hens begin to set,
    And the boys begin to fret
    ‘cause they’re not safe no mo’.

    Oh, down to the woods I go, hi-ho.
    Down to the woods I go,
    With a gun into my blind
    I’ll call in a gobbler find.
    It’s down in the woods he’ll go.

  87. JanetRuth

    April’s Celestial Shepherdess

    She laughs
    herding her wooly flocks
    to farther pasture’s
    with passionate
    Then she weeps,
    her tears softening
    earth-leather cusp
    Her eyes beguile
    the tightly clenched bud
    She scowls
    An icy stare
    Conceals her mirth
    hope turns to mud
    as restless sheep
    crowd about her…
    trample her skirts, but
    then she smiles
    …sheep scatter
    as tulip rivers
    color the earth

  88. Walt Wojtanik


    Between the winter and the summer
    the lack of spring (sometimes a bummer),
    a time to fix the road destruction
    during the season we call “construction”

    It seems to happen every year,
    every where when the weather’s clear.
    Roads with potholes and far worse,
    the annual infrastructural curse.

    If it’s mangled, they can mend it,
    if it’s straightened, they will bend it.
    So, don’t expect to rush around,
    this season’s made to slow you down!

  89. Sharon

    Season of Change

    Is it good, this thing called change?
    Yesterday I was free,
    today caught in some
    dark void
    neither one thing
    or another.

    And then change comes.
    flying into the day
    wing color like
    jewels in the sun.
    this thing called change
    is good.

  90. Walt Wojtanik


    Hewe it is anothew season,
    to kiww the wabbit wiffout weason,
    Kwite the wascaw; he a nut,
    a weal pain in my Fuddian butt.

    Ducks ow daffy, wild and weirwd,
    in cohewent, so I’ve hewed,
    but wabbits ow what weally bugs me,
    at the howt stwings it does tug me.

    Hunting does wewax my mind,
    shooting cwitters that I find.
    Twacking over diwt and mud,
    have wifow will twavew, I’m Elmew Fudd!

    Heh, heh, heh, heh,
    be vewy kwiet, wew witing poetwy!

  91. Michelle Hed

    Spring Waltz (Rondeau)

    Waltz with me, beneath the boughs of trees
    just budding now in the springtime freeze;
    I breathe the fragrance that fills the air
    and sneeze not once, but twice through my hair –
    As springtime struggles to find its ease.

    Through the forest move the lazy bees
    trying to wake, new season to seize,
    thankful the insects are not quite there –
    Waltz with me…

    Bending low, in fact brought to my knees
    by glimpses of flowers first spring tease.
    Their dainty blooms catch me in their snare,
    with their beauty and delicate flare.
    I will gladly pay the sneezing fees.
    Waltz with me…

  92. competitivewriter


    The start is tart
    Early berries
    Basil and Cilantro and Mint
    Flirt with other greens

    Then begins the feast
    The salty tang of brats
    Charred edges from the grill
    The buttery kernels of sweet corn
    Cooled by crisp lemonade
    Swim through watermelons
    Stick to cotton candy
    Sweat from jalepeno spice

    Fall into the richness
    Of clove and cinnamon and chocolate
    Pumpkin and sweet potato and other roots
    Simmer in savory of stews
    An apple cider bubbles
    While the fireplace crackles

    Finally the ending notes
    Sugary cookies and candied nuts
    Slow roasted meats and
    Citrus surprises

  93. Catherine Lee

    Season of Learning

    Madame says it is Printemps
    In France as if we are in a separate
    Hemisphere from that place
    She’s never been,
    Where red is rouge
    And blue is bleue
    (Close enough)
    I forget what white is,
    And where five vowels,
    Yes Madame, cinq vowels,
    Are allowed to stand together
    In mocking silence, daring me
    To pronounce their existence
    Into réalité.

  94. Margot Suydam

    White covers

    rusty pickup trucks
    slanted sliding down
    heavy in oily labor

    where dog walkers
    leave their mark
    where the weary

    of not working go
    home to tilting
    shabby houses

    Yet snow persists
    slips down the hill
    straight to old town

    square dotted white
    The church steeples
    bleed the clouds

    and I feel clean
    in a room ardent
    a blanket warming

    draws me down
    these bleached walls
    where I scribble

    in dark chocolate
    so not to forget
    testing August heat

  95. De Jackson


    This too shall pass.

