Autumn

Song of the Ohio River

It once sang of doe-eyed Shawnee
canoeing through pristine afternoons,
and of red-bearded settlers who first saw it
winding through trees like a long gray snake.

It swayed in rhythm to old Negro spirituals,
when slaves crossed its murky waters
into sun-rinsed promised lands.

Today it sings with banjos and fiddles
at a bluegrass festival by the serpentine wall.
It sings in the din of a baseball stadium
and in the garbled cry of a hotdog vendor,

and in the boom of Labor Day fireworks,
Oktoberfest’s belching tubas and beery laughter.
It sings in the lively conversations pouring
from trendy waterfront restaurants.

Listen! It sings again in the happy calliopes
of giant festooned paddle steamers,
and in costumed characters at Sawyer’s Point
echoing tales by Mark Twain, an era gone by.

Sometimes it sings in floods of sorrow
as mud-soaked dreams are washed away forever,
weeping through German accents
and Kentucky drawls and Hoosier twangs.

Mostly it sings quietly, humming uneventfully,
waves lapping gently against a fisherman’s rowboat,
the chug of a midnight ferry, foghorns moaning,
vessels rolling their way to places far from home.

By Lisa Lindsey

The Saddest Month

With too many death anniversaries to mark,

September stays a sad houseguest.

I fade like the last browning rose,

like a leaf unaware of my fiery potential.

By Lisa Lindsey

Golden Hours of Summer

We named the dog Penny

in honor of the Reds winning

the pennant that September,

and because of her copper coat

polished by the still-warm sun

and the golden hours of summer

woven like shiny threads through

a cardigan season in the making,

Labor Day's hooray of fireworks,

the last of the fearless barbecues

and one more game of street softball

where a kid or a dog could get flattened

by a circling ice cream truck,

but a home run was still a home run

and "Stand By Me" was still

the neighborhood anthem

for loyal friends of fur and flesh

until we shuffled off to school

in brooding silence......

until the teacher took away

our baseball cards and

Penny found a new home

on a farm in Kentucky.

By Lisa Lindsey

Golden Hours of Summer II

The golden hours of summer

weave through September

with Labor Day’s hooray of fireworks,

the last of the fearless barbecues,

and one more game of street softball

where a person could get flattened

by a circling ice cream truck,

and a homerun is still a homerun.

The brown knits and itchy plaids

will come out of storage but not today,

maybe not even tomorrow.

Hey guys, who’s batting next?

By Lisa Lindsey

Labor Day?

Labor Day, what will you be this year?

A thunderhead bumping a shade tree?

Who doesn't love the smell of rain at a picnic?

Will you be the last high-waving flag

and flash of fireworks until Memorial Day?

A stolen kiss beneath the harvest moon?

Labor Day, what will you be for she

who has lost her job -- for he who has lost

his leg in Iraq? For the homeless and hungry

digging through Burger King dumpsters?

Will you point the way to Christmas?

Must we wait for snow and Dickens' tale

of good will to heed the spirits?

December winds will soon bluster in

and Bob Cratchit needs a raise in salary.

By Lisa Lindsey

September's Last Roar

At least we still had baseball,

dusted in twilight glory.

Kahn's hotdogs never tasted better

than under stadium lights

and a pre-autumn chill in the air.

Pete Rose was still our father,

brother and favorite son,

as he turned to all sides of the park

and doffed his helmet.

His homespun charm and trademark hustle

defined September.

By Lisa Lindsey

After School Velocity

We were like roadrunner cartoons,

whistling through the thinning hours of daylight,

and trailing our Keds sneakers were many

curved lines, indicating great speed.

Speed lines flew off our bicycles

in mid-flight, our bats in mid-swing,

the foul ball and the dog chasing it.

Speed lines flew off our skateboards too

as we zipped around the corner

of sunset and twilight, careening

through a tunnel of streetlights,

until we all collided into a wall

of homework, no longer weightless

cartoons but wooden puppets, wielded

by the strings of a dark puppet master,

the same master who herded us

into the caterpillar bus every morning,

the master of stiff plaid uniforms

and bulky book bags, marching

in single file and gloomy silence.

By Lisa Lindsey

Whispers in Wilder Gardens

I've seen the cherry blossom blizzard

and the dandelion snow,

the purple clouds of lilacs in bloom.

