Here we are, a little further into the season. The remaining leaves have changed and the colors have achieved a more rich and deeper hue. So we go into the palette again and tap the crimson shade to give a bit more variety to our poetry. As always, go where your muse takes you and let us see your vision.


A Creator’s Palette (Sonnet to The Artist)

Describing “yellow” leaves in fall, for me,
Does not at all depict their cheerful gleam
As sunlight spills as liquid through the trees,
And they themselves could light the day, it seems.

So also “orange” can’t describe the bliss
That autumn’s gorgeous vista just compels.
And though I can’t rename it, I know this:
Fall’s celebrated color casts its spells.

My favored autumn shades though are the reds:
From rosy blush to crimson, fire-and-iced.
They fairly flaunt and flame as they turn heads.
There’s no way common “red” would have sufficed.

How can we label paints and pens of God
That leave us reverential, praise-filled, awed ?

© Marie Elena Good, 2018




The air is chilled.
Clouds in a hue of blue
that feels frigid, making
exposed digits ache and stiffen.
Autumn enters through
Summer’s rapidly closing door
and it’s true that fall may be hours old,
but the cold will have you believing
that looks are deceiving.
Summer is departing;
sheared down by the scythe of life.
Can a disheartening Winter be far behind?
I find that this respite is a diversion,
an excursion through these years of seasons.
No reason I can tell can suffice to quell
the brilliantly crimson leaves and the crystal ice .

© Walter J. Wojtanik – 2018



    The morning sky reddens against the incoming storm
    as if echoing the hues below on tree and field
    Glowing garnet with flashes of gold and emerald
    wildwoods and sky in competition to yield
    a canvas that even Vincent never dreamed to capture.


    I barked
    at some old folks
    before I recognized
    my parents, leaving my sick face

  3. Walt, your poem presented me with a cornucopia of colors and images. I use the word rarely, but I think this is awesome.


    Broad brush strokes of Alizarin Crimson and amaranth, American Beauty Rose is a miss that lusters like a ruby in the noonday sun. Auburn tinted leaves leave little to imagine, but the grin that spreads from ear to ear is clear. Brick and mortar are not built for speed, indeed they are solid; a structured foundation upon which lives are constructed. We’ve tucked our collars up and the skies remain changeable. Unstable weather not withstanding, Fall is handing us a sneak peek at the peak of the season. There is no reason to stay sequestered, it has festered for as long as you’ve been marooned. Soon the Cardinal will perch on barren branches and the chances are slim that Winter will delay.

    All fruited hints of a tint so rusty; ruddy and bloody replacing candy apple and cherry, (although grapes make great claret; burgundy) and we see the sun diminish at the finish of day. Unfurled, our canvas sways and stays billowed like a skyward pillow capturing the breath of Him. Scarlet spinnaker shadowed in silhouette, you have yet to pull anchor, so thankful for this moment.

            A descending sun
            back-lighting the horizon,
            transitions to fall.


    Her form
    waxed poetic:
    offering a new guise
    and a twenty-two-syllable

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  7. Sumac Shouts

    When changes come
    on predetermined days
    red Sumac shouts
    in her predetermined ways,
    in lyrics crimson, hues of her song
    accompanied by a thousand-strong
    flock of starlings, a sweeping throng
    in cooler skies, in colder air,
    above her hillside gathering…

    … her clusters bright, her song so clear,
    Sumac announces, “Change is here! “

    © Damon Dean, 2018

  8. Other thoughts on “crimson”…

    When my eyes are filled with blood, my mood far from sanguine, even as I contemplate the vast ocean of wonderful writers, the crowded sky of prolific poets, it is easy to slip into insignificance, but when I sometimes say something which alters another person’s perspective, perhaps on a day when they needed it, I realize I am significant, along with everyone who dares to express their soul,
    and when they respond with love, my heart beats a little stronger.

  9. Crimson

    Mom wore red lipstick.
    As red as maple leaves in fall.

