Poetic License


I wrote a poem.

And two weeks ago, I debuted that poem at The Association of Rhode Island Author‘s monthly “Lively Literati” poetry reading event in Cranston — and I wasn’t asked to leave.

Though I’ve dabbled, I have never considered myself to be a poet, preferring to leave all that esoteric meter, rhyme and verse nonsense to the beret-wearing, patchouli-sniffing crowd. I prefer the longer, more thoughtful forms of creative expression, like the novel, where you can procrastinate for decades and still be revered because people think you’re working on it.

But I was inexplicably inspired, and went ahead and wrote a poem anyway. And for better or worse, here it is. Warning: have a hanky ready, it gets pretty intense.


Ah, Autumn

Ah, autumn… You son of a bitch.
With the promise of cooler days,
And restful, peaceful, cricket-filled nights,
You wish away summer for us all,
Leaving in your wake a cold rain, sleet and the searing pain of a northwest wind,
No more comforting than the confused hand of a schizophrenic mistress.

Ah, autumn… You son of a bitch.
You deceive us with your dazzling displays of color,
The vibrant reds of the proud maple, the yellow hues of the comforting birch.
And now your vibrant colors have departed,
Stripping once majestic trees bare naked, exposing neighbors I’d hoped to forget.
And leaving my debris-filled yard to resemble  the ass-end of some joyous, drunken parade.

Ah, autumn… You son of a bitch. 
Speak to me of that legendary  blanket of majestic color,
That now sadistically cuddles my lawn like a warm, snuggly quilt,
Plotting to  suffocate it — dead.
And with oak leaves the size of dinner plates,
You then swathe the squishy surprise the dog left me after his early morning walk.

Ah, autumn… You son of a bitch.
Those people. Oh yes, you know those people.
You encourage those people who never leave their homes, and never raise their blinds.
Who reek of mulling spices and declare autumn to be their “favorite season.”
Yet as soon as the temperature drops precisely below 69.5 degrees,
They burrow into a wool sweater to whine of the terrible cold.
Only to declare spring to be their “favorite season.” Oh, shut up.

Ah, autumn… You son of a bitch.
And alas ’tis Halloween! Your signature moment arrives.
It is your holiday, veiled in an October cyclone of brown leaves that swirl above chilled, hidden puddles.
Giddy, misbehaving girls and boys in enabling costumes. Assurances of chocolate, sweets and treats!
Yet I get a bruised apple and a giant… stale… orange… marshmallow… peanut.
And a two-hundred dollar dental deductible.
And my pumpkin is missing.

Ah, autumn… You son of a bitch.
And so now the snow descends and hides evidence of your plunder.
Winter has mercifully pushed you aside. Even it doesn’t like you.
Ice. Snow. Slush. Hoarfrost. Flu.
Winter carries no pretense. It was designed by its creator to be evil.
Yet the heartless winter brings a December solstice that lengthens my days, and brings me hope,
And once again fills my spirit with dreams of the balmy summer sunshine that you stole from us all.

Good riddance,  autumn.
You are a son of a bitch.

~Steven R. Porter

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1 Comment

Filed under poetry

One response to “Poetic License

  1. Clare Sweeney

    Way too intense . You’ve reduced me to a quivering puddle, you son of a bitch!

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