Once I found a rainbow in a storm

of tulips, buttoned a pink carnation

and danced to the moon.

I tackled the football bouquet,

followed a trail of rose crumbs

to the altar, combed a spray

of angel breath in my baby's hair.

But late have I loved the whispers

in wilder gardens, as a sneak of blue

spots and spatters my footpath.

I've seen a September day

starred with blue morning glories,

winking at a wiser lady.

By Lisa Lindsey

September 11th

Even as headlines scream

the collapse of American morale,

and the ashes of monuments

rise again in our hearts,

we interrupt this regularly scheduled

bad dream to remind you. . .

to see a sunset’s painted sky

as God’s masterpiece,

to dance beneath a ceiling of stars,

to write a love poem,

fold it into a paper airplane

and fly it across the universe,

to be a clown in Shakespeare’s rodeo

if you can’t ride the bull,

to lick the icing on the cake

when nobody’s looking.

By Lisa Lindsey

Too Soon a Goodbye

Cued by changes in the brain,

the waning days and falling temperatures,

our northern land birds begin

their long migration to the tropics,

the sun on their wings as their compass.

So it was with you – when the light

of your earthly life began to dim.

You changed direction,

instinctively knowing where to fly,

navigating to heaven's sunnier climes

through the still-blue skies of September,

an early migrant, too soon a goodbye.

We who stayed behind bore the chill

without you, like winter birds picking

for golden crumbs in snow-tinted leaves.

We sang, but with voices less bold.

We remembered, even if shadow faint.

By Lisa Lindsey

Summer’s End

Summer’s end is not the corn dolly

hanging from barn rafters.

No booming fireworks eulogize her.

No riderless horse drags her effigy

through the harvest parade. . .

Rather she comes uneventfully,

softly, in creeping fog and morning glories,

in the unfolding of little back yards

strung with empty clotheslines,

and in the sudden urge to bake apples.
A quiet requiem, summer’s end.

By Lisa Lindsey

Officially Autumn

It's official ---

The sun sets in concert

with the bells of the Angelus.

A light rouge brushes

the trees, warming the edges

of a brisk evening walk.

I throw an extra blanket

on the sofa, aromatherapy

fresh from the dryer,

enhance the coffee table

with a cup of pumpkin latte

and a few new books from

Barnes and Noble.

It's official --- It's autumn.

By Lisa Lindsey

Edge of September

I dance on the edge of September

like a child along the ocean's rim,
my feet unsandaled, blistered
toes cooled by the surf,

like a lone swimmer soaking
the last ray of sunlight,
bobbing effervescent waves
before October's clouds

wash the beach empty.

A rainy-day muse beckons me.
I know well the sad eyes and drawn face.
She clings to dreams of graceful dips
as she motions a far-off embrace.

So today I dance with the surf,
and her, and the seagulls wheeling

in a seamless blue sky.

Fifty-four Septembers
have brought me to this shore
and I always hate to say goodbye.

By Lisa Lindsey

The Singing River

The leaves sing on the Pascagoula River

in late summer and early autumn –

golden tears and fire tongues.

The leaves sing like the Pascagoula natives

whose voices bled with the forest –

sorrow and outrage, death over slavery.

The Pascagoula tribe went to die –

went to live beneath the Pascagoula River

where the waters weep and leaves sing.

By Lisa Lindsey

Shenandoah Valley

Somewhere in Shenandoah Valley

the last embers of summer

are dying in the bonfires.

Somewhere there is twilight

and beery laughter, ghost stories,

and Johnny blowing a sad harmonica.

Somewhere the blackbirds tear lose

from the trees, wrapping the sky

in a widow’s black shawl.

Somewhere in Shenandoah Valley

October feels the loss of me.

By Lisa Lindsey

A Hiker’s Tale

Suddenly April

highlands are flowering,

sunlight escorts the wings of birds,

merry songs rush through the freeze

of spring and I rush into her,

the girl with dingy yellow hair,

crippling me with her stare,

the story within her eyes,

hazel lullabies of mountain ways

and fires dying, old spirits passing

along the Appalachian trail..

Suddenly autumn

days are shallow, ghost birds

whistle from nests of dry bones.

I look again

to her tree-thatched room,

A red leaf falls.

She is gone.

By Lisa Lindsey

Stealing Apples

It started with Eve and stolen apples,
no doubt it was autumn,

when branches hung heavy
with sun-reddened fruit,
plump and temptingly opulent.

On such an autumn morning
I sneak along dark leafy sidewalks,
hugging my sweater,

visions of candied apples,
homemade pie and hot spicy cider,
fueling my journey.

Dad and I planted the apple tree
that still blooms like a Glastonbury Rose
in the old backyard.

When Dad died we sold the house,
but never my heart, and so
this morning I lapse,

tripping over my fallen nature,
hopping a fence that used to be mine,
dumping apples into my sweater.

Blame it on Eve.

By Lisa Lindsey

Tall Stacks on the Ohio

The Public Landing churns
with music and rhythm.
Sawyer's Point flows festive colors,
costumed crowds romancing
the old riverboat era.

Tall stacks steam,
calliopes blow
and red paddlewheels turn.
Ladies gather for
onshore entertainment,

ladies named Delta Queen
and Belle of Louisville.

A renaissance in October's chill,
hot air balloons, boat races,
a bevy of rosy faces
and candy appled smiles
beneath the firework of leaves.

By Lisa Lindsey

Riverwind

She leaned on the rail of the deck,

the riverwind fanning her hair. . .

We were lucky passengers

aboard the Belle of Louisville,

one of those red paddlewheel queens

of the steamboat years,

a floating tiered wedding cake

with flags streaming and calliopes

blowing as we turned the river bend

to a crowd of boisterous cheers.

It was my grandma-gift to her,

my hope to impress in her ten-year-old heart

a love for the Ohio River and its history.

But she leaned on the rail of the deck,

the riverwind fanning her hair,

amazed at a passing jet ski,

how it awesomely skipped on the waves.

By Lisa Lindsey

Orphan Born

The motherland is blazing

with autumn; like the land

I lay down my heritage,

spiraling as an orphan leaf,

a red-haired Annie

severed from the family tree,

soon to be hacked into mulch

but watch me rise again,

when snow hardens my face

and threads of ice lace my hair,

when winter bleeds green

and the motherland is cleaned.

We are all orphan born,

Children scattered to the winds.

By Lisa Lindsey

October’s Eye

Let me curve along the weeds
and the bones of the gardens,
along the brittle skirts of autumn paths
and woods shocked with amber.

Let me creak across a shaky bridge
to hollows where the watchers live,
and blackbirds in flight wrap
the sky in a widow's black shawl.

Spring call gently once again,
but do not call me back too soon
from rising winds and raining leaves,
from witchy trails where blackbirds spy,
from passing through October's eye.

By Lisa Lindsey

A Poem for Jenny

If I could write but one poem,
let it be of autumn and you
peeking out from behind old trees
and mounds of raked up leaves.

A scene generous in gold and copper,
forgiving of your tattered coat,
too good-humored to notice that
your socks don't match.

Mother Nature showers her riches
on children who have none,
a surrogate for welfare mothers
who lack the luster.

Bonfires warm and fuel contentment,
warp nagging hunger.
Twigs snap and become handy
for marshmallow kabobs.

You lick your sticky fingers,
never minding that candy
makes a decent supper after all.

A lighthearted poem, the fall.

By Lisa Lindsey

Irene’s Way

She drifts through October
on a claret-caped breeze
with a red parasol
propped on her shoulder.

It's raining leaves
in her tunnel of trees.
Amongst the burnt maples
she is well camouflaged.

Sun showers diffuse her,
golden puddles dilute her,
a puff of wind changes direction
and she rustles away.

They call her the flickering lady
and the donna of the shadows,
the "Irene" of Irene's Way.

A century or two has passed and yet
she never misses an autumn stroll at sunset.

By Lisa Lindsey

I Miss You, Great Pumpkin

Steam on the kitchen window
and clouds in my oatmeal form
wispy-haired ghosts of autumn past,

making me weepy for those visits
to Pumpkinland with sweatered toddlers
in tow, in search of the perfect candidate
for a Jack-o-lantern or Thanksgiving pie
or even a carriage for Cinderella.

These days the house is no longer haunted.
Oatmeal is not the breakfast of heroes,
and the pumpkin pudding lacks nothing
except the gouges from dimpled fingers
too quick for mom to lick.

I carve a jagged smile in the steam on the window.
It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown.

