Autumn is a time of change. The skies are changeable, the days get shorter still, The foliage takes on the brilliant hues of a broad palette. The air takes on a chill. There are many inspired thoughts connected to Autumn. Here’s the twist.
Write down the following:
Something you buy in a bakery.
A smell in a diner.
A make of automobile.
Something people do to relieve stress.
An unusual musical instrument.
A child’s game.
Use all six in your poem. Start the poem with:
The smell of burning leaves…
WALT’S EXAMPLE:
DRIFTING TO PEACE
The smell of burning leaves filled him,
like aromatic coffee on a brisk morning;
like the dawning of another new day
which comes on the flare of a flugle horn trill.
The exhilarating breath of Autumn
filters through the screen door
playing tag with his senses. No dodge
could free him from its touch..
Choosing to recline in his armchair,
he drifted back to sleep in peace.
(C) Walter J. Wojtanik, 2014
POETIC BLOOMINGS 
Responses
DEVOTION
I’d ford
a croissant stream
on a greasy spinet
just to laugh and cry and play jacks
with you.
copyright 2014, William Preston
I love this. That is all.
This is too cute 🙂
: ) fun
William: Fun. Funny. Lovely.
Mr. Concise. Love it. Was hoping someone would use “ford” as verb. 😉
Fun, William. Yes, you are a master at concise.
Morning Tea
The smell of burning leaves
Jarred me from my reverie
I took a bite of my muffin
And sipped my hot spiced tea
It was smooth as a jaguar
Strong as a slab of beef
I won’t harp on it anymore
But I tag this tea as chief
Despite my Scottish ancestry, I detest tea. I could get to like it, though, after this poem.
Ah tea is wonderful…very nice, Connie 🙂
Ummm, tea on a brisk morning – yes.
Loving your rhythm and rhyme, Connie.
Connie, this was a ‘proverbial morning’ delight. Captured perfectly. And jaguar was quite appropo for a good spiced tea. In fact someone should create a tea named ‘Proverbial Jaguar.’ (Where’s the Tazo website?)
Within Seconds
The smell of burning leaves blew in
through the screen door
creaking as you enter
and snatch a cranberry scone
from the baking sheet
with one sweep of your free arm,
your father’s Chevy truck
crunching loose gravel
as it turns around.
I ask you how
your fife lesson went,
my hands on shoulders
spent from standing too long
snapping green beans
and frying pork chops
but you just play the quiet game
as usual.
Sounds like a typical kid here. I can see the scene; wonderfully descriptive work.
I can visualize this scene. Love your word choices.
Mmm, that tea would be lovely on my sore throat. . .
in and out. so true.
Reminds me of my little brother. Love the descriptions here!
I remember those monosyllable grunts of a teenage boy.
I miss the quiet game. 😉
Laurie…loved this. Absolutely a pixel perfect snapshot of the moment.
REMEMBERING AUTUMN 1954
The smell of burning leaves took him back
to Richmond Hill when raking was a chore
and only Dad could light the brittle mounds
that would spark and crackle in the yard.
Johnny said it sounded like music,
wisps of something like notes to play
on a magical autumn vine-a-lin.
Meanwhile Wanda and I played Hide and Seek;
Mom screamed, “Stay away from the fire!”
while Dad added to the flames,
directing Johnny to brush off the leaves
from the white roof of his ‘53 Chevy Bellaire. .
“Honey,” he called to Mom, “any buttered rolls?
No coffee. Just a couple of buttered rolls.”
She shrugged he shoulders, squeezed her brown eyes shut,
the way she did when demanding Dad
wanted something to eat hours before
or after meals like she was a waitress
serving burgers at Greek’s Diner
on Lefferts Boulevard. “Coming right up,” she said.
#
Right out of the neighborhood. Love it.
rich in details
So detailed! I can definitely picture this scene. Lovely 🙂
I love that part about your Mom. It is classic.
“brittle mounds. . .wisps of something like music. . .like she was a waitress . . .Coming right up,” such original images and fun turns of plot in this poem. I love it. Judy
LOVE that “magical autumn vine-a-lin.” 🙂
Sal, this is a Norman Rockwell worthy scene. Loved it.
AUTUMNAL AFTEREFFECTS
The smell of burning leaves,
when admixed with greasy spoons,
affords me bouts of dry heaves
and groans that sound just like bassoons.
Fall colors all laugh when I
choke as the smoke rises high;
can’t even stand apple pie
when autumn plays tag with the sky.
copyright 2014, William Preston
autumn plays tag with the sky? Have to love it. You make fall sound like torture
I love that line, too. Wonderful.
