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October He loved October best when glimmering light of summer's sun grows dim and antelope mope. Wild geese sail high amidst sky then, game is abundant and ever so vigilant. He loved the peak of dawn when it crawled over mountains steep. The hunt in rugged hills his passion. He often said he would meet his doomsday in October. Even protests never caused him to sway. As I watched animated leaves fall he took aim, drew a bead on death, and joined heaven's mysterious realm. He laid down in pleasant dreams, and me...I watch October come and go as flagrant fronds scamper. |
This Poem was Critiqued By: Tony P Spicuglia On Date: 2005-10-30 14:59:23
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 9.92857
First off Marilyn, this is a timeless classic. One could read this piece from the campfire of Clan of the Cave Bear, to the chilled evening nights where Arnie sits awash with meteorite trails. I could see the Indians and their lean-tos, or Esau heading out to please his father. This is a timeless classic.
October – One never knows the theme when a title is a month, but we know the setting that is expected. By naming this piece October, you set the scene with a rustic, autumn feel that exudes the breath of summer and envisions the white crystalline coat of winter.
He loved October best when
glimmering light of summer's
sun grows dim and antelope mope. This stanza made me smile, but I have done my share of animal observation, and certainly, they have done many things, but moping; well I have seen that too in saddened animals whose fates I am privy to, but I wish to see such in an antelope. The “glimmering” of “summers” grow dim. Fabric of a quilt begun and cherished.
Wild geese sail high amidst
sky then, game is abundant
and ever so vigilant. – Indeed, there is a base desire, draw, from seeing the abundance of nature, even when it must be understood, the geese, free and hoping for just one more transit, and the sky, from heer to theer, beautiful.
He loved
the peak of dawn when it crawled
over mountains steep. – I do understand, for the morning, and awaking before the world to exclaim at the moment when the world awakens, can anything be more vibrant and alive? How I love such times, and I share it in your words.
The hunt
in rugged hills his passion.- I love to eat, but the hunt, other than for women, I am not sure (though I am an expert marksman), I could easily deal with the preparation of life for consumption. I love the outdoors, and have felt the eyes of the sky on me.
He often said he would meet his
doomsday in October. Even
protests never caused him to sway. – It is a swarthy thing, to speak to the surroundings of ones own demise. I have done so, but not in a cyclical way, that of choosing the meadowlark over the Christmas plover, but I do understand wanting time to be just right. I do not want to leave this world, it is the punch line of a joke I have no tender chuckles for.
As I watched animated leaves fall
he took aim, drew a bead on death,
and joined heaven's mysterious realm.
He laid down in pleasant dreams, and
me...I watch October come and go
as flagrant fronds scamper. - There must be so much wealth stored up in the autumn for you. I could not a day pass without looking over my shoulder as the harvest moon rises, and singing whatever melody brings the beauty of such love to the forefront. I appreciate the “drew a bead on death”, and there is a goal orientated meaning to one reaching for the “mysterious realm”. I can hope for such, but the pragmatist and the dreamer contrast. They both, however, agree on the beauty.
Thanks for a poignant sharing of you soul.