I listened to the bell ring at sunset
I hear the sound passing each day as death;
Knowing in the ‘morrow it will still ring,
Awakening me with yesterdays debt.
I yield to the monster of this day’s Light
With discipline. With matter. Not with fright!
The high notes settle silence with low notes
To kneel in sound whose vision has no sight.
Ah, but such is my luck! The damn thing rings
Morning, noon, and night. My life inspiring,
Regardless of my nature or my regrets.
They pale to my rise every morning.
Someday I shall be the first to wake it—
Or, bid good evening before sun’s exit.
“Over and over and over you begin.
Drop, fall, falling and fall
In love again— as the seasons pass,
See your hearts reflection
Looking through the window
One elbow on the windowsill.”
You grew from a seed, fallen from an oak. In your fall
You were embraced in the womb of bright-colored fallen leaves
—quilted for the comfort of winter
—made just for you.
It is nature’s well-attended consummation.
Cleansed by snow, baptized in spring rain,
Encouraged by the earth beneath you,
The sun of life above you—
You grew with patience, understanding, and perseverance.
Now, having watched all seeds grow: let me fall again
—in age with roots entwined and with fallen branches
To nourish you, with patience, understanding, and perseverance
—to build your own home in harmony with nature’s beautiful quilt,
As you drop, fall, falling, and then fall in love again
Over and over and over, you begin.
Where ever you started or finished,
First or last, the game was won.
It all began when you dressed for them all.
Starting positions? Often left opened.
But, acknowledging there were better players on the team
That you should have passed to, when your ass
Was about to get massive grass stains
For failed fancy footwork and tripped by your own feet,
Flying in the air praying a Holy Mary,
For no broken bones.
Oh, shit! At 70, I wake up having to remember all this again?
Start the bus!
Hey! I am on my way out of here, a shot of Vodka, V8 juice and a note on the chalkboard thanking all the players
That dressed for them all.
~ Baked beans in the pot resting with salt pork, hot dogs browning in a small amount of butter on the stove top, brown bread, peeking’ from wrapped aluminum foil nested by the bean pot steaming, drifting, filling the house with a familiar Saturday night smell. Grandma, the matriarch, while straightening and re-arranging Christmas decorations is shuffled off as the children and their families drop in with hugs and greetings. They shed coats for memories of new years past, recognizing the dining room table and the familiar plates, glass salt and pepper shakers, bread and real butter to toast merriment of a seasons’ joy and the ever-present beginning of a new year.~
All proclaiming it
That true nature within us
Is the prophecy.
Thankful twigs, children of the blight:
Used as kindling from Camelot to Brooklyn, with ancestry in branches of Majestic Elms—
Extinct in the flames of purification they crackled and glowed in memories
Of the beautiful Main streets with bustling thoroughfares.
—when they, in regal tradition, stole the whole show.
Some interesting research digging around on the subject (for whatever, when it popped up in my mind) about the Elm tree… and perhaps I was looking for something about our future? Understanding and approaching it with history’s humility
No matter where I have been, in my heart I have always heard “welcome son!” And, I am as sure as my sisters have heard addressed— personally to them. The question that accompanies such a greeting is; where exactly are we? That we are being received and welcomed? And, of course, how our etiquette suddenly begins and our exit should end.
Rain falls hard on thorns
Roses soon to bloom perk up
Both will co-exist
Whoa, Silver! Here comes the black stallion to welcome the Pinto.
I sit here by the firelight of life, feeling old, tired, and worn out.
I sit proud with a peaceful heart after battles lost and won—
I notice the imprint of my shield, above the fireplace,
Nicked and gashed in gallant memory as history touts.
It has been sold. Two weeks ago. For bread, vegetables, lettuce, meat,
I am neither happy nor angry
Nor am I hungry.
You have always loved early morning light.
Raising shades pushing closed curtains open.
Each flash from room to room? Presence left bright.
I have followed steps morning to dusk.
I have watched you sigh with a darker sky
And laugh at the sun, for late waking up.
I have caught you in my afternoon arms
I felt your escape from curtain to shade From door to door, calm and without alarm.
Briskly from room to room almost a dance.
Occasionally you gave me a smile
with blinking dark eyes, in a quick side-glance.
Lost is the love that never can be caught.
Lost is the chaser that never can stop.
Note: Inspired by a modern sonnet by Robert Frost’s “Acquainted With The Night”. ( a must read for all future and current Poets, in my opinion :). The written poem is beneath the video