Cos Cob, CT

Octember Leaves are leaving and the wind is moaning as spirits swirl about. Haunting haunts town and countryside. Ghosts on the mind; ghosts in the yard; ghosts skulk the street. Hallowe’en steals color from the trees and their twigs to make a creepy way, to forge a sighing day to force a listening over your shoulder …for a growl or a scream. Ira Joe Fisher Email: irajoefisher@gmail.com Phone: 203-912-1457 Learn More Octember - Poetry by Ira Joe Fisher

Hidden We’re too near a city and our own town powders night with light hiding the stars we seek; or should wish to. Dim is a cruel word, and gone, even crueler. Light is kind to farmer, to reader but pin-pierced sparks that stay (I’m told) and glow to gold; ought always be seen, to comfort and send an essence of sun in small beams that neither burn nor blind, but (so I’m told), only glow to gold. Ira Joe Fisher Email: irajoefisher@gmail.com Phone: 203-912-1457 Learn More Hidd