Dear Autumn


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From the Journal of Neville Longbottom


I didn’t mean to be in Gryffindor.
In the brave house.
The confrontational house.
The house that gave us Dumbledore!
Maybe I’ll amount to something,
Since I’m in Gryffindor.
Gran says
I need to be more like my dad.
We went to visit him and mum before I came here
Since we were in London and we can never be sure
They’ve read my letters.
I told them the news –
I’m magic enough to come to Hogwarts!
I wonder if they’ll read the letter
I wrote them today.
“I’m in Gryffindor!” I said.
“The brave house.”

To My Father


From out the fleshly doors do flow
Salty crystals to the world below.
All’s not well in a life so real
While God on high sits and I do feel.

A father’s missed by his voice so kind,
His arms are warm, and so I pine
I cannot but weep the whole night through
When I am, my father, away from you.

Writing


I wrote a poem upon a map
And gave it to be scattered
To a springtime wind
That pinched my skin
And to these plains had wandered.

The rocks caught my poem long
In hands rough and firm
They turned it once and shuffled it twice
Then back to a map it went
It waited there beneath my stare
Again to be torn and rent.

A Lyric Concerning Depression


 

I.
Minor notes played in tune,
Scintillating, incandescent blue,
Not even bothering to fade away until
Your minor cacophony is written,
And you, played soft and sweet.
A little universal orchestra of minor strains.

II.
Without obtrusion or delay
The ╩╝verse in pieces little lay
But while you wander and implore
That poem still says nevermore.

III.
Crushing grapes
Inside your eyes
Makes it sticky
But no wine.