    She knows this.
    This tumblestumble of words
            and will and way
    This ebb and yield
            and wither and fade
    This decay
    This brown and orange and gold
            and looming gray
    This spilling of herself to sky
    This goodbye
    This crunch of autumn
            under mournful feet
    this grieving
    this leaving
            pieces of herself behind.

  96. Beth Rodgers


    Freshly mown grass
    Permeates my nostrils
    Instilling the feeling
    That spring
    Has sprung.

    It is hardly an antiquated concept
    To pass the seasons
    Rather than hibernating
    In more inviting climates.

    Spring is the kindest season
    When flowers bloom
    Birds chirp
    And the wind cradles butterflies
    As they live out their journey.

  97. Kevin DeRossett

    Ok, so I actually wrote this in response to the haiku challenge back in the fall, but I absolutely love this collection of haiku and wanted to share it again. Hope you enjoy!

    A Haiku Collection

    Chlorine smells like June—
    The green hair of the swimmers
    Never washes clean.

    The cicada sings
    His song, a deep-throated chant:
    Cigarettes, porch swings

    The lake level down;
    The shore twice its length:
    Come, rainy season.

    Watching the dance of
    Will o’ the wisp fireflies—
    The child within.

    August, a lost month.
    Forgotten in the hot nights—
    Many memories.

    The heat is still there.
    I watched the first leaf falling—
    Please make up your mind.

  98. laurie kolp

    When Tears Spring to the Sky

    Sometimes I feel like crying
    for no other reason than your
    cheeks as silky as the petals
    of a rose which I caress
    with the back of my hand
    up and down, so slow
    I could freeze
    this moment in time
    reach out and grab this memory
    forever draft and store it
    in the back recesses of my mind.

    Sometimes I feel like crying
    for no other reason than your
    laughter filling the stagnant air
    taking off to the boundless sky
    like a helium balloon on a warm spring day
    where tulips as yellow as the sun
    line the path of our existence
    with serenity, ecstasy
    and we float away together
    to a place no soul can locate
    leave behind the bitter load
    which lays us down.

    Sometimes I feel like crying
    for no other reason than you.

  99. Catherine Lee

    Autumn in the Piney Woods

    I am unbidden in this other world,
    A fragment of a something cold and gray,
    Small among sentinels who carry
    The sky burden upon their boughs.

    My presence is betrayed
    By the sound of lusty crunches,
    Each foot fall tamping shards
    Of leaf glass and green.

  100. De Jackson


    Oh, April.

    Later today
    your angry winds will stir
    and rise and whip their way
    into our lives, causing need for
    hair bands and Claritin and
    anger management.

    But for now I’ve got
    this innocent breeze
    these gossiping trees
    a comfy chair
    behavin’ hair
    and a sunny spot
    with my name on it.

  101. Charles Cote

    For yesterday and today:

    Early Fall

    Above the forest ravine,
    a chaos of saplings,
    below, roots like veins
    on the back of our hands,
    and everywhere, branches
    to the sun, our life
    in these limbs, entwined,
    bark like scales,
    the season’s weight.

  102. Jackie Casey


    Morning and pink glows her first blush of day;
    like a dainty bride, she powders her face.
    Morning’s blown fiery, blazing dewdrops
    upon happily wedded, blissful scene.

    Mischievous rays turn blossoms-in-waiting
    to blistering, brilliant hues of blue-green,
    while gloomy grooms huddle in a black slouch,
    hearts bleeding for warmth of the bridal-couch!

    Oh, heaven must wait, as Spring, she will preen;
    often she glitters and wants to be seen.
    I wait in the shade, in awe of her view
    as glorious springtime makes her debut.

    (bridal couch refers to the bride’s breast)

  103. Dare

    Tourist Season

    Love – Hate

    Traffic Trauma
    Price Inflation
    Culture Clash

    Cheerful Outlook
    Thriving Commerce
    Fresh Perspectives

    Hate – Love

    Grudging Gratitude

  104. Nancy Posey

    Spring Surprise

    In the foothills, the seasons tease,
    flirting from the mountains
    outside our window,
    a ten-degree drop
    just an hour drive away.
    As each tree unfurls her colors,
    flowering cherry
    then Bradford pear
    in puffs, our dogwoods wait
    for Easter to bear the print of nails.
    Daffodils and forsythia bloom
    in spite of ill-timed snows,
    defiant, a butter yellow promise
    of change. We find hyacinths
    first by scent then sight
    before tulips push through the soil
    to take their turn. In spring,
    forgetfulness is a blessing,
    each new burst of blossom
    a fresh surprise, as the flower beds
    explode with color demanding
    to serve as backdrop
    for photographs of children
    who can’t help themselves,
    picking bouquets for us,
    so lovely they know we won’t scold.

