Holly Ducarte

Writing, Adventure, and Intrigue

7 notes

Goodnight, Autumn

Foxtails sway to the drumbeat of fall and the leaves burn with fiery color
Flowers give their final breath; a eulogy of spring dew and summer sunbathing
Creeks weave around stone, preparing to be wrapped in a chilling embrace
Owls hoot over the canopy of the forest as the cuckoo clocks of time
The buzz of nature subsides to a hum, a lullaby to send itself into dreaming
Goodnight, Autumn

The aroma of spiced apples and raw pumpkin come from nearby towns and villages
Where children are dressed in knit scarves and wool mittens, playing in dry corn fields
The last round of laundry gets strung on the line by callused hands that tended garden
Ravens swarm the scarecrows until the farmer weilds the straw broom, dust billowing high
Stories about history, fairy tale, and fable, are told by the crackling fireplace until heads bob and lean back into chairs
Goodnight, Autumn

Written by Holly Ducarte © All Rights Reserved

(Source: hollyducarte.com)

Filed under poetry poem writing HollyDucarte autumn fall harvest

89 notes

Long Night

poetry-and-insomnia:

—for Isla Anderson

The night blew under the hills one day
and all the stars buried themselves in their graves

every candle stays un-lit in your new house
and you are bound to the dark

when you thought the moon came out
from behind the soot-like clouds

it wasn’t…

5 notes

The Forgotten Man

Vacant heart and echoing rooms
Wicker chairs and bristle brooms
Webs of dust dangle, dripping with dew
Lopsided wall hangings, pictures of you
Cracks in the floorboards creak out a song
A morose nocturne tells of all that went wrong
Wax dripping beads upon stacks of old books
Jackets with patches on tarnished bronze hooks
The smell of old memories gets harder to bear
Coffee grounds and cigar ash strewn about with no care
I count the jagged tears on the blue papered wall
Thinking I smell your perfume down the easterly hall
Why does the clock laugh at my expense by the hour?
Why have I given up all the stores of my power?
My empty bottles of brandy and gin set on window panes
Create a dance of wiggling lights in the house when it rains
My eyes are tinted red with the paint of obsession
I am a self-made forgotten man who never learnt his lesson

Written by Holly Ducarte © All Rights Reserved

Filed under poetry poem writing nocturne forgotten sad literature books HollyDucarte