November Morning

Its not withstanding the urgency
of breath and feeling,
molding into those things which
we say and do within our masks,
hiding in each moment.
But there are times,
when letting guards down,
we recognize our real faces
and wings unfurl
in the cold light of a November morning.
Wedge of deep silver
shadowed against the breast
of stone and water
opening isthmus arms
crux of land and sky
embracing water, earth deep,
bronze and gold, russet, indigo.
And leaving the warmth of bed and nights embrace,
I stretch toward the dark dawn,
aware of all mortality and grace
and the singular thought of ones life.
This too shall pass and like the meadow grasses
separating grain from chaff,
my soul will someday join the autumn wind
and sing shining into the cold morning.

Trying to Gain Perspective

It’s those moments when you are driving to work or riding the train or walking the dog
when just in the corner of your eye
you see it
that’s life
well, maybe not your life
that would be presumptuous of me
maybe my life
no, that’s not it

it’s as if you put your hands in your pockets
and there is a packet of magic beans or fairy dust or
an old skeleton key that opens a secret door
it’s not like that at all

I used to think that I could create my life
I could get a roll of butcher paper and roll it out and lie down and getting a marker,
draw around myself
and from that pattern, I could sew days and seasons to fit just right
but that’s not life

life is bone and blood and spit and shit

and birdsong

don’t forget birdsong

life is waking in that dark hour right before dawn leaning against your warmth
hearing you breathe
feeling your heartbeat
and knowing I have

*** I dreamed this poem last night and woke to it completely formed. Hardly ever happens that way. But after spending Friday in the ER thinking I was having a heart attack (I’m fine, really – one more stress test next week – but I am fine…. really) And celebrating Bob’s birthday in a really really big way (post and photos to come) this must be what my subconscious was busy doing.

October Wind

Walking across scattered pages
I hear the rustle of fallen leaves
Glimpses of diaried days and handwritten weeks
Calendar months torn until the fall
Pages left to read the months past
With years drifting in the october wind

I climb thru the trees along the ridge
Surrounded by gold and bronze
Iron cold days ahead
Soon wreathed in silver and faded memories

Autumn has come to the woods
And autumn has come to me.