  105. Andrew Kreider

    Brolly season

    When you’re afraid of getting wet,
    don’t fret – just take your brolly, Dolly!
    With spring in England you can bet
    when you’re afraid of getting wet,
    you will. By lunchtime. But don’t let
    a shower make you less than jolly;
    when you’re afraid of getting wet,
    Don’t fret – just take your brolly, Dolly!

  106. Iain Douglas Kemp

    Four day catch up complete!!

    Season of Certainty

    Long gone are the winters
    summers, springs
    and autumns of discontent
    the age is ripe for the picking
    full of sunshine and joy
    these days of plenty
    these days of glory
    this new-born man
    who shrugged on the hurt little boy’s cloak
    worn for so long as such a burden
    this man strides forth with confidence
    with purpose
    with clarity of mine
    in this
    the season of certainty


  107. Earl Parsons

    Florida Seasons

    In the spring
    We Floridians
    Rake leaves
    Play golf
    And go to the beach

    In the summer
    We Floridians
    Rake leaves
    Play golf
    And go to the beach

    In the fall
    We Floridians
    Rake leaves
    Play golf
    And go to the beach

    In the winter
    We Floridians
    Rake leaves
    Play golf
    But, the beach??
    It depends

  108. Iain Douglas Kemp

    Dear Moosehead,
    My dear friend and companion,
    there is only one season a year that counts:
    baseball season! Right now it also
    happens to be bird-roasting season.
    All the better for it too! We are magnificent
    and I can’t wait for the home opener
    especially as your harpies will be down
    in Atlanta with Jimmy the Greek et al.
    (Did ya see what I did there?)
    Let’s watch our boys make it 3 for 3
    surround by wings, ribs, beer and
    fellow travelers (no! not communists – Yanks fans!)
    down at the bar. also fun seeing your cousin
    earn her tips in her own unique way. Pick ya
    up at 6.

    Yours seasonally delighted

    Ringo the Howler

  109. lady maggie

    Spring’s Offspring
          To give breath to all earth and sky conceive,
          to bring light to all corners on the day,
          to spread peace to each word bold visions say,
          to reclaim hopes that fears and ignorance thieve,
          to reinvent all garbage and sewage and decay,
          to color in the drab and the dim and the gray,
          to make true love the promise all achieve,
          may she who turns her circle round to spring
          and he whose fertile seed mates true and sure
          fill we who dance and they of whom we sing
          with life reborn in innocence right pure
          to melt through bitter winter’s icy sting,
          for death itself to offer certain cure.

  110. drwasy


    Across the river from the nuthouse
    under the gush of grey
    sodden sky flirting with the
    sun—a fickle breeze tumbles
    autumnal leaves through the last gasp
    of meadows, golden and rusted

    Brambles and milkweed
    the glimmering of winter berries.

    All along the river the reddish
    leathery, stubborn, snaking
    stuff of vines and other creepers
    once verdant, persistent leaves sprawling
    over hapless earth.

    Yesterday the grass, now
    the lace of frost traces maple veins.

    Tomorrow the stark solemnity
    of leave-taking—Then, the end
    creeps upon them: surprised, they
    burrow into deepening frost.

    I have been reading a lot of William carlos Williams. This, homage to one of my favorite poems of his: Spring and All. Peace…

  111. RJ Clarken

    Summertime, and the livin’ is easy…

    “A perfect summer day is when the sun is shining, the breeze is blowing, the birds are singing, and the lawn mower is broken.” ~James Dent

    Ah, summer doth approacheth soon.
    To be exact, sometime in June,
    which means, my yard will need some care.
    Dear lawn – you haven’t got a prayer.

    Yeah, pulling weeds in summer’s sun
    ain’t my opinion of what’s fun.
    I’d rather sit in my deck chair.
    Dear lawn – you haven’t got a prayer.

    Of course, I could employ some guys
    to trim and edge, but that implies
    some service fees. So I declare,
    dear lawn – you haven’t got a prayer.

