Echoes of Fall

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Abstract

e stuck with a son Like me. Forbidden truth hiding in a cedar tree behind cellar doors Roots like skeletal cacti in fall There is nothing here but the dead And the dying There is nothing but the trying Mushroom cover gravestones Chirping crickets the color of grass Playing deep viola harmony The wind is my only friend And that says a lot Father moved us to Schuyler, For job. Mother lost her sanity In the quiet. As the forest took us In these untold hours In these puddles, I splash it Faces I should have seen Prophecy in the leaves But yet here I am Claiming brilliance When I didn’t even hear the crow Nor see the last monarch flutter On that November day. Do you Remember? The honeydew seeping On the last fallen leaf… … the blood trickle as I fell off that toy horse? The screaming comet that broke the ea

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rth? the flower you took with you to the land where the poet’s sight ends.</p><p id="9131">I remember. I remember</p><p id="a950">it all.</p><p id="994a">© <a href="undefined">Bradley J Nordell</a> 2022</p><p id="a61c">If you enjoyed this poem, you might also like to read:</p><div id="a15f" class="link-block"> <a href="https://readmedium.com/that-forgotten-home-26ead8109a66"> <div> <div> <h2>That Forgotten Home</h2> <div><h3>A poem to earth</h3></div> <div><p>medium.com</p></div> </div> <div> <div style="background-image: url(https://miro.readmedium.com/v2/resize:fit:320/0*OAinjdCg9YC1aTrS)"></div> </div> </div> </a> </div></article></body>

A poem about cycles

The past echoes endlessly on a loop Möbius strip of regret returned This is not the record I want to play But dark midnight pontifications I’m afraid of the cold floor And creaking under my bed Father’s drinking, mother’s mania Someone, please shut the door And keep out the frigid draft I’m in a room thinking about other worlds They are downstairs thinking How could they be stuck with a son Like me. Forbidden truth hiding in a cedar tree behind cellar doors Roots like skeletal cacti in fall There is nothing here but the dead And the dying There is nothing but the trying Mushroom cover gravestones Chirping crickets the color of grass Playing deep viola harmony The wind is my only friend And that says a lot Father moved us to Schuyler, For job. Mother lost her sanity In the quiet. As the forest took us In these untold hours In these puddles, I splash it Faces I should have seen Prophecy in the leaves But yet here I am Claiming brilliance When I didn’t even hear the crow Nor see the last monarch flutter On that November day. Do you Remember? The honeydew seeping On the last fallen leaf… … the blood trickle as I fell off that toy horse? The screaming comet that broke the earth? the flower you took with you to the land where the poet’s sight ends.

I remember. I remember

it all.

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