Again with the leaves? But we aren’t talking colors, only the leaf itself. Simply write a leaf poem. Everything is fair game. Maybe your life as a leaf? A leaf’s job. A leaf causing problems. The playful properties of a leaf? Don’t leave any stone unturned.


When summer takes leave,
fall embellishes the views,
and cues winter’s eve.

© Marie Elena Good




Some certainly envision
the splay of hues of leaves
and whatever else nature
holds for our viewing.
But, Autumn is brewing.
Making her entrance,
with a warm nuzzle;
a comfortable caress.
Leaves whisper hushed words
expressing what a heart
can feel. It is consuming,
yet not destructive,
soon in rapid decay,
leaves have seen
their last day; a last gasp.
All presented in the sad
rustle of leaves.

© Walter J Wojtanik, 2018


  1. Leaf Falls Softly

    No imprint when you land
    on grass and sidewalk
    or when blown about by wind
    and sodden by rain
    there’s a forgiving softness
    in your landing
    a hush before winter’s coming

    The only time you make a sound is
    crunching crispy under people’s feet
    and children’s play in piles of leaves.

    Carolyn Wilker

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    Dead leaves
    put on a show
    with withering glances,
    featuring orange and yellow
    in veins.

  4. Leaves

    Under the oaks
    that border our drive,
    a few loose leaf pages
    of poetry. Tossed off
    by bored trees
    waiting for the chill,
    they’re rough drafts
    for an opus on color.

  5. .
    breeze stirs
    the fire’s flames

    sending leaves
    scurrying on by

    suddenly vanish
    in the night

    the ending
    of summer’s fling.


    I find that my life is much like a leaf.
    There is the large perception of its shape
    and then the finer details of its edges.
    There is the central vein of family
    that seems to hold it all together,
    then there are the tiny tributaries
    of experience and disappointments
    that drift off course and end so abruptly.
    There are those strong fibers of friends and work
    that make it so completely substantial,
    and the minuscule holes eaten away
    by all the struggles of life’s challenges.
    And one day I will, like an autumn leaf
    fall away from the trunk of mortal earth
    that has made me everything I am now,
    and I will drift away to be reborn.

  7. I am having such fun with these prompts. And yes it is a challenge to do a poem a day. I sure couldn’t do it for a lifetime! Some daily attemps wind up being hurried and crude, but there are also those inspired moments that make it all matter. Thank you Walt and Marie for all of your effort and encouragement. You are a tender part of my leaf!

    • Hurried and crude make for some fine rough drafts that will grow up to be inspired moments worth a second work (and rework.) That’s why we’re here and how the process is supposed to work. You’re welcome, and thank you for enjoying your participation here.

    • If you listen to the rustling leaves, is sounds like a hushed whisper. I try imagining what a leaf conversation would sound like. The sub text of my blog, THROUGH THE EYES OF A POET’S HEART reads “My heart envisions what my eyes refuse to see!” A poet’s heart has great foresight!

  8. This may or may not be my only poem for the day.

    From each book leaves must fall
    Consuming forests of dry words
    To arrive at those that live
    Bare branches where sap flows strong
    Waiting, resting, inviting
    New leaves will grow

    Darlene Franklin

  9. Lswenski, what else has leaves? A book! This poem plays with the lines from poem #1 (into each life fall must come) and yesterday (consuming forest fire.)> I write largely SOP and soo II do a lot of rewriting.

  10. Riding The Wind

    it was the last leaf, clinging
    determined not to fall like
    all the others that are piled
    up on the ground below
    the wind swooshes past
    and the last leaf feels
    its grip on the bare branch
    loosen until it is just dangling
    swaying back and forth
    and as the wind circles around
    again it can hold on no longer
    instead of tumbling down the wind
    takes charge and the last leaf
    rises up into the sky
    flying , swirling, laughing

  11. Leaves

    Brown dry leaves flee from autumn trees
    Celebrating they are finally free,
    Quickly grasp their last chance to dance upon the wind
    Fluttering, falling to the ground a little bit chagrined,
    mournfully they meet crackling, snapping flames’ desire to devour
    every leaf or faltering flower that falls to fire’s power.

  12. Leaving

    In the country neighborhood where I grew up,
    we cousins and friends would rake leaf piles
    and have a grand old time leaping into them.

    Or we would gather some leaves to slip under
    a piece of white paper and rub crayons across
    it to make a leaf design, being sure to rub

    the thick stems and pronounced veins.
    Or we’d press some between wax paper
    until the walls were overrun with them.

    After we moved away, when Mom would find
    a startling colorful leaf, she’d seal it in plastic
    and tuck her creations in her letters inciting us

    to homesickness and to travel the 2,ooo miles
    back home to Pennsylvania, grandkids in tow.
    We figured that was her motivation all along.

  13. Leave Them In Peace

    Leave them alone, first day of Spring,
    those kids sitting on playground swings
    scuffing feet, reading, debating.
    No bullying! No bullying!

    They look different, clothing un-chic.
    Don’t put up posts that call them freaks.
    Don’t persuade others, they are geeks.
    Our differences make us unique.
    Leave them in peace. Leave them in peace.

  14. The Abdication of a King

    The weatherman
    explained it well.
    Not cold alone, or calendar,
    lay claim to colors on the trees.
    It is the night, the longer night
    that rules o’er what remains,
    that now releases autumn hues,
    forgets the green of spring in
    leaves that hang.

    It is the night, the longer night
    that rules o’er what remains,
    that gradually deposed
    the reign of chlorophyll
    that ruled long summer days,
    short summer eves, for seasons two,
    that chemical bright king.

    King Chlorophyll,
    who marched right in
    when winter slipped away,
    conquering by uprising saps,
    by executing dormancies,
    wielding emerald sovereignty,
    surprising all the sleeping world.

    Alas, his synthy molecules,
    so green, as kingly as they were,
    were broken down by dark’s return.
    Unable to affect his world’s strong tilt,
    his reign was disassembled by an orbit
    far beyond his grasp.
    It is the night, the longer night,
    that rules o’er what remains.

    What remains
    when green kings flee,
    what hangs in leaves on trees,
    are molecules reflecting now
    a new wavelength, a different light,
    a spectrum of thought to last a while.
    It is the night, the longer night
    that rules o’er what remains,
    that caused his abdication,
    until around again we roll
    in tilt to warmer skies.

    © Damon Dean, 2018

  15. Live Oak Tree

    His word of truth breaks bonds, sets free,
    Causes guilt, shame to fall from me,
    dead leaves shed from a live oak tree,
    while roots grow deep drinking in His love,
    limbs pruned by His grace burning from above.

  16. Another crazy hot day serving those that are doing their best to clean up the wrath left by Michael. So much that tears at the heart, but at the same time, lifts the soul.


    He arrived at the perfect time
    Just when the world needed Him
    To save them from themselves

    He grew up in total poverty
    Unlike the kings before Him
    Or those that would follow

    His life was preordained
    He was on a mission from God
    A mission that would change it all

    He came as the only Way
    He spoke the honest Truth
    His message preached new Life

    But in a very human fashion
    We rejected Him outright
    Even to the point of killing Him

    He died on an old rugged cross
    But that wasn’t the last word
    His business wasn’t finished

    He had one last thing to do
    And then He would leave us
    But He would never really leave


    Chilly North Wind stirs up tiny flags of red and gold.
    At first there is gentleness, a simple whiff of air
    Then, as the days shorten, and darkness envelops
    the frantic winds of change rip fronds and flags alike.
    Like shreds of evidence carelessly strewn around the scene of a crime
    Autumn’s leaves are scattered across the forest floor.

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