Tag Archives: fall

1966. The whimsies of tourism

(This is the fifth of seven days of Science Faction).

The twenty-four Doglocians had paid good money to travel from their home planet to Planet Earth. The voyage, travelling at the speed of light through a Worm-warp, would arrive at Earth after ninety days. But things went wrong on the voyage.

“It never rains but it pours,” said Okrogowia, the captain of the Doglocian space craft. It was an old Doglocian cliché, but true nonetheless.

They had wanted to arrive on Earth to see the Fall foliage. That’s what the trip had been billed as: Travel to Earth, celebrate upon arrival, and see the most spectacular autumn colours in the cosmos! But with the Worm-warp warping in the wrong direction (something it did roughly once every one hundred years or so) they had ended up shooting off on a tangent. It took days of catching one Worm-warp after another to get back on course. By now it was estimated that the voyage was going to be six weeks late.

And then something spectacular occurred. The Worm-warp warped wondrously and the Doglocian craft skedaddled faster than imagined. The lost six weeks were made up in a matter of minutes. It was the 12th of October 2020 in Earth dates.

“We made it!” announced Captain Okrogowia.

“We made it! We made it! Now we can celebrate!” danced the twenty-four passengers. And indeed they had made it on time!

They had made it on the very day they had wished their adventure to start: Canadian Thanksgiving!

Happy Thanksgiving to all my Canadian friends!

1947. Seasonal Alphonso

Alphonso hated the Spring Equinox. It meant we’re heading towards summer, which is hot, sticky, and utterly uncomfortable.

Alphonso hated the Summer Solstice. It meant the hottest months are on their way.

Alphonso hated the Autumn Equinox. It meant we’re heading towards winter, which is cold, icy, and utterly uncomfortable.

Alphonso hated the Winter Solstice. It meant the coldest months are on their way.

Alphonso hated the weather on television. “They’re forever predicting bad weather. I’ll watch once they start being a bit more positive.”

Poem 78: Fall evenings fall

Fall evenings fall so soon;
the windows closed by noon, shut tight;
the curtains drawn lest light
too weak invades the brightly lit
and cheerful space. Flame flits
in hearth to warm, uplift the heart,
with smell of soup, jam tarts,
fresh bread, all a la carte fireside
dinner. Yet TV guides
demand the day’s world-wide newscast.

A bomb kills over there,
eight soldiers die somewhere, and far
away fancy film stars
rant, silken voices jarred with beeps.
A drug-drugged druggy weeps;
some politicians speak about
corruption. Stamps and shouts
and blood and hurts and pouts invade
the family room. Love fades.
Fall evenings fall. They’re made for guilt.

Poem 71: From the hill in autumn

(The lovely, late Cynthia Jobin – whom a number of you would have encountered – used to re-post earlier posted poems when she had no time or the muse had vanished. What is good for the goose is good for the gander. I shall do the same! This poem – From the hill in autumn – was the first poem I posted, way back. To be honest, I wrote it when I was 18. It’s autumn here now – so it’s appropriate enough. I am 68 so the poem is 50 years old! AND, according to my youthful 18-year old mind, I’m apparently meant to be dead by now!)

It’s lovely from the hill today.
A flock of autumn crows are twirling near
And floating-slow like burnt paper in air,
And vines blood and yellow on a black butterfly
Die slowly as the cold comes
In leaden droplets. Far away, hills turn, hand in hand,
As giant square-dancers turn, happy in a warmer land.
The purple winds call old, sad melodies.

When fifty years limp by and I’m bones and cold
With yellow skin a tattered leaf,
They’ll say, though his bones be straight,
His heart was bent and cried
Like a child on its lonely walks.

It’s autumn, and the scarecrowed trees shed gold.

 

Poems 23: The four seasons

(These limericks are the last of my first-of-the-month poems. There have been 35 poems in all. The weekly music finishes this coming Wednesday the 6th. There will have been 101 music compositions. The daily stories reach the finish line on Thursday 7th with story 1001).

WINTER

25winter

Take note that the weather each winter
Is grey and in need of a tinter
If you slip on the ice
Which isn’t that nice
Your leg’ll get put in a splinter.

SPRING

25spring

Just look at the weather each Spring
It’s an utterly pleasurable thing
It seems to get lotta
Brighter and hotta
With blossom buds blooming their bling.

SUMMER

25summer

Observe that the weather each summer
Can be a bit of a bummer
They forecast a drought
But we hardly get out
It just gets crumbier and crumber.

FALL

25fall

It seems that the weather each fall
Is worse than the autumn before
The more the rain wetters
The colder it getters
I’d rather no weather at all.

(Finally, since some definitions of the limerick say it must be bawdy and involve a member of the higher clergy…)

25pig

Did you hear of the bishop of York
Who was heavily into his pork?
Bits of the gristle
Sliced up his pizzle
So now he pokes with a fork.

If the above link doesn’t play, then try clicking HERE!

Poem 19: Fall fire

(By way of explanation: I have decided to post on the first of each month a poem in a specific form. Throughout that month, if further poems are created and posted, they will all use that form. The poetic form chosen for March 2016 is the Sextilla. The Sextilla is a poem with stanzas of six lines, usually each line being 8 syllables. It rhymes aabccb or ababcc.)

19fire

There’s not too much that’s left to say
About this golden autumn day.
The fallen leaves that fell last year
Have rotted now and turned to mush.
The trees again grew green and lush
But now stand naked, grey and bare.

I’ve raked the leaves and piled high
Some sticks and things for autumn fire,
And once the breeze blows all the time
I’ll light the leaves and watch them burn
And hope the wind won’t ever turn
Away from next door’s washing line.

You see, at six o’clock this morn
They began to mow their lawn,
And then began to prune their trees
With chainsaws blasting on full choke;
So I’m sending autumn smoke
To stink their house and make them wheeze.

There’s little worse than smoke-filled clothes,
And smoky drapes and runny nose,
And laundry smelling in a heap;
I’m even stinking out their car
With stench of ash and sticky tar.
In future may they let me sleep.

Poem 1: From the hill in autumn

© Bruce Goodman 1 September 2014

1autumn

It’s lovely from the hill today.
A flock of autumn crows are twirling near
And floating-slow like burnt paper in the air,
And vines blood and yellow on a black butterfly
Die slowly as the cold comes
In leaden droplets. Far away, hills turn, hand in hand,
As giant square-dancers turn, happy in a warmer land.
The purple winds call old, sad melodies.

When fifty years limp by and I’m bones and cold
With yellow skin a tattered leaf,
They’ll say, though his bones be straight,
His heart was bent and cried
Like a child on its lonely walks.

It’s autumn, and the scarecrowed trees shed gold.