I miss you.

By Lisa Lindsey

Mischief Night

Tonight was one of those autumn nights

so nostalgic, so potent with magic,

when the cool leafy sidewalks

seemed so etched in moonlight

that I felt like I was trespassing

on hallowed ground,

when the big apple tree

in the toilet-papered yard

appeared to beckon in the blush

of the moon’s harvest face,

and the tree branches dappled

with sun-ripened fruit seemed to

lower themselves almost teasingly,

almost begging to be plucked,

a night with so much mischief in the air

that as I ran all the way home

with my pockets full of apples

all the Jack-o-Lanterns,

grinning wide and flickering,

kept winking at me

from out of the darkness.

By Lisa Lindsey

Guilt-Free Butterfingers

A stroll down the candy aisle
conjures visions of past Halloweens
with costumed innocents braving the dark
in pursuit of a sugar high.

I miss those nights of digging
through sacks of treats, picking out
all the butterfingers while witchlings
and fang boys slept unaware.

Halloween still brings a pleasurable
tingle, as I stir in my cauldron
a generous supply of guilt-free butterfingers.

Settling on the porch step,
I await the monster stampede.

By Lisa Lindsey

Trick or Treat

Can you hear the trail of giggles?
The swish-swish of small feet
running through leaves
breaking the silence of dusk?

Can you hear the little screams,
the boos and the cackles
of sidewalk witches, broomsticks
and pillow sacks in tow?

Can you hear the doorbells
ring-ringing on doorsteps where
timid ghosts dare not venture,
leaving such heroics for the braver?

I hear muffled “trick-r-treats!”
while big bright eyes peer
through rubber masks,
envisioning licorice and chocolate.

By Lisa Lindsey

November

Here comes November
with its threadbare trees

and hoary skies and sooty clouds.

A ragged Cinderella

to match my soul's gown.

Leaves have fallen
to the battlefield of autumn,
their last flames extinguished.

In staggering numbers
they carpet my journey home

where the hearth is cold
and a mournful wind whistles
down the chimney,

but soon a friendly fire

will breathe heat into the mist.

Maybe I'll take up knitting,
nurture a newfound love for football,
dust off the old turkey recipe—

wait for pumpkin pie and jiggling cranberry
to break the monotony.

By Lisa Lindsey

A Late Frost

The same rowdy birds

that got on my nerves last summer

line the backyard fence in silence,

looking a little dazed.

Even the cat, curled up in the dent

of the sofa, knows the day's sobriety.

My next-door neighbor, scraping

the windshield of his car, knows.

The newspaper boy, unfolding

the results of Election Day, knows.

Clouds in my oatmeal form

a bleak collage of frozen birds,

reminding me. . .

Packaged in a flannel robe

I brave the chill, tossing bread

into the scattered frost and dead leaves.

I hurry back inside to abandon the day

to the birds who, revived,

flutter from their fence posts

and hidden niches, bow graciously,

and feed.

By Lisa Lindsey

Indian Summer

She is the jewel in autumn's crown,

the Ruby Cinderella with her bouquet

of garnet leaves and marigolds.

Her honeyed smile and summering air

mellows the path of her homecoming where

the earth is as warm as a mother's lap

and the sun is as fatherly as a father will ever be.

Though her engagement is fleeting,

in the blush of her apple cider laughter

winter seems such a distant thing,

and spring a dull memory, a fling discarded.

By Lisa Lindsey

Walking Off the Mile High Pie

After you picked me up

in that testosterone truck

and drove too fast to the restaurant

where the very bad steak

and the very stale pie

and very weak coffee was served...

we walked in the rain,

in the very cold rain

stepping on leafy goldfish,

our watery shadows mirrored

in the pre-iced puddles...

a couple of drifters we,

carried downstream

to the ocean of dreams

where the lobster is fresh

and the sun feels warm on our shoulders…

where the islanders brought us

sweet coconut drinks, garnished

with tiny bright paper umbrellas…

I'm still with you, skipper,

in that little paper boat in the gutter…

Aren't we going too fast?

By Lisa Lindsey

Leaving Tennessee

She mouthed “I love you”
and leaned her face on the window
of the train, her gaze leaving him,
leaving Tennessee,

leaving a cold, cloud-hooded day
holding the probability of rain
and a final scene rivaling
The Bridges of Madison County's.

