Persephone basks

bradford-inn.jpg
Its warm,
an uncommon day in November,
the sun seeps honey and languorous
across the deep autumn landscape.

Trees fold inward, their somber winter
slumbers await.
Birds chitter and sing as if a spring day
while small furred creatures busy themselves
with the important matters of survival
and hunger.

Ice begins tonight.

Persephone basks
for one more day.

sometimes autumn

Wild geese

Springs cacophonous din of birdsong and early morning sun
has broken in two
leaving a drought poor fall
in shades of millet
and wheat, left to dry tattered in forgotten fields.
Leaves restless for wind,
skitter along the dusty path
running in packs of legless creatures
only to pause and hide
in shadowy dens against stone and steps.

Autumn brings its own season of light-
lusterless
sometimes with bright blue sky
sometimes with harsh ice
sometimes with fog filled rain
sometimes with wild song
and
strands of skeined geese
in determined flight.

Fall back

November Sunset

I work backwards
Trying to refine the confection of this day to the next.
Measuring each mote in dribs and drafts
Texturing silences with pauses and sighs
Or wringing each towel sopped with stale dregs
Dry, hanging across the scattered lines
Of words plagiarized from some old thesaurus
and soliloquy.

Now the day pours forth like honey,
Liquid amber clasping the emotions to its sticky breast.
What bee will boast of this light sweetness?
Not I, waspish and thorny,
A rose pierced to the heart with its own sword.
I relinquish the darkness that one hour holds
And cling to the ever present sunset
As dawn.

ghost (and its not what you think)

009

I still like the word ghost even
though its no longer considered correct theological
terminology.

You old Ghost, you – hanging about
reordering my dreams and rearranging
my intuition.
Its you haunting the place when I most need
a little spectral company

Keep on, Ghost.
You hypostases, coeternal, consubstantial, you.
Keep on, I pray.
Haunt on.

Copper Beeches

Copper Beeches

It is believed that one may get rid of bad luck by dropping a copper penny on the ground. The bad luck will go with the coin and be acquired by the next person to pick it up

Its not the copper in the veins of the land but the hand that hold the redeeming cents since it no longer scents the air with that just before lightning smell ozone fired kiln of oxygen hydrogen carbon, sweating against the blue of the sky, the taste of blood on the tongue.

Put the pennies over my eyes and let me rest.

The coins feel cold against my palm,
Their tarnished light gleams silver
And gold on pale skin,
Heaviness pulls me down
Until all I can do is hold
The thought of you
Against my breast
And weep.

The leaves turn to yellow and gold
Falling into the silvered season
Copper beeches drift in the north wind
Drawing the sound of autumn with it
Casting golden coins before the fall.

(revised)

woodsmoke and autumn prayers

Rainy Day - Table Rock Lake

Thudding of heavy rain
against the tin roof
deep as thunder,
as the chill arrives carried
on the back of the north wind
and the wings of geese
fleeing south.

Black winged clouds
dark as ravens eyes,
chase the day away west
and down the ridge
into dark hollows and deep ferned rests
of wildings and heavy furred souls.

Scent of woodsmoke
curls up from unseen hearths
where bright fires catch the last of the sun,
warming benches and tidy rooms
hidden from all but wide eyed owls
roosting til moonrise.

I watch the clouds spill over the ridge
and into my kitchen
deepening the dark of autumn,
my dusk and evening prayers.

This is what silence sounds like

This is what silence sounds like

A silence of six minutes and twenty seconds

A silence that pours across a million faces

A silence that washes a million faces with tears

A silence that cascades across the hard-hearted land

A silence that spills from wounds and hearts

A silence that washes away the last of the argument

A silence that pours forth like justice

A silence that sounds like courage

A silence that sounds like

Change.