Dedication: My rhyming poetry is dedicated to my Grandmother Florence,
the kindest, most patient person I remember from my childhood. She
loved, in particular, the autumn season because of its dazzling array
of multi-colored leaves. She had a gift of poetic recitation and
favored reciting poems of the leaves of autumn.
“When Fall Arrives”
When fall arrives, its rich tableau
Imparts to us its rarest glow,
For foliaged trees, far and near,
Transmute their hues to vibrant cheer
With glowing tints of red, and yellow,
Dappled green, and cherry morello.
And even those with tints austere
Exude with unembellished cheer
When fall arrives.
Transmute their hues to vibrant cheer
With glowing tints of red, and yellow,
Dappled green, and cherry morello.
And even those with tints austere
Exude with unembellished cheer
When fall arrives.
How nonpareil this ardent show,
This visual feast of leaves aglow,
With sheens akin to posh veneer,
Dazzling round an earthen sphere.
E’en the twilight’s afterglow
Reflects this rarity of show,
As do the azure skies so clear
Hov’ring o’er these sites so dear
When fall arrives.
©Barbra Lambert
This visual feast of leaves aglow,
With sheens akin to posh veneer,
Dazzling round an earthen sphere.
E’en the twilight’s afterglow
Reflects this rarity of show,
As do the azure skies so clear
Hov’ring o’er these sites so dear
When fall arrives.
©Barbra Lambert
Image Courtesy http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/User:Jongleur100
“Leaves at Play”
Dappled leaves of yellowish-green
Flirt with the wind as they flutter,
While orange and reds, crisp and pristine,
Dance alongside one another
With twirls of grace and spins of ease
That seek to outdo the other
Then waft to nature’s earthen stean
To enrich the topsoil’s clutter.
©Barbra Lambert
“The Falling Leaves”
I watch in awe as falling leaves of lovat green and pink cerise
Twirl and tumble round and round then land atop an earthen mound
And meld with leaves of rich carmine, maroon, claret, and deepest wine
To dress the rustic sylvan floor with multi-colored sights galore.
I marvel, too, at falling leaves from stalwart oaks and maple trees
That lithely waft in naïve flight then gently on the ground alight
Bedecking country sights on grounds of sylvan lands where trees abound.
How grand that such simplicity spawns such great felicity —
Such soothing respite to my soul while standing on this sacred knoll
Ensconced with golden memories of you — I bid you once again “Adieu”.
©Barbra Lambert
*For Grandmother Florence at her resting place in the countryside atop a knoll brimful of nature’s sylvan charm.
See “adieu". Encarta ® World English Dictionary © & (P) 1998-2004 Microsoft Corporation. All rights reserved. “adieu”… 14th century. From French , literally “(I commend you) to God.”
“The Falling Leaves”
Twirl and tumble round and round then land atop an earthen mound
And meld with leaves of rich carmine, maroon, claret, and deepest wine
To dress the rustic sylvan floor with multi-colored sights galore.
I marvel, too, at falling leaves from stalwart oaks and maple trees
That lithely waft in naïve flight then gently on the ground alight
Bedecking country sights on grounds of sylvan lands where trees abound.
How grand that such simplicity spawns such great felicity —
Such soothing respite to my soul while standing on this sacred knoll
Ensconced with golden memories of you — I bid you once again “Adieu”.
©Barbra Lambert
*For Grandmother Florence at her resting place in the countryside atop a knoll brimful of nature’s sylvan charm.
See “adieu". Encarta ® World English Dictionary © & (P) 1998-2004 Microsoft Corporation. All rights reserved. “adieu”… 14th century. From French , literally “(I commend you) to God.”
“Dreaming of Wintertime”
Soon flakes of white will scurry and flutter
‘Cross fields once rife with grasses green,
And I will watch from my kitchen window
The winsomely sights of a dream.
The dream was of snowflakes, furious at pace,
Frantically racing about—
Coating the fields with flecks of white
Then mounting to please their clout.
E’er long the flecks began to turn
To flakes ‘bout the size of cotton,
And that’s when I knew that winter had come—
The season not eas’ly forgotten.
The cott’ny flakes mounted in less than an hour
To heights of great proportion…
A winsome sight for lovers of snow—
For mot’rists—a sight of misfortune.
On hills ‘bove the fields, the stalwart trunks
Exuded with stately virility
As their snow topped limbs gracing their mien
Projected a perfect tranquility.
Winter is nearing, the air is chilling—so
Come, white, winsome sights in my dream,
And blanket the ground with your flakes of white
‘Cross fields once rife with grasses green.
©Barbra Lambert
