As the foliage changes and we’re awash with the vibrancy of autumn, we’ll take one of the prominent colors, orange, as our inspiration. Write something orange. Remember, nothing rhymes with orange. Except for door hinge. Close but no cigar.


Lindsay Rose

It was early fall.  She was young and animated.  The baby girl who had cheated death had become a young woman full of soul, and bright as her favorite color.  Her palette was in hand. Her imagination as open and vibrant as changes soon to grace the trees.  Camaraderie, harmony, and laughter were yearnings, with promise of fulfillment.  Until, on her way to a weekend of music with friends, her song was silenced.

she laughs with Jesus
as they paint the sunset with
orange Crayolas

© Marie Elena Good, 2018

(I wrote the 17-syllable ending in September of 2011, on the anniversary of Lindsay’s car accident, and her passing from this life to the next.)



  L’AUTUNNO (The Autumn)

Shadows reach across the meadow,
the fallow fields languish in wishes
of an anticipated rest, her best face
presented and rendered in orange,
reds and yellows and umber.
the best the harvest will offer,
It could leave one short of breath
as soon it is to pass into the embrace of slumber.


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  2. Marie, your poem touched my heart. A beautiful tribute to Lindsay.
    Walt, You first two lines made me smile, as I could see them so vividly. Breathless is exactly what happens when I see Autumn’s splendor.

    Here is my humble offering for today.


    A tangle of vine wraps around the post
    like a lover clinging to the last vestiges of passion.
    Old, bedraggled, it has lost the green of youth.
    But, oh, the mystery is every present.
    From afar, she is ablaze in a gown of orange,
    still dancing her ballet of want and desire.
    Those who advance to her side find tiny jewels –
    red berries hooded in yellow caps.
    She bows, heavy in fruit,
    The final curtain held back for one more curtsey.

  3. Marie, oh how lovely, how poignant your tribute. Walt, you capture the splendor of autumn. I hate it when rain slashes the leaves down before we’ve had a good chance t enjoy its beauty. And wow, I want to find that tree!

  4. Nothing too in my head here – came from “now all thumbs” in original poem and
    sap flows freely from yesterday.

    à l’orange

    All thumbs
    Plunging into
    Orange fleshmeat until
    Sweet sap flows freely to my mouth
    Peeled rind
    Recycled fountain of flavor
    Spreads orange tang abroad
    Many uses
    One fruit

    Darlene Franklin

  5. Bold

    Bold orange colours the sky
    the hue of her brightness
    and courage

    It isn’t every day you see that kind of daring
    squaring with the universe
    and speaking of courage
    doing her best with what she has
    more than most who have more
    she colours the sky with her gratitude

    Carolyn Wilker


    How sweet
    to have a form
    that marches line by line
    and never forces me to rhyme

  7. There Remains Much Truth

    I’ve written before that
    Elm Avenue in Wisconsin
    no longer has elm trees,
    only the brittle twigs
    of our memories,
    much like, I suppose,
    Orange Tree Estates,
    Orange County, CA,
    has no orange trees,
    only the faintly remembered
    aromas from youth,
    the sweet citrus dreams
    of SoCal hipsters.

    Many pines remain
    in Pine Top, AZ,
    and you can still find birches
    in Birch Tree, AR,
    but, for most of us,
    we only have photo albums
    to take us back to our roots.

    The elms are gone
    but the palms remain hearty.
    Thank goodness there was no
    Dutch Palm Tree malady,
    although I’m pretty sure that
    it wasn’t Dutch Orange Tree disease
    that caused all those uprootings in SoCal.
    If this global warming thing,
    or some other planetary sickness
    gets to the palm trees,
    we’re in real trouble.
    but that will be for
    a different poet’s despair.

  8. The Seduction of Orange

    Autumn is a trickster, a seducer, slowly
    Luring me away from summer love
    As frosty mornings wilt the flowers and
    Birds trade summer feathers for more somber
    Coats of browns and grays
    Fall bursts on the scene in not so subtle shades
    Of brilliant orange that take my breath away
    Until I am convinced it is my true love

  9. Only Fourteen

    When I was fourteen, I loved orange.
    I painted my bedroom tangerine.
    When I was fourteen, I also loved
    a seventeen-year-old guy named Drew.
    Every day of my fourteenth year,
    Mom said, “You’re only fourteen!”
    at least two or three times.
    I didn’t think I’d ever reach fifteen.

