Spanish Moss

Live Oak draped
in Spanish Moss,
wilting with it
as if weeping
in the sweltering sun.

Autumn never comes here,
only peripatetic monsoons
which bring heavy, soggy freshness.
While through the rain, shivering still,
remains this mossy tree in a breeze
(like sultry girls shimmying
on bars late at night).

After the storm’s passing
the sun dies
an inexorable death, leaving a
saturnine penumbra of tropical magic.
Yet, there remains the dance of
this figure swaying to
quiet, secret music-
jape of the lives we live.

Hummingbird by Wilco

Hummingbird by Wilco (Jeff Tweedy songwriter)

his goal in life was to be an echo
riding alone, town after town, toll after toll
a fixed bayonet through the great southwest
to forget her
she appears
in his dreams
but in his car, and in his arms
a dream could mean anything
a cheap sunset on a television set could upset her
but he never could
remember to remember me
standing still in your past
floating fast like a hummingbird
his goal in life was to be an echo
the type of sound that floats around
and then back down like a feather
but in the deep chrome canyons of the loudest Manhattans
no one could hear him
or anything
so he slept, on a mountain
in a sleeping bag underneath the stars,
he would lie awake and count them
but the great fountain spray of the great Milky Way
would never let him
die alone
remember to remember me
standing still in your past
floating fast like a hummingbird
remember to remember me
standing still in your past
floating fast like a hummingbird
a hummingbird
a hummingbird

Garden of Growth

The seeds grow in gray, rough soil.
Most will perish in fruitless toils.
Their compost holds kernels of mealy progress,
micro machines, tiny books of dreams
to clothe tender roots, trichomes,
which suckle death’s fruits to renew and redeem,
to claim their stake of beauty, or weedy nonchalance.
This war marches on and the drama rolls dreamy
each rising and falling in a seasonal dance.
I used to cradle those leafy twigs,
laughing and crying at their rhythmical trance.
I fiddled and darted, lost and ready
to control that volume of verdant folly.
Never did I stop to see
nature would have its way with me.
I staked stems, preened buds, willed red berries on holly.
I coveted and thrashed, sprayed and mulched,
beamed with delight at delphiniums blue night
but daily squished aphids with no melancholy.
I toiled from dawn to dusk to clutch this magic.
The branches of Hinoki would finally reach an archetype,
which deemed necessary the scene be balanced
by the tragic hacking of nearby Hamamelis.
Miscanthus had to clump here, always just so.
Trailing Nasturtium must ramble freely
over carefully chaotic, moss tufted patio.
Cardinal Richelieu finally gave up the ghost
after five uprootings, a necessary evil to aptly pair
his wine purple rose with more heathen hosts.
Temporary solutions were compulsive conditions
to conquer the moment, cling to its passing.
My love for the machine was a frivolous desire
for mighty dominance, a narcissistic persistence
to reign with sturdy diligence over ancient fires.
This chimera dwindled with thousands of hours
of pushing days in a stubborn wheelbarrow,
driving my load to pattern and style this living sculpture.
Time ground me down in its meticulous way.
My back and a bad hip took the fun from the play.
As I feared, things went wild, they flattened
and ruptured, and cheated my rules.
The Lungwort took advantage
and had its way, finding time to mat and
colonizing a corner with spotted progeny.
At first I complained and planned my revenge
taking solace in winter’s clutch of frozen sheath.
Then, tough rubric knots let loose their tether
as my life became twinned by other events,
and the Plumbago’s happy rush beneath
pink Asters fence seemed their own private
dispute, their outcome, their worry.
I grew accustomed to this unkempt gloss
as the garden grew daring and shone a soft gleam.
Now that I merely watch this scene from afar,
I am more in it than I was before
as roots can grow deeper and top more secure.
Five years have passed since I relinquished power.
Ten years before that I clutched at this stream
while its crumbled message flowed through my fingers.
These quiet stories have matured with age
and their gravitas draws my eyes to wonder
at authority I could never imagine,
from my hubris grew this quiet lesson.
The constance of change has more than one page.
I come away sage, having learned not to confuse
dreams of perfection with nature’s carnival muse.

A few days ago I promised a report on how my garden defines me. It turned into this.

I would like to dedicate this to my father, Francis Hugh, whose ripening wisdom grows regal with age. He turned 78 on September 26 while I managed to miss that important date. I sent him a card saying if age is a contest, he’s winning.
Technorati tags- garden poetry, poetry, gardens, lessons from nature

Sacrificial Tree

Here are two poems about Christmas Trees. I’ve always been torn about having cut trees. I’ve reconciled my guilt by thanking the tree for giving me the soulful pleasure of its wonderful smell and living presence in my life.

I keep my trees as long as possible, usually until my birthday in mid January. This year I haven’t yet gotten a tree. I’ve just been too dissipated physically and emotionally, plus winter came on early, hard and strong. Who knows, maybe I’ll still get inspired.

Sacrificial Tree

Darkness descends upon afternoon’s glow
And pulls day’s light to down below.
As fickle air courts heavy chill
Feeble warmth flees up,
Conceding defeat
To weighty still.

I then illuminate the sacrificial tree
To lift the void which leadens me.
Her scintillating glitter
Enshrouds my fears
Enveloping my heart in glamorous sight.

This starry gift is infinitely old
yet ripe with richness
as time’s birth of soul.
Such sweet ritual!
Such mundane skill!
Giving root to such lofty thrill!

We need only open our hearts,
Our senses, our doubts, our souls to Her allure.
The myth of the season is born again.

Our Christmas Tree

Our Christmas tree stands before me,
evergreen through the seasons,
glowing with light
through darkness and freezing.
My soul is warmed by its
shimmering spirit,
all crystal and glimmering,
giving life to love needed.

I’m able to hope
by such burning glory
for peace where there’s strife
and love for those, lonely.
My heart aches with sadness
that you can’t be here near me
but life must go on, then
for Beauty’s Eternity.

technorati tags- christmas tree poems, Christmas poems, solstice poems, Christmas tree

Breathe

Nostrils flare in anticipation
as earthy caramel smells sift
past heady cavities, past
gates which open up to lift
eyeballs and ear tips tingly,
chilly red and awake. Brain
swoons soft by the glow
of fresh air flow, rushing in and down,
as chest and rib cage expand out,
extrude on an excursion to full balloon.
Neck, spine and cartilage joints gather
to allow room. Liquid xylophone bones
bloom as body soaks in tipsy
nourishing oxygen lessons,
rush of ancient, instinctive motions
learned, zillions of times churned,
practiced measures, yet new and vital
with each sumptuous breath.

Now exhale slow, soft thoughts as
your spine elongates toward the sky.

Breathe. Repeat.

Through the Alexander Technique, I’ve learned, again, how to breathe, to really breathe, without tension, without clenched neck, stressed chest or anxious eyes. Letting my body breathe as it has learned for millions of years, is like being reborn with each breath.