gatherers hunt

Most farmers in northwest Iowa have finished harvesting. Corn and soybean crops are combined and stored in elevators or bins, waiting for favorable prices. The garden produce has been eaten or preserved for winter. Plentiful pumpkins gathered up to sell at local stands and markets. Some orange orbs are carved into fierce or friendly faces, holding lit candles to flicker from porches.

The sun sets earlier now, as Harvest Moon is followed by Hunter Moon. Perhaps the native Lakota would have called it Falling Leaves Moon. They are still falling…red sumac, flaming maples, golden cottonwood blanket lawns, deep green underneath from generous autumn rains. Children rake leaves repeatedly into great piles, then run and jump, scattering crunchy debris with delight.

Pheasant season opens; eager hunters gather in the chill air, some accompanied by dogs in training. They patiently walk waterways and groves to flush out the birds, grown plump on corn. Whir of wings and sharp pop of gun, dog fetches dead bird, still warm. Someone will dress and cook their prize tonight. Pheasants raised for hunting keep population flush.

eyes glow in the dark

wandering possum or coon?

roadkill by morning


Frank Tassone hosts haibun Monday at dVerse where we’re howling at the Hunter Moon 🙂

harvest fun

corn maze…

enter with map

follow lost grandchildren

emerge later to pick bumpy

pumpkins;

orange…

ordinary

white orbs are popular

even keen on green gourds with stripes

and warts!

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Bjorn asks us to revisit cinquain form at dVerse…here’s my double!

falling for fall

A Villonnet is a hybrid of the Villanelle and the Sonnet. It has the Iambic Pentameter of both, but holds the four-stanza/line structure of the sonnet, while utilizing the two-line rhyme nature of the villanelle. The final stanza replaces the sonnet couplet with a typical villanelle tercet.  Linking this villonnet to Grace’s prompt at dVerse Poets pub. I was NOT going to write about fall, but here it is…

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i sit on deck to soak in warm sunshine
this end of summer’s glow suits my skin fine
fat cats watch scene from shade and lounge around
piped wind chimes’ gentle song is only sound

forgotten apple falls from top of tree
while butterflies migrate, bees cap honey
red leaves whirl past as if in joyful dance
a celebration of autumn’s last chance

ripe orange pumpkins lie hidden in field
as drying crops will soon their harvest yield
pheasants and deer will feast upon the corn
bred cows will glean before blizzards are born

today, september stays my favorite month
until the wind turns cold out of the north
then i will dream with birds of drifting south

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NOTE: Line 1 is to be repeated as lines 8 and 13, and line 4 is repeated as lines 12 and 15. I neglected to repeat any lines, not a true villonnet…may have to rework sometime!

photo by lynn__

do you know?

IMG_3650

 

do you know what the earth meditates upon in autumn?

when north wind breathes fresh worship
over cornfield of heavy stalks bowed down
as ripe apples bless orchard with abundance
and tumbleweeds dance across rural road?

when crispy leaves gather in harvest pile
over rich soil fully yielded to waning sun
as pumpkins swell with orange-ribbed grace
and squirrel chatters praise for scattered nuts?

do you know what the earth meditates upon in autumn?

 

 


The beginning (and ending) question is from Pablo Neruda’s El Libro de las Preguntas.

fallen

A triolet is a French form of 8 lines with ABaAabAB repetition…for dVerse MTB


 

wet scarlet leaves carpet cold ground

embraced with dew and kissed by mist

hidden in fog, pumpkins lie ’round

wet scarlet leaves carpet cold ground

ghost cows graze cornfield, make no sound

where earth meets sky in phantom tryst

wet scarlet leaves carpet cold ground

embraced with dew and kissed by mist

 

 

 

pity for pumpkins

 

The Farmer plants seeds in his field

and from the dust grow living vines

which, with time and tender care,

produce a lovely patch of pumpkins.

 

But the locals, jealous of his bounty,

declare the neighborhood is overrun

with too many pumpkins already and

decide to selectively smash and destroy.

 

“Let’s pull little ones off the vines!”

they yell, and pluck the smallest orbs,

prematurely; throwing them on the

refuse pile, unripe and unwanted.

 

Then they notice some fully grown

pumpkins that didn’t develop into

perfect specimens – a little lopsided,

warty, or sporting misshapen ridges.

 

“We cannot stand to look at them!”

Those deemed imperfect pumpkins

are next to be ripped from the vines

and carelessly heaved into the ditch.

 

Obviously, all worthy pumpkins

must be a rich shade of true orange;

so pumpkins of different shades or

mottled skin must also be tossed out.

 

By now, pumpkin-smashing fever has

caught the mob in a frenzy of destruction

until they leave only busted bits of shells,

slimy orange guts and the Farmer’s tears.

 

 

pump

(Photo and poetry prompt from brian  at d’Verse Poets.)