Archives for posts with tag: Autumn

fall is not death but renewal
the soil yawns, and beneath its
colourful quilt, prepares to dream
of new things, new growth to come

fall is a mirror we can avoid or face
the chance to look at ourselves and see
the truth, or turn away, fearful of the shape
we will appear in, what deeds we will wear

fall is the time when the dreams of the land
reach deep into another place, far from the
soles of our feet, into both memory and future
to nurture what grows and what is to die

fall is the race we began so casually, but
now run in earnest, when time means
something, the time when you can fail
fall is the challenge you cannot ignore


Meet the wall.
The wall is the end—
deeper density,
soft charcoal melt into
metal door black;

the wall is grit and
corrosion and is tough
enough; the wall is always
painted red and lurid until
all colour peels off and it is
only itself, black, fading
into the end of light.

The wall settles into the way
of winter, first harbinger;
the wall is the back of the
fire, the ashes rise in the last
heat before the wall falls in
and that’s it folks, show’s over.

Sky crouches into curtain fallen
an extra foot over the ground;
sun lies crumpled script page
in the prompter’s booth, and it’s
not even bleeding; timpani pound,
horns blare down the last wall as
warmth is concealed through deceit
(indeed, we suspected.) “Sun decamps”
read the headlines. News to no one.

Smudged and wet, lying like
yesterday’s newspaper
in the gutter, autumn comes
to this—the sheet metal days,
the abandoned lot surrounded by
wall of cheap metal, and we must
endure even this as we survey
this decrepit landscape—the dying of light.

<This ends my 9th book, Autumn (which is really one quarter of my 4 Seasons.) So be it. There will be a short hiatus and my tenth book will begin, tentatively titled “Punk Pomes” — stay tuned.>

Satellite shopping carts
bow low before the evening star
inexplicably appearing
over the horizon of the parking lot
with its krieg light towers and
barricaded landscape;
the sunset still appears,
the star of the show doing its turn —
low line of scarlet and orange,
fire and purple, painted
against the underglaze
of void and black exquisite
late fall sky, falling rapidly
into night. Low level roof mirrors
last minute clouds obscure
the silhouette frame proof
that what is above,
what is below.
The big star does puff and blow.
Nothing is above as below.

There, appearing above the marquee,
the early night sky
impossibly soon, half a page
ripped from a book
to reveal what is next,
and now the evening star
glints trapped within metal
cage shopping carts whose
mesh captures last rays
of starlight as last rays
of sunshine render them
ransom and the first time
of night arrives a child
impossibly wise for its age.

Twenty days from winter solstice, the land
scape withdraws into the horizon
which is suddenly there, right in front of you,
bumping into you, an impossible snowman, winter
too soon, gable erupts with flash of low lying light
as ice crystals blind you though it is only autumn, too
early for snow. You stare at backlit drama as the roof,
tree silhouette, streetlight are exposed where the leaves
hid them all summer; aluminum pod glistens achromatic,
drenched in the rainbow of yesterday’s dew, now today’s
hoar frost promising to blossom each day, when every
thing else is dying;
sing to each other in low muted tones,
gentle splays of warmth, orange red, flickering blue,
the colour of gas rings pulsing against fulminating kettles,
sing heat as night falls, impossibly soon; implausibly human,
we illuminate the frozen, the forgotten,

time to reach out, to remember everything is given,
nothing forgiven, when those who do not have, cannot forgive.
We are not alone. We are not dying, we are just
Let me sing you the song of light fall into satin,
the ribbon of gold that sits serene upon the horizon as we
flee the impending night; watch the light blend pink fantastic,
twist cranberry and lemon into orange and gold until,
fleeting moment, if you turn away you will miss the wine
stain that must be the after glow of some tremendous party.

Now is the time for us to witness the intersplay light serene,
horizon in weave, cloth that lies in secret with the twist
of the night, that draws over us like a blanket, though we
are children impatient not to go to sleep.

