AUTUMN LEAVES - A Collection of Poems

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

From Drama to nature, from love to travel, these poems constitute my interest and my love from creativity.

AUTUMN LEAVES – A Collection of Poems

by Charles E.J. Moulton


Hamlet broods on a golden bed of greens, In his mind nothing is what it seems, A boat is not a boat, a chair is not a chair, A father is in heaven and a mother is not fair.

Horatio is a friend and yet he is a fish, Laertes is too mellow and Ophelia is a dish, Claudius is waiting for the blessing never kept, Hamlet is the oppusum that jumped but never lept.


Yellow, green, red and pink, Brown, purple and white, There is a song in the colour That is played on a seasonal night.

It is a symphony of colours, It is a concerto of dreams, It is a minuet of nostalgia, Played on a lute of streams.

We reflect the fall of a leaf As part of nature’s own course, Like an aged mentor whose depth Is filled with love sans remorse.

Spring is fertile and frilly, Winter is slow and cold, Summer is hot and silly, Autumn is wise and old.

Like expert, aged chieftains Autumn leaves give us strength, We find that fall lets us feel that Which gives us our lives its’ length.

Me + You

We don’t remember shame, We don’t remember the tragic, We don’t remember desperation, All we remember is magic.

We remember the twinkling of an eye, We remember a kind, heartfelt sigh, We remember the by and by, We remember how we laughed until we cried.

Laugh with me by the moonlight, Sing with me until we burst, Run on the endless ocean And guess who will come in first.

Can you picture the meadow? Can you picture the frame? Can you picture the portrait Of a woman whose heart I can claim?


Two men standing next to a bus stop. “Fabulous, this tenor.” The older one lit his pipe and looked to the younger one for reassurance. The younger one smiled and shrugged, his eyes drifting off toward the opera house behind them. “I prefer the soprano.” The older man lifted one eyebrow. “Oh?” The younger man smiled. “She is my girlfriend.”

So what?!

I might be a champion of the heavy weights, I might own my own house and lot, I might know the king of Uganda, But if I ain’t got love, so what?!

I might know hundreds of pieces And play them fast as a prince, I might know hundreds of women, But if I ain’t got love, it’s all chince.

I might know how to play boogie, I might know all of God’s law, But if God is not inside me, Who says it’s him I saw?

I might know every bone in my body, I might know how to play cool, But if the name of my game is folly, Silliness eliminates the rule.

You think that lust is the culprit, And still hunt enthusiasm down, Make love not war is better, Teach your children to smile and not frown.

The Search

“So it began. So it ends.” With enormous activity, the councillor begat his bride under moonlight. She sang high notes up to a high B flat as they mingled. Thriving on his muscle, the gentleman told himself that his search was over. No one had yet made him feel this way. “Woman is tenderness.” His words were soft and calm as his juice trickled down her spine. She smiled. “You are sweet.” Together they lay there under the tree just listening to each other breathe. “What ends?” He sighed as he lingered inside her. “I have finally find you.”

The Yearning of the Yarn

Simple, this anecdote. No more than a yarn. And yet within its poetic license lays a truth that penetrates the most wicked eye and makes it sing.

I see the utmost true reflections of the sweet and marvel at the glory of it all.

Who is he, this man that everyone talks about? We see nothing but a face and yet we know: This is a soul that wants us to succeed in finding our wonder inside us.


“Meaning what?” The princess asked the king a question he couldn’t answer. “Do I have to leave the castle?” The king paced the room and found himself in a dilemma. “Who has the right to throw out a daughter for loving her own chosen man?” Her beauty spoke volumes. Her grace spoke of love. The nuptial ceremony with the baron was yet a day away. The princess loved him not. She loved the jester. The king smiled. “Then the baron shall leave and you shall marry the clown.” The court gasped. The people smiled.


“Honey?” She smiled at him. The husband looked up at her from his newspaper. She was holding an open jar. “It’s good stuff!” He shook his head. “I thought you were addressing me.” “Are you as sweet as this?” He laughed and glanced at her blond locks falling across her chest. The comic book conversation seemed almost remote now that she had threatened to leave him. “Honey.” He giggled, looking at the white syrupy flavour. “I might try some, thanks.” The woman smiled at her husband. “It was made just for you to sweeten my day.” The man shook his head. “Why this sudden change? I thought you were leaving me?” She shook her head. “Honey, don’t talk. I was wrong. I’m not leaving.”