    The summer is a time of growth
    for grass, weeds, and a neighbor’s oath
    about my backyard’s disrepair.
    Dear lawn – you haven’t got a prayer.


  112. cindishipley


    I could tell
    we would separate
    when we first
    began curling away
    from each other on
    the couch, the
    one place where
    we had sat
    with interloped arms and
    entangled legs.
    Now all I can see
    are white cushions
    like massive islands
    of ice swaying
    on the sea.

  113. Earl Parsons


    Flakes fall willy-nilly
    Pushed about by the wind
    Swirling, spinning, falling
    Sticking where they land
    Slowly all that’s visible
    Begins the metamorphosis
    From what they were
    To white
    Winter has arrived
    And it’s beautiful

  114. Earl Parsons


    Winter white has run its course
    Its beauty turned ho-hum
    It’s overstayed its welcome
    Can’t wait for spring to come
    I do believe it’s warming up
    Snow melts before my eyes
    Grass growing on my septic tank
    It’s enough to make me cry
    What’s that I hear flying overhead
    A V-shaped flock of geeses
    Honking the news of winter’s end
    And dropping smelly feces
    I wonder if they plan their drops
    I almost think they do
    Sure glad I’m wearing my baseball cap
    Or I’d be wearing poo

  115. amelia louise

    Christmas Season

    Bows and tinsel–
    jingle bells galore,
    all hanging on my front door.
    Buying and baking–
    being jolly for no reason,
    the joys of the Christmas season.

  116. J.lynn Sheridan


    The tree shadows groan and she asks me
    if the autumn sky opens the day in thanks
    for the winds that shake the forest throne,

    do the leaves blow, she wonders, with
    smiles and hugs as they roam the wood
    for laurel mothers inside the forest home.

    I have no eyes for stormy dreaming, I tell her
    I only hear the shadows moan.

    The day rains soft with dancing yews and
    tiny gnomes huddled inside mulchy domes,

    but in the night,
    inside Autumn’s forest throne,
    I can only hear the shadows groan.

  117. RJ Clarken

    Tax Season

    “Taxation with representation ain’t so hot either.” — Gerald Barzan, humorist

    ‘Tis the season to tax our souls
    according to consistent polls;
    as time approaches, we must file
    and do our duty, with a smile.

    We wait until the end lurks near
    and fill in numbers, but we fear
    an audit or a tax court trial.
    We’ll do our duty with a smile.

    Deductions, thou art circumscribe:
    Sweet April’s ripe with diatribe.
    But oh – resistance is futile,
    so here’s to duty with a smile.

    And then, the filing season’s passed
    (unless extensions were amassed.)
    We sigh collectively. Meanwhile,
    next year? More duty, with a smile.


  118. Mr. Walker

    Open Season

    I think it’s time we declared Open Season.
    Aren’t you tired of the closures?

    We’re closing schools, denying education.
    People are still being laid off.

    Why? Because we got greedy, and
    we elected the representatives we deserve.

    It’s time to open some windows,
    let in some more light, and see.

    I’m tired of the talk, the rhetoric
    and the platitudes, the hypocrisy.

    Or, if we must talk, instead of act,
    then let it be frank and candid.

    Let’s admit we don’t always know
    what we’re doing. Honest talk.

    Rather than the I know exactly
    what I’m doing talk, and when

    it all goes downhill, I was only doing
    what I was told talk. Blame talk.

    I’m tired of the closed talk, the exclusive
    talk, the you don’t belong here talk.

    Closed talk from closed minds,
    that doesn’t say anything.

    Oh, yes, I’m even more sure now
    that we need to declare Open Season.

  119. uneven steven

    The Last City Autumn

    The city autumn has bared her cold breast,
    Breathing in gusts, a withering of years,
    Whose call is for you dear father, brown guest,
    Who in a whirling dervish of leaves, fears.
    For cloistered, the city has left ungleaned
    A father’s true loves for city forged dreams,
    A rust of spirit turning gold from greed,
    His green life blown to fallen ember leaves;
    Blown to where turning feet on wet cement
    Churn his last lingering leaves of hope to moist oil,
    The seeds of his ash remains to a silent,
    Soft, lubricating spring of city soil,
    Where I weep not for autumn, no dying thing,
    But for you dear father and wild delivering spring.