    Our habit was to kiss our parents
    before we left the house.
    (In case someone got run over
    before we saw each other again.)

    The days she wore lipstick,
    we were careful to kiss her
    and escape before she left
    crimson prints on our cheeks.

  10. Today marks the two year anniversary of the surgery that almost took me out of this world. On this anniversary, just as with every day, I thank the One and Only True and Living God for pulling me through. And I thank my wife and children and all of those who prayed for me. The prayers and support worked. So, I guess y’all aren’t gonna get rid if me that easy. (and, yes, humor was an important part of the comeback).


    In the autumn of the world
    Those that feel the end coming
    Stand boldly with the Good News
    On street corners and in pulpits
    Telling all of the saving grace
    And the shed blood of Christ
    Shed selflessly for all mankind

    They fight ridicule and hatred
    Ignorance and intolerance and
    All that Satan throws at them
    They have accepted His challenge
    And will not fail His command
    To preach to the lost and fallen
    For the world needs the News


    Wearing red makes me feel good.
    It is my color.
    So everyone says.
    It makes me glow.

    Being well read is my strength.
    It is my source of joy.
    It makes me more interesting.
    It helps me to relate.

    Seeing red is my weakness.
    I hate my temper.
    Its a family trait.
    It is hard to control.

    Autumn red should inspire.
    It is so lovely.
    But it makes me regret
    the loss of summer.

    Then I am renewed
    by thre red flames of fall fires,
    camping, firepits, and friendships,
    and the certainty of summer’s return.

  12. The Regal Matriarch of the Backyard

    The old Maple tree was always the first
    To show color, a sure sign that Summer
    Was in retreat and Autumn was approaching
    While the other Maples were flaunting their
    Yellow, orange, and gold tresses
    The regal old Maple was adorned in crimson
    The matriarch of the neighborhood
    She gently dropped her jewel-like leaves
    That fell, as if raked, in loose piles around her feet
    Where children laughed and twirled
    Among her fallen crown

  13. While
    autumn leaves
    reflect crimson sunset,

    dance to
    never ending rustle

    branches singing
    praise and halleluiah.

  14. Royalty of Autumn

    Crimson is deeper than red, so plain,
    in leaves, in gown, in lipstick hue.
    Royalty wore it, and so should you.
    Crimson clad trees are dressed in flame.

    I am sure it adorned Auntie Mame.
    Scarlet’s out, it’s Miss Crimson in Clue.
    Crimson is deeper than red, so plain,
    in leaves, in gowns, in lipstick hue.

    Did your face flush crimson from shame?
    So hard to hide from other’s view.
    Autumn’s colors have imbued
    the harvest, abundance, and joy’s reign.
    Crimson is deeper than red, so plain.

  15. Rich Reds

    Crimson, rich in colour,
    the leaves of autumn
    like a canopy
    as I drive up your street
    the yellow and orange beautiful too
    mixed with the garnet of autumn

    I picked up a leaf
    turned it over studied it
    it was the scarlet one, dark and rich
    that I put in my pocket

    Carolyn Wilker

  16. Crimson

    I love the colors of fall.
    They come by night, from nowhere,
    and should have magical names,
    exotic names, expensive.

    We should pay real gold, purchase
    rare words for frost-stained leaves.
    Ruby-red, crimson, scarlet;
    amber, peridot, citrine.

    Truth crumples next to such names,
    such colorful words. Crimson,
    the purple-red of venous
    blood, comes from insect corpses.

    Scarlet and vermillion dyes,
    too. The crushed bodies of bugs.
    Thousands for a yard of cloth.
    How many to blood one tree?

  17. At autumn’s end
    fruit of the vine
    withers and dies
    Green leaves fade
    from vibrant green
    to crimson red,
    to lifeless and brown
    completely dead.
    Flowers once bright
    fall from their stems,
    not to be seen
    until life blooms again
    fresh, new in spring.

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