the fall

a lustrous apple falls off the market stall
tumbles and rolls down the messy road
the ground is all bespattered and footworn
a tired stallkeeper takes the apple, puts it back

unsold produce is covered with a grey tarp at night
gets ripe then rots according to nature’s plan
a dirty apple with a battered side cannot sleep
nor stop thinking of that road and the meaning of life

The Fall

by TETIANA ALEKSINA
© All rights reserved 2022

GUEST POST // blink through stone by Cassy Single

sassafras closed her eyes
and felt the sun
it was warm and comforting
the sky was a blanket of blue
the ground a carpet of green
her eyes blinked
rays of colour from the meadow
streamed into her brain
she let herself feel
see, smell and taste
the world around her
for too long she saw anguish
smelt blood and tasted ash
it was time to come alive again
let colour seep into the black
and fill in between the lines

by CASSY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2022

TATI’s & TONY’s DEAD POET TOUR // A Vagabond Song. by Bliss Carman (William)

There is something in the autumn that is native to my blood–
Touch of manner, hint of mood;
And my heart is like a rhyme,
With the yellow and the purple and the crimson keeping time.

The scarlet of the maples can shake me like a cry
Of bugles going by.
And my lonely spirit thrills
To see the frosty asters like a smoke upon the hills.

There is something in October sets the gypsy blood astir;
We must rise and follow her,
When from every hill of flame
She calls and calls each vagabond by name.

by BLISS CARMAN (WILLIAM) (1861-1929)
Public Domain Poetry

TATI’s & TONY’s DEAD POET TOUR // Fringford Brook by Violet Jacob

The willows stand by Fringford brook,
From Fringford up to Hethe,
Sun on their cloudy silver heads,
And shadow underneath.

They ripple to the silent airs
That stir the lazy day,
Now whitened by their passing hands,
Now turned again to grey.

The slim marsh-thistle’s purple plume
Droops tasselled on the stem,
The golden hawkweeds pierce like flame
The grass that harbours them;

Long drowning tresses of the weeds
Trail where the stream is slow,
The vapoured mauves of water-mint
Melt in the pools below;

Serenely soft September sheds
On earth her slumberous look,
The heartbreak of an anguished world
Throbs not by Fringford brook.

All peace is here. Beyond our range,
Yet ‘neath the selfsame sky,
The boys that knew these fields of home
By Flemish willows lie.

They waded in the sun-shot flow,
They loitered in the shade,
Who trod the heavy road of death,
Jesting and unafraid.

Peace! What of peace? This glimpse of peace
Lies at the heart of pain,
For respite, ere the spirit’s load
We stoop to lift again.

O load of grief, of faith, of wrath,
Of patient, quenchless will,
Till God shall ease us of your weight
We’ll bear you higher still!

O ghosts that walk by Fringford brook,
‘Tis more than peace you give,
For you, who knew so well to die,
Shall teach us how to live.

by VIOLET JACOB (1863-1946)
Public Domain Poetry