autumn strain


Yassy – go see for yourself – offers one of her favorite forms, A Quintella, whose rhyme scheme and rhythm almost remains hidden for the imagery she paints between those wondrous lines. Find her at Yaskhan . What’s more her work is littered with surprises and delights – and education.

yaskhan

I set off on one of my dreams
Under sunlight’s pale golden beams
Meandering tawny meadows
Looking for harvest gold rainbows
Reflections in gurgling brooks, streams.

Trees preparing to bare their soul
Cascading leaves russet, brown fold
To lay down a carpet of gold
A nip in the air warmness stole
Nature hibernates as I stroll.

#quintella
an old favourite of mine..

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6 thoughts on “autumn strain

  1. A senryu, tanka reply.

    inspirational
    trophic… feeding poets minds
    Richard inspires

    down leaf-strewn lanes
    hedgerows of inspirations
    a poet’s dreaming revealsl
    a quintela records it well
    a day preempted

    Many thanks for the inspiration’s…. Mick

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    • Oh, most gloriously done, good sir. I treasure this and gleefully shall hoist aloft. The ball-o.-thanks, Mick, bounces back in your so very able court. That years ago I would find such vibrant fields and fertile minds ethernettishly boggles this mind. What Edward Estlin Cummings – and so many others – missed by making so-soon an exit from this new stage. And then there’s you and Bruce and Yassy and so many more: and with you all comes danger – I might forget to water self of succulents and mislay my weeds: oh, wow – just reminded self I must plant – late! again! – the wild garlic and wild onion sets rescued years ago by a homeless lady, Miss Mattie, whose gift has grown to hundreds of gorgeous and wafting stinking roses to delight my bees and me. Again, Mick, mil gracias. This will displace a wing and a leg!

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      • Abjects over taking so long to respond to thine reply. One of my (many) favorites: Buffalo Bill’s Defunct/ Who used to ride watersmooth silver stallions/ and shoot clay pigeons/one/two/three/four/five! /Just Like That. ‘Jesus he was a beautiful man/ and what I want to know is/ How do you like/your blue-eyed boy, Mister Death?
        (linebreak diagonals merely approximate.) Have time to day (two daze?) to spend romping through others’ gardens. Hope the hoses all are neatly coiled and the grounds raked most zenishly. See You, Mick E Talbot!

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      • Dear Sir you belittle yourself, for tis me who is remiss. My time spent composing, my preference to reading belies my good intent to help and support the living. A blued-eyed boy I have not but, I do a lady, her name? O a mutual friend she is, indeed its Mother Nature. Her garden, once immaculate, hoses all coiled, order defined. Now, and for sometime past finds no credence in the human race, it being hellbent on self destruction.

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      • Though, again but not for you – I beg to differ. What we see – our multi-faceted media and our own fears compound – a world in disarray, a peoples splintering instead of recognizing their own reflections in each other – still, a child clasps hands with another, one differently hued from the other, and they skip together off into the park, an object lesson for tired eyes concentrating on unreasoning rages from roads. There is much more good going about unseen and unreported on and worse unnoticed through glazed tears which refuse to fall and build up a dam and some damns and this very slow race which affronts itself to bifurcate too often from the one from which it sprang and calls itself human holds horrors out front for all to see and cast doubts and denials and self- and more-than-selves-destruction still does not have the power to void one bright smiling new face. Faith gives me more than the grief can o’erwash, My Good Sir (you promote me past my comfort zone of enlisted in life status so I return-serve to you. I too spend three-much time tinkering with pen and former woodlot and keyboard to maintain any semblance of “touching base,” but I try. I writ but one screed – and a few asides – this day to deliver mine eyes to friends efforts. And you, Mick, yield much to those orbs. Undejected, I remain: J

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