Posts Tagged ‘autumn’



The old man sits beneath a dwindling shade

And recounts how the days have changed

And how time passes by

And soon the autumn gales shall come

And shake to wakefulness the drowsy summer hearts

And break the boughs of the maple tree

And let fall a rain of dead and brittle things.

The old man sits and ponders this.

It’s twilight, not yet the end, but far from the beginning

And his birdfriends are beginning to up and go

And his bones are starting to chill

And become brittle- boughs on a maple tree

And what could’ve been and what was and what shall be

All stop by

To say their hellos and goodbyes

And hurry away before the evening light

Fades to blue and starry sky.

Like everything will be.


Autumn. Twilight. Seventy-three.

No, it’s not the end. But it’s not the beginning.

I wanted to write a poem about the end of summer (since everyone here at LAS returns to school tomorrow.) But I also didn’t want it to be literally about summer/autumn either. At least not entirely.

Poem- May

Posted: October 10, 2015 by Jaden C. Kilmer in Poem
Tags: , , , , , , , , ,


Well it’s been some time since that month of May

Came and stole us away

Now we’re fractured across time and space

And it’s been some years since I’ve seen your face

Oh I hate the month of May

For taking you away

And now the quilt we wove is torn and frayed

The threads were pulled away

Unspooled and tossed into the lake

And I blame Time

And I blame May

And I blame summer for showing up too late

And I miss you John

And I miss you Kate

Maybe tomorrow will be the last day to wait

And maybe there’ll be song and there’ll be dancing

Maybe tomorrow we’ll kill this spring

And a long overdue summer can come

And she’ll take the throne so May becomes

A memory, locked and shut away

Well it’s been some time since that month of May

Came and stole us away

Jaden is now on! You can read this post here. And other stuff too… eventually.

Here’s my response to this week’s Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers, which can be found here. I wasn’t entirely sure how this would end when I started it, but I actually really like how it turned out.

Word Count: 146

I look out past the streaking rain, at the watercolor scene beyond. It’s a blur of reds and oranges, so vibrant and alive. The rain patters softly against the window, a steady beat of water on glass.

“Do you see it?” she asks.

I look again, deeper and closer, through the rain, through the colors, through everything.

“Yes,” I reply.

It’s only a single spot, a splatter of midnight amidst the endless autumn colors, but it seems realer than everything else. I reach out and press my finger to it. I expect to feel the glass, but I don’t. My finger slips through, as if passing through a veil.

“It’s always there,” she says. “Just out of sight. Hidden.”

She smiles and puts a hand on my shoulder.

“Go on. Step through. Don’t be afraid.”

I take a deep breath, then step into the infinite unknown.


I’m in a patch of forest where winter is always present. The leaves here have long since leapt off their branches and now they only crackle beneath my boots. The trees are skeletons and the sky is a grim, grey, gloomy, overcast veil. A river only as wide as a door runs through this forest. The air smells cold. It smells like the night. I think to myself that if angels did fall, this is where they would land. I am the only thing alive here. The birds fled long ago. Not even the bugs dared to stay. The grass and plants and flowers were killed by the permafrost some time before I discovered the place. I am alone here.

       This is my favorite place. There’s beauty hiding behind the skeleton trees and the biting wind. There’s a stillness here like a photo on a postcard. It’s a moment in time from years past. A little patch of forest that time forgot. And my favorite part is the shadows.

       They dart around from place to place, stone to stone, branch to branch, out of their own will. They aren’t like normal shadows. Instead of mirroring the movements of some living thing, they move as if to retrace the steps of one once here. They fly through the trees chasing each other as incorporeal ghosts. Sometimes they appear as large and elongated shadows of an ancient creature passing by a tree, or perhaps one will alight on my shoulder and whisper wind into my ear. These are the things they will do. What they never do is venture into the springtime forest. They never fly near the border.

       If I linger here too long, the snow will fall. Lightly at first. At first it will be pleasant, like a child’s first snowfall. But soon, the wind will rise to a roar and the snow will fall not down, but up and sideways and around like tiny white cyclones. This entire patch of forest will become entombed in the brightest snow you could imagine and I’ll wonder if it could ever stop, or if the mountains of white would instead climb on and on until it reached the very clouds they fell from.

I feel that first snowflake tap my nose, and know it’s time to go. I never feel the first snowflake of a storm–that’s something the forest has taught me. When you start to feel flakes, it means that the storm probably began five minutes ago. Even as I turn to leave, the forest senses it. The shadows cease their game of tag and the wind dies down and even the river slows to a crawl. It becomes several degrees colder, so that the air is no longer a brisk and invigorating chill but a chill much like death. When all is still, I hear a voice. A voice that doesn’t come from somewhere but everywhere. A voice saying:

“Don’t go. I love you.”

“Ha!” I laugh. “You love me for my bones. You want me to die here.”

“I fail to see the difference.” Says the forest.

“Of course you don’t.” I take timid, tentative steps out of the winter forest and into the springtime one. When one foot crosses the threshold, the forest whispers to me once again:

“You will be back, won’t you?”

“I always come back, don’t I?”

I venture into the warm, green, cheery, blithe, boring spring.