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Autumn wind, roaring announcement through
distance trees; a moment of rolling sound before we can see
the last clinging leaves, scatter in colorful confetti to dance at our feet.
Winter is coming, in celebration of the bereaved.
We remember those souls
buried below the frost; those we loved and those we lost.
Yes, let us leave the seasons’ past.
Gather the fire wood in our arms, and let us stack
the warmth of memories as we stand fast
embracing what we have, remembering great things
in the glowing, popping sparks, in the hearth
of our hearts, awaiting another spring.
When she was younger, strong and stern,
She raised me in punctuality, good manners,
And, God-fearing morality.
I remember one evening, when I was fifteen,
Excusing myself from the supper table, hair still combed and face washed clean;
I said I was going out for a walk, and, “was there anything she might need?”
I opened the front door, rushing without discreet,
I heard her holler, “be back before eight.
You have an hour of homework and I expect you, not to be late.”
Well… the time did fly and so did I,
When I heard the clock tower striking nine.
What have I been thinking, not paying attention to the time?
Hoping she was busy somewhere in the house;
Perhaps in the kitchen, or, in the bathroom undoing her hair,
Any place else but in the front hall in that familiar overstuffed chair.
Nope! No such luck. There she was, as I opened the door,
With a half-smile of melting stern
Asking me, “sooo… what’s her name?”
She came in the frenzy of early spring
In pelting rain from frozen white crystal;
Melting the fury of winter’s last storm
Into puddles of mud and fertile soil.
Innocently barren of the gift to bring,
Settles’ her seduction in silent committal;
Melodic and mysteriously her children were born
From her lover in summer, as she slowly recoils.
But, her children’s children, seeds in spring,
Are cradled in the weeds and flowers and in tall thistle.
Parents cut and picked, sit on a table adorned
In abundance and beauty of a passing seasons’ toil.
Now the grandmother of spring, peaks of pride in color
Of her majestic fall around the lakes and mountains of New Hampshire.
Vacant minds across the kitchen table
Leaning on their elbows of time,
Understanding they are at the end of their lives,
Never thinking that there was space
Beyond what they have lived;
Life, was a distance passed in glorious moments.
“I’ll walk the dog. Put on your pajamas
And heat the water for tea.
I’ll peel you an orange when I get back.
Is it cold outside?”
“Yes, wear a hat.”
Shadows in love, walking aging souls,
Revel and bevel in a morning dew.
Greater than all beauty in mornings told,
Shadows follow shade, making one from two.
Bodies at eventide embrace the moon,
Waxing and waning, our shadows did meld;
Sometimes impatient with impending doom.
Arms entwined, her heart, in mine I held.
And now, as you decide darkness is fear,
In a single line a shadow you find;
Walking without me, one has disappeared.
Yes, a cloud does cover the sun sometime.
Oh, the moon still finds my shadow in sheets;
Of a lover’s body, empty to keep.
Dancing In Silence
Silence is a noise we try to avoid.
Whether in conversation, in loneliness,
Or, when we are bored.
When it is present, it opens the door
With no mind, to a room softly making love
To no one, in no space, for nothing.
So, before entering
We kiss our mind gently good-bye;
Entering where our heart is,
Dancing to the music, of a silent chord.
Light Green Panties
Can-Can leaves dancing in frenzy
Lifting and turning up
In Rhythmic breeze,
Fluttering in the same direction,
Without any shame,
Their light green panties.
Oh, such beauty,
And, oh such a tease;
Waiting for the applause
Of the incoming rain.
Song Bird, Oh, Song Bird
Song bird hiding in the bush
Beside our porch.
Born in the spring,
Finally twirping a song to sing.
We hold each other’s hand
Creaking in time, swaying along
In our old weathered swing.
The lawn was mowed. But she,
the dandelion, takes center stage.
The bee’s first nectar of spring,
Bright yellow color and sturdy display;
Stubborn and brave.
Flowering delicate silver seeds
Embraced by the breeze, sends her offsprings
High into the air, without argument, to land in-between
Blades of grass, hiding in the green of night,
To grow in the bright of day.
Not so stubborn and still very brave.
I lean against her slender body,
After dismounting my cricket,
Allowing me her shade.
I tune his wings, as she bends ever so slightly
To listen to our serenade.
Not so stubborn, trustingly brave.
“A piece of green pepper
off the wooden salad bowl:
so what?” Richard Brautigan’s ‘Haiku Ambulance’
water in a bottle
from the spring through clean pipes
leading to the pond.
a yellow daisy
she loves me she loves me not
pluck the Sacred Crop.
a yellow daisy
a monk’s bowl haircut of brown
yellow petals shorn.
darkness on the pond
silhouette closing temples
white in morning sun.