Decaying Autumn Slides To Frigid Winter - Modern Poetry

Hello fellow hubbers,

I've been a contributor here for about a month now and I enjoy reading everyone's articles. I wanted to take this opportunity to do a bit of self-promotion on my new collection of poetry, Fabricated Autumn. This collection of works is my first published collection and deals with modern issues in relation to both personal and relatable issues. The following is an excerpt from my book's description.

"Fabricated Autumn is author Jesse White’s introductory collection of poetry that adds flavor to the vital, sometimes tasteless matters in life. Beginning with the unsettling sharpness of autumn’s decay, readers are led through a series of enthralling poems until they find themselves at the death of tired, aged winter. From perceptions on individuality to lessons on the surreal feelings of grief, Fabricated Autumn offers insight into the hurried lives we have grown accustomed to. White’s vivid imagery and signature style promise a captivating journey into both the inner mind and the modern world."

I have included a few samples of my work below. More can be found at www.fabricatedautumn.com

Kindle versions of my book are currently on sale for only .99cents. Physical copies will be made for sale in the next day or so and will sell for $5.99. The book contains 49 poems and is a fantastic journey into the inner mind. I appreciate any and all comments. If you enjoy my work, please consider a purchase and a positive review. Thank you.

Vernal hazels ripening and aging hickories browning;

the feast of scented harvest eludes annually.

Peppery stalks wilting in cranberry shade;

quilted leaves smothering the acorns

beneath the scarecrow’s soles.

The chilling sleet of crows glazes autumnal fire,

each crisp, petrified brethren embracing,

as the soil’s wife pierces their skin.

Disfigured gourds drooping with sorrow,

famished spiders nesting, feasting on their remains.

A rusting pitchfork is forgotten in the neighboring haystack.

Yet the jagged pine cones and their glistening mothers,

are ripening with familiar holiday promise.

Sparkling dust will soon glide from the clouds,

littering the fruitful work of man and nature.

And now the cider has all been tapped,

stored in aged barrels for our frosted throats;

its boiling acidity to warm our frost burnt grins.

Our lightsome thoughts will long for the sun,

and it’s calming burst of citrus fireflies.

Yet,

The grace of creaking timber cannot last.

The brimful orange patches are soon to rot.

The autumnal equinox has long passed.

The season whimpers in the heart of November.

This is the death of autumn.

copyright @ Jesse C. White, 2011,2012

I saw your ghost in the sapless maple.

Your luminescence was alive with essence.

Ghastly cyan burned the twilight fog.

You whispered, and you taught me the blues.

As I stood among the nightmare altars,

the charred bricks ran through the orchard,

and the aroma of rotting ovaries grew stale.

All the acid gathered beneath your feet.

You hung there; desperate, motionless.

The caustic mush singed your heels.

Your white nightgown radiated solitude.

And your voice choked on my name,

a watery whimper born nocturnal;

the bitterness more sour than the moonshine.

You brought the seed-headed dandelion to your lips,

and you blew me a young, tainted kiss.

The frigid current of breath carried the offspring;

brought them to my cheek and poisoned my hair.

Your illusion appeared so beautiful there.

But the leaves swayed and the acid boiled.

You couldn’t stay; no I knew you couldn’t stay.

The maple hollow swallowed you whole,

and absorbed your spirit into bogus rapture.

Your soul shone blindingly as metallic sunrise.

The vibrant light washed away the taste of midnight.

And I was left as a fool standing there,

with dandelions in my hair.

Copyright @ Jesse C.White, 2011, 2012

The bells of the angels are chiming,

singing through the city; tolling in my head.

And the gears of a child are grinding,

as our vows; our fortunes are read.

Ringing merriment in the place I grew up,

the bells fill the sparkling aqua sky.

Cheers and toasts fill my cup,

and the grains of rice soar high.

But all I see is the crescent of the moon.

Standing in this suit of disguise,

the hollow has come so soon.

Oh how beautiful are the dragonflies,

on the day of this joyful mourning,

with sacrificial gowns adorning.

Copyright @ Jesse C. White 2011,2012