I saw
just one
quick flare
of the Geminid
meteor shower
a streak of light
quick and bright
there and gone
like a time-lapsed
cigarette tip lit
and stubbed out
Leonids Meteor Shower (Nov 18 [2014]. NASA’s Marshall Space Flight Center. CC BY-NC 2.0.
Leaving the church
in the dark
after the kids
practiced their carols
the wind whipped
sudden
and cold
sending dry dead leaves
skittering ahead
across the sidewalk
just an hour ago
the air was damp
and warm
after the storm
but now
in its last hours
November
is being yanked
like the open door
by a greater authority
on the other side
December
manifesting itself
majestically
galloping in
on the night wind
laced with
biting chill
underneath
the clear black sky
where bright stars and planets
are still
A daily Band-Aid
cannot stop a hemorrhage
of blood nor spirit
Familiar cheeping
at dusk, out on the front porch
-can it really be?
Opening the door
a fluttering of feathered wings
-the finches remain?
Should I be so blessed?
I shall need to buy some seed
for the frost has come.
House Finch with Goldfinch. beaucon. CC BY-NC 2.0.
House finches are regular nesters in my front door wreath from Eastertime through the summer; I have not been aware of their remaining so close by in the autumn months. They aren’t nesting now and as yet I haven’t ascertained where exactly they’re living, only that it’s somewhere near the porch. I see them fly when we pull up in the driveway, and when we open the front door. I can’t even get a good look at them; they’re being evasive.
Their presence lifts my spirit immeasurably: Take heart, be of good cheer, we are still here… the fluttering of wings was so near my face when I opened the door in the dark after hearing the familiar bird voice. It wasn’t alarming. Out in the yawning chasm of night flew the little bird, with my soul tethered to it by inexplicable hope.
In my recent reading
I have encountered
the duality
of slow…
educators know
DEVOLSON:
Dark
Evil
Vortex
Of
Late
September
October
November
a mysterious force
an epicenter
impacting
gravity,
functionality
(=dark matter:
a nonluminous material
causing several effects
in space)
yet in my reading
I also stumble
across the word
Slowvember:
an admonishment
an acknowledgement
that one cannot possibly
do all the things
well
so one might as well
choose to act
vs. being acted upon
a recognition
a submission
a slowing of the pace
even at the edge
of holidays
brimming
glimmering
they are,
after all,
celebrations
of light
(=holy-days)
allow me
an antidote
in an anagram
or two:
DEVOLSON…
Solved? No.
Do novels.
Carve the time
vs. letting it
carve you
nourish
your inner light
it is only flickering
not snuffed
enough is enough
-evil? No.
A divine pull
to the gift
of slow.
slow down, slow down, slow… Victor Bezrukov. CC BY-NC 2.0.
with thanks to Chris Margocs for the DEVOLSON inspiration
Dark autumn morning
chill seeping, coffee steeping
outside, something cries
‘Into the darkness. Mornings are getting dark now, winter is on its way‘ Mr B’s Photography. CC BY 2.0.
On my drive to work
at the stop sign
where the grassy green field
borders the rail-fence pasture
where two horses graze
beside the goat pen
where fat little
brown-and-white goats
rest atop their knees
beside the still waters
of the glassy pond
with rising mist
I see a man
walking his old, old dog
(its body is black
but its face as white
as snow)
as I pass
they walk and walk
in the autumn-chill
of another new day
against a backdrop
of brilliant red-orange-gold
and moody sky
the dog’s amber eyes gleam
as it it chugs along
despite weary bones
somehow
this continuity
this reliability
this faithfulness
every morning
is a tonic
to my soul
a shot of goodness
an understanding
that in the far, quiet reaches
something is right
so right
with the world
Nature’s fiery colors fade to brown
Overhead on the power line a hawk
Vaingloriously perches against a charcoal sky
Eyeing the underbrush
Mice seem to know, and are still
Burrowed in blankets of papery leaves
Every furtive squirrel a master of stockpiling
Reconnaissance
with thanks to Scott McCloskey, today’s Open Write host on Ethical ELA. Scott says there are plenty of poems offering advice, but few offering bad advice… today we set about rectifying that shortage…
How to Manage a Skeleton
When sitting with a skeleton
it is best to remind him (?)
it is his own fault
he has no flesh
unless, of course,
you fail to recognize
a skeleton in the first place
(it’s possible
even probable
despite the garish array
of teeth
and the empty sockets
and all those ribs
gleaming white)
you might go so far
as to remind the skeleton
to keep a stiff upper lip
(although ‘twill do
little good
when one
has no lips
no more)
better yet to focus
all your time, energy,
and efforts with the skeleton
in pointing out the priority
of having a backbone
over having a heart
by all means,
continue extracting
your pound of flesh
ignoring, of course,
the feeble rattling
of wind whistling
through the bones
—this does not matter
in the slightest
when the spirit
is long gone.
with thanks to Denise Hill for the prompt on Ethical ELA’s Open Write today: American Sentences, a poetry form invented by Allen Ginsberg, are comprised of seventeen syllables.
To my husband.
An Observation, While Watching Oblique Light Striking Fiery Leaves
What shall I say to you, in the long afternoon of our shared autumn?
Memories of many colors scuttle across sidewalk existence.
I cannot decide which I would gather to preserve, to toss, to burn.
Trees have no compunction about shedding their fragility—should we?
Give me your hand while it is yet light, for evening comes earlier now.
Moments, in their gilded crowns, are more beautiful than ever before.
lit bits and pieces 