Arriving in November to Leave

The skies have long taken on a sad grayness

hence, the colours of autumn have turned to a drabness

and, the crisp air brings a chill that provokes the skin

awake to a heightened level of awareness.

One must walk the paths away and within

with more expedient steps as the candlelight flickers.

Noting that a sense of containment may forgo all past sin

one must still account for all that is and that may have been.

Whilst the bear may sleep away in the cave’s wickers

the sparrows nonetheless must work with a quicken beat

as winter’s grip will neither forgive nor forget the frail and the sicker;

stoke up the cinders and log the fireplace so to warm the cider liquor

For if, thy name is called, be it to a heaven’s seat

Or be it to an eternal torment laid upon an inferno’s bed,

One must relinquish to a sense of being; a celebration in total replete

As November’s melancholies are driven ghosts chased in retreat.

Corporal Wyre Rake

As the days of Autumn fell upon the Ouachita Mountains,

The chilled nights summoned down from the mighty Oaks in waves of storms

The invading forces, dressed in burnt coats like silhouetted jagged forms,

Landed and conquered all the lands of bereft fields now blanketed in decaying leaves...

 

When then stepped forth General G. Border and called out:

“...there is no yard field ready for war if even one yard tool exists that doesn’t give all sake to rake!”

 

A once private, who served at the Battle of Noffs, stepped to the front and reported,

“Corporal Wyre Rake, at all sake and at ready - Sir!”

 

The General commanded:

“Corporal, go forth and scrape the southern flank;

Drive the northern rear; occupy the eastern front

for the enemy has overcome with massed echelon

hold of the garage door and driveway entries”

 

The Corporal Wyre Rake confronted the troops massed at Sierra Drive; overwhelming the cavalry legions at Watershed Gulch and devastating the armies of the Backyard Wing;

winning the Battle of the southwest field of “Don’tfeedem” cemetery ridge.

 

And finally, a truce was called between the forces of eternal leaves and the forces of annual

beliefs.

 

Pray Peace was won for the moment, as the question between leaving and springing,

Remain to Mother Nature’s whim.

Wrappings of a Lifetime

A lifetime of old papers and special rocks cannot be wrapped into any one box

Nor possibly find a single face in any one place –

 

Today in a garage full of memories - I discovered a father’s reveries -

The old wood handled rasp - that repaired a company party’s mishap;

The all-in-one ratchet set - that ruled over bolts and nuts beset;

The rusted wrench - that stopped big leaks and fixed little squeaks;

 

An old television set - that does not fully understand infinity’s cabled fete;

The antique RCA turn table - whose belts are no longer able;

The old floor lamp with blue shading – it tilts slightly, with a dim light fading;

The ancient NCR adding machine’s throw - with mechanical keys slow;

The projector slide player - with bad bulb and no prayer;

The upright piano standing still - whose notes still yearn fill.

 

A full lifetime will not - cannot find reason in any contain

For thoughts dance full with time and play in refrain.

Elegy to Work Tools

 

The workshop’s pegboard matrix a dry pocked face

Holding each work tool carefully to its assigned place.

The hammer’s steel head set at a 45-degree slant;

No longer concerned about a loose board or a wayward nail.

 

The family of screwdrivers in parade upon a wire base

Each waiting father’s old hands to reach out in hail!

Will it be a Philip or a straight end’s turn

To fasten down a screw’s lose rant?

 

The jigsaw’s teeth are ready - sharpened and clean of all debris

however, today there will be no wood or metal cuts to recant.

For dear Father’s work was done precisely and not misbegotten.

The workshop clock’s hands stilled too; though his time will never be forgotten.

Mother Sea

To some, the feeling of impermanence

is submerged in enigmatic questions,

hidden under waves of doubt.

 

These circular propositions have held in my thoughts

lying awake, ceased by the resonant sounds of my silent bedroom,

waiting for the waning moments of the night

to find the dawn and me – one more time.

 

A river flows to its eventuality the sea,

seeking to commune with self and all that may arrive

in given time;

evolving perpetually back to the origin spring

that will then seek again the rivers’

wend to the waiting of her Mother Sea.

Loose Marbles

A marble shaped

by cylindrical fabric

rolls away from now

and towards its place

between a past

on a string

to a future

lest chaos and entropy

where relative

time

exists

in impermanence

without

a single moment

and with infinite

connection

to existential

dimensions

of all realities.

Leaves Falling

Leaves leave by falling

Leaves falling

Leaves

Falling

Is the Fall.

Fall falls by failing leaves

Leaves failing

Leaves

Failing

Is decay

Leaves decay by decaying

Leaves decaying

Leaves

Decaying

Is Life.

Life lives by decaying

Life living

Brings leaves of Spring

Spring is life

Spring falls

To Fall.

Leaves leave by falling.

Murmurations

Mother has her ways

Choreographing chaos

With astounding correlations;

Sending the mind into a maze

And the eye into awe

By turning and swaying her world

Into in-spiraling murmurations.

Road to Absolution

The long concrete road touches each horizon

But feigns promises of nowhere to wander.

 

A vague background darkened with blood red taints;

An obtrusive foreground cast deserted panoramic faints.

Witnessed by straight line of finished timber;

Connected by cables without limber.

 

Only the past understands the reasons

For days; years of the anguished forest seasons.

While the future - waits in musing; cackling;

Knowing that the quest carries her shackling -

 

For she may run the highway to resolution...

Where she stops - may have no absolution.

Crosswords

Upon a scale of squares held on clue

Verticals and horizontals have a point

 

Lest one knows Poe’s Morgue Rue

That connects words at the T-joint

And name of Aussie bird at box thirty

Jabiru; Galah; Ostrich; – Emu?

 

Wait - don’t erase - it’ll get dirty!

Work and fill in all words to bid adieu!

Mystery of Old

Old houses and old faces

hold posture

with nature -

 

Each allows for mother time

to find her line

and to speak of history

and mystery...

 

What happened to the boy

Who wandered away

Without knowing of joy;

A secret friend to a sad play.

Old houses like old faces;

 Mystery of forgotten graces.