Love Poem To October

wind blows
pushing leaves
off the branches
orange trembling to hold on

half-naked trunks
shivering in the coming winter
or are they afraid
of a tempestuous lashing?

it's your last day
we say farewell
to the oranges and reds
yellows and browns

litttering the canvas
of our days
wood smoke lacing the air
as a warning of cold descending

i will miss you
the carefree days
of In-Between Time
remembering and anticipating

crisp air
that doesn't bite
combines in the fields
bringing the harvest home

the darkness at dawn
is coming with dread
empty creation
huddled in for snow

this year must be
different
i will not give in
to winter

"think of the happiest
memory, Harry"
cover yourself
with joy and warmth

be fierce with
resolve
not to let the darkness
consume

before spring. 

Pegasus

(inspired by the Sunday Scribblings' weekly prompt: Bio)

born on the tip
of New Jersey

only girl in a
house of boys --

(an elderly woman from Brooklyn
asked me once "was that a blessing
or a coise?")--

how did she know?

watered by words
from the Jordan Valley
and Nazareth

my father a flying
giant
with black academic
wings

delievering a Word
a disturbing mixture
of Freud and Jesus

in a British accent
laced with a tinge
of Empire
and Entitlement

my mother a
misplaced Southerner
always homesick
for the Simple
and the Real

blossoming on visits
Home
amidst southern-fried
chicken and okra
watermelon eaten
in a liturgical circle

outside among the lightning bugs
and cicadas 

cholesterol-soaked casseroles
and syrupy-sweet pecan pie
on Homecoming Sunday
on the edge of the cemetary

where I learned
who I was
a member of a vast
family forest

connected
loved because I occupied
a branch

words were my salvation
up North
amid the noise and confusion
rebellious brothers
shedding their Church Skins
with great drama

I wrote
I bathed my soul
in the nicotine-charred voice
of Neil Diamond

lost between Places
seeking my own "I Am"
in the lonely years
of high school

disillusioning years
among Fundamentalists
finding
losing
finding

in the Never Dull
Circle of Life
doing battle
binding wounds
wearing the Black Robe
like Dad's

delivering a Word
shaken
grounded
wounded

by that Word

of Life and Death

finally
coming home
to a place
I'd never been before

right in the Middle

finding Love
to settle me
and open me

my heart torn open
and healed
by a child

shedding the Robe
walking out
of the musty sanctuary
taking some of
the Old
and looking for

the New. 

riding shotgun

 

 

 

I stopped for Turkeys

but They would not

stop for me---

 

they gathered

in the middle

of the highway for

a very important meeting

 

no doubt

 

they went This way

and That

perhaps trying to agree on

Why the Chicken crossed

the road---

 

and did she go to That side

or This one?

 

What was her Motive?

What was she thinking?

 

Still they waggled

back and forth

like a ladies' church committee

trying to decide whether

to serve chocloate cake or

white or lemon

 

and should we have peanuts

on the side

because you know Ms. Jones

has a severe allergy

 

meanwhile

Traffic Stops

Children Go Hungry

Terrorists Bomb

Congress Can't Agree

Willing to Shut Down

the Whole Damn Thing

take their Toys and Go Home

 

and I can't help but laugh

as the turkeys are all aflutter

on the double yellow line

 

over which side to be on

while in the opposite lane

a Hound Dog is Riding Shotgun

in a Red Covertible.  

through the mist

mist over
     unharvested corn
cloud descending
     swallowing the land

I drive forward
    trusting the straight road
won't bend

that the path I know
     will be faithful
as I move blindly

aren't we all
      just one bend away
from madness?

does the sky-blanket
    protect us
from seeing too much?

