Ode to Autumn
Those wacky chicks over yonder asked their ‘subscribers’ about current loves, so I spent all weekend locked in the attic trying to piece together something profound and moving. Having failed, I banged out the following poem last night while watching football.
O Autumn;
How brightly burns my love for you?
Though only a friendly platonic love,
Sans benefits,
Which always complicate
Even the finest friendships
And occasionally result in
Slashed tires or
Bent flatware.
Your cool October breeze soothes
The relentless backhand of
Summer’s humidity and brings
Egg-flinging skate punks to
My property on All Hallow’s Eve.
Yea, but I do loathe them,
Even to the point of daydreaming about
Hiding in a shrub with a paint gun.
And as I wait for their
Blind entry into the killing zone,
I think to myself, ‘Gosh, what a
Splendid night to teach today’s youth a
Lesson about the merciless sting of
Accountability.’
You make the evening lovely:
The crisp air;
The sound of the paintball’s *splat*;
The surprised screams.
Pardon my digression, sweet Autumn, and let
Me sing to you still more of my admiration.
Your presence makes the land beautiful,
Even New Jersey,
And then you tell the trees to get naked
AND THEY DO.
Their striptease blankets my lawn
And brings strangers to my door offering to
‘Blow’ my ‘yard’.
‘Nay, gramatically-suspect yeoman!”,
Scream I, rebuffing their clumsy offers,
For I revere my annual rake time
And will not submit my lawn to gas-powered
Violation.
Your siren song makes me fat with bisque and pound cake.
Seriously, Autumn.
Holy shit.
Enough with the pumpkin
And the heavy cream
And the cooking
And the baking
And the football
And the drinking.
The subtle chill in the air enhances my abilities at stove and bar,
Leaving my heart and liver to lament their bastard owner.
Let us speak only briefly of the sweet kiss of delicious dark beer
And your heavy-handed demands for its consumption.
Am I obsessed with you,
Dearest Fall,
Comeliest of Seasons?
Yeah, probably.
Although, I did notice Christmas decorations in
Target on August 1st.
I’m not trying to assign blame here, but
WTF?
Yet how can I stay angry with you, O beautiful Autumn?
Impossible.
You kill me softly with your song.
You tear my heart out with butter-flavored Crisco.
So much pie.
Sir @ October 19, 2009
autumn really is so best.
I like the part about the naked trees.
So much pie. All the apples and pumpkins and berries and pears! Luckily for me, my mother, Queen of the Land of Baked Goods, lives much too far away to effectively victimize me with her skills, and I haven’t the flare for making good pie crust myself, so I’m safe… for the most part. Autumn, you’re a ruddy bastard on my waistline.
I’m not sure how you do it, but you manage to capture emotions that resonate with me every time I read them. Ode to Autumn had me chuckling at sweet retribution and Singularity left me saddened and yet admiring your honesty and self awareness. Nicely done to both.
I’m afraid the only poetry with which I am familiar is of the variety:
“There once was a milkman named Swartz….” or
“Here I sit all broken-hearted….”
a neanderthal I’m afraid I am in certain ways.
I’ve always turned my head and continued walking when approached with invitations to Poetry Night. However, if your name was on the poster, I’d be there. (With eggs and a paintball gun. Also, butter-flavored Crisco. Because I tend to treat everything like a Rocky Horror Picture Show.)
Excellent ode.
Kat: Totally.
Ashley: DIRTY GIRL!!!
Shari: I can send you a recipe for pie crust that’s so simple (after some practice) that you’ll need to spend more time in sweatpants for the rest of your life. You know it’s what you want.
Anna: Well, thanks.
Bob: If it weren’t for neanderthals, we wouldn’t have tools or the wheel, so there are worse things to be.
Angela: Mike Myers is my muse where poetry is concerned.
I love autumn for all those reasons up there. But! If you shoot kids with paintballs, can you record it somehow so we can all see it?
“gas-powered violation” would be a great name for a band…..I don’t they should have plans for playing The Opry, though.
This is my new favorite poem. Favoriter than Prufrock, even. Congratulations.
Just checking.
And my recipe…? ***tapping fingers on desktop***
… have I told you… I have fallen in lust with you…
I drink up what ever you write… and dream about rolling in the wet rotting leaves in the front lawn with you… and of course,,, we’re naked…
See you in my dreams…
Jennie: I probably could, I suppose, but that would be considered ‘evidence’ and we all know how troublesome evidence can sometimes be.
Shady: Cock-punching Rampage would also be an excellent name for an Opry-unfriendly band. Also, these guys who actually exist: http://www.tremendousfucking.com/
Jamelah: Poor T.S. Eliot. Outdone by a rank amateur. I will provide myself with the high-five necessary to accept your congratulations.
Shari: I think I’m going to go ahead and post it for all the world to see, because no one should ever have to buy a pie when they’re so easy to make.
Pooba~: If I had a nickel for every time some woman declared her desire to ravage me in a pile of wet rotting leaves, I could invest that money and find myself living well on the interest alone. It appears that I attract only the kinkiest of women.
love this. autumn makes demands and who are we to resist? trees accept fate as do you.
i see where prufrock might have to wait his turn.