The sun is rising –
a glow of promise
kissing the horizon,
looming over fallen
days of summer as
autumn has already
set in; a change in
direction, setting in
time with the rising
of possibilities and
chances embraced
in the warmth of a
kiss left by the sun,
burning the trees in
wishes and desire,
casting behind only
memories to fall in
time with the leaves,
with the backdrop
of a new sun rising.
Set against the backdrop
of auburn and gold, rising
in the earliest hours of the
day when the world is still
full of promise, and reality
hasn’t yet tampered with
our dreams – where I can
still wake with the desire
of you in my mind, even
if I can’t reach out to you –
where I can still rise with
a smile, cast against the
glow of a sunrise set in
mid October, filled with its
own promise of a change
still desirable, yet to come.
I watched my memories
fall from the trees in colors
of orange and autumn; burned
by the contours of the sun in a
surprise afterglow of summer,
whistling songs past the gentle
grazes of the sun kissing the
clouds goodnight. And with the
light seasoned change, I found
a star to love – patiently waiting
for me to touch with a poets
hand, bending twice with a
devotion in a dance at dusk
with the rise of a new moon.
With the whistle of the winds
past the earliest hours of dawn,
where the trees are swaying soft
symphonies outside my window,
calling for my memories to come
out and play, I am strolling gently
through dreams half buried in the
past, lingering twice on shades of
blues with a soft touch of violets
lining the horizon, with collapsed
wishes parading down like rain –
half entranced by the voice of my
muse singing lullabies, I whistle
alongside in hopes of her return.
I had spent the summer
in false hope and delusion,
placing every effort in my
attempts to tame the wind,
believing once captured, I
could silence the storms,
rocking them gently with
sonnets and lullabies, only
to fail with every lash and
blow; but now it is autumn,
with only the promises of
leaves falling, granting me
new memories to tame, with
every whistle of the breezes.
It was an ease of transition, past
the yellowed hills of the horizon,
where the truths were scattered
like leaves in fall, briskly strewn
about in patterns undecipherable,
painting the slight variations of
jazz in repetition to the subtle
echo of your laugh at the ease
of love; you are romance at the
height of the moon, longing to
fall like the pending crisp tales
of autumn, changing indecisions
into truths to dance in the fields
with the daisies and champagne.
with the echoing of jazz
past the crisp autumn air
falling into the rhythm of
leaves dancing sonnets
to the ground; with beats
of percussions and lonely
hearts holding on to stars
in the earliest hours of the
morning, waiting in sought
after transition of the sun –
still smiling albeit curious,
with the rise and eminent
fall of indecision, breaking
daylight with every peak of
hesitation and whispering
echoes of jazz, only to fall.
It was one of those lazy
Sunday afternoons, with
the reflections of the sun
glistening off the ripples
of the bay, showcasing
all of the answers to the
questions I never thought
to ask, with the laughter
of the children echoing past
my daydreams, when I saw
the first butterfly of this lost
season floating by me – it
was innocent and endearing;
promising to the new one
ahead. I tried to grab hold,
but like change it was quite
unpredictable, yet always
eager for us to take notice.
It was only a whisper
heard amongst the soft
echoing of the crickets in
late August, past the tender
rays of the full orange sun
setting past the treeline, still
dancing among the clouds
in the early hours of evening,
yet I heard it – it was calling
out to me, so all I could do
was answer with a whisper
of my own. It was like the
early days of back and forth,
playing hide and seek in
messages, with shards and
pieces of silence laying broken,
shattered by the light breezes
falling on an autumn dusk.
I woke early to the sun
streaming through the
bedroom in a light haze
of golden promise.
Autumn is approaching,
a change of season, and
an outlet for the breeze
to come billowing in,
sweeping away all the
sun-kissed memories and
debris of the summer –
a lighter affair to the fall
of laughter and reddened
defeat; a crisp outlook
breaking the gaps, painting
hues of hope in harvest.
Storylines in Verse 