Autumn, Emilio Sánchez Perrier (c. 1900)
Autumn by the River
Song birds of the trees have made their retreat
Cool winds of autumn chased summer away
Colors of the quiet land now blasé
Busy fields in summer are not deplete
Paces of the past are now slowing down
Giving moments of pure quiet pleasure
Thinking of the silos filled with treasure
Waiting arrival winter’s bridal gown
Cataloging thoughts at the river’s edge
Reminiscing the joys that came my way
In mind the desire to ensure they stay
Seeking more in the future is my pledge
Studying the river as it goes by
It is my life passing by that I see
Message is always busy I must be
Like plants I will eventually die
The Raging Rapids, Peder Mork Mønsted (n.d.)
Ranging river flooded into my heart,
Suffocating, surely I will be drowned.
Its power so great to tear me apart,
Can this really be love that I found?
Kidnapped by aches and pains and nervous twitch,
Twisting and turning, can’t sleep in my bed.
Desire new feeling for which I may switch,
To rid me of this swirling in my head.
How I hunger but unable to eat,
Stomach tighter than a Gordian knot.
Shivering yet sweating from intense heat,
Visits to countless doctors are for naught.
If this be love, I know not what to do,
Should this be my reward for loving you?
Impressionism, Popcorn by the author
Allegory of Pop Corn, Robert A Sieczkiewicz
All the kernels were guaranteed I’m told
Not a reject to be found in the bunch
Everyone surely to be big and bold
Hurriedly took them home to try at lunch
Into the large skillet placed them so neat
Moved them around so each had its own space
All comfortable I turned up the heat
Will there be a winner in this big race
Was not long before there was sound of steam
Soon were popping like the sound of a gun
Moment of quiet then a final scream
Shut off the heat, thinking they will be done
The puffy ones I quickly threw them out
They are not the type I am looking for
None left in the skillet, was quite a rout
I will not go to the place as before
Image manipulated by author
With bucket of water, squeegee and rag,
Performing menial chore I abhor.
For it will always make my spirits sag,
Daily cleaning of the stately glass door.
Fully covered with finger prints galore.
Strange as it be that it has no push bar,
Makes me hate this nasty door even more.
Without a key lock makes it more bizarre.
Limitless numbers who come but can’t pass.
Is this door’s only purpose to harass?
Or clearly an obstruction made of glass,
To ensure creation of an impasse?
Now clearly understanding took an axe,
Gave the mighty wall of glass forty whacks.
Norham Castle, Sunrise, J. M. W. Turner (c.1845)
Not sure if it is my mind in a haze
Sun like melted butter in breakfast dish
Assur’d myself will be a wonderful day
Or better to say is my only wish
Swept the cobwebs out of my sleepy head
Gave thanks that didn’t wake to eternal fire
And let me not forget my daily bread
Now to concentrate on today’s attire
Day will be just fine with some assistance
Appears to be more questions than answers
Past has shown there’s no need for resistance
Never chastised for my many blunders
Out of doors with coffee cup in my hands
I talk and He listens, He understands
Snow Scene through a Winter Window, Henry Alexander (1870)
Under blankets, another frigid night
Could feel aching chill in my weary bones
Feared what horror there would be my first sight
Feeling confident would be many moans
Looking through button holes, saw the bright white
Tired of the piling up of winter’s snow
This freezing matter is no longer trite
Miserable stuff really must go
A death row prisoner is what I am
Give me my last meal and be done with it
Never have been fan of winter’s program
Ever bored of doing nothing but sit
For the joy of spring I hunger and thirst
Can I survive, it’s but November first