November Blue / Alice Meynell

November Blue

The golden tint of the electric lights seems to give a complementary colour to the air in the early evening.            — ESSAY ON LONDON

O heavenly colour, London town
     Has blurred it from her skies;
And, hooded in an earthly brown,
     Unheaven’d the city lies.
No longer, standard-like, this hue
     Above the broad road flies;
Nor does the narrow street the blue
     Wear, slender pennon-wise.

But when the gold and silver lamps
     Colour the London dew,
And, misted by the winter damps,
     The shops shine bright anew —
Blue comes to earth, it walks the street,
     It dyes the wide air through;
A mimic sky about their feet,
     The throng go crowned with blue.

~~
Alice Meynell (1847-1922)
from Poems, 1921

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

Darek Zabrocki, London Night Rain, 2007. Courtesy Wallhere.com.

Alice Meynell biography

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

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