Sing Me A Song

Sing me a song of the moonlight, Sing me a song of the sea, Sing me a song of tenderness, And, Darling, craft worship near me.

Paint me a picture with roses Floating on a silver lake, A smiling woman on a trapeze Or a giant birthday cake.

Give me spectacular devotion, Give me excellent glee, Give me the Grand Canyon, But just stay right here with me.

Smile me a Mona Lisa, Wink me a Marilyn Monroe, Show me some Trump Towers, Sing high, sing middle, swing low.

Juggle your burning candles, Run at fantastic speeds, Whatever your gourmet yummies, You’re all that my spirit needs.


Somewhere in Samoa In the Deep South Sea Stevenson’s ancestor sits. He waits for his friend Sitting with St. Michael Waiting ‘til the tattoo fits.

Lamoa doesn’t want To be a wimp, An untattoed sissy in space. So he endures the carving of a bloody Black tattoo That makes his father’s race proud to be masculine.

His wife walks by, He smiles and stretches, She picks up a coconut. “How are you doing? Does it hurt?” “Nah!” he says. Crunch!

Tattooed and happy Lamoa walks out, His back hurting galore, His wife kneels down And picks up the rice And suddenly Lamoa isn’t sore.

He lifts up his wife, She recites some Jekyll And speaks of Polynesian charms, Lamoa at once Forgets his pain When he’s laying in her prosperous arms.

“Oute alofa ia te oe,” she says and Lamoa, he smiles, He knows a tattoo Is worth the pain When a wife beams and beguiles.

“Pain is beauty, my love,” he says gallantly, Lamoa oozes testosterone. Then his wife smiles. She shakes her head. “I’d love you even without the tattoo.”


Laughter meets the blue eye. There is awe there. A surprise in having found someone very special. The girl is holding present. Her left hand is clutching the gift. That miraculously remains in her grasp like a flower in water. The girl laughs. Her open mouth utters a sound that affects us. Laughter meets the blue eye. We don’t know her. We just realize that we might want to.


Spiritual windows affect the open soul, Now creating a living breath, Centuries past, love let you breathe through these eyes, The solid remains of life.

Seeing what you see is not seeing what you perceive, Your eyes have to be better than that, Behind a lover lies an age old promise, That never knew carnal flesh.

We are souls that remain solid in stance, Lead by a soul in search Of a floating, sacred, wondrous dance, Looking for a holy birch that we used to know. At some point in time.

Looking into the eyes, my dear old friend, I see that you are ancient, Souls travel a long, long way, Lead by a holy rhyme.

We are only on journeys to find A newer, a better, way, Never follow compulsion’s scheme, But follow a divine dream.


Displayed on a canvas of open tissue Two orbs are glowing at me. Red and white surrounded by bliss, On a stormy and voluptuous sea.

They bring on a rise of testosterone And an array of accountable thoughts, I think to myself that this woman is gender Brought on by pigments and dots.

I see on the canvas that her name is there, Ines and I wonder just why She became what she is and where she will be In forty or fifty years time?

Magnificent splendour, voluptuous glee, Vociferous anguish smiling at me, Unending desire waiting to quench And unearthly desire to be free.


Lead. Without question or pause. If you ask, then you stop. Lead. Instinct takes over. If you ask yourself what to do you have already tripped. Don’t fall. Lead. Let your feeling lead your leader.


Bedroom eyes too sultry for cocaine, Hispanic skin too sensual for John Wayne, An accent too Latin for any lack of strength, A woman would give anything for touch at any length.

Men will admit that Banderas is too good, A singer, an actor, guitarist, understood? If I were a woman, I’d do him, no doubt, I would devour him on a bed of chocolate sauerkraut.

I would dance a tango on a floor of burning coal, Catherine Zeta Jones could eat a sugar bowl, Any kind of cup would be okay for me, Antonio, my wife she just loves you, can’t you see?

“And de moni kep rollin’ in!” blasts through my dolby speaks, And my sultry cellulite hopes that its’ dance just never leaks, Antonio, a straight man hopes that he half way reeks Half way like the pheromones that bounces off your cheeks.