Fall colors all laugh…that is such a great line!
Sounds like it gave you croup… bah
On target for my week…burned piles Friday two weeks ago and have been on antibiotics since Thursday a week ago and still battling cough. Great poem William.
THE STATE OF DENIAL
The smell of burning leaves
reminds me there is no more
hide and seek with summer.
Born to be a beach bum, for me
it’s more like a whiff of stale coffee
than the aroma of freshly baked bread.
Let autumn strum its balalaika
as reds and golds dance past the greens.
I’d rather fall in Malibu.
© Susan Schoeffield
well said
Big smiles here, although I prefer autumn most places and winter in Malibu.
Haha this is great! Although for myself, I love Autumn and the cold. 🙂
Very nice… though, I too, love fall’s crisp, colorful frolic.
Ha! Love the double entendre at the end, hide and seek with summer, autumn strumming its balalaika. Just when we thought there was nothing new to be said of autumn! Good work. Judy
LOVE “hide and seek with summer.”
Yes. Sounds good to me Susan. I may really turn into a snowbird.
[…] for the 9/28/14 prompt at Creative Bloomings “Sunday Seed” to write a poem beginning with “the smell of burning leaves” and incorporating a word for each […]
Homecoming Game
Lost in thought,
I stare out the kitchen window,
watching nothing except a memory
flit away in the breeze.
My coffee grows cold
and my small slice of babka
(all almond paste and brown sugar crumbs)
remains uneaten.
I’m thinking about a walk
I took yesterday.
A Dodge minivan
full of college students
drove past me.
They were yelling
about how their team was number one.
Someone played a one-note song
on a vuvuzela,
which I thought was outlawed now,
but I am probably wrong about that.
I looked away
and then looked back at them
several times
as if we were playing
some weird game
of peek-a-boo,
until all I saw was the back of the van
disappearing around a bend
in the road.
A long time ago,
that vuvuzela player
might have been me.
Lost in thought,
I stare out the kitchen window,
watching nothing except a memory
flit away in the breeze.
###
Ooops – sorry. I missed the opening line, so here’s my redo:
Homecoming Game
The smell of burning leaves…je reviens en un même lieu:
Lost in thought,
I stare out the kitchen window,
watching nothing except a memory
flit away in the breeze.
My coffee grows cold
and my small slice of babka
(all almond paste and brown sugar crumbs)
remains uneaten.
I’m thinking about a walk
I took yesterday.
A Dodge minivan
full of college students
drove past me.
They were yelling
about how their team was number one.
Someone played a one-note song
on a vuvuzela,
which I thought was outlawed now,
but I am probably wrong about that.
I looked away
and then looked back at them
several times
as if we were playing
some weird game
of peek-a-boo,
until all I saw was the back of the van
disappearing around a bend
in the road.
A long time ago,
that vuvuzela player
might have been me.
Lost in thought,
I stare out the kitchen window,
watching nothing except a memory
flit away in the breeze.
###
Oh, this is entrancing. So excellent.
Wonderful, I was lost in thought with you.
Love that “but I am probably wrong about that” stuck there in the middle. 🙂
Entrancing is the word RJ. Your poem prompted that still pause in my mind and heart as it probably did go many of us.
This is so very wonderful, RJ!
This assignment provided me with two very different ideas. . .here they are!
IN THE PENTHOUSE
The smell of burning leaves don’t reach the penthouse
One season blends into the next
Marked by a gala ball
Only the regal elite may attend
Drink coffee and champagne, munch on petit fours and tartlets
For entertainment, a sonata played on a harpsichord
AT THE BAR
The smell of burning leaves mixes with cigarette smoke
A new aroma teases the nostrils if anyone cares
Demon or cougar, saint or sinner
Drink cayenne cowboy coffee and grab an empanada
Accept the challenge
Play steel drums or make cups ring
There’s no running away when you’re over the hill
Tomorrow I’ll lie down and cry
Oops, I didn’t get in the child’s game . . . I left it off my list. Sorry!
I love both of these despite the missing child’s game 😉
Thanks, Erin
I like both places this prompt took you
Interesting pairing. I love how you enmeshed the opposites.
Two bits of excellence, in my opinion.
I know, I mean, me too. As I wrote my answers, I saw the two streams. . .
William, you are always so kind
Darlene, I loved the juxtaposition of these two pieces. Great work.
