I have always loved the colors of Fall.  When we were kids, our favorite holiday was Halloween.  We lived in an area where October had very spooky weather, dark cool evenings with low lying fog, rain and leaves on the ground.  It was also a time when kids could go trick-or-treating without parental supervision and with no fear, and we loved it.  We often wore costumes made by my grandmother.  Thinking back on it, they were quite elaborate creations.  I specifically remember a black cat costume complete with tail, and a French colonial lady’s outfit.  I was a ghost a few years, made from a sheet.  I still love the feeling of Fall, and carve pumpkins and gather leaves every year.

 

October’s Bright Blue Weather

O suns and skies and clouds of June,

And Flowers of June together,

Ye cannot rival for one hour

October’s bright blue weather.

When on the ground red apples lie

In piles like jewels shining,

And redder still on old stone walls,

Are leaves of woodbine twining;

When springs run low, and on the brooks,

In idle golden freighting,

Bright leaves sink noiseless in the hush

Of woods, for winter waiting;

O suns and skies and flowers of June,

Count all your boasts together,

Love loveth best of all the year

October’s bright blue weather.

 

            Helen Hunt Jackson

 

Leaves

by Elsie N. Brady

How silently they tumble down
And come to rest upon the ground
To lay a carpet, rich and rare,
Beneath the trees without a care,
Content to sleep, their work well done,
Colors gleaming in the sun.

At other times, they wildly fly
Until they nearly reach the sky.
Twisting, turning through the air
Till all the trees stand stark and bare.
Exhausted, drop to earth below
To wait, like children, for the snow.

 

Halloween Night                                               

 by Laura Nielsen

 

Glowing pumpkins at the door                     

Witches, goblins, ghosts and more.                       

What could all this mischief mean?                       

Hooray, tonight is Halloween!                                

 

What’s that shadow up the path?                          

A headless horseman, or black Ring Wraith?                

Trick or treat?  Do you dare?                                  

It’s Halloween. Best beware.                                   

 

Demon’s perch upon the ledge,                    

Your life is balanced on knife edge.                       

Will you get in and out alive?                                 

The trick tonight is to survive.                               

     

            

 

 

 

 

“When the Frost is on the Punkin”
by James Whitcomb Riley

When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock,
And you hear the kyouck and gobble of the struttin’ turkey-cock,
And the clackin’ of the guineys, and the cluckin’ of the hens,
And the rooster’s hallylooyer as he tiptoes on the fence;
O, it’s then the time a feller is a-feelin’ at his best,
With the risin’ sun to greet him from a night of peaceful rest,
As he leaves the house, bareheaded, and goes out to feed the stock,
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock.

They’s something kindo’ harty-like about the atmusfere
When the heat of summer’s over and the coolin’ fall is here—
Of course we miss the flowers, and the blossoms on the trees,
And the mumble of the hummin’-birds and buzzin’ of the bees;
But the air’s so appetizin’; and the landscape through the haze
Of a crisp and sunny morning of the airly autumn days
Is a pictur’ that no painter has the colorin’ to mock—
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock.

The husky, rusty russel of the tossels of the corn,
And the raspin’ of the tangled leaves as golden as the morn;
The stubble in the furries—kindo’ lonesome-like, but still
A-preachin’ sermuns to us of the barns they growed to fill;
The strawstack in the medder, and the reaper in the shed;
The hosses in theyr stalls below—the clover overhead!—
O, it sets my hart a-clickin’ like the tickin’ of a clock,
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock.

Then your apples all is gethered, and the ones a feller keeps
Is poured around the cellar-floor in red and yaller heaps;
And your cider-makin’s over, and your wimmern-folks is through
With theyr mince and apple-butter, and theyr souse and sausage too!…
I don’t know how to tell it—but ef such a thing could be
As the angels wantin’ boardin’, and they’d call around on me—
I’d want to ‘commodate ’em—all the whole-indurin’ flock—
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock.

I want a little witch cat

   With eyes all yellow green,

Who rides upon a broom-stick

   Every Halloween.

Who purrs when she is taking off

   Just like a purring plane,

And doesn’t mind a tailspin

   Even in the rain.

I want a cat who dares to light

   The candle of the moon

And set its jack-o-lantern face

   A-laughing like a loon.

I want a cat who laps the milk

   Along the milky way,

A cat of spunk and character

  As daring as the day;

But gentle looking kittens

   Are in the stores to sell

And which cat is a witch cat,

   I really cannot tell.

By  Rowena Bennett