saturated in salmon and fuchsia
drenched morning sky
dawn drowns in color
The Beatles tune keeps running thru my head -
“I read the news today, oh boy.”
over all the talking heads
and well groomed, earnest readers.
“And though the news was rather sad
Well I just had to laugh.”
Feeling lucky to have the satellite company
that’s feuding with Ted Turner-
leaving a block of channels
(ordinarily filled with opinion and conjecture
dressed up as NEWS)
just not there.
no news is good news.
We cuddle in the chill autumn air
watching breaking news-
wild geese descend onto the still waters of the cove.
Film at eleven.
“I’d love to turn you on”
** A Day in the Life by McCartney, Lennon and Harris.
Listening to Welsh songs on NPR
on a gray October morning-
a language so foreign
yet melodies familiar
as the coffee in my blue mug
and the call of the red winged blackbird
as it pierces the early dawn air
from yellowing woods across the cove.
In what ancient hills were these songs
first sung? What gray skies
heard first these lilting tunes?
Sailing so far away from their birth and home
to emerge in these steep ridges
and deep shadowy hollows of Ozarks autumn.
I listen to the harmony
of the north wind singing
thru the thicket of yellowing trees.
Dull pewter skies,
sodden with autumn rain,
reflect tarnished silver
in the cove.
The landscape is the color of old photographs,
faded and worn from the years
Fields will soon be plowed under.
This season, this year,
will be relegated to memory-
our lives captured in faded pictures.
Heavy with rain,
the cedar boughs bow to the north wind-
their resinous pale berries
the color of coming frost.
Spider silk soft
Fabric baring threads
Of caress and comfort
But night and light
Black white none
Easy to have
Kept as sleep
In the heart
Nodding to waking
Shed to skin
At the dawning
*** not the most romantic of titles for a cubist love poem – smiles – a little something for the dVerse prompt
I sweep autumn leaves from the porch
and listen to the crows caw
from across the dry meadow,
the only birds still in residence.
The trees are empty.
The birds have abandoned me.
Are there runes scraped into the bark of the cedar,
just outside the window?
‘Beware all life is fleeting, flee!’
Soon the mirrors will be covered
and voices hushed
in winters sorrow.
I miss their songs.
I miss feeling their presence-
the feathers left in my path
as if angels were near,
watching and protecting.
But the trees are now deserted-
all the winged creatures
alone to keep vigil
in the beginning of the fall.