we put names
    on things we cannot
understand

build boxes
     and containers
for clouds
      wind

trying to lay claim
     to the grass
          the water
                 the sun

and the trees
      just laugh

the waters flood
      the wind destroys
            the fire consumes

we shake our fists
      at the impersonal skies

we're all dancing
       on the edges of insanity
           and wonder why

someone falls
       taking hundreds, thousands
               with them

no one wants
     --after all--
          to perish alone

but I whisper a prayer
        to the Morning

move boldly
      toward the mists
           enveloping cloud

trusting the wind
          giving thanks for the sun
                embracing the mystery

all is calm
      all is bright
               today

I am alive
         I go forward
               against the fear

lunch break

cool breeze
tousles my hair
through the car window

like a lover
caressing my face
focused only on me

a young boy
sits across
from his father

at a picnic table
playing a game
stealing a moment

to make it matter

for now
this morning
the boy can be

a boy

the father
can be
his Dad

no pressure
to be cool
in front of the guys

no need
to play a role
that's expected

for now
just
beauty

we're all
escaping
to the park 

to be
what we really
want to be

I breathe in
I breathe out
I float

on the fresh
summer breeze
of sabbath

children screaming
laughing
a song of abandon

living, receiving
the sheer joy
of being

no thinking
no wondering
or fearing

I smile
in mischief
in gratitude

that we're all
getting away

with it. 

to the morning

(When I was in middle school, my parents owned a little house in the Pocono Mountains of Pennsylvania.  We went there to get away when we were able, and I spent hours wandering in the woods, writing poetry and picking up orange salamanders...)

 

 

the path

is spongy

beneath my feet

from morning dew

 

moisture enclosed

by walls and a

ceiling of trees

housing the dawn

 

it's as if I

crossed a threshold

between

here and there

 

a field of dreams

and an ordinary

backyard

or

 

an antique wardrobe

that opens out

onto

a snowy pathway

 

in the woods

 

but it's not winter here

the trees whisper

their greeting

a chipmunk says

 

"good morning"

 

I sit on a rock

brush my hand

over the carpet

of moss

 

catching a salamander

organe and soft

its tiny claws

bearing no weight

 

on my hand

 

I dip my toes

in iced water

flowing over

slick, mossy stones

 

fishes darting away

from my giant feet

distrubing their

morning routine

 

it is quiet

still

a world innocent

and fresh

 

a place

to believe again

in new beginnings

in goodness

 

and a God

who keeps it all

together

 

it is here

as a child

I became a poet

a connosseur of beauty

 

where I learned

to meditate

before I'd heard

the concept

 

it is here

among the salamanders

chipmunks

and feet-numbing brooks

 

that I learned

to worship

sing silent praise

to the morning

 

and

be

whole.  

ageless

Bingo and Rummikub
on today's agenda
exercise in the morning
kicking the giant beach ball

an elderly pastor sits
Bible open
white and purple-haired ladies
huddled close

listening for the Word

my host, voice shaking
her head jerking slightly
from a Parkinsonian tic
leads me outside

to brag about her musk melons
growing like an epidemic
in the resident garden
ripe for the picking

sweetness waiting
to be broken open
indulged
like ambrosia of the gods

there are peppers and
onions
tomatoes
and cucumbers

tilled faithfully
harvested and shared
giving slower days
the pleasure of accomplishment

I see the images of my own
many fears
of "me, someday"
the slow deterioration

uselessness of body
and often mind

a woman glides by
leaning on a walker
shoed with tennis balls
to make the trip smoother

she smiles at me
her wrinkles rearranging
around the relentless
sparkle in her rheumy eyes

then there's music
my host brightens
and grabs my arm
with arthritic fingers

leading me toward
the joyful sound
coming from a far corner
as if in another dimension

an old man slouched
over the keyboard
absorbed
fingers dancing on the keys

a distant smile
on his aged face
remembering, perhaps
a dance, a woman, a different life

tunes far too old
to be of my memory
perhaps WWI or II
a pub in France or Germany

a time, a moment
away from guns and bombs
romance amidst the ruins
joy amidst the sorrow

my host sways and claps
with delight
and I am taken with the music
the absolute joyful abandon

on the old man's face

so much joy amidst decay
dancing, at least in spirit
amdist arthritic joints
and edemic ankles

the little old ladies
on the couch,
resting from the journey
from dining hall to "home"

smile dreamily
feet tapping, heads
keeping time with the music
that takes them back

the old man
oblivious to an audience
playing for life
playing for relief

for not only remembering
but experiencing again
as if no time had passed
so cruelly upon his body

experiencing grace
love eternal and romantic
life against all odds
in defiance of death. 


(I learned later that the piano player just turned 101).