(Poem w/image: http://lettheballoonssailmeaway.wordpress.com)
Places I’ve Never Been
The smell of burning leaves
Smoldering
Our eyes, apple-spiced, open
Fall upon us, buttery smooth
Monte Carlo dreamy
Our hideaway from
(Harping) seekers.
… it just dawned on me that I used a model, instead of a make (automobile)
I doubt it matters and it is lovely.
Aww… Thank you, so much, Debi!! 🙂
Amen; don’t matter a-tall! You certainly made never-visited places come alive.
Wonderful compliment, William, I thank you 🙂 !!
So very sweet, Hen. I always love your writing. ❤
ERIN!!! How Are You?!! Welcome, welcome, It’s so Good to see you here!! Thank you!! ❤ 😀 !!
Eh I’ve been better…kind of a rough summer.
But it’s nice to be back here! And you’re welcome, friend. ❤
!! ❤
Love it Hen!
Ben, Thank you!! 🙂
LOVE harping as verb. Excellent.
Thanks, De 🙂 !!
Hen, you captured the ‘zone out’ that I’ve had so often leaning on a rake and watching a fire burn down to embers.
Loved this .
Ahh, 7, Thank you 🙂 !!
October Run
His spine stretches, pops
like the red stems
of Chinese dogwood
veins pulsing.
An old Saab’s zithering
splinters sound,
marbling dawn’s
warm cranberry scones
and hazelnut coffee,
a light jacket for the nip.
Ah, smell the Fall routine.
Lovely fall routine…. 🙂
Yes…
pops like the red stems of Chinese dogwood… OOOOh so nice
I get the feeling the Saab was red, too. Such a beautiful little vignette.
I love the “pops like the red stems of Chinese dogwood.” Judy
Jane, fall is she we usually get back to routines like our walking.
This was a delightful picture.
“Smoking Autumn in the city”
“Because of the smell of burning leaves,” he tells me
when I ask why he left the farm for a two-flat in the city.
“Smells like tar.”
We lean against his pomegranate red hot-rod Lincoln,
he slides a harmonica from his pocket and begins playing
“The Hokey Pokey.”
I put my right hand in. I am shaking it all about when a
tangerine mustang pulls aside. “Play some jazz, cowboy,”
the driver says spitting his chew into the sewer grate.
I take my right hand out. The three of us stare at each
other. My buddy starts playing, “Who’ll Chop Your Suey
When I’m Gone.”
There’s a moment of panic, one scrawny yellow elm leaf
dangles from his antennae, then falls. He shows us his
toothless smile, then speeds away, cutting donuts in the
intersection, leaving us in a cloud of blue/black exhaust.
I really like the imagery here!
Same here.
That was so much fun – great job!
Rich storytelling here, J.lynn. I love your details, the quirky characters and your sense of humor and fun. If that isn’t a real C&W song, it should be. I love the “sense of panic” as you wait for the leaf to fall. Judy
Thanks, guys!
Yes…imagery that is smooth and vivid…probably should say rich…as the picture morphs from one moment to another thru sound, sight, smell. Lovely.
Pretending she is with us
As the mountains rise over Danish meadows,
as a cool dusk cascades over smoking streams,
as the raping wind bores the smells of the sea
across the lemon grass and Fleetwood spruce,
she tantalizes us, her voice earthy and dulcimer mellow.
From the cavern, we skip stones across the flaccid lake,
the echo of her fading song sinks to the center
of the earth.
Your descriptions are so full and enjoyable, J.lynn!
Nuts. I forgot the first line. I smell a rewrite.
Pretending she is with us
The smell of burning leaves keeps us awake
all through the deep night. Then as the mountains
rise over Danish meadows and a cool dusk cascades
over smoking streams, and as the raping wind bores
the smells of the sea across the lemon grass and Fleetwood spruce,
she tantalizes us, her voice earthy and dulcimer mellow.
From the cavern, we skip stones across the flaccid lake,
the echo of her fading song sinks to the center
of the earth.
Oh, well, now, that just make all the difference ; ) It is a beautiful piece of work either way.
Very beautiful piece
Indeed so.
Thanks. I love reading all the different ways you all mix and match the words. Great prompt, Walt.
Wistful and lovely 🙂
” she tantalizes us…her voice earthy and dulcimer mellow. “. LOVED this.