High up on the mountain, I find myself at ease, I live on a potatoe chip Sailing on a sea of cheese, I converse with Elizabeth Taylor, I dance with Eddie Bernard, I am the one who is no one That one can use, laugh at or discard. Who am I? You say? A person! A mountain of poetic bliss. I write my poems on paper, Living on a muse’s kiss. Sensual, sexual or spiritual, It is all the one and the same! My soul is an open book Nothing is a wicked game. I dare to walk an old lady, Across a crowded, old street, I help my wife around the house. Shuffling my old feet. I sing for eight thousand people, Get reviews, get published, drink beer, I bow in humility before him That my heart holds so dear. I sing a serenade of laughter, To a gorgeous smiling dame, I read Hamlet and Shakespeare, ‘til the picture is one and the same. I study the paintings of Raphael, Until Dali finally clicks, I drink a bottle of Bourgogne, While I try a Disney – Dali - Mix! I am spiritual, carnal, modest, I am creation, elation, soul. Mountain of gold, Truthfulness. You are my spirit’s goal! Creation is what is wonderful. Sexy, soulful, unique, What makes you feel so fantastic Is the divine that is haute couture chic! So celebrate life and drink it, Be calm and honour its’ soul. Take out your honest distilment And produce your life’s own goal! Make love to the honour, respect it. Make sure that love does agree, Bow before women and love them, The launch yourself into the sea. Then you may explore how The carriage of life will rise Into an extraordinary adventure, A trip beyond the stars in the skies. Make real living a mountain, Make real living a sea, Make real living a saturated Ecstacy within your me! Your me is your soul on a journey That has been two thousand men He has been a girl and donkey He has been a pig in a pen, He has been a clown and monkey, He has been a movie celeb, A priest, a bug and a president, Michael, Marlene and Zeb, Reincarnation is the Majestic, God is the truth inside, Spirit is the experience, Love is the pleasure ride.


Cheers emoting in the telly at one a.m. Drunk on red wine Pizza in my tummy Diabetes in my blood.

I feel good. Chocolate. I could eat forever. I’ve been singing. Rössl. Three baritones. Will I be excited? Red wine. Hmm. Cryptic. Shakespeare. Warren Beatty. Leo Tolstoy. Back and forth. New House. Excited. Wine. Plans. Hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm.


Lift me up toward a higher ground. Lead me down to a river, Where the music is soft and sound And love is all I can give her.

Lead me away from this sin. Lead me away from pain. Can you feel how wondrous you are In your heart, without and within.

Take a leap toward love in my spirit. Take a leap of faith in my soul. Read my mind like you would a card And see what’s inside the treasure.

I want to be good. I want to be pure. I want to be honest. Help me.


Sung by a choir in F sharp minor The song echoes through the vaults. The tones they soar as the song will outshine her: The sun herself is not radiant enough.

Sung by a tenor in D flat major The aria floats through the air. The melody dances with Neapolitan glee As the Sicilian winks round the fair.

Sung by a soprano with a diamond smile The atonal excellence endures. She concentrates on tones octaves apart And produces neurosis that cures.

Sung by a bird in man’s own Eden The nightingale sings her own song. And so we know that man only produces What nature has done all along.

Sung by the winds and the trees on the ground The water vocalizes joy. The river makes love to the grass and the stones And send to the young baby boy.


A good place to have a good sense of humour, What do you say we go have some fun? What are you doing here? Wanted to wish you good luck.

We can still be friends, old boy. You deserve to win. Once a week? I better shove off.

Remember my name. You got the job? That’s pretty hot information. Wine. This calls for dry red bourgogne.

He is an American asshole. That’s not Woody. I’ll squeel like a pig. A woman you dream about.

Roll around, beat around the bush, Is it real? Some people do, some don’t. Hawaii? Pretty. Nuclear war or beer nuts. Let me get some money.


Heels that click on expensive pavement, Stockings made of gold, Skirts that were made on Monte Carlo payment, A blouse on which a story is told.

Make up purchased in chosen shops, Champagne bottles creme of the crops, Jeanette Hermine Marais is the tops, Wows them all, thieves and cops.

In Paris she visits Versace and Brahms, Eats at Foquet’s and dines escargot, Chooses wines and reads the palms, The women the smile, men stand in a row.

Supermodels they smile so bright, That men’s trousers they become real tight, The women they nod and grin in fright, But Jeanette Marais sleeps well all night.

Submitted: July 19, 2013

© Copyright 2023 Charles EJ Moulton. All rights reserved.

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