Posted in Free Verse

After The Fall

The last leaf waltzes under pearly clouds
while autumn tickles the ivories
before walking away on eggshells.
Dressed in its finest old lace,
winter flurries take center stage.
The glow from vanilla candles
can’t melt the frosted windowpanes.
Alabaster angels search the Milky Way
for cosmic lattes and corn silk teas
as a choir of freshly fallen snowflakes
sings of hope for a White Christmas.

© Susan Schoeffield

Written for the 10/12/14 prompt at Creative Bloomings “Sunday Seed” to write a poem using the tints and hues of a chosen color.

Posted in Free Verse

The State Of Denial

The smell of burning leaves
reminds me there is no more
hide and seek with summer.
Born to be a beach bum, for me
it’s more like a whiff of stale coffee
than the aroma of freshly baked bread.
Let autumn strum its balalaika
as reds and golds dance past the greens.
I’d rather fall in Malibu.

© Susan Schoeffield

Written for the 9/28/14 prompt at Creative Bloomings “Sunday Seed” to write a poem beginning with “the smell of burning leaves” and incorporating a word for each category: something you buy in a bakery, a smell in a diner, a make of automobile, something people do to relieve stress, an unusual musical instrument, and a child’s game.

Posted in Rondel

Seasoned Choreography

As gently falling autumn leaves
begin their final dance,
their fascinating tale enchants,
though subtly deceives.

A complicated story weaves
throughout the yard’s expanse
as gently falling autumn leaves
begin their final dance.

In graceful moves, each leaf conceives
to hold us in a trance.
With this ballet we see, perchance,
more than the eye perceives
as gently falling autumn leaves.

© Susan Schoeffield

Written for the 9/10/14 prompt at Creative Bloomings “Inform Poets” to write a Rondel poem.

Posted in Lannet

Climate Controlled

A picturesque beauty clearly abounds
when seasons astound by changing faces.
They quickly trade places as one will fade,
its statement well made, but it’s time to die.

In each figuration, I see them tease
when a springtime breeze turns into a storm
from summer’s warm days. As if on a whim,
those humid, grim days are swiftly replaced

by a breathtaking space of vivid hues.
I bid my adieus to colors so rich.
With the perfect pitch of a winter song,
the cold comes along to sing its refrain.

And during its reign, to match its white crown
the lawn’s brown grass wears an ivory gown.

© Susan Schoeffield

Written for the 8/27/14 prompt at Creative Bloomings “Inform Poets” to write a Lannet poem.