      1. uneven steven

        Thanks. I did fudge because I wrote this poem a long time ago, but since I had already written one this morning and this poem is more formal, I wanted to include it. I will work harder on my comments of others poems….

  120. Imaginalchemy

    Continuing our story from yesterday (I am connecting all my poems, from April 10th to at least April 15th, into a continuous story. Refer to yesterday’s poem if you are lost).

    CHAPTER TWO—The Slash and Burn Season

    The fire roars.
    The axes bite.
    The trees scream in silence.

    The refugees of the forest floor scatter.
    The birds in the canopy explode into the air
    In flocks of flustered flight
    The wind hisses as embers and sparks
    Blaze hotter in its harsh breath.

    She stares, as petrified as her arboreal sisters
    Never having known the heat of flame
    Never having known the sting of steel
    Back in the safety of the deep woods’ silence.
    Yet she does not run, does not scream.
    Those who are born trees do not have
    The instinct of flight.

    “Are you quite dumb, little one?”
    Asks the fire-eater sitting on the stone
    At her feet
    (Now where did he come from?)
    An odd, lanky sort of fellow
    With eyes of trickery and hunger
    And colors of red, orange and gold.
    “I will profit from the slash and burn season
    As the farmers clear the land
    For her majesty’s orchards and vineyards.
    I will lick away the lingering flames
    And gorge on the ash and embers.
    But you will only burn and die.
    Perhaps you have no love of life,
    Or perhaps you do not understand death?”

    She scratches her head, her hair
    As white as the down of swans
    And peppered with pink plum blossoms.
    “There is enough land for all to share.
    Why do they steal it from the forest?
    Why are the fruits and nuts that the forest provides
    Not good enough for them, that they
    Must burn it away for their own intentions?”

    “Her majesty believes the land here holds magic,
    Deep in the depths of the soil,
    And she would possess it all,
    Through the grape vines and the fruit trees
    That she would have her farmers plant, that by law
    Belong to her, not to the world.”
    The fire-eater adds, “Plus, she loves wine.”

    “Come with me, show me this ‘her majesty.’
    I will show her the error of her ways.
    Yes, there is magic here. I am proof of that.
    But the magic is life, it is beauty.
    And she will regret burning it away.”

    The fire-eater grins, stands and spins,
    Singing, “Oh, foolish little tree of plum,
    So far a distance you have come
    To face the iron wrath of her majesty.
    You’re destined for only tragedy
    And you will burn too, if she wishes.
    When you do, I’ll find you most delicious.”

    “But plums are symbols of youth and courage.
    For me, your warnings will not discourage.”

    So they walk, fire and tree,
    Towards the royal city to find
    Her most mysterious, manic majesty
    Leaving ignorance and innocence behind.

  121. JanetRuth

    Life Seasons…

    Season of Trust

    Since we are not heavenly creatures
    but of dust
    we go through times and seasons
    where all we can do
    …is trust

    When you asked me the if’s and why’s and ‘but’s
    I fell upon my knees
    and cried out, God, oh help me trust
    You; please, please, please


    Season of Forgiveness

    I can hold onto resentment and anger
    refusing to forgive

    or I can accept your apology,
    and know what it is to live


    Season of Hope

    A new day dawns
    Opportunity waits
    The best to come
    Pours from its gates


    Season of Patience

    We cannot rush
    the bud from its pod
    The bloom would be mangled and marred
    We cannot push
    Beyond the will of God
    But wait: even when it is hard


    Season of Love

    It fills me with pleasure
    But even greater pain
    It drives me to hope
    When hoping seems vain

    Oh beautiful, tormenting
    My hollow, my fulness
    Joy, misery

    I strained to see Love
    As I wept of its loss
    God opened my eyes
    And showed me a cross


        1. Marjory MT

          I never asked for patience,
          but I was granted yet a season
          that seemed to last forever.
          I suppose there was reason,
          my extra time for growing,
          that His plan might bloom.

  122. Hannah


    Oh, of swirling
    sun-paved path,
    star-strewn roads.
    Oh, of cyclic galaxy
    gathering us forever in,
    radiating of eternity.
    Oh, blessed moon
    causing water to swoon,
    wooing wave forward.
    Oh, precious planet
    grant us, grace us
    with your tilting axis.
    Oh, bring to us again
    each tempting taste,
    sweet semblance of seasons.