[…] Creative Bloomings-Mix and Match Muse […]
The smell of burning leaves is your favorite, (I remember), and today I ate a bagel – thick with cream cheese, (the way you like it), in your honor. Thinking on the old days when we’d stop at the Bakery, the one that was always overcome with the smell of fresh marinara from the Italian Diner next door. Anyway, those trips in my parent’s little red Toyota were something of a mantra for me…an escape. It makes me laugh to recall when we’d crank my ukulele CD and open all the windows…the children playing hopscotch would stare and chuckle.
Such fun. Thinking of and missing you.
Copyright © Hannah Gosselin 2014
So much hopeful longing in this, Hannah.
Oh Hannah….this is so beautiful and sadly sweet…
I missed you and your poems. ❤
Good memories… bittersweet ending.
So sweet…
This has the feel of a love letter, in my opinion. Beautiful.
Hannah, this is perfect…and ukulele sounds like a fit accompaniment to hopscotch, actually.
Oh….I love your way of thinking, thank you for causing me to laugh this morning, Damon!
Scorched
The smell of burning leaves,
Reminiscent of scorched coffee that her dad always drinks
And thick, dark bread straight from the oven that her mom used to make.
The windows of her little volkswagen rolled up,
Burning leaves and cigarette smoke.
Fall descends quickly in crimson and brown
And the smell of burning leaves all around
Reminds her of the days of leapfrog and hide-and-seek,
Rolling in the leaves, and listening to her uncle’s ukelele.
Bleary eyes and the cold creeping up fast,
Thick sweaters and ripped jeans with boots
As she remembers all the memories, huddled close in the backseat,
Next to the heater with chattering teeth
And cigarette smoke and burning leaves.
Bittersweet, my friend…
I remember that tiny little heater and chattering teeth…. nice Erin.
The repetition in this works really well, Erin…the cold is tangible and I enjoy the details you brought to this…the outfit the car…nice!
So vivid. Marvellous work.
Very nice, Erin. Skilled use of the repetition of smoke and burning. My throat is even scratchy!
Erin…you penned a picture here with depth. Every layer, outer to inner, spoke so well through that smoky veneer.
I just couldn’t figure how to smoothly add Grandpa’s old Chrysler, sorry.
A Whiff of Yesterday
The smell of burning leaves linger all these years
sashaying through the open kitchen windows
competing with coffee so strong
you could stand a spoon up in it,
just the way grandpa liked it
from his Navy days, he said.
Add to this mingle salt rising bread
toasted every morning with bacon and eggs…
Oh, my, if someone could scent a candle
I’d buy a dozen of those fine memory wicks
But, they can leave out the cigarette smoke-
Camels permanently stained your fingers yellow
you’d squint to see through the dense cloud
rub the back of your neck to ease the day’s tension.
Like a melancholy harmonica tune the scents
tag a sweet sadness in my mind, recollections of
childhood when I couldn’t conceive he’d
one day be only a memory.
You brought this memory to life, Debi…so beautiful and bitter-sweet.
George, I love the line, “fine memory wicks.” Judy
Ah, sorry…Debi. I saw “Georgeplace” and assumed incorrectly that it was your name…
No problem at all. I answer to either ; )
…Ohh…Lovely, and… a candle with only the fragrance of yesterday… ❤
The nostalgia and the melancholy mix here like wisps of smoke. I enjoyed reading this.
Debi, this was indeed a memory resurrected. Loved it.
[…] …. Prompted by Creative Bloomings. […]
Loved this. Thank you!
Fall
The smell of burning leaves
just won’t go. Listen –
we need to talk. I burned
the bacon, and the cake’s
no longer any kind of
walk what
-soever. It’s time you
parked your stupid Chevy
on somebody else’s
lawn.
I’ve done all my sacred
yoga poses, all the whatifs
and supposes. I played eeny
meeny miney moe, plus also
roshambo; the con
-sensus is you
-nanimous:
I’ll be landing
without you.
Now, leave me
alone
to practice
my kazoo.
Ha! From the opening line, your poem is wonderfully zany and fun to read. This is a poem with an attitude if I’ve ever seen one! Judy
Absolutely!!
Broke me up, this did.
This was indeed a good goodbye parable of sorts with the scorched cake and all…ashes to ashes. Loved it.
[…] Prompt #168 at Creative Bloomings […]
the smell of burning leaves says it’s time–
bring me soup spoons!
feed me a cronut
and let’s drink to that
no more hide-and-seek
[we’ve greased the sun] and it has gone
to recharge like a Prius plugged in at Pollo Loco
Again, I love the attitude, Angie, as well as your originality. Judy
Thanks Judy! It was just the right mix match prompt
This is loaded with pictures. Wonderful.
