Don’t write of every one that falls, from branch at Autumn-time;
Resist those vibrant colours gone to rust and gold, from lime.
No need to mark the pull of breeze that tugs from tender tree;
Better men than we, have said it all, so leave it be.
Don’t speak of sugared-maples, in their burning-glory daze;
Of lazy oaks, slow-turning acorns’ minions to a blaze,
Of dogwood’s purple palmates; birches, high, of honeyed hue;
Abundant odes of homage have been writ to pay their due,
And yet, the flutter, floating free, that carries each one down,
The dance of profuse partners, tumbling, tripping top to crown,
Can turn the head unfailingly, the pen to page, so fleet,
Each instance when a leaf descends to earth, its end to meet.
So we’ll forgive the impulse, once again, to talk of this:
Nature’s shedding season, bedding down for winter’s kiss.
I managed to take my “stick” to the house and copy my 2010 poems file which housed the jackpine sonnet I mentioned in the last post. I’m pleased to share it with you. As the rules didn’t appear to stipulate a kind of subject matter for the Geist contest, I went with a nature-poem. I felt this appropriate since the “jackpine” is meant to look like the tree itself in the resulting concrete form. Now I have to admit, I’ve just made a few adjustments, so perhaps the “fickle” judges were on to something after all.
Spanned to land—
Long-jump sans sand;
Slender branch bends under the weight.
Let sunset through, high in the dying pine,
Above the graves,
He goes his merry way—
Hot-foots it to spite his dismal array;
Yanking at twigs—figments
Of an old road-kill—
This faded Fagin,
Abandoned by his thieving clan,
For no man.