Carved flickering monstrous faces, magic light
bends the trees with molten sneers,
street bobs with orange globes,
channel markers to guide the dread.

Wind carries small goblins and cats over
houses wreathed with whispering leaves
that tremble by warm blind windows,
deaf to last gurgling chokes for help.

The night is measured by small eyes
sometimes fierce as dragons, now small
and frightened by someone too large,
perhaps wearing a death’s head mask.

Streets are squalls of pirates, princesses,
vampires and witches, sudden silences of
tossed, crumbling leaves kicking on a slick
black vinyl street, rain wet, lightning lit.

Sitting behind the wheel of your car,
peering out, is that house OK? Is anyone home?
I’d feel safer if they had a jack o’ lantern
on that gothic verandah. Come on in.

low on the evening horizon
full moon illuminates
storm cloud silhouette
drifting by

granular instant snow flakes
fall, they’ll not stick
the ground is not yet frozen
but soon, soon

baby’s looking funny
since she died
got me feeling
like suicide
baby I can’t wait
until you speak
thru that rip
in your cheek

C’mon baby
dare to be mine
You went and ate me
out of my mind
you’re no valentine
you Halloween queen
now give me back
my liver and spleen,

oh, oh, oh

give ‘em back to me
no more post amorous history
Give ‘em, give’ em back
Or else I’ll get you
with my heart attack

people say you’re a pretty ghoul
they say they like the way you drool
it’s alright I’ll just lock the door
cause once I’m gone
they won’t see you no more

baby likes the look
of any human being
she’s howling you’re the best
she’s ever seen
how about this Halloween
you bring the meat
she provides the scream

it’s apparent to me
this mutual misery
there’s no need to talk
we’re beyond all that
just one last attack
I’ll have my heart back

oh, oh, oh

Polar clouds arrive to announce the ascendance
of winter’s hegemony. Fat flakes frost any dreams
of hanging onto summer; the grey shift of light slides,
sky constricts, meadows and fields are lost as sweeps
of taupe, beige, straw assume stoles of plain white
and fashion is mute.

A new beauty reigns. Scrubbed, shorn fields dust with snow,
as an artist adds a white stroke to denote light on a brilliant day.
Each flake conceals and outlines what lies beneath, the balance—
discovered moment — when that which is and that which will not
strain against each other and the invisible pours through.

Leaves shift in the wind like planes of being,
the homeless push shopping carts through the market of life;
the costumes are what we wish we could wear all the time.
Evening winds skirl as evening winds always do, at least
since the Irish introduced the bagpipe to the Scots
(that’s just a joke.) We await the arrival of the dead—
the knowledge they carry, the deeds done, no lies, stories,
all that was avoided, forgotten, buried with them.
The moon hides behind convenient clouds. Witches fly lower —
ahh, the ladies. Their brooms exhale illuminated letters
that everyone reads as truth in need of explication.
The point of the pen keeps chasing the moment we all want
to understand, we keep reading, unwrap each new word
from cellophane, eager to feast upon our new treasure
once we’re safely back home — we can’t get enough
of that sweet thing; it’s there at our fingertips
some sort of tune you can’t recall, you heard
someone trill it once, but the wind just blew it away.

hallowe’en 2007

The time of orange nights is gone, faded
the waves of grain swirl in midday.
the rain, the river, puddles have fled
to the depths that never freeze.
The songs of the wood are still,
the sky empty until a sudden flock
circles over one invisible spot.
The buzz of insect, bumble of pollen bee
dance silent now. No more cries,
laughs, conversations drifting on
perfumed breezes, the wood is empty;
the wind is empty and howling.
Brooks’ ripples are still, though they still run.
The fish still dream, white lilies float
somewhere else. The beans are run, the roses
last petals shed, saying, “this is all that
I can give.”
Sing a song to make bulbs and
seeds laugh, charm crusts for sparrows;
dream the dream that is sun soft fields;
love as you have always loved. The ice above
our heads means the dream is real. We must
swim. The time of harvest awaits us.

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