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On southern wind this early morn
comes a chill late autumn rain
tapping castanets upon my hat
in monotonous refrain.

Each time a drop hits colored leaf
it knocks it loose from summer home
sending it to join its kin
among the dampened duff and loam.

The ground beneath each different tree
is covered in its own bright hue
and flattened further by the rain.
A quilted multi-colored view

So I seek out a cedar tree
(nature's shelter of dark green)
and sit beneath the scented boughs
waiting to see what will be seen.

Besides the leaves on their last trip,
bare rattling limbs shake off the rain
which drops to dimple still creek pools
mixing with the tannic stain.

And while peering at the stream
dodging wood ducks streak on by
on blurred beating whistling wings
beneath the lowering gray sky.

In an adjacent fallow field
a single solemn turkey feeds
on soggy insects, grubs and worms
he finds in the stubble and wet weeds.

A nearby squirrel goes up a tree
looking for a big acorn.
I'd like to be nimble as he
on this dripping dismal morn.

Ghosting down a nearby ridge
goes a sleek and silent buck
on his way to court a doe.
Deer season's closed now, just my luck.

And on a hollow tree unseen
woodpeckers go knock,knock, knock
drilling for a bug or grub
in his red, white and dull black smock

So even on such rainy day
with summer's warmth now gone,
in the forests and the glades
the muted beat of life goes on.

Style / type: 
Structured: Western
Review Request (Intensity): 
I want the raw truth, feel free to knock me on my back
Review Request (Direction): 
What did you think of my title?
How was my language use?
What did you think of the rhythm or pattern or pacing?
How does this theme appeal to you?
How was the beginning/ending of the poem?
Editing stage: 


good rhyming, use of assonance and alliteration, delightful imagery. Fuck! You know I really enjoyed reading this.

Are you sure you're not Muslim? Apparently some Muslims believe that they must introduce some imperfection to their work because perfection belongs only to Allah. Yes, it has your trademark irregularities which enhance rather than detract.

Only stanza 7. I'm bet you're not happy with it yourself. It's bloody awkward and needs work. Read it aloud.

a quilted mult-colored view [multi]

I don't quite know why but this touched me far more than your work usually does.

Neopoet Directors

Strong praise indeed considering the source. I'll convert you to a nture rhme lover yet lol. Stanza 7 was nearly left out and you are correct that it will receive more work. And thanks for spotting that darn typo. And I don't need to introduce imperfection, they arrive on their own lmao. I'm glad I was able to touch you with this and appreciate the visit...................stan

author comment

much better

Neopoet Directors

thank you. I'll probably still make minor edits as time goes on................stan

author comment

Hi Stan -

I really enjoyed the flow of this write, and can definitely attest that it was quite the rainy day here in the South! My favorite stanzas were 1,2, and closing. Castanets were a good analogy. I appreciated the bringing back of something positive in the closing stanza - even though there was dreariness abound, the pulse of life goes on.

Well done.

~ Jess K
"A parakeet is one who takes care of you until the real keet arrives.." - George Carlin

It's good to see you again.Castanets, huh? Well hardly the first memory mistake I've made lol.I'm pleased you liked this and appreciate the read and correction..............stan

author comment

and better.

Neopoet Directors

the tinker tinkers on lol.........stan

author comment

I don't know where you pull it from. It amazes me. So many walks and thoughts. I'm going to post my walk with you that I wrote before the surgery. Just because I can.

W. H. Snow

A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds. Percy Bysshe Shelley

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No need really comment just say hello so I'll know you came by. ..............looking forward to reading your poem.......stan.........Do you know what I was doing as they injected my back to put me out for surgery? Whispering my poem "Homeplace" from memory. that's getting pretty bad ain't it?

author comment
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