Autumn is icumen in,
With all its tricks,
Its treats and whims.*

I can't mourn
Summer's passing;
Those days
Of idle slumber.
Summer suns
And midnight moons,
The silhouettes of June;
Holiday highs,
Mad July;
The robust garden
Lust of August.

I won't.

Autumn air
Affronts my senses,
The Arctic cool
Dips and rules.
The moss has left
The trees;
Arthritic twigs
Let lose
The leaves.

     Autumn is icumen in

Autumn,
With its foils
And foibles,
Rakes us in
With harlequin sins,
And all its
Wherewithal.
Embrace your fall.

     Winter is icumen in

i feel like a spaceman
a displaced alien in a wasteland
base plan
looking for a face, trying to trace man

it's not rocket science
with the fights, riots, and sights of violence
i'd give my right eye for some silence
i'm finding this place never quiets
no kindness, or signs of subsidence
relying on small minded diets
no compliance, alliance, or guidance
few ever try to defy the tyrants

i feel like a spaceman
a displaced alien in a wasteland
base plan
looking for a trace, trying to face man

take a look, you may notice
the stolen glow of the hopeless
a photo so out of focus
lower than a golden crocus

but beautiful just the same

going closer, you may notice
soul of a broken closeness
low notes of a solo opus
glowing like a floating lotus

and beautiful just the same

(a golden crocus is a beautiful, low growing flower, but it can be easily over-taken by weeds, and wither...a lotus is my favorite flower, which floats on water, and seems to glow, but would wither without water)

the excellence is evident in the credulous eminence
blessedness in the discipline of relevant emphasis
intelligence, if directionless, can lead to arrogance
purposeless over-confidence of pendulous relevance

defiantly, yet reliably, calliope waiting quietly
a variety of society that finds height in irony
i solemnly and politely will happily sit silently
finally facing the gravity patiently and privately