Submitted poetry

Labor Day
Glen Enloe
 
 
He never made retirement
or palmed pot metal watch.

Years bled bloodless,
stooped obliquely
in steel mills.
 
They said
he was tired –
so tired
as time ran fast
in last days of liquid slurs.
 
The steel mill closed
years after his death –
now both rustle cold bronze bones,
remember russet dreams
of molten metals
 
faint as old billboards
whispering what once was
but will never be again
in rust-washed wind.

In the Fall
B.J. Noltensmeyer

I the Fall of the year, per se;
Comes a time of beauty – to see;
Some leaves do fall to earth again,
    And some changes – in trees to be!

‘Tis back to school – with backpacks,
A newness of friends and teachers too;
Seems many changes are made in life
    And always so much to do!

And many animals will find warmth,
Before Wintertime does take place;
Not only humans – but animals too,
    They all have to find – some space!

So in the Fall – what’ere to be,
In this world – so far and wide;
Remember to enjoy – what was before,
    ‘Cause with Fall – a much different tide!

Writer’s Block
John Cardarella

If I could write the world and write of us
The words could spread time and still not be enough

No ink too dark could reflect the touch
Of a smile thrown my way, so warm
No point too sharp could be so fine
In line with caressing and tracing your form
I would write the days of the
Sun setting and rising together
I would write the nights of the
Moon chasing the stars forever
And as I do to my northern star
Guiding my life’s rhyme and meter
Your laugh gives lift to my arms
Penning angelic whispers on the paper
I’d resurrect the picture drawn in letters
Of your lips, your skin, your eyes
I’d free the mind from current beauties
And express a face so divine
I’d write the chapters in your image
With all the paper of the trees
I’d write the sentences in your voice
Peaceful and gentle as a breeze...
I’d describe a love so true and deep
Of a longing for some reason
Because, though I write of you and me
The chaper ends, without completion...

Autumn
Joyce Dutcher

Autumn is not dainty
It stomps in on thunderous footsteps
It crackles, brisks, and braces
Dismissing the languid traces
Of summer’s lolling days

Auturm is not pale
It flames in fevered colors
Russets, bronzes, purples, oranges
Waxy full moon, yellow corn ear
Harvest cornucopia

Autumn is not delicate
It’s tangly, spicy, pungent
Burning leaves and cider mulling
Acrid smoke and frosty breathing
Portenng winter’s coming