To: Carl Sandburg, Robert Frost, Maya Angelou, Mary Oliver, William Shakespeare, King David, Emily Dickinson, Walt Whitman, Langston Hughes, T.S. Eliot, Rumi, Edgar Alen Poe, William Wordsworth, Homer, Pablo Neruda, Dante Aligheri, William Blake, John Keats, Rainer Maria Rilke, Phyllis Wheatley, W.B. Yeats, Billy Collins, Dr. Seuss, Shel Silverstein, Anne Bradstreet, and just about every other poet I have read.
Except Brian Bilston. I refuse to apologize to him. I admire him, and love his poetry, but I simply refuse to apologize.
Having some time today,and being overtaken by an evil muse while the earth slowly tipped on its axis, I wrote two poems for the occasion.
An Answer To The Eternal Poetic Question Of Spring, Written On The Occasion Of The Autumnal Equinox
Fall has fallen The grass may die To the South The birdies fly Wing on bird? Bird on wing? It doesn’t matter, It’s fall, not spring.
A Poem On The Occasion Of 8:05 pm Eastern Standard Time, September 22, 2026 (0:05 GMT, September 23, 2026).
Do not put me in a box
on this autumnal equinox.
I think I’ll put on some shoes and socks
and go and sit among the rocks,
down by the river, where the locks
move the water…oh, look! A fox!
And his ears are pointed like Mr. Spock’s.
Now, where was I, my mind’s a pox.
I should be locked up in the stocks.
But this season’s quite a paradox
and this poem rather unorthodox
like the writings of Harvey Cox.
(Not forgetting Courtney, Brian, and Wally, who mocks
my shoes, they’re ugly crocs.)
For years I watched after flocks
(some brought me candy made by Brock’s!)
and most were nerds, though some were jocks,
a few wore hats called pillbox,
while some grew flowers called hollyhocks.
Though others preferred to grow some phlox,
I loved them all, which gave them shocks.
I tried and tried but cannot recall
a rhyme for this season known as…..
Autumn.