By Lisa Lindsey

Autumn Rain

The rain is over and done ---
still she left the earth splashed
with her presence.

Now is the time for the sun
to show its face, so that
the leaves in all their autumn colors
shine like kaleidoscope stars,

so that puddles in city culverts
shimmer like prisms
and sapphire streets reflect
the shadows of rain-dancers.

By Lisa Lindsey

Winter Finding

There is silence on the battlefield
of my morning walk – this eleventh hour
of the eleventh day of the eleventh month.

Leaves that traverse my path,
the ones that flicker with their last fires
still in them, turn shoulder to shoulder
with the brittle brown corpses, like
so many fallen soldiers.

The few that cling to branches

lose their grip and join the ranks

of those covering the cemetery

where the real soldiers are buried

Silence... No passing thunder

of St. Martin's horse. No blackbirds in flight.

Autumn shrinks with barely a sigh,
unlike when other seasons, or men, die.

Now the war, and my walk, is over.
Now comes the soft armistice

of late morning and early afternoon.
November’s naked trees wait stoically for
December snows to wrap them in dignity,
the burial cloths of Winter Finding.

By Lisa Lindsey

Autumn Sunday Flashback

Sunday's sunlight huddles

in the south window all day,

a perfect shrine for a jar of fall flowers

and my adoring gaze.

Mr. Married next door, his muscles

tawny from summer is out with the rake,

sweeping leaves into orange pyramids

while a hundred "thou-shalt-nots"

start flying everywhere.

But the commandments are safe

in this autumn Sunday flashback

where the gardener is sacred

and I am but a child at the window,

a rose sheltered from the storm.

By Lisa Lindsey

Another Silly Love Poem

I used to spend summer
wishing autumn would arrive.
Today I am pushing autumn

into bluebird summer skies,

when Shakespeare and you

and I spread out under a tree
as you read his poetry to me
from a handsome book.

But the day pushes back

with a persistent overcast.

I am a fool pushing free verse,

believing the loss of bluebird skies
and read-aloud sonnets are worthy
of somebody's tears.

By Lisa Lindsey

Golden Riders

The face of the river
mirrors an audience of trees
and the ballet of brilliant leaves
falling on moving water.

From the rains they came,
down the stream they go,
the golden riders of autumn
swanned in snow.

By Lisa Lindsey

The Wintering

Birds fly south to warmer climes.
Leaf candles do a swan dive.

I fall deep into love and downy quilts,
maple-scented candle smoke,

deeper and deeper into love,
wintering with him.

By Lisa Lindsey

Autumnal Reflections

These are the days, these bright
copper days of late autumn,

when I can see their shadows

on the rivers, swinging their poles

in the icebound mornings.

I recall their rhythms and voices,

laughter rising with the coffee steam

billowing from thermos cups,

their eyes squinting at a sky so blue

it hurts to look up.

There has to be a heaven for fishers
and hunters and Springer Spaniels,
a place to walk meadow and river
without aged legs...

On that last glorious sunrise
I will join them across the veil.
Till then, I best take down the screens
and put in the storm windows.

By Lisa Lindsey

I am thankful...

For the sweat of my father,
For the song of my mother,
For the gentle hands that never spanked me.
Well, almost never...

For the kiss on my neck,
Whiskered chin on my cheek,
For the gentle man who always pleased me.
Well, almost always...

For the eyes of my children
Gazing upon me with adoration.
For the bad meals turned good
By hunger and desperation...

For a peaceful night's sleep,
For the calm in my head,
Mostly I am thankful for a clear conscience.
Well, almost clear...

By Lisa Lindsey

Meet Me in Kentucky

Meet me in Kentucky for the springtime derby,
where the earth rumbles with racing horses
and the air is painted with fantastic rainbow hats.

Meet me when the bluegrass festival
heralds summer -- when the mountainsides
ripple with mandolins and fiddles,
freckles and eyes blue as cornflowers,

or come for autumn's hayride laughter
and hot apple cider smile. Meet me
where sunsets and bonfires pale
in the blush of the moon's harvest face.

Meet me in Kentucky at Christmastime,
when the front door wears a bow tied wreath
and mistletoe hangs conspicuously in the foyer,
awaiting love's reunion and your kiss.

By Lisa Lindsey