Oooh, that’s nice
Angie, this was fun. A laugh of relinquish to the passing summer and coming fall.
Glad it made you laugh
THE FALL
The smell of burning leaves
outside couldn’t overpower
the smell of burning croissants
wafting from the downstairs kitchen,
the chaos of
smoke detectors beeping incessantly loud,
while Mom, who never cooks,
grabbed a towel
from the counter to fan
the smoke from the charred
pastries out through
an open window to intermingle
with the smoldering pile of
red and yellow
leaves in our long driveway
behind Dad’s old yellow VW
bug and beside
the spot my sister and
I liked to play hopscotch,
retreating to the
outdoors while my brother butchered
Mozart practicing his oboe every
night, our go-to
punching bag for sibling barbs
The beeping stopped but the
smell of smoke
lingered and I wondered if
the rest of dinner was
lost. If we’d
still be eating roast beef
for dinner or if Dad
would be calling
Chen’s for wonton soup and
takeout for five
A stream of consciousness much like the streaming leaves of autumn. Wonderful.
Thanks. Just trying to get back into the swing of writing. It’s way too sporadic.
Loved this Kimiko…the cadence of tumbling thoughts and senses really makes this a great poem.
[…] poem came out of a prompt at Creative Bloomings though, I have to admit, I’ve gone a little Stretch Armstrong on the rules and the mythology […]
Copper Mosquitoes
The smell of burning leaves was
the only thing that could mask
the old grease smell that
permeated the landscape:
the men, the women, even the grass smelled like
road-side hamburgers.
So every few years he’d order his followers to
burn it to the ground and Pan looked on,
his favourite flute, silent.
The baker, whose house was
closest to the water and furthest
from the flames,
leaned in his doorway
watching Pan watch
the greenery
turn
orange to red to
urban-sprawl-grey
then disappear with the finality of
winter though the seasons
hadn’t been around for years.
The black mustangs galloped
away, their majesty
obscured by a cloud of dust
barely distinguishable from
the smoke.
When, at last, Pan turned away,
the baker motioned for him to
come into the shop and gave him
a miniature statue: the baker’s
fingerprints expertly smeared
in the almond paste to create Pan’s
soft face; his neat nails leaving the
impression of cloven feet.
Pan smiled at the likeness.
He stuck a toothpick in its
eyes before biting off its
head first.
Delicious, said Pan, looking
past the baker out the window at
the flames.
I warned them, didn’t I? And now
I close my eyes as they skitter about,
little mosquitoes buzzing in my ear.
Why must I still hear them
with my eyes shut tight?
Eat, replied the baker.
So Pan ate another sweet effigy
and another after that feeling more like
Cronus than himself.
Drunk off that feeling of
otherness,
responsibility dissipated,
relief washed over him
and at last he played his flute,
breathing through it,
as the flames consumed the little shop
last.
***Thanks for the creative prompt — I’m glad to have found this site!
Aha! So I get to read this fine poem again. My friend led me to this site. A pleasant surprise to find one of my favorite poets here. Judy
Hi Judy! This is my first day here, too — how serendipitous!
Wow. What a trip. I love this.
Thanks so much. It was an unexpected journey, that’s for sure!
Laura…this was a virtual adventure into a whirlwind of emotions from a simple moment…loved the transitions.
Autumn Remembrance
The smell of burning leaves
in mid-Autumn’s golden glory,
turns thoughts from summer’s whistling
through blades of grass, to the scent
of spicy pumpkin pies cooling
in the bakery’s window.
Stopping in for split orders
of french fries and Cokes
with friends, perched on
red vinyl stools at the diner’s
counter. We would watch the cook
flipping fragrant burgers, sipping
as slowly as we dared.
On a Saturday, our family might go
for a drive in Dad’s salmon and gray,
two-tone Chevy Belair, my sister
and I praying we would not
throw up from dead cigar butt aroma
in the ashtray. Dad enjoyed puffing
on long cigars.
We did not know then
how simply we lived
our lives, in the time
of burning leaves.
Oh, you took me there, Sara…
Thanks, Hen!
So heart-warming. “Chevy Bel Air” placed it firmly in time, for me. Thank for for this wonderful poem.
You tagged that simplicity well Sara. How naive we were in those simple times.
[…] Written for Creative Bloomings. “Mix and Match” […]
Rusty Memories
The smell of burning leaves.
