Autumn’s Bed

Aspens, maples

golds, crimsons 

raked, piled.

BFM

Coup

Dried pin oak leafs

wither till spring

when old regimens

are ousted by 

the brighter green.

B.F.M.

Tipping Dominos

Losing morning after morning,

hermetically sealed inside a

windowed room 

crowded 

with ten foot wooden ladders

he rants his Poet-ness

atop a 

plastic footstool.

B.F.M.

Autumn Lust

I love 
when you wear 
that burning crimson 
maple dress.

B.F.M.