Tag Archives: Autumn

“If Not a Summer’s Day”

“If Not a Summer’s Day”

If not a summer’s day, then let me celebrate
Some last year’s moment’s  fecund random fruit, emerging produce
From repeated seasons; so be it, someone else’s seed deduced
From natural selection reduced to poverty in the actual delight. The penultimate
Arrival of the cycle’s sun has surpassed Orion’s
Yawn, a codicil of peace within the annual rut of reason.  But for the sake
Of natural pleasures in the thought abused, treason within the process is raked,
Its many points become a species, then a phylum
Sealed and steeled as wrapped within a velvet robe, the ripened peach,
With subtle flavour, discrete; its ancient used aroma all but moot
Until at last the weather’s hope of heaven’s born, takes root,
And in the swath of shadows in the other afternoon its child appears
As fit for sacrifice, a single bit in some innocuous familiar rite–
The residue of autumn’s care at dusk before the coming winter’s night.

“He Sits Another Monday”

a thought

“He Sits Another Monday”

He sits  another Monday…only smiles tonight. His words are glass,
Illumined, yes,…but no light strikes him and he can no longer see the page.
His hours leased over years yield nothing in eternity but sardonic age,
Invisible, a painted thought distracted by what’s been asked
Of him, years of cold neglect, and all those miles.
Still it’s not enough. If not tonight, then, when?
No doubt in time, but wait! the breezes grow to winds again,
And, where there are currents, other images, other trials.
…the summer’s wounds have found their mark…
Is this the time for words? a second poem? a signatory fire
Lit to get it said, perhaps to induce a faint desire,
Another phrase–there are so many–another cigarette’s arc, a spark
So much to feel, so much to taste when once the sap begins to seep?
Nature’s not so conjured, the outcome’s sealed and in time all thought will cease.

“Order Comes”

“Order Comes”


Order comes to counter what’s been settled

In the extra room. Chaos speaks: eyes today
Stray south to storms in brew, but thoughts at play
Are not contiguous. Reminder! kettle’s
On, and minutes from the inspiration,
Coffee, and that special toast
I’d meant to have with friends.
No, there’ll be no invitations sent
Today, but in these simple transportations
Warm reminders to the nose.
Seize the season, sit back, smile, and savour
Silence in the afternoon and windblown flavours
Wafting in like ghosts of days long petrified—the rose,
For instance, the night I found that message taped to my front door.
I tossed the flower on the table and read the note right there on the floor.

“As Summer Gains”

ophelia-fashion-1

“As Summer Gains”

As summer gains, Ophelia’s hours heighten in the weeds
Of something special strolling in the halls as her sweet prince recalls
The love they might have had and what conceals the serpent in the walls.
In daily season’s advents loyally are born fresh notions, spring’s sweet wheats,
Reminders of promissory notes to the many for whom they strive.
Given such gratuities, these comings’ true returns exact a toll where Piping Fates
Shed seeds of future cares and carelessness that takes
Exception to themselves. What they are is mirrored in the rising suns as trials,
Lethargy, fatigue, the burdens and annual fruits of winter fade. These fresh disks
Do not forget the coming harvests to be gathered, first in sudden growing sleeves
On gracious grateful trees, then in planted bounty crops that nothing grieves,
Their season’s fruits secured, their lofts restocked, and to these ends their bliss.
When Ophelia’s gown grows grappling heavy as it must, desire melds to peace:
In time she’ll choose an autumn’s leave, the end of love and Hamlet on his knees.

“It’s Midnight ”

“It’s Midnight ”

It’s midnight here and emeralds come to mind;
And you? What must you be where you are now?
I know your thoughts of me are drifting. How
Was it you fled the flesh and left the rind
Behind some few premises ago when nothing in the needle’s eye
Lingered. Restive as you were, the distance of a single prayer with open palms,
The warmth of open arms, the scent of you, the psalms–
Airs and essences distilled to holy water; what was it you desired?
You searched my meaning  smiling , ascending briefly, pulling stops
And leaving all this morning’s traces lost in the Sibyl’s dew. Gone
So quickly, you, the sunrise, taking nothing of the song
But verses, lyrics pocketed, perhaps; you forgot
The melody–I hear it now, a softer strain, ephemeral,
Like breathing in and out–and still I’ve kept these emeralds.

“Icy Drafts”

“Icy Drafts”

Icy drafts from winter’s future reach me; late night candles
Blaze along with altogether nothing in particular,
Nothing brilliant but levelled in the vernacular
With only some slight punctuation. No need to handle
The hour nor spend the day. No one, no thing,
No wizened breadth disturbs the dusts in me
When even Shakespeare smiles to see
No dream from which to wake for his sake. No,  no ring
Of fire, no need for patience in delivery. Devotion
I leave to the cricket soon sacrificed to the owl; suspicion
To the critic.  Applause I’ll pass and all his opinions
To the fool.  Settle the mountain with the ocean
To the bottom of the glass, but I think wisely to leave the bottle
On the table. No endless highway here, no hand on the throttle.

Painting at top by Suzy Schultz;

at bottom by Darren Maurer

“In the Meantime”

And, in the meantime, what?
If the requirement is the sun
And in the hour, none;
If patience swells but in the rutting cuts
No clearance, no escape from paths
To howling destinations; if the moon
Must hide behind the earth, the cry of loons
Is heard no more for lack
Of seasons in the ether;
If the house depends on creosote,
And vessels pine for tides; the coat,
The autumn’s lack of warmth and wintry blasts recuse nor
Will they join demand to orderly confusion, what then?
The egg exacerbates the vigil not within the cock but in the hen.

“Nothing’s Censured”

“Nothing’s Censured”

Nothing’s censured, everything’s gained they say
and choice is all there is and all that’s human.
Cycles shift as do devotion
and commitment and we are glad and sad
As fits emotion and the glory of the stars;
December’s fads
are gone by February, January’s gains illumine
What’s to come in cloistered gusts
that blight the staggered laughter of a spring’s reality.
As autumn’s indiscretions rush to judgement of the past
Occluded by the soul’s embarrassed need
to face the present last,
And yield a future’s wanton wastes
in raw October’s costs and call it natural morality.

Of course, all the world’s put right within
a pale Pink Moon’s delight and we are here tonight
And know damn well we’re gone tomorrow from the diaries of the estuary;
Dawn’s first kiss–the eternal pardon–will arrive behind the execution day,
Delayed a single hour for the sake of show and mere appearances, flights
Of angels sprinkling  spores of wonder in the newly pollinated skies. We’ve lied
Again  and while we ponder why it matters only heaven knows we tried.