By Kimiko Hahn
My favorite months reside in autumn
when the sunset is riddled with crows—
and my wishes swerve to fly…
when the sunset is riddled with crows—
and my wishes swerve to fly…
Explore Poems: Fall
Showing 1-20 of 200 poems
- By Danielle Shandiin Emersonare a reminder that ayóó nineez / extremely tall / ayóó nineez
& nizhoní / beautiful / nizhoní
things … - By Jessica RigneyIt's important she says that summer
Flatten itself against autumn. That it keep Insisting yes yes it'… - By Richard BrautiganI saw thousands of pumpkins last night
come floating in on the tide,
bumping up against the rocks and
rolling… - By Lindsay TurnerSome yellow sunflowers open down the street,
A ladder is open beneath someone’s apple tree.
Beneath … - By Karyna McGlynn& Memphis is out in Full Fang!
Skeletons skip down our pitted streets.
Whole families with matching hobo stipple
roam tragicomically through the sprawling
candy deserts: polka-dot bandanas
on sticks, flapping Chaplinesque shoes.
Unclaimed pumpkins pile high
behind razor wire. The air's thick
with caw & trouble. Our... - By Melvin DixonVermont leaves under glass,
Your hands working the frame.
Each piece of tree and trail
For an easy reference.
Like the leaf whose red
Held fast for years
By your touch. Like me?
Black as bark, my grainy
Knuckles about to bud.
And on me everywhere
The print of fingers.
My... - By Alvin FeinmanAnd the light, a wakened heyday of air
Tuned low and clear and wide,
A radiance now that would emblaze
And veil the most golden horn
Or any entering of a sudden clearing
To a standing, astonished, revealed . . .
That the actual streets I... - By David TaitA week of autumn snow, and today the sun,
the buildings fizzy with melting, the beggar
draping his sheets over the bank's homeless-spikes.
My daughter runs under the sycamore trees,
shouts look it’s still snowing, it’s still snowing,
clumps of old snow falling around her.
Who... - By Zakaria MohammedTranslated By Lena Khalaf TuffahaI await the end of August and the murder of September.
I am here, tardy Autumn, waiting for you. I’ve prepared you a wheat porridge and lit a fire. Come with your wind and sweep away the shameless sun. Lift its... - By Tim Tim Chengfrom the soil
We make our son. From the soil we make our son biscuits. From the soil we make our son biscuits stored in ceramic bowls. From the soil we make our son biscuits stored in ceramic bowls made with... - By Khaty XiongFor a time the home was lost to me
my mouth forged in the night as I dreamed away
the barriers—stars lengthening the line of my gaze
beryl bones rushed to storm—
To my eternal... - By Connie Leungthese leaves are not from in here
they are nothing like the towering pine
that prickles crevices into my sky with its
decaying and sullen branches
these leaves are robust & hearty still
sneaking their way onto a stage
of concrete like renegade
prima donnas at burlesque
they... - By Nikki WallschlaegerMy fav event as harvest season approaches
is the rough seed that escaped the plots.
If there’s a cornfield adjacent to another bed
of vegetables, you can count on imperfection,
you can see stalks standing where they’re
not supposed to be, the winds have ideas,
seeds... - By Annie FinchOur voices press
from us
and twine
around the year's
fermenting wine
Yellow fall roars
Over the ground.
Loud, in the leafy sun that pours
Liquid through doors,
Yellow, the leaves twist down
as the winding
of the vine
pulls our curling
voices—
Glowing in wind and change,
The orange leaf tells
How one more season... - By May Swenson1
A smudge for the horizon
that, on a clear day, shows
the hard edge of hills and
buildings on the other coast.
Anchored boats all head one way:
north, where the wind comes from.
You can see the storm inflating
out of the west. A dark hole
in... - By Barbara Crookerand the garden diminishes: cucumber leaves rumpled
and rusty, zucchini felled by borers, tomatoes sparse
on the vines. But out in the perennial beds, there’s one last
blast of color: ignitions of goldenrod, flamboyant
asters, spiraling mums, all those flashy spikes waving
in the... - By Joseph MasseySober for once, for what—
for the words to budge.
We spent summer propped up
by each other's stuttering.
There are seasons here
if you squint. And there's
relief in the landscape's
sloughed off cusps of color
fallen over the familiar
landmarks, the familiar
trash—things that last. - By John Brandifallen leaves
the abbot sweeps
around them - By Sandra LimIt’s now within
an hour of sundown of a late
November afternoon.
It was a beautiful day,
the cold burned
down any indignation.
What won’t degrade:
the sick and distant, or near and black,
bad-natured tides of want.
Jean Rhys is saying
If I could jump out of the window
one...