    © H.G. @ P.A. 4/11/12

  123. PKP

    Wacky Season

    It happens -It comes out of the
    Blue you’ll know it you’ll see
    It coming to you
    You’ll know when you see it
    All of it true
    Chairs balance on closet
    doors and never do not fall
    cereal rises from milk into
    crisp clean columns tall
    all manner of things shoes tied
    flapping free -A lunch boxed unpacked
    a grinning butterfly on Mother’s head you will see
    Yes you’ll see it – You’ll see it
    It will happen to you
    If you have brother or sister
    They’ll see it all too
    And as chairs dangle
    And cereal lifts into
    Butterflied air
    Laughter will bubble
    And milk shoot from your
    Nose – til of course you’ll be asked
    “What is happening there?”
    And you must pull on your mask
    for as laughter volcanoes escaping
    from deep in your chest
    You’ll look all about you
    And see a morning
    Just Like All The Rest
    The chair sitting silent pushed
    In its place on four square-
    Cereal floating bowled completely unaware
    when you look down and look down you will do
    on your feet you’ll find neatly as it should
    Laces tied in place just as Mother would
    Just you and maybe a sibling
    or two even three
    will ever
    that you saw
    And just when you’re ready
    to shake your own head in
    rolling confusion
    from a corner of
    eye comes a laughing
    Flash of in flight
    teeny grinned colored profusion
    then you will know until
    Grown Time coats you with Reason
    the secreted joy of the Wacky Season

  124. Marie Elena


    As earlier the moon begins to rise,
    and sun sets in the peached and purpled sky,
    so even birds and animals surmise
    that fall is in the air — though slightly shy.

    Don’t let her cool appearance disconcert,
    for she can be as warm as amber‘s core.
    Her sun, no longer brass, will toy and flirt,
    as dazzling colors soon come to the fore.

    As summer takes her leave, she bids farewell.
    Yet I, for one, cannot feign grand despair.
    She failed to cast on me her storied spell
    I’ll welcome autumn’s palette, and brisk air.

    As summertime releases sultry hold,
    I watch for autumn’s magic to unfold.

    (Sharing two older ones for now … It’s a Sophie Day! Will return this evening with a new poem, and some great reading! ENJOY YOUR DAY, POETS!)

  125. just Lynne

    here in Cleveland winter means snow
    the clouds store up baskets of flakes in their
    whispering arms
    until there are too many to hold
    so they drop them
    buckets of snow falling to earth
    to lie in pools on the casual hills
    glimmering highways
    moonlit woods where deer flit in and out

    back home winter had white freckles of snow days
    singular blizzards speckling the calendar
    one day the yards would turn white
    the next day we drove through the film of snow on the street
    our tires grinding it into slush
    while the empty sky watched us

    but in Cleveland winter means flurried weeks
    blizzards that don’t know
    they are only supposed to last a day

    but wait
    maybe i have it all wrong
    this year was hardly cold
    hardly snow-kissed
    I guess I need to redefine Cleveland winters
    after all

    or maybe God forgot?
    jumped right to spring from fall?

          1. just Lynne

            ah, small world. I’m from Findlay, moved to the Cleveland area less than 3 years ago. So I definitely know Maumee.

    1. JanetRuth

      Sounds like Ontario too…we all thought we hated Winter until he didn’t show up, then we began remembering what we missed! I enjoyed this, Lynn.

      Marie & Lynn, my hubby comes to Ohio a lot in the spring, hauling liquid fertilizer for farmers:) It really is a teeny world! Some day, Lord willing and there is something left to haul, I shall tag along with him!

  126. foodpoet


    Spring is no fun this year, no
    Pause between taxes and sneezes
    Ragweed already in bloom, while
    I, I cope with
    Never ending forms to do over and over
    Gah I hate this what exactly is form 23ba-27?


  127. MiskMask

    Inching Into Spring

    It’s the in-between time,
    not this nor that,
    when steel grey pillows heavy with rain
    roll across a glimpse of pale blue,
    colliding with gulls like billiard balls
    off flat tables of sky.
    It’s the in-between time
    when spring is neither
    this nor that.

