Song of Summer’s End

A melancholy cry chokes my throat,
a siren’s call of Summer’s turning.
Caramel smells fill my head-
fermented leaves, intoxicating and sweet.
The lime-yellow sky,
radiant dusk infused with aqua
is reiterated by rainbows of
glowing trees,
unfettered joy
surging skyward
burning slowly to sleep.

Moist, mild air balms my body-
a cocoon of coziness
soft and neat,
a temporary reprieve
before setting sun draws down a chill.

Two lovers mosey
while two others repose,
lost in reverie
forever brief.

As crickets whir and click and reel,
throaty squawks of geese
bid farewell, southward bound,
solicitous, free.

This fanfare of Fall
diminishes, somnolent, deep.
I succor its unguent dolor-
lullaby, coda
to summer’s green.

Technorati tags- poem, Autumn, Fall, summer’s end

For Barbara, until we meet again.

This beautiful eulogy was written by my housemate, Joseph, who was quickly becoming friends with Barbara.

How can you.
In spring.
At Easter.
Was it Good Friday, Barbara?
Will you rise again the third day?
Master, had you been here, my brother had not died.
Had I heard the phone ring
Had I heard the phone ring
We were going to color easter eggs
Maureen Beth Katrina Me
and Barbara
Saturday we were going to color Easter Eggs.
Have a jolly old time.
Make new friends
Have a jolly old time
For easter, for spring
For rebirth.
If a man die, can he live again?
Barbara.
Beth had bronchitis.
Maureen had to rush to help a friend.
Sorry, no easter eggs.
Sorry Barbara.
Sorry.
Sorry.
I called, left a message
Sorry, no easter eggs
No celebration of rebirth
Later, I’m sure, sometime. Hope you’re well.
Click.
You called. No one heard the phone ring.
Was the blade in your hand when you called?
No one heard you call.
No one heard you calling
No one heard.
If if if if. If only. If.
No one caught you.
Could I catch you? Could anyone?
You looked into me:
Hungry eyes, longing eyes, I held your eyes as long as I could
Barbara.
I’m not Gabriel.
I have no silver trumpet.
I cannot hold your soul
Slipping slipping slipping away.
How could you
In spring.
The roses will bloom, Barbara.
How will they bloom, knowing you are not there?
Will they not blacken, a sudden blight
turn your yard to mourning?
No, Spring will come
Roses bloom.
They whisper: For roses know. For roses know.
Roses, trees, they have come, they see:
Human lives burning light bright flames
Little lights burning burning burning
The roses know,
They dance, they hold her
Her suffering soul nestled in their velveted petals.
The roses know
Sorrow. They hold deep in their dark velvet heart
The roses know
Roses know it is spring.
Roses wear thorns and wrap themselves in velvet
Velvet: dipped in blood.
We pruned your roses together.
Cut out the dead
Cut out the old and useless and overgrown.
Cut back to the fresh, bleeding green of life
Cut it back.
For it is spring. Time.
Time to: Let death go
The soil whispers of dead things falling to the ground
Dead things: slipping apart to feed
New glowing green rising from the soil
It is spring. Let us whisper: rebirth.

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

Seasonal Poems to Warm the Soul

Happy Winter Solstice! I may not be religious in the traditional sense, but I understand and cherish the importance of the “spirit of the season”.

As many of you know, Jesus wasn’t born in December, but his birthday was placed near the pagan Roman holiday of Saturnalia by Constantine to encourage pagans to join the church. The celebration of light and rebirth appeals to all.

Over the years I’ve written various poems for the season. Some are just ruminations on the mood, some are about the solstice, but all, I think convey universal sentiments. I’ve linked to some and printed others in a list here. Enjoy.

—
Rhythms of the Seasons
—
Noël
—
Sacrificial Tree (two poems)
—
Jingle Ironies
—
A Simple Gift
—

Inspire Beauty

Beauty calls and yearns for your attention,
it gives rise and dimension to your soul,
a reflection of your truest goals.

Lest we forget, our hearts are fueled
by a love enduring beyond our lives.
And beauty is its chaperon,
a spark through the dark nights
on the long walk
to the light of the mountain top.

All we have is each other.

May the comfort of love be with you.

Summerness: Robin Chorus at Dawn

Night brings out the muse, usually late.

Last night I went to bed early, giving in to deep relaxed fatigue, layered weights dragging me down the more I relaxed. I awoke way too early, 4:30 AM, not happy about sleepus interruptus, while ruminating mind began planning chores. NO, not now! In a rare appearance these days, my old friend spontaneity came to the rescue. “Get up” s’he said. “Go out and listen to the dawn. Follow the Robins dream. Spiral through the shift from night to day.” So, I got up an went out back to sit on the step and feel the dawn.

Sing robins, sing-
Gossip of angels,
lone voices call
across treetops
(lofty reaches)
in jazzy, lilting riffs.
Each outdoes the other-
point, counterpoint
development, refrain, repeat.
(chorus spinning)
Each answers gurgling trills
in telephonic circulation,
answers and calls,
(leave a message)
conversations which
rise in pitch
to feverish conniptions.

Sing, robins, sing-
thrilling chorus,
bid the light appear as
still air chills and flows in whispers.
The page begins to turn
(huge and gentle)
nudging oceans of molecules to dance.
Shadows barely hint as
the garden broaches the dark pitch.
Bones of structure
rise to the surface,
pale ghost forms
of architecture,
soon to be resurrected,
as night acquiesces.

Sing, robins, sing
for me, when I am gone.
Tell me how the book began
how the story will end.
Tell me why I fear to hear
what you can only sing,
a truth I will never understand.
But tell me yet, for perhaps
I can know as you know,
know in the singing.

I hear, I hear and it’s gone.