Autumn’s
Promise
The promise of Autumn’s
Sweet
Chill
Kiss
Gives rise to energies forgotten
While in the midst of Summer’s
Sloth
Doldrum
Recline
Memories long dormant
Challenge and escape to the surface
Cloying
Aged
Musings
Tears well at relived
Joys and tragedies
Knocking
Calling
Embracing
Let down calloused walls
Allow childlike soul to
Emerge
Refreshed
Renewed
Ken Goree
Showing posts with label autumn. Show all posts
Showing posts with label autumn. Show all posts
Friday, September 7, 2012
Sunday, October 23, 2011
Innocence Renewed
So fresh the morning
Cleansing rain of night
Still dripping from
Fiery Autumn leaves
Eyes tearing from
The sting of
Pure reflected sunlight
Bright, dewdrop diamonds
Delighted shivers rattle through
Feeling that the sins and grime
Of life are washed clean
In the baptism of an innocent new day
Ken Goree
Over and over, I feel chills through my soul, at the sight of a bright new morning.
Cleansing rain of night
Still dripping from
Fiery Autumn leaves
Eyes tearing from
The sting of
Pure reflected sunlight
Bright, dewdrop diamonds
Delighted shivers rattle through
Feeling that the sins and grime
Of life are washed clean
In the baptism of an innocent new day
Ken Goree
Over and over, I feel chills through my soul, at the sight of a bright new morning.
Friday, January 7, 2011
Master of the Dead
Master of the Dead
Watchful, watched
Powerful stillness
First cheerless light
Frozen time.
A push at my back
Whispers in branches
Brittle laughter
The Master of the Dead has arrived.
Scraping naked branches
Scratching music signals
The dead begin rise
The mirthless dance begins.
A tuneless waltz
The master lifts
Lifeless forms into
whirling, curling columns.
The dancers rush, and spin
climb high, thrown down
Discarded at
Their master’s whim
The master gone
The dancers forgotten
Left to continue
Their slow, silent decay.
Ken Goree
The idea for this poem came to me this fall, in probably mid-November. I was out for a morning walk on the Burke-Gilman trail. A little grey light had seeped into the day, but everything was utterly still; no sound of birds, no other walker, joggers or even bicyclist were about. Then a gust of wind pushed me from behind, the leafless tree branches started scraping together, complaining, as they too were assaulted.
Leaves from all around the trail were driven forward, twisted together in a swirling column that looked that it might solidify into something alive. Alive and unpleasant. The pillar of leaves swayed hypnotically like a cobra.
It didn't last long. The wind grew tired of the game and dropped the leaves back to the ground, like a child would discard a soggy paper airplane.
The momentary burst of wind did not return during my walk. The silence returned, but without the feeling of malicious intent that preceded the marionette dance of the dead that I had witnessed.
Watchful, watched
Powerful stillness
First cheerless light
Frozen time.
A push at my back
Whispers in branches
Brittle laughter
The Master of the Dead has arrived.
Scraping naked branches
Scratching music signals
The dead begin rise
The mirthless dance begins.
A tuneless waltz
The master lifts
Lifeless forms into
whirling, curling columns.
The dancers rush, and spin
climb high, thrown down
Discarded at
Their master’s whim
The master gone
The dancers forgotten
Left to continue
Their slow, silent decay.
Ken Goree
The idea for this poem came to me this fall, in probably mid-November. I was out for a morning walk on the Burke-Gilman trail. A little grey light had seeped into the day, but everything was utterly still; no sound of birds, no other walker, joggers or even bicyclist were about. Then a gust of wind pushed me from behind, the leafless tree branches started scraping together, complaining, as they too were assaulted.
Leaves from all around the trail were driven forward, twisted together in a swirling column that looked that it might solidify into something alive. Alive and unpleasant. The pillar of leaves swayed hypnotically like a cobra.
It didn't last long. The wind grew tired of the game and dropped the leaves back to the ground, like a child would discard a soggy paper airplane.
The momentary burst of wind did not return during my walk. The silence returned, but without the feeling of malicious intent that preceded the marionette dance of the dead that I had witnessed.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)