  128. Ber

    Winters Breathe

    As winter freshen our airways
    Its cuts out the light
    The days are short and worn out
    The thoughts of rushing around to use the up the natural dim lit sky

    Warm clothing hugs our bodies
    Gloves grasp our fingers
    Hats smother our minds
    Cold takes hold of our skin

    We run around like crazy to get in from the cold
    The children wish for snowfalls
    Wish for no school
    Of stories to be told

    As we breath out a foggy shadow of breath
    Our dried up lips clung together
    Our pathways dried up and icy now
    This is our stormy weather

    Cars clutch the frost
    Dew it hits the grass
    I can barely see out my window
    For there fog waving over the glass

    Fires lit wildly
    Smears of fingers tips
    Cold shivering society
    Smells of fresh bread and soup
    What a variety

    Warm woolly socks like fishermans
    Throat sweets sucked till no more
    Here we fear the flu and colds
    The doctors at the door

    With every season had cause
    As winter animals nest
    They hibernate and migrate
    To natures wondering hand

    As we sip the warm lemon whiskey
    To fight off the germs of the land
    We nestle in our homes
    All cuddly and warm
    Running in from the snow
    The lightening and the storm

  129. Genevieve Fitzgerald

    Joseph Harker, Jaywig, Jane Shlensky and Sara McNulty all asked for more to my Day 8 poem, so thanks to so much encouragement, here’s more:

    Restless Season

    I had a love whose heart is the sea
    Forever and never coming home to me
    As shore I contain him
    On maps, not in fact
    Restless, relentless, resentful-less he

  130. PKP

    The Killing Season

    In crisp creased-still uniforms
    they march orders knife-folded
    in still-soft hands
    smiling sweet goodbyes
    over turned forward shoulders
    straight shouldered to promises made
    now called to keep

  131. PKP

    Finklestein Season

    there was a time
    when with new
    hard shining shoes
    the stooped shoeman
    smiled and with a
    flourish straight pulled with
    Finklestein magic
    a sliding plastic
    pencil box holding
    two perfect Number
    Twos precisely
    pointed nestled against
    pink eraser sweet
    grasped as talisman
    scenting first uncertain
    days with Finklestein familiarity

    1. lionmother

      I got lost in your images today! “bowered blossoms drift/ filigreed in filtered light” Then, “hard shining shoes/ the stooped shoeman smiled” The last one brought me back to my experience of preparing for the first days of school. We always had that hard plastic pencil case.:) and I remember buying shoes with the old shoe salesman. Thank you for the trip through my memories.:)

  132. PKP

    Four Seasons Of The Corner

    russet leaves
    crackle shiny shoes
    to the waiting bus

    treeless branches bend
    over childrens’ heads walking
    cold bent to the bus

    elbowing in fun
    laughter raining in the air
    warm skip to the bus

    bowered blossoms drift
    filigreed in flickered light
    flushed faces fly by

  133. barbara_y

    Summer, I never cared for her.
    A dry lecturer.  Others love her courses,
    I know, and she teaches all 
    the requirements.  Couldn’t get along
    without good old summer.  But
    she just drags on and on; last year
    she devoured Fall, who is usually
    a breath of fresh air.  That rushed 
    everything so much I barely caught
    a glimpse of Winter, much less
    made notes.  They cancelled exams
    and gave everyone a pass, can you
    believe! Now, this year, she shows up
    and mutters something about
    Spring and expecting and bedrest
    (as if Spring weren’t always pregnant:
    that’s what she is: blooming
    pregnant Spring) and took over.
    I hear there’s talk of a revised 
    curriculum, Summer 24/7X12.

  134. Jerry Walraven


    As Spring settles
    into her beauty
    her song begins
    to change —
    Allegro to Andante.
    She walks
    with the gray
    and long
    slow breezes,
    kisses you
    with chills
    in the morning
    but loves you
    with cool,
    cloudless nights.
    for you.

    1. ely the eel

      I don’t tell you often enough just how much I look forward to seeing your to-the-point little gems. I have Internet rituals in the morning, and finding your poems is on the list. Thanks for this, and for the whole body of your work. It brings me joy.

  135. Jaywig

    Day 11 – a season


    Bolting home from choir tonight
    feeling that still air invade face
    and: bite!

    The stars almost crackle,
    they’re so bright,
    and sunset brought fire
    to the palette of light.

    A self-sown apple tree
    undresses with delight.
    The rest of my garden
    prefers holding on tight.

    High pressure bringing
    warmth from the Bight
    promises just one more week
    of welcome respite.

    But Autumn is adamant
    and spoils for a fight.
    “You can have nice sunny days
    but I claim the night!”

