Reposting, after the poem had been submitted to a magazine which elected not to publish it (but they did publish another one in the batch!).




Autumn

Rags of light hang from the prongs of trees;

Harvests of frost lurk among thews of bark.

Chill grips leaves in throes of blush and breeze.  

 

October's red is lush summer's decease:

It gets late early. Hours before dark,

Rags of light hang from the prongs of trees.

  

And Autumn, bleak Designer—if you please—

Invigorate us with your drastic work!

November, come with gusts of rustling breeze!

  

Toil till day dies. Anyone who sees

Leaflife’s blast and blight surely won’t shirk:

Rags of light hang from the prongs of trees.  

 

Exult in northerly cacophonies!

Trace a cold alphabet on glazed glass. Mark:

Poems compose themselves, braced for the breeze.

  

The year diminishes by slow degrees:

Months mourn their own loss as the sun goes stark.

Rags of light hang from the prongs of trees;

Enter December. Ghostly snow. Deep freeze.





Poetry by Thomas DeFreitas The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 94 times
Written on 2019-06-14 at 08:38

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Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
I'm not a huge fan of villanelles, but this one is a gem! "Rags of light hang from the prongs of trees," all by itself is wonderful.
2019-06-14


Sameen
At this point I bet you can write a villanelle in your sleep.
2019-06-14


Bibek
You describe the essence of autumn quite well in this villanelle. By the way, just out of curiosity, which magazine was it?
2019-06-14