September Haiku

September suns rays
slice across verdant gardens.
Cold nights chill my toes.

Summer emptied.
I use days up as they come.
Silk breeze on my thigh.

Kitchen counter full.
Fall bounty clogs big pots.
Earth oars down the clock.

Rake dreams with windows open.
Kaleidescope trees.
Leaves need many big bags filled.

Pace this day’s flight with tastes
of Summer’s ripe bounty.
Pesto’s delight greens my mouth.

Morning mist weighs down dawn
Between Summer and Fall.
Coffee tastes better in cold weather.

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Soundless Love

Like the memory of
a sweet violin
I sing inside your ear
and bring you to meet another
part of yourself.

Like a dewdrop
rolling off a leaf
I fall
in a silent journey
to the pond below
with a soundless splash
and a gentle ripple

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Feeling Safe

hardhat

Safety comes in many forms.
Most are safe from the weather and storms,
from rain and cold, but some are not.
What would it be like to be in their shoes?
Could we think pretty thoughts,
Of love and affection, and colors for our rooms?

There’s another kind of safety which concerns me more.
It comes from within, from our minds and our thoughts.
I feel safe in my brain most of the time.
But then sometimes I realize I’m blind,
that I really feel covered only when I build a hat
to block my conscience from saying
I’m safe because they’re not.

Gratitude helps me feel beyond my hard head.

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Incandescent Nectar

Poem, with photo of yellows roses in snow

Anybody read German? When Ralf and I lived together, he transtlated this poem of mine so we could print out cards for both our American and German friends. The photo is one i took of roses he gave me, which I thought looked stunning against the snow.

This poem was inspired by Rainer Maria Rilke’s Sonnets to Orpheus. His mystical style touched me deeply. I read a version which had the German and English side by side. So I picked up a little German, too.

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Torn Scraps

Torn strips of silk flutter
in a light breeze, ’cause
someone left the freezer open
while scrounging late at night
for ice cream, shuffling the Samba
in a sprouted pink Teri-Cloth robe.
Cha cha cha, the lone curled figure
danced to scraps of dreams,
skin peels, Ephedra tonics, red satin
chiffon dresses, with a black lace slip
underneath, just in case.
The papers promised fame,
tuxedoed men lined the stage,
careful not to give names. But
floodlights fizzled, headlines
blurred with spilled champagne,
scratched records became static.
Muffled jazz could almost be heard
as the cold, dry air sifted
past the smiling face glowing
in the spotlight
while ice crackled
impatiently in the background.

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