Quadrille – Leaves

De is our prompter this Monday at dVerse Poets Pub. It is the Quadrille feature for this Monday. A quadrille is a 44 word poem, not including the title and must include the word of the prompter. She is prompting us to use the word “leaves” as in leaves that fall from tree, leaves as in he, she, it leaves; leaves of grass, book leaves. Even leaving or leave. Come join us and see what shakes loose from the tree! https://dversepoets.wordpress.com/2016/08/29/quadrille-15/

Leaves are leaving
Summer is leaving,
Leaves drop delicately
One.at.a.time.
Leaves know when it is time
better than we.
There are a few early to the party
but leaves know when to leave.
It is time for autumn –
We say.
Leaves know when it is time to
f
a
l
l

public domain photo

 

4th Floor Walk-up

artwork by Danny Gregory, used by permission, taken from his Flickr page

artwork by Danny Gregory, used by permission, taken from his Flickr page

This is submitted to dVerse Poetics where we are writing to the art of Danny Gregory.

I remember that summer well,
whenever I see the sun come through
the window at a certain angle,
or smell the sweet smell of old dry wood,
or I hear the first opening bars of
Baba O’Riley.

All the way up those stairs
sweating and taking a rest
on the third flight.
Smelling the meals of other people,
pot from that quiet man on the second floor.

Hot hot summer.
Up on the roof at night
looking down at the crowded streets,
looking up to the sky, a strange
orange from all the lights
and not really a sky, just a…
piece of canvas I guess.

Sitting in someone’s lawn chair,
lugged up there for the purpose
of finding repose.
I remember well that night
I climbed to the roof
with a cold six pack.
I couldn’t face that tiny
apartment full of faded plants,
books waiting to be studied,
and a lethargic shower.
And on the roof,
the young man sitting in the – his
lawnchair. he looked startled
that someone else would come up.
I hesitated.
Then, want to share a six pack?
And he smiled.

So we drank and smoked his
pot and talked…talked…talked…
We both wrote bad poetry and
we didn’t care.
We were tired of studying,
wanted to find a cool patch of green
somewhere…
We stayed up there until sunrise.
We watched the sun climb before
we started down the stairs
to our apartments.

I remember that summer well.
I often wonder,
Do you still write bad poetry?
Do you remember me
and that first morning
you brought me coffee?

%d bloggers like this: