Autumnal Renaissance

Stumbling into moonlit mansions avoiding the evening breeze
I rustle the leaves stuck to the shutter by the hard harvest rain
The chandelier chides the forest that bravery put asunder
A fountain is gurgling passive droplets forging a soft striped plane
Mars often rose behind the mansion along with thunder
Yet a red-brown leaf lay on the sill with a prayer in hand ‘bout a candle.
Harvest moons don’t hamper the imps as they bury their treasure.
Coruscant vandals appear from shrubs that grow ‘round the hills
to extricate destitute men from sadness and fill them with wonder.
Streaming from midnight’s brisk chill come shouts of laughter and cheer
piercing the delicate silence falling from legions of shame.
Looking beyond new lunar tablets asserting the course of flight
Hallow the vagrants candied orchard denying Emmanuel
A quiescent rogue’s petunia captures the brightened slaughter
Fastidious spectrums blend the quotient with the cleansed prophet’s bell.
The harvest moon shines through the forest to sparkle living waters
The placid birth for which bells toll wasn’t praised by the old or newfangled.
Acrid psalms enchant pregnant daughters as they calmly say farewell.
Pumpkins imprisoned lizards in dungeons dancing rhythms to a chorus
inspiring choreagraphs with common assumptions on a churning carousel.
Oozing from under the soil emerged the limpid and tame
Hearing the sleepwalkers claiming their freedom to dwell
Upon a star-studded ridge the young men said they will brave the storm
as their patience grew thin.
So the rope was twisted over poignant alibis as they swam
from beyond to within.
The prophet couldn’t find a sap to listen to his yarns as an earthquake
began to shake and rumble.
Reciting quotes as he wandered ‘cross a dying field of grass so very humble
waiting for the world in slumber to awake.
Hootenanny’s nocturnal slamming disturbed a hermit’s purged cobra
which never feasted upon a helpless lamb.
A challenged mother’s foolish blunder
has frightened the prophet from his “Amen”.
He meandered left to right in search of his abracadabra.
Loathe outrightly the treatment of the hermit as he bathes his most loved
planting himself against his fishing pole not wishing to condemn.
The beautiful foliage is painting the scenery and withers his misery and strife.
We pose with a master photographer who is saturated with life.
He is waiting for the breezes to shift while waxing a model
who will soon hoist her sails, it is only a question of when.
Dread the choice of the common sod as the town crier sings of it.
Then your voice proclaims oaths in the moist overgrowth and you needn’t
shy away from the epitome of prayer as the model takes course.
She will meet the harvest princess as she continues her travels
wishing for resolution and contentment while riding her rocking horse.

by Paul Amrod

Comments (2)

This poem I wrote at the age of only 21. I remember the fall that I wrote this. I was in my last year studying at the Juilliard. I also am a composer of many different styles of music. I want to read more of your poetry. I am very busy at the moment but I will try to find some stolen moments. Thank you for your great interest in my work. Greetings, Paul
She will meet the harvest princess as she continues her travels I liked these words.