    Because of my love for orange, Drew and I
    painted his MGB orange but didn’t wear masks.
    For about a week, we blew orange into tissues.
    Our relationship lasted on and off for four years.
    After his dad died, we painted his living room orange.
    I celebrated such abundance of orange.
    I would have been happy if the whole world
    was monochromatic in shades of orange.

    I guess you can say I saw everything
    through orange-colored glasses.
    Even to this day, the color orange
    reminds me of those teen years.

    And I often think, “I was only fourteen.”


    As summer ends and autumn takes over
    the orange sunsets spar with the changing leaves
    to remind us of colder days ahead
    and dare us to revel in earth’s glories.

    We rake and we hurry to cover plants,
    racing the frost and the cold winds that blow,
    knowing full well that there is no method
    by which we can stop the seasons’ stories.

  11. .
    orange glow
    fades with dawn

    our spirits
    to new beginnings

    potpourri of
    places to explore

    challenge both
    mind and heart

  12. This was a difficult one since the word “orange” cannot be found anywhere in the Bible. Had to twist it a bit, but only had to think about my mother’s addiction to Sunny D. Thanks, Mom.

    Sunny D Lady

    She starts every morning with Sunny D
    Real orange juice bothers her stomach
    The taste of the real stuff isn’t to her liking
    She’s satisfied with the “citrus punch”

    As long as she has her toast and coffee
    She’s happy and content until lunch
    Then there’s that second glass of D
    From her seemingly endless supply

    At 11am sharp she opens the doors
    To her second story balcony that
    Looks over the busy street below
    Every day of the year she appears

    Her name is well known to all the locals
    Affectionately called the Sunny D Lady
    So admired for her unending faithfulness
    So loved for the kindness she shows

    Every hour on the hour until 6pm
    She stands on her balcony, hands raised
    She prays for all of the passers by
    Sincere and passionate prayers for all

    Never does she pray for herself publicly
    Those prayers are reserved for her quiet time
    Her balcony time is for all of the others
    Her neighbors, friends, and perfect strangers

    She always mentions the Lord Jesus Christ
    And His forgiveness and saving grace
    Her messages touch the hearts of the lost
    And encourage the hearts of the saved

    The Sunny D Lady asks nothing for herself
    Her mission is to fill hearts with God’s love
    She relies on her faith that God will provide
    Always receiving just what she needs

    But appreciative people can be generous
    Every morning when she opens her door
    She finds generous gifts piled all around
    And a whole new supply of Sunny D

  13. Flame of Orange

    Ooh la la! Orange
    has come out to play–
    not in a clockwork,
    not as a fruit,
    not as a prison suit.
    This orange flames
    leaves, arranges
    sunsets with a wide
    fiery brush. Some
    upscale pumpkins are orange
    -worthy, others, not out
    -standing in their field.
    Who, if not orange, is better
    prepared for Autumn’s harvest.
    Ooh la la!


    I wandered toward a sound,
    as I remember, thin, then thick,
    a song upon the air,
    a thrum, a tone.

    At trail’s end what I found
    upon the lake’s long pier,
    a man, blind, playing a
    viola, alone.

    I listened to his sound,
    a green, then yellow sound,
    that deepened in the air,
    a hum, a moan,

    a sigh, the forest’s sigh,
    as yellow slid to orange,
    and orange to red,
    hues somehow known

    without the need for sight,
    the reds then splayed
    with gold and brown
    upon the lake shore’s stone,

    the colors of his strings
    atoning for the loss of green,
    a song he played
    to honor autumn’s throne.

    I heard the colors sing,
    a thin, then thicker song,
    and I was somehow glad
    as well, for seasons come and gone.

    © Damon Dean, 2018

  15. Dance with the Spirit

    Dance with the Spirit’s wind as He leads me deep within
    the burning red rage of my pain, promising freedom I will gain.
    On His wind I learn new ways until the agony and fury begin
    to wane orange as He heals my heart of darkness and sin
    Finally, the bitterness and hurt of the past mellow
    into His sweetest, most precious peace yellow.

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