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October Mist

the drumbeat of a madman
courses through quickened blood.
blame it on the full moon,
this loss of logic.

the clock’s verse little matters:
not the mundane strophes of the hours
or the miniscule minutes demanding
something spatial in the midst
of so much mist.

it little matters whether lamps are lit
or stars; the key is memory,
that ancient enemy
of the absolute.

 

 

Autumn’s Eastern Shore

A sepia daguerreotype;
the flat fields, the stubble left over
from October’s second cutting,
the shocks of corn
like rows of teepees ,

Some see a morning monotone
but my eye
sees a thousand shades and hues,
a palette unmatched
by any mortal hand,

O beautiful bronze of autumn
when you are gone
the year is all but done.
In spring
the clover will bloom again,

The crocus and the daffodil
will decorate new green
but my soul still finds its solace
on the Eastern Shore
in autumn.

Seasoning


Dawn slips in slow notes
over the misted mountains,

Pied leaves
dance to their own rhythms;
photosynthesis is done for this year.

The leaves compete with pumpkins
for that perfect shade of orange
while white tail deer wear their russet coats
with pride.

Fresh faced morning
makes a lazy start. In this seasoning
Spring’s song has long been sung.
Now every dew drop holds a rainbow
and a mirror.

Ursula in Autumn

Don’t look so sad, Ursula,
the trees are not dying.
It’s autumn,

the leaves are supposed to fall.
Look how gracefully
they spiral.

Remember their vigor, Ursula,
Keep that snapshot
vivid in your mind.

Forget that they turn sere
and curl like smoke
from a fading fire.

When your eyes feel the teardrops’ glaze,
remember, this is not an epic,
it’s just a season’s change.

Bird of Passage

hearts of  glass
etched deep by winter’s icy fingers
……………deny an urge to wander
freight trains
lure with their lonesome song
the whistle whispers,
………………..“Come on, Come on”
March wind joins in
with its own seduction
………………….calling all to follow
it’s hardly spring
months before the wild goose flies
……….yet, autumn is in your eyes