    Cardigans gripped around
    naive bodies, tight.
    Lamplight, & chocolate:
    a welcome sight.

    1. Ber

      Autumn is a wonderful time of year. I love how you captured the essence of autumn and how it makes you feel. The stars almost crackle so very true love it so detailed

  136. Kaitlyn

    The fall trees are a comfort

    She’s a new student, a freshman.
    She drops her bag, and
    Props up her bike, and
    Sits under a large tree.

    It’s autumn, so the leaves are brilliantly hued.
    The green was vanquished by the new shades and colors,
    Quick as a wildfire.
    Just like home.

    The trees are a comfort to a new student who
    Misses home so desperately.
    She can look up and see familiar leaves now
    Just like home.

  137. uneven steven

    Holiday season

    Born of uncertainty
    in the darkness
    of the shortest and coldest
    day of the year,
    we seek family
    and stand with strangers
    needing the warmth and light of
    these little suns –
    all of our giving and receiving
    a grand gesture to the universe
    that we understand
    that all that has been given and all that has been
    taken away
    now stands in the balance
    and this small holy re creation
    is all we know and all we can know
    of spring and hope
    and that this not be
    one last unending winter.

  138. PowerUnit

    * I am mainly exploring poetry this month to help my prose. This is a possible snippet from my current novel – It doesn’t fit my story in many ways, but I enjoyed writing it.


    I was a newly opened flower in the middle of a dark forest, surrounded by tall, foreboding enemies. I had been trembling. Was it the early morning cold? Was it fear? Or was it the winds of change buffeting my tender life like a dory on the open ocean.

    I think I understand my fears now; my place in the forest is clear. Bill and I are just two little forest flowers bumping around together, into each other, but those trees never really move, never change, never step forward to threaten, or to befriend. They are static, stuck by their firm roots.

    I now laugh at them; because I’ve discovered they are as afraid of me as I was of them. Big hulking trees afraid of this tiny, fragile wisp. I’ve feared the unknown, the monsters I’ve created in my mind, but I know them now. I see them for who they really are, and I feel pity.

    We all need to break free of our roots, step out of our roles, break our unperceived rules, knock down our unseen walls, grab the hand of the person beside us, and say ‘It’s alright; I care.’

  139. Ber


    As we are entering Summer
    And the skies are turning blue
    We want to soak all the sun
    We want to buy something new

    The birds chirp happily in the trees
    Kids fall, cry and scrape their knees
    Laughter and smiles fill the air
    Everyone is happy Summer is here

    Trees flourish leaves are green
    Dry dusty ground no rain to be seen
    Smells of cut grass hits our senses
    Men out fixing and painting broken fences

    Rivers run cool to quench our thirst
    Run quickly everyone I want to swim first
    Long are the days as are the nights
    We love to eat the fresh fruits
    The children long to fly their kites

    Beaches will be full from all destinies
    Suntan, lotion and cooling down cream
    Red burnt tartan of patches we see
    Oh how the summer can damage your skin so quickly

    Animals take shelter to warm from the sun
    Music it plays we are having some fun
    Barbeques at the ready food plenty
    Drink to good health
    And a summer of wealth

    As I look to the sky right above me
    I imagine the clouds there shapes amuse me
    I can see every plane that positions my eye
    Off to their destination way up high

    Crab apples and hay stacking the cutting of the corn
    Bales piles up high bulls blowing their horn
    Sheep grazing and cows to
    Pigs slopping around in the mud as the cows go moo

    Fresh water as cold as ice from the tap
    Salad on the table
    No mouse to fill my trap
    Only the ones that fill the field
    Sure their only harmless
    Away from our shield

    Wonders of the summer
    How we long for long days
    Of watching our children having fun
    In the summer sunny haze

  140. Walt Wojtanik


    Dynasties, like records are made to be broken,
    This early in the season, you must be jokin’.
    The Mets begin it undefeated,
    Hope are high and we need it.

    Soon we’ll crash back down to earth
    and get all the bad press it’s worth.
    So for now, I think I’ll savor
    baseball season with a brand new flavor…winning (for now)

  141. Walt Wojtanik


    Gone with the wind
    we haven’t seen it.
    I haven’t missed it
    and I mean in

    Hardly got a lick of snow
    at least so much I’d need to blow.
    I’m not sure where they sent it
    so there’s no need to lament it.