Autumn Courtyard–A Conversation
Skittering across brick,
two leaves scrape
and sharpen each word.
Maples filter sunlight
Left to the wind,
our tongues cool.
Thoughts become clouds
of white heaped-up
fading to each purple edge.
One of this blog’s deeper, hidden purposes has now been fulfilled, Dear Reader; delivering such poetry upon you.
Any thoughts and comments are welcome.
Bot or Not-Was this poem written by a computer or a human?
Also, as found here:
the sun is a beautiful thing
in silence is drawn
between the trees
only the beginning of light
And let’s not forget one of the masters (as though putting such words here imbues this blog with the same stuff):
But, soft! what light through yonder window breaks?
It is the east, and Juliet is the sun.
Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon,
Who is already sick and pale with grief,
That thou her maid art far more fair than she:
Be not her maid, since she is envious;
Her vestal livery is but sick and green
And none but fools do wear it; cast it off.
It is my lady, O, it is my love!
O, that she knew she were!
She speaks yet she says nothing: what of that?
Her eye discourses; I will answer it.
I am too bold, ’tis not to me she speaks:
Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven,
Having some business, do entreat her eyes
To twinkle in their spheres till they return.
What if her eyes were there, they in her head?
The brightness of her cheek would shame those stars,
As daylight doth a lamp; her eyes in heaven
Would through the airy region stream so bright
That birds would sing and think it were not night.
See, how she leans her cheek upon her hand!
O, that I were a glove upon that hand,
That I might touch that cheek!