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Joseph Enright Poems
Autumn came in multicolors last year, Fiery reds and burnished oranges Bright yellows and rusty greens, Painted leaves that floated
An acorn on an oak tree grew, The wind around him gently blew, It whispered to him quite softly 'Some day from your mother
Is the moon lazy when it lies on its back? Was it the zebra who designed the piano, White and black? Is the elephant the wrong way round?
There was a young man from Warsaw Who viewed life full of awe His wife was a harpie, One day she got narkie
A frog came in my house today, Uninvited, you might say, He looked around contentedly, But took no heed of me.
In the stillness of the night I lie and think of days gone by, Of carefree youth and games we played Mountains climbed and seas we sailed,
Oh Autumn moon Heavenly lantern in an angry sky, Casts an eyrie shadow Through black sailed galleons
By dawns early morning haze, In admiration I did gaze, At work of beauty so profound, So intricate to astound.
Tall bricked chimneys standing high Black smoke billowing to the sky In behind large closed gates Terror hidden from outside gaze.
At evening time An owl is calling Oer the land night is falling
The old forge lies empty now Covered in ivy green Thee timber doors are bolted tight No blacksmith can be seen.
Even More Nonsense
When Moses parted The old Red Sea, Did he catch fish To bring home for his tea?
My FATHERS Hands
Large calloused shovel like hands Gnarled knuckles on fingers With chipped nails Kept clean with small bladed ivory handled penknife.
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
Autumn came in multicolors last year,
Fiery reds and burnished oranges
Bright yellows and rusty greens,
Painted leaves that floated
From barren branches
And rested lightly on the sleeping grass
The musty smell of dying things
So particular to autumn
Lingered in the air.
Death comes spectacularly
Proudly, in Autumn.
'This is not Death 'I thought
Death is the sand of your lifes hourglass,
Spilling grain by ever decreasing grain
Onto the scales of Death'
Autumn is the time of sleeping
The dawn of a new beginning.