Autumn in Prison Poem by Connie Leung

Autumn in Prison Poem by Connie Leung

Autumn in Prison

By Connie Leung

In memory of   John Fowle

these leaves are not from in here

they are nothing like the towering pine

that prickles crevices into my sky with its

decaying and sullen branches

these leaves are robust & hearty still

sneaking their way onto a stage

of concrete like renegade

prima donnas at burlesque

they dance and flicker

bare glimpses of saffron & sepia

blow kisses from lips a tint of rouge

i am certain

no man can recreate

these leaves must be

the ones you saw each day

as you sat close by painting

they huddled together didn’t they

and danced harmoniously

as they fanned rainbows into your sky

i create a story in my mind of how

you must’ve smiled and pressed

those rose-kissed cheeks toward your eyes

but your leaves are changing in here

as all the fallen do

i watch as one little ballerina races by

unable to keep pace

she collides into a steel wall

half her body in my company

half her body reaching for you

her slippers tear in the struggle

i whisper to her you’re still beautiful

and tell her you should go

she twirls her head blushing

then exposes her drying heart toward me

she waits for me to come for her

she waits for us

to save each other

Song for Autumn

Song for Autumn

Song for Autumn

In the deep fall
don’t you imagine the leaves think how
comfortable it will be to touch
the earth instead of the
nothingness of air and the endless
freshets of wind? And don’t you think
the trees themselves, especially those with mossy,
warm caves, begin to think
of the birds that will come – six, a dozen – to sleep
inside their bodies? And don’t you hear
the goldenrod whispering goodbye,
the everlasting being crowned with the first
tuffets of snow? The pond
vanishes, and the white field over which
the fox runs so quickly brings out
its blue shadows. And the wind pumps its
bellows. And at evening especially,
the piled firewood shifts a little,
longing to be on its way.

by  Mary Oliver

Quiet Reliance Poem

Quiet Reliance Poem

QUIET RELIANCE POEM

In the quiet hush where dawnlight glows,

I lay my thoughts where stillness grows.

Among the leaves my longings fall,

A silent wish, the softest call.

May storms within you find their peace,

And let the weight of sorrow cease.

Let love descend like healing rain,

To touch the roots beneath your pain.

I do not ask to be your sun,

But just to stay when days are done.

To be the voice that doesn’t flee,

The bloom that clings beneath the tree.

And if the winds still rise and moan,

I’ll learn to stand, to bend, alone.

With grace to meet you where you are,

A steady light, however far.

Quiet Reliance Poem emeraldbookclub

Whispers of the Quiet Storm

Whispers of the Quiet Storm

🙏WHISPERS OF THE QUIET GROVE 🙏
Beneath the hush of softened skies,
Where gentle leaves in silence rise,
A heart once torn by storm and grief,
Now finds in stillness, sweet relief.
The winds once howled with cruel disdain,
Each whisper laced with ghost of pain,
Yet through the thorns, a light did grow—
A bond that roots where kindness flows.💡
No trumpet call, no grand parade,
Just hands that reached and fears that stayed.
In loyalty, their warmth was sown,
And from despair, new hope was grown.😃
Now side by side, through calm or storm,
Their hearts entwined in steadfast form.
The grove they built from scars and grace—
A sacred, ever-blooming place. 📍
Whispers of the Quiet Grove Poem
The Art of Staying Tender poem

The Art of Staying Tender poem

The Art of Staying Tender poem

There is a softness in me

that the world once tried to silence,

yet it blooms anyway

Like wildflowers breaking through stone.

I hold this tenderness close,

letting it shape my days

with quiet courage

and unspoken strength

some nights it trembles,

some days it glows

but it never disappears -

it simply learns new ways to stand

And in its gentle persistence

I finally understand.

to remain tender in a harsh world

is a form of art on its own

The art of staying tender poem
The Sun by Sara Dickson

The Sun by Sara Dickson

Blaze, sun, blaze you fire streak,
Above horizon ashen sneak,
Specked with brilliant heat from molten core,
Ball of flames such orange pumpkin,
Burning object, many lore.

A gleeful creature shed rays of light,
Bring swift end to blanket night,
Lava white pinpricks vanish far,
Seen not 'till the moon prevails,
And sky so soft is dipped in tar.

She with fame a myth ruled over day,
Angel pure free from decay,
Deity honored with many precious gift,
Bow down to her majesty,
Sacrificed poor lamb so swift.

But she, a terrible being slaughter,
Stole away liquid, took the water,
Dried the life, said died of thirst,
Wrinkled hopeless fruit from limb,
Not only blessing, 'tis the worst.

Sara Dickson

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