Some old leaves still cling,
come December rhymes and songs to sing,
despite months of beat
by bright hot sun,
then stormy rain and whipping wind.

But trees must somehow
loose them, lose them,
in the end,
to let them
let them let go
along with what till now they’ve been,

and make space new
to rest
and to grow through there,
and further, too,
into all they truly are,

by light of day,
and ‘neath sky dark
poked through by moon
and dimpled with
a dazzling multitude of stars.

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It really is
the only time
to craft a rhyme,

or better,
live life to the spirit,

and when it works,
too, to the letter,

and do what’s here,
quite crystal clear,
in front of me to do,

especially the things
I’ve told myself
or you
that I will do,

even if there is
a wriggly, little part of me
that in this prickly millisecond
doesn’t want to.

The times I’ve vetoed that,
the sad, mad or fearful
guts, heart or head
below my hat,

and gone ahead,

I’d guess are mostly all the times
I did what are for me great things
and grew.

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I am so glad
I have this guy on my, at my side.

Yeah, sometimes he bugs me
so, so much–
I just go nuts!

And even though at times
I want to make myself quite scarce,
I never really truly need
from him to hide.

With him I know
I can be me,
through yes, through no,
when scared, when sad–
or even angry
(well sometimes maybe),
as well as any shade of happy. . .

And as we go,
the more and more we see
that we can make
the way best team,

and we
are getting better, better,
both in the spirit and the letter,
as, through the years,
we reach
a quite sweet oneness
in our tripping light fantastic stride.

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Thank God for breath,

and for disasters,
the most forceful askers
which bid us now
step up our game. . .

Thank God for sweat,
for air,
for masks,
and bicycles.

When normal daily
acts of ease
have turned quite hard,

and air is surely not the best,
this gal,
well, well. . .
she must go yet
from place to place,

and, once she hits
her striding pace,
she finds

an imperfect, but a welcome, break
from indoor walls
and stuffy halls
with windows closed
around the clock
day and night through,
or else the best that cabin-feverish spirits,
+++++in their lust for simple earth and air and sky,
can do,

while still the land and valley
harbors smoke
that can’t just vent
up through a flue,

and as we cross
the strangers on the street
or else the bus,
and in this moment quite miraculous,
we somehow see
that we’re all part of one another–
I and you, and they and he and she–

for now, more calm
as willingly
the shrunken air
strewn out from ravaged land
we share,

and a new cordiality
descends on us,

and though it may turn out
it will be fleeing,
for now, it settles, stands
perhaps still rising,

but in this little moment here,
it’s certainly
beyond compare.

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The hour glass
allows the sands to run–
it doesn’t ask
what you might want. . .

Right through
the eight-shaped bulbs
grains flow straight down,
and curve into a rounded heap,
be it
in fog light flat
or intermittent glinting
of fall’s low slung sun oblique.

The leaves
hang tentative,
stone-still or shaking there
with baited breath,
as they await great blusters
or a little whispered breeze
to tear them down,
and afford their trusty trees
the needed measure
and the pleasure
of a quiet, winter rest.

The darkness falls. . .

the layer of cells
beneath the epidermis
with its settling years and crawls. . .

Returning crows that yack their cawing,
pecking, ripping sawing selves
and at park o’er brimming garbage cans,
hold manly
territory brawls.

The stars chill bright
Orion and his twinkly belt
smack in the middle of our evening sight. . .

And me,
if not on rooting
spreading strong connecting feet,
I sink to ground
and, if lucky,
find my place
upon an upright leg
with happy, sturdy bended knee,

and palms well met
before my heart,
I conjure
whatever magic
in all this
great wide earth and sky
I’ll choose to utter
in this moment,
as my earnest winter plea.

Posted in Autumn, Poetic Musing (Longer Poems), Poetry, Seasons, Uncategorized, Winter | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment


From eye ope
to eye shut,
and eye shut
to eye ope,

the sun doth rise
and cuts its arc
the world round
through varied kinds of skies,

and then the stars,
our sister worlds,
and our bright smiling moon,

and we,
we cut our path
on this, our earth,
in great big, wide-seen eager strides,

or else with those invisible
we make whilst
in the confines
of our warm and sturdy
self-spun, and obscure cocoon,

emerging more grown
and more powerful,
be it late
or be it soon.

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I’ll not let dusk
leave me here in the dust.

Nor fall,
the steep descent of autumn.

I’ll pry the stubborn, creaky door,
with late day sun
my eye to bless,

and I’ll break out
and put my feet smarts to the test,
to see if they can take me where I need to go,
in their sure and eager steps
without my lingering yet
a single jot to plot ’em.

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