The Fall Casts
False shadows
That last
A little longer
Than the one before
And
At the
Door
Knocks Autumn
But
You’re still dressed for Summer
And you’ll catch the death
of cold
“Don’t cha know?”
Yet she still shows
her flowers
Burgeoning
after showers
Surging in the morning light
Yes, Autumn bright and
warm in
the afternoon
of our farewells
(to Summer).
Rolling breeze
Drifts past my understanding
Blowing away the seeds
Of my awareness
Into new soils
Filling unprecedented moments
With growth
On New Minds
An orderly disarray —
Recorder singing
Up and down the scale
While the flowers
Of Autumn dance
In the light breeze.
Forget-me-nots
And daisies
Orange marigolds
Red dew cups
Full of bees knees
Tomato, basil
Garlic Please!
Small leaves
Of chard to
Be tossed with
The lard of
A beautiful bacon butt.
Don’t be late for breakfast!
The shadows lay down
In Autum Mornings
Low Southern sun
Not ready to become
Part of the day yet.
Hiding behind mountains
Waiting to crawl back
Into the limelight
Peeking behind the trees at
The end of their summering.
Another, soon to be
Casualty of the fallen
As winter presses her cold
Fingers over
The Earth
A fresh start
Like cold autumn air
Pulling back the heat curtain
To reveal brisk brightness
That bites at the lungs
And steams out your mouth.
A cup of hot coffee
Vapor currents dancing
From its circular rim…
So it begins
And we scan the horizon
For Hot Air Balloons
That aren’t rising this year.
No mass ascension
To draw your attention
Away from the boring end
of summer.
In this Covid time
No gathering sublime
to race off into
the sunrise.
Here we sit
and take a sip
of our cooling coffee
at the breakfast table
unable to escape another day.
The moist October air
Puts the curls back in my hair
Away, away, away, I’ve been
Out in the Desert for 30 years
Yet, born out here was
My Pioneer Spirit —
My grandparents survived
With soil, toil and grit.
My parents carried on
with God and good will.
So, here I sit
No shoes to fill…
Stickered feet
Of my own desire
To return with bare soles
In these modern times
Fat and well fed
Much longer to survive
Than my pioneering
Great-grandfather
Who out here died!
A bout of pneumonia
After their posse did find
The lost little girl
Out in a world most unkind.
So much morning
To this day
A long slow sunrise
On the plains
The hawks and owls
And songbirds sing
The soil moist
The leaves turning
Awakening in me
My Childhood’s Past
A sense of spirit
The smell of cut grass
There’s something about
These fruited plains
A wildlife spirit
I once thought mundane
But a feeling of home
With open arms
Each time I return
I become reborn
The seasons change
And change and change
and change
The sunlight drifts
and shifts its way
Dancing high and dancing low
Bringing bright and dimming dark
Casting shadows that
Move across the ground
Dragging time through the dirt…
Alert, my senses beckon
For it all to stop, yet
On we turn as the sun still burns
Its intense gravity pulling
Us forward past the shadows
And into the future —
The only uncertainty
Is will humanity
Continue to witness the changes.
Today is National Poetry Day
Do you have something to say?
Write me a poem, no need to be long—
Give me a couplet, write me a song.
Or write up a sonnet, maybe make a haiku
A quartet, a triad, or sing me the blues!
If you add poetry into your life
you’ll find it uplifting away from the strife.
Write me a psalm or meditative plot
Something inspirational, something you sought.
Or read a new poet, these poems are short.
New words can help you when you feel out of sorts.
Just write me a poem, I’ll publish it soon.
Make it silly or foolish or about a baboon.
All words have meanings, some better than most.
With alacrity write something, even a boast.
Yes write me a poem, today is the day.
Pick one word or a dozen, have something to say.
I sat in a quiet place
Deep in the woods
Very far away
From humans and their
Vibrating city’s sounds
The constant swish of
Cars driving down her streets.
But more than that, the
Prattle and chat of voices gone
There were no songs
Of city birds, fattened and sure
That water and the next meal would come.
No, not the hum of crickets
Not the buzz of flies and mosquitoes
No, nothing to break the sounds
Of my own thinking.
So, when a sound is made
A woodpecker, hawk
or Owl’s tirade, does
Tear the silence into full awareness—
Your mind plays tricks and
Fills the silence with
Sounds of worry, fear and dread.
For the next sound that plays
Will surely be more deadly
Than a bird fetching its morning meal.