Oh to dance! One feels that all of life’s little defeats
might be packed off to boarding school to do their
mischief far far away if only there were dancing
wild and true from the very core of one’s being
heads thrown back hatted or bare in wild abandon
dancing of the variety that invites all to close their
weary eyes throw off the heavy coat of inhibition
and under the night sky draw down the lights of stars.
A just so morning
shakes itself like a wet dog
Shimmers now with dew.
Turn of the season
comes a parade of changes
I am wide awake.
Thirty days hath September and this is September’s thirtieth
a day that will never be repeated in human history a day
unlike any other, though we might mistakenly call
another by its same name. And what might we incur
on this very particular, one and only, never to be seen
again, precisely this (uniquely not that) day?
Oh all and all and all remains so very much
to be seen on this seriously significant day called
the thirtieth of September, two thousand and twelve.
The Harvest Moon, the full moon that closely follows the autumnal equinox,
rises just thirty minutes after sunset for several days in a row
shining brightly enough upon the earth for farmers to harvest their crops
by its light (hence the name), keeps the world lit up through the evening
for those special nights, lovely enough for the evening strollers,
spooners and skygazers yes but perhaps not for a tired farmer who
might just as soon have a very good excuse to go into the small house,
eat a hearty supper, read a book by lamplight, and go trundling
off to bed in the cool autumnal dark of late September.
Every lovely thing has its range of consequences, as we all know,
even a big round jolly moon peeking over the horizon early.
The landscape has changed overnight or
was I simply not seeing, the day before?
Poison ivy is turning red along with
the leaves of a tree whose name I do not know.
Yellow blooms in the fields and across the woods,
tufts and patches suddenly brighten the crowded trees.
Leaves litter the paths now, brown, red, ochre, yellow.
How did this come about so suddenly?
What I once took for normal is no more
and though nature’s face will once again
be fresh and new bursting with Spring’s youth,
my own slides slowly towards old age,
renewals of spirit my only possibility
and only if I’m lucky.
How happy is happy enough, as he says he is?
Enough to not be depressed, morose, sad, bleak.
Enough to get on with the day, go and do,
accomplish small things, have a laugh, chase the dog.
Enough to enjoy a meal, read a book, sleep and dream,
awake reasonably renewed to face another simple day.
That ought to do it, oughtn’t it? but somehow doesn’t quite.
Cloudy morning
still as death
plans and goals
behind me.
Lost, unanchored
dead in the water
sails hanging limp
compass broken
albatross hovering
pegleg sailor without
my hearties to raise a mug
no mug to raise
no grog to put in
no cheer to shout.
In the mornings we go to the woods
my two dogs and I and I
stay on the paths but they
plunge in and out of brush
and bramble picking up
on their curly coats all
manner of burr and briar
sticktight and sticker.
In the evenings my son
and I take turns plucking
all of the bits carefully off.
By bedtime they are picked clean
ready to start all over again next morning.
Autumn’s symphony
softly humming harmony
of birds and church bells.