November / Ethelwyn Wetherald

November

The old year’s withered face is here again,
     The twilight look, the look of reverie,
     The backward gazing eyes that seem to see
The full-leaved robin-haunted June remain
Through devastating wind and ruinous rain;
     A form that moves a little wearily,
     As one who treads the path of memory
Beneath a long year’s load of stress and strain.

Good-night! good-night! the dews are thick and damp,
     Yet still she babbles on, as loath to go,
          Of apple-buds and blooms that used to be,
Till Indian Summer brings the bedside lamp,
     And underneath a covering of snow 

          She dreams again of April ecstasy.

~~
Ethelwyn Wetherald (1857-1940)
from Lyrics and Sonnets, 1931

[Poem is in the public domain in Canada, the United States, and the European Union]

Ethelwyn Wetherald biography

Goldenrod / John Banister Tabb

Goldenrod

As Israel, in days of old,
Beneath the prophet s rod,
Amid the waters, backward rolled,
A path triumphant trod;

So, while thy lifted staff appears,
Her pilgrim steps to guide,
The Autumn journeys on, nor fears
The Winter s threatening tide.

~~ 

John Banister Tabb (1845-1909)
from Poems, 1894

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

John Banister Tabb biography

Believe It or Not / George J. Dance

Believe It or Not

Ladies and gentleman: we recovered a bullet
at the hospital on the second victim's gurney.
When examined, the bullet was found to have
no trace of blood, no bone or tissue fragments,
no particles of thread or thread striations.

Nevertheless, our forensic panel
by careful reconstructon of the crime scene
and rigorous tests, has finally determined
that both the men were shot with that one bullet.

The bullet struck the first man in his back
below the shoulder, damaged his right lung,
and smashed a vertebra, causing it to deflect
and exit through his throat in what we thought
previously was another entrance wound.

The bullet then hit the man in the front seat,
entered his back just below the armpit
and pulverized five inches of a rib
which again caused the bullet to deflect
and exit on his right side at the nipple.

On exiting it grazed the man's right arm
and hit a cufflink, once again deflecting
into his wrist and shattering the bone
which caused the bullet to deflect again.

It then entered the second man's left thigh
embedded shallowly beneath the skin
and fell out later at the hospital.

Believe it or not, this single pristine bullet
alone caused seven entry and exit wounds
and passed through 15 inches of muscle tissue,
through seven layers of skin, 15 of clothing,
and through two bones, a radius and a rib.

With these new findings, we can say there is
no evidence of any second shooter
and therefore we conclude that one lone gunman
shot both the Governor and the President.

~~
George J. Dance, 2020

[All rights reserved - used with permission]

George J. Dance biography

Digging / Edward Thomas

Digging

Today I think
Only with scents,– scents dead leaves yield,
And bracken, and wild carrot's seed,
And the square mustard field;

Odours that rise
When the spade wounds the root of tree,
Rose, currant, raspberry, or goutweed,
Rhubarb or celery;

The smoke's smell, too,
Flowing from where a bonfire burns
The dead, the waste, the dangerous,
And all to sweetness turns.

It is enough
To smell, to crumble the dark earth,
While the robin sings over again
Sad songs of Autumn mirth.

~~
Edward Thomas (1878-1917)
from Last Poems, 1918

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

Edward Thomas biography

"Digging" read by Patrick Wallace. Courtesy Poems Cafe.

Autumn It Was / William Browne

from The Shepheard's Pipe, the Fourth Eglogue

Under an aged Oke was WILLY laid,
WILLY, the lad who whilome made the rockes
To ring with joy, whilst on his pipe he plaid,
And from their maisters wood the neighb'ring flockes
But now o're-come with dolors deepe
That nye his heart-strings rent,
Ne car'd he for his silly sheepe,
Ne car'd for merriment.
But chang'd his wonted walkes
For uncouth paths unknowne,
Where none but trees might heare his plaints,
And eccho rue his mone.

Autumne it was, when droop'd the sweetest floures,
And Rivers (swolne with pride) orelook'd the bankes,
Poore grew the day of Summer's golden houres,
And void of sapp stood Ida's Cedar-rankes,
The pleasant meadows sadly lay
In chill and cooling sweats
By rising fountaines, or as they
Fear'd Winters wastfull threats.
Against the broad-spred Oke,
Each winde in fury beares;
Yet fell their leaves not halfe so fast
As did the Shepherdes teares.

~~
William Browne of Tavistock (?1590-1645?)
from The Shepheard's Pipe, and other eglogues, 1614

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

Read the complete poem here

William Browne of Tavistock biography

"Autumn" (excerpt) read for LibriVox. Courtesy LibriVox Auidobooks.

On the Beach in November / Edward Cracroft Lefroy

On the Beach in November

My heart's Ideal, that somewhere out of sight
Art beautiful and gracious and alone,–
Haply, where blue Saronic waves are blown
On shores that keep some touch of old delight,–
How welcome thy memory, and how bright,
To one who watches over leagues of stone
These chilly northern waters creep and moan
From weary morning unto weary night.
O Shade-form, lovelier than the living crowd,
So kind to votaries, yet thyself unvowed,
So free to human fancies, fancy-free,
My vagrant thought goes out to thee, to thee,
As wandering lonelier than the Poet's cloud,
I listen to the wash of this dull sea.

~~
Edward Cracroft Lefroy (1855-1891)
from Sonnets of this Century, 1887

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

Edward Cracroft Lefroy biography

"On the Beach in November" courtesy Heidi's Here and There.

Who Made the Law? / Leslie Coulson

Who Made the Law?

Who made the Law that men should die in meadows?
Who spake the word that blood should splash in lanes?
Who gave it forth that gardens should be bone-yards?
Who spread the hills with flesh, and blood, and brains?

            Who made the Law?

Who made the Law that Death should stalk the village?
Who spake the word to kill among the sheaves,
Who gave it forth that death should lurk in hedgerows,
Who flung the dead among the fallen leaves?

            Who made the Law?

Those who return shall find that peace endures,
Find old things old, and know the things they knew,
Walk in the garden, slumber by the fireside,
Share the peace of dawn, and dream amid the dew – 

           Those who return.

Those who return shall till the ancient pastures,
Clean-hearted men shall guide the plough-horse reins,
Some shall grow apples and flowers in the valleys,
Some shall go courting in summer down the lanes –

            Those who return.

But who made the Law? the Trees shall whisper to him:
“See, see the blood – the splashes on our bark!”
Walking the meadows, he shall hear bones crackle,
And fleshless mouths shall gibber in silent lanes at dark.

            Who made the Law?

Who made the Law? At noon upon the hillside
 His ears shall hear a moan, his cheeks shall feel a breath,
And all along the valleys, past gardens, crofts, and homesteads,
            He who made the Law,

            He who made the Law,
He who made the Law shall walk along with Death.

~~
Leslie Coulson (1889-1916)
from From an Outpost, and other poems, 1917

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

Leslie Coulson biography

"Who Made the Law?" courtesy StevesVids.

(Poem begins at 1:00)