Gus More Poems

  The noticeably dropping temperatures of early evening; The imagined sound of a fox’s howl too faint to be true - suggested by the rustling winds of Late October and Early November; The browning, red and yellow leaves,  aloft on said Winds’ whirlings - ebb and flow; The friendly,  yet menacing grimace of a Jack-o-Lantern - traditionally aglow; The creaking sound of the heavy wooden entrance door; The sound of clogs and boots on the foyer’s wooden floor; The smell of coats  made of wool, and of leather, rack hung on entrance  - drying suspended; Transitions to sights and smells  of Holiday delights,  and friends being friendly; Wiley napping on the sofa, while Kirk and crew are TV Teleporting; The wood burning stove  warming your cozy cabin  during an Autumn to remember. Gus More © 2020 All rights reserved . https://www.patreon.com/gusmore

  The cobbled stone street carried rain into the gutter. Occasionally a wheel splashed some of it against the buildings. Drops that hadn’t found a crack slipped into the storm drain  and headed out to sea. “Bad weather doesn’t keep people off the streets in these parts.” commented a cabby to his fare just as the weather broke. A large plate glass window, retail shop marvel of the late 1800’s, refracted a neon sign’s light and mixed its message with the reflections of late afternoon. Inside, a restaurant, with a waiter  looking of a time when these surroundings were new. And yet, the years of weathering had fooled the average viewer into seeing him as they saw the street scene outside. However, despite his facial cracks,  that man was full of life. On inspired nights, he sang and played the accordion;  juggled glasses and bottles; and made up rhymes. “Fat fifths.” muddled a customer as a ferry boat blew a wall of sound from its whistle against the spectral explos...