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The Web Poetry Corner - Ronald G. Auguste - REMINISCING IN AUTUMN

REMINISCING IN AUTUMN

by

Ronald G. Auguste

(For Denny Guge)

Once, in an August time,

I roamed the fields of my sweet island home.

Free as the birds,

And happier than their songs,

I flew the ways of sunlight, in prime pastures,

In the constant Summers of my youth.

I danced on high with paper hawks that rode

The windy hours in erratic frenzy,

Until the savage sun -- in anger --

Hurled its javelins into the west!

And mauve and pink,

And scarlet turning rose and gold,

The wounds would bleed a tapestry

Breath-taking in its beauty!

More splendid than the crowing,

Dew-gemmed glowing,

Cobweb-sparkling,

Coral-tinted, holy dawn!

I sang with rainstorms in the brooding hills,

While giant thunder roared in rage to see

Electric talons maul the pregnant sky!

I flashed with leaping fishes in blue rivers,

To cool my sun-shot bronze in sweeter waters.

I roamed savannas while day fled the landscape,

Where the waning glow of sunset lingered

Like stubborn fragments from a shattered rainbow!

I was the steel-jaw

Crunching Lord of cane-fields,

With elastic-bucket-belly never full,

And rumbling for more cane juice!

I was a swift reaper of the mango harvests,

In the blessed-no-more-Latin days of school vacation,

When the sun, Olympian in the heavens!

Seemed to explode into a trillion shafts

Of brazen, blinding light, killing the hours

Towards the sudden star-sung birth of night!

Oh for the pleasures of my island home!

Its majestic mountains, proud and rolling,

Rising-falling-rolling ever onward to the sea,

Serene and rippling-green-and-cobalt-silver

Shining in the sun -- when weather showed a happy face!

Or wild! tempestuous! heaving dark-and-raging

To the shell-and-almond-seaweed littered shore!

Green dancing fields, seen from the heaven

Of a wind-swept ridge,in sunlight after rain!

And mango trees, past blossom,

But in fruit -- sweet scented, rose-and-purple,

Greenish-yellow orbs of goodness

Hanging on the swooning boughs!

Now, in October days and self-exile,

I prowl the sunless asphalt lanes of England,

And the wind-swept, swirling, countless, whirling,

Bloody Autumn leaves are as my sorrows,

Tossed in the chilly winds of my despair!

NEXT?
Why don't you look at White Gloves
by: Eli Romanov
from: Elk Grove, CA, US

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