It’s autumn. It weaves notes
into dull wind, mutes fife
notes, and life is wicked away
on broad stretches. Memories.
Like an old maid’s bloomers.
And swept skirts on pavements.
This season hurts.
Makes my head pine.
But the trees are still greased.
A memory of ants that grew
wings and flew away in July.
Memories like those stuck
fast in the passenger seat
of Mr Harper’s rusting Fiat.
Rusty memories. Autumn.
Misky, loved this title repeated in last line. Bookended well. Nice poem.
Fire on the Mountain
The smell of burning leaves us only when we sleep,
the hills above us aflame for weeks as the wind
catches the upraised hands of a dozen fires
and hurries them here and there.
It is like this every year
at the end of summer,
with the dry grass ignited by
light reflected by a piece of glass
or careless farmers burning off their fields.
The lushness of the rainy season
long since turned to fodder by the sun,
the fires burn for weeks along the ridges
and the hollows of the Sierra Madre—
raising her skirts from where we humans
puddle at her ankles.
Imprisoned in their separate worlds,
the village dogs bark
as though if freed
they’d catch the flames
or give chase at least.
The distracting smell of roasting meat
hints at some neighborhood barbecue,
but only afterwards do we find
the cow caught by her horns in the fence
and roasted live.
Still, that smell of roasting meat
pushes fingers through the smoke of coyote brush
and piñon pines and sage,
driving the dogs to frenzy.
The new young gardener’s
ancient heap of rusting Honda
chugs up the hill like the rhythm section
of this neighborhood banda group
with its smoke machine gone crazy
and its light show far above.
The eerie woodwinds
of canine voices far below
circle like children
waiting for their birthday cake,
ringing ‘round the rosy,
ringing ‘round the rosy
as ashes, ashes,
it all falls down.
Wow, this is powerful. It mingles many emotions and has real shock value. Takes me to the Southwest again,but not the romanticized one. Wonderful work.
The turning of “leaves” to verb in the first line is simply stunning, and sends the whole piece in a completely new direction from others’. Powerful stuff.
Tho had masterful parries of emotion and visual imagery. Loved it.
My exotic instrument was a Quena flute, but I felt it distracted from the poem, so I used its generic class instead.
[…] Here is the link for that site if you want to follow the prompt or see other poems written to this prompt. […]
A Drop in the Bucket
The smell of burning leaves
couldn’t quite mask
the weary smell of
stale sweat and coffee.
They sat in silence,
exercising their right
to recoup and regain
before the next wave assailed them.
They stood one by one,
growing taller as they headed out.
On a roll,
life returning to their tired eyes in a snap.
The headed overland,
the roar of the fire growing louder
like a tin penny whistle
in their ears.
The dry autumn leaves
were fueling the raging beast
born from the spark of a storm…
they fought it, a drop at a time.
That’s beautiful Michelle!
Wow. The plight and fight of these brave ones is so well described here. Beautiful and powerful portrait of courage.
MUFFIN MASSAGE
The smell
of burning leaves
a shameless
fruit explosion
Only
begs a glance
a measured whiff
of piquant mastery
If perhaps
a pleasured dance
eager step
closer
in its direction
If given
a rolling chance
to mesmerize
with cruel sharp
sweetness
Massaging
the temples
lobes engaged
at full throttle
the senses
An octobass
upon the buds
a symphony
surfing savory
its completeness
Benjamin Thomas
SCENT OF LEAVES
The smell of burning leaves
tempers the season
employs the sheath
turns the tide
upends the
tables
it’s subtle embers rise touching sky
dissipates to wind
in silent cries
inevitably
the smell of burning leaves
revs the senses
tips the scales
in its favor
ephemeral burial scents escape
unto foreign places
sauntering forth
offering traces of its former
self
the roaring flame offers no forgiveness while it burns
delivers no mercy
while it consumes
but scatters blindly
to the mind of the wind
whose every
thought races
blends throughout the earth
Benjamin Thomas
Ben these were both lovely! Loved the Scent of Leaves especially. Particularly the wind’s role as it takes the fire’s scattering thoughts. A reversal of the gathering-piling-burning process.
[…] Shared at Creative Bloomings Prompt #168: Mix And Match Muse. […]
ESSENCE OF TIME
The smell of burning leaves
closes the door on autumn,
and the sun plays hide and seek
behind wintry white clouds.
With bear claw and coffee,
the only treat I could a-
ford, I steal a moment alone
while I massage my temples.
One last gong of the clock…
time has run out